Be Brave

This was written by Beth Am congregant Mila Karon during the 2023-24 school year per a 5th grade assignment to write a memoir. Mila is currently a 6th grader at Woodside Priory School. When she is not reading or writing, she is in the pool with her water polo teammates or babysitting her two younger sisters.

  
(left) Mila Karon with her dad Adam Karon light a yahrzeit candle
(right) stones with messages painted on by event participants

“Bravery is not the absence of fear, but the action in the face of fear.” —Mark Messier

The bloodstained teddy bear seemed to stare up at me. Its eyes seemed to bore into me, looking in at all my fears. I turned a corner and there was another one. This one, unlike the other, was gagged and bound. The other was very, very bloody.

This memorial was freaking me out. I know it’s supposed to scare me, but wow. I didn’t know this was how bad it was in Israel.

I asked him, “Why the bloody teddy bears?” 

My grandma answered me, even though I had directed the question to my dad. “Well, you have to remember how many kids were involved.”

I grabbed my dad’s hand. We walked a bit more and saw some pictures. Houses that had been broken into, smashed cars, people going to memorials. The result of kidnapping. Little babies. Gone. Grandmothers and grandfathers. Gone. Teenagers who were forced to serve in the army. Gone. Dead.

In front of the pictures, there was a tree. The Tree of Pain, it was labeled. My grandma asked me, “Do you want to write something and put it on the tree?” She gestured to papers and pens.

I didn’t respond. I just clutched my dad’s hand tighter and moved on while my grandma stayed back to write.

There was a yellow door. On it was a sign in Hebrew. The translation was next to it: 

Aba was called to reserve duty. Please do not knock on the door!

I knew aba meant dad in Hebrew, but I was still very confused. What did that mean?

“It means he was called back to the army.” My dad said. 

I hadn’t realized I had voiced the question. “Okay, but why does it say, ‘please do not knock on the door.’”

“Well, maybe because the mother is trying to protect her kids. The father, who has had army duty, would usually be the one to do that.” My grandma and grandpa had caught up with me and my dad.

“’K,” I said. It was all I could manage.

We walked on. There was a table full of yahrzeit candles that one could light in memory of all those who had died because of terrorist attacks and wars. 

I wanted to light one. So, I told my dad that. 

He lit a match. 

I tried to light the candle, but the flame was moving up the match and I got scared. So I dropped it.

I’m not brave enough. I can’t do it. Look at me. I can’t even light a candle correctly. I felt like sobbing.

I only whispered the first half to my dad, to which he said, “It’s okay. We can do it together.” And we lit the candle.

We went past a drawing on a rock table. I drew a blue Magen David on a small white one. Then my dad and I found a place to stand while we waited for my grandma and grandpa, who had lingered behind.

The speeches started. It was almost all in Hebrew, but there was a big board with the translation in English. Almost all of the speeches were about death. The first thing they talked about was a story that was sadly very real. It had started when terrorists had thrown hand grenades at some teenagers. 

One of the teenagers caught the first one. And the second. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. And the sixth. And the seventh. Every time she caught one of them, she would throw it back to the person who was trying to kill her and those whom she was protecting. The eighth grenade she did not catch. It hit her. And she died. 

Then the people who were throwing the grenades broke into the places where they killed twenty-three teenagers. Only eleven lived and escaped. The rest were kidnapped or injured

My dad bent down to me and whispered, “You are supposed to be twelve to be here. But I think you can bear it.”

I shivered but kept listening to the speeches.

There was a story about two parents and their twin babies. The parents hid their babies, who were only ten months old, in the hiding room. Then they went out to put up a fight. 

And they were killed.

Fourteen hours later, the babies were rescued.

More and more stories about deaths and people fighting for the country of Israel piled up. 

And suddenly my eyes were wet. I hadn’t even noticed that I had started crying.

There were more stories. I read them all. Sometimes, I wished I hadn’t. Then they played a song. I didn’t even know what it meant, but it made me sad and I started crying even harder.

More stories. Another song. More tears. I sat on the grass and leaned against my grandma’s legs.  

More stories. More tears. My dad crouched down next to me. Another song. I leaned into him and cried. I wished the song would never end. I was comfortable here. I felt safe. Finally, I wasn’t scared anymore.

Another story was being read by the Israeli teens who had, amazingly, set up this whole event. 

I tried to get up to read the translation board, but my dad pushed me back onto his chest, saying, “I need my blanket.”

I had a feeling that he just didn’t want me to see the story; that he didn’t want me to cry again, so I complied. 

Again, and again that happened, until my grandma crouched down and told my dad that she and my grandpa were going to be leaving.

Turning to me, my dad asked, “Do you want to walk them out?” Again, I had that feeling that he was trying to keep me from seeing the stories and cry, so I complied.

*********
In the car, I told my dad, “I don’t understand it. But I do understand it. And now, I don’t get that.” 

“What is it?” he asked me.

“See, the problem is, I don’t know!” This annoyed me greatly. “Maybe it’s the war? Or why are they attacking?”

“Mila, sometimes it’s better if you don’t know anything. Right now, as the eleven-year-old you are, I think you know the perfect amount.”

I thought about that. I also thought about what my dad had said earlier — "You are supposed to be twelve to be here. But I think you can bear it." Could I bear it? Deep down inside, I knew I could bear it. I knew, no matter how hidden and deep it was, I could handle it. I knew these facts weren’t going to end my childhood. No. Even though the facts were scary, what they would actually do was make me aware. They would teach me about this horrific, cruel world.

And then I knew, before my dad said it, that I needed to be brave. 

Still I asked, “What if I’m scared?”

My dad responded with almost exactly what I was thinking by saying, “You have to be brave.”

We sat in silence for a while until my dad continued, “And I know that you can be brave.”

And even though I doubted it and doubted it hard, I knew he was right. I knew that I could be brave and I had to, for the freedom of the people of Israel.

Am Yisrael Chai! — The people of Israel will live!