The promise fulfilled

For a bereaved family, dealing with grief is an integral part of daily life. Of routine. But still, remembering the loss, talking about it, is never an easy matter for me. Now, I choose to tell my personal family story anyway, because it is intertwined with an invisible thread of optimism and hope that so characterizes my family and my work.

When I entered the embrace of Ilan's family, my husband, about 16 years ago (and even before that, because we grew up together), Maayan, his younger brother, very quickly became a little brother to me, and I - the sister he never had. We talked about topics of great importance - about relationships with girls, about feelings and loves, we watched movies together and celebrated birthdays together and even went out sometimes just the two of us (with Ilan's permission, of course).

They were three brothers, Ilan and Dani the twins, and Maayan the youngest. They grew up on values of love for the homeland and the land, helping others and giving, and Maayan demonstrated these from a young age. He always gave of himself and supported others. When he enlisted in the IDF (Armored Corps) it was important for him to do everything to the best of his ability. He quickly stood out for his diligence and professionalism, and these made him the outstanding recruit in his company.

On the morning of November 28, 2007, Maayan underwent a test during a training course on the tank. On the evening of that day, he was supposed to undergo another test. I am writing and it is not easy. Tears choke my throat... That night, Ilan's cell phone suddenly jolted us awake. Dani, his brother, was on the line. "Ilan... wake up and get dressed quickly. We need to go to Soroka Hospital. Maayan was injured!" Ilan immediately asked what happened, but Dani only urged him to get ready. "Mom and Dad are on their way too," he said, and his words brought us bad news.

Maayan receives an excellence award at the end of basic training ceremony

From that moment, I only remember telling Ilan that he should go be with his family, without me. In the morning, I took a train and joined them. The journey from the North to the hospital in Be'er Sheva was the longest of my life. The uncertainty about Maayan's condition filled my head with thoughts. Upon arrival at the hospital - they only continued to echo and intensify. We were all deep in an emotional whirlwind, moving between hope and despair. Maayan suffered a critical head injury from the tank's cannon, and fought for his life for two days. On the night between November 29 and 30, Ilan and I went to sleep at a friend's house in Be'er Sheva, a ten-minute walk from the hospital. We agreed with the medical staff that they would update us on any change in Maayan's condition. At two in the morning, the phone rang again. Ilan looked at it and didn't want to answer. "Honey, it's important. Answer it..." I whispered to him. "I don't want to talk to them," he looked at me pleadingly. "Whatever comes - we'll deal with it," I encouraged him. On the other side of the line, the voice of the nurse who was caring for Maayan was heard. "I think you should come. The situation is deteriorating," she said.

We both jumped out of bed and got ready in a few seconds, knowing that every minute was crucial. I remember us running through the streets as if they were familiar to us, and entering the ward, out of breath. But it was too late. Maayan was no longer with us. We looked at him lying in bed, and just wanted to shout at him to wake up. We remained frozen in front of him, and only the nurse's words roused us from the deathly silence that filled the room. "Do you want to call your mother?" she asked Ilan. "No," he replied, "Let her sleep. I'll call her in the morning." "Do you want to rest in the meantime?" she asked. "Yes," Ilan answered.

The staff arranged mattresses for us on the corridor floor, about five meters from Maayan's room. We lay embracing. I stroked Ilan and couldn't fall asleep. I looked through the glass wall at the first rays of morning light, which began to flood the corridor.

At five in the morning, Ilan called his mother, who immediately rushed to the hospital. "Mom, let's go outside for a moment," he asked her when she arrived. Mother Elaine looked at him with a hollow, quiet gaze and accompanied him. After a few minutes, the two returned with tears in their eyes.

From that moment, we began to operate on autopilot: messages, phone calls, conversations with doctors. Maayan's father, Mark, and Dani, entered Maayan's room to say goodbye to him. In another conversation with the doctors, we were asked if we were willing to donate Maayan's organs (he had an ADI card). His father agreed. Later, in the eulogy he delivered at the funeral, he said: "In his death, he also commanded life." And indeed, Maayan's organs were transplanted into the bodies of seven people.

A haircut I gave Maayan before returning to base

During the period of mourning, I felt as if the world had ended. My body wouldn't stop shaking from crying. One day, as we sat together, all of the Rotenberg family, we began to think about how to commemorate Maayan. Among the ideas that came up was the thought of donating scholarships in his memory. We didn't know when, how, or where we would even get the money for it. In the meantime, years passed, and we established the Sarzio corner in his memory at Beit Emek, held a race in his memory, a soccer tournament, filmed a movie, but the thought of donating to students never left us. Especially since Ilan and I were students ourselves, and we knew how difficult and challenging student life can be. In the time that has passed since Ilan's father passed away, we became parents and established the AV design studio. Life went on.

One day Ilan approached me and asked: "Do you remember when we once talked about granting scholarships in Maayan's memory?" "Of course," I replied, "Of course I remember." "I think the time has come," he continued, "It's important to me. It will close a corner in my heart." I completely understood what he meant. "I'm with you," I told him.

Scholarship Award Ceremony 2018 at the Holon Institute of Technology

11 years have passed since Maayan was killed, and I still feel like it happened yesterday. My dear Maayan, my younger "brother", the child with whom I celebrated birthdays, I miss you so much. Know that every meeting, every event, I think of you. Of the amazing uncle you could have been to my children, of the incredible father you could have been yourself. My thoughts wander between the past and the present. I hold on to life and try to do everything to make things good here. Our Maayan, Ilan and I promised ourselves that we would find a way to commemorate you. And we did. I love and miss you, my brother-in-law, forever young.