Loss of a dairyman

Embed from Getty Images

I am not yet numb to the deaths. The images of soldiers, eager young faces or slightly graying reservists whose children will now grow up without fathers. They could be the sons of my neighbors and friends, each and every one. Patients in Gaza hospitals killed in attempts to root out Hamas operatives, or those just left without care. People killed in the crossfire, or because they refused to become refugees once again.

But the death of hostage Youssef Alziadana in Gaza pierces me in a different way. Because Youssef was a dairyman. That is, he knew what it is to wake up before dawn, tramp through muddy cow sheds in the dark, in heat and rain, stay late to assist births, work Saturdays and holidays. Until he was abducted, he did this for 18 years on Kibbutz Holit.

Oct. 7 was a holiday on the kibbutz, and Youssef brought a few of his 19 children to work with him. He was, it seems, a man who took pride in his work, who wanted his children to share in that pride. Plus, they were old enough to go harvest olives from the kibbutz trees and help with the cows. Alziadana was abducted with four of his children. Two minors were released; his son Hamza, just 22, has now been confirmed dead.

After 18 years, Alziadana would have been a familiar face on the kibbutz. The cows would have known him as well. He would have been a good friend to some, a man who worked shoulder-to-shoulder with Jewish counterparts. He was a man who did work that most of the younger generation on the kibbutz were not willing to do, and he supported all those children, literally, through the sweat of his brow.

Bilal, his son who was released, told the press that on the day he, his father, sister and brother were abducted, they spoke to their captors in Arabic, hoping they were looking for Jews. To no avail. In fact, as Bedouin working for Jews, they were deemed collaborators. Their lives were simply worth the trade in prisoners who could be released in a hostage deal.

On learning Youssef’s body had been retrieved from a Gaza tunnel, when he had clearly been alive until recently, members of his extended family – several thousand from the unrecognized village of Kafr Ziadana, where he lived – and citizens of nearby Rahat were outraged. “The government could have brought hostages back alive, rather than in boxes.”

“The hostages are worth more to our government dead than alive.” It’s hard to argue their point. Why else would the hostages still be held in Gaza while the war there simmers on?

They were devastated that Youssef, who was on the list of hostages to be freed in a possible deal, was returned to them, instead, ready for burial. They reminded us that he was a Muslim killed by Muslim extremists not for his religion, but to send Israel a message. He would have received the same treatment were he Jewish. They reminded us that they, themselves, do not consider such murder, whether of Jews or others, the way of Islam.

Alziadana’s death is a rip in the fabric of our society, a life and an ending that show up the tears and imperfections, the worn, complicated weave we have created. He was doing the work once done with pride by Jews building a new society. Those who milked the cows were providing food for an entire county, working with their hands because the socialist community was built around Jews working the land. Holit, like most other kibbutzim around the county, now has hired hands working in agriculture while its sons and daughters go off to study in university or travel abroad.

I cannot tell you how many of Alziadana’s sons and daughters have the privilege of higher education. I can tell you they have no school in their village. I can tell you they are still second-class citizens in their own country – a country that reserves the right to demolish their homes or confiscate their land, even as it keeps their status “unrecognized.” While their father was attaching electric milking machines to cow udders, his family members were getting their electricity from jerry-rigged solar panels and driving on unpaved roads. I can tell you that he was part of a culture that is being compressed and forced out.

Alziadana’s death is a reminder that we cannot win this war without freeing all the hostages, that we cannot free the hostages by dragging out the war. Our negotiations to release them must include the promise of cease-fire negotiations, and that will require a proper strategy for ending the war.

I put away my milking boots long ago. But I recognize the fortitude of anyone who engages in such work for any length of time. I solute this man who did the most honorable work one can do: producing food for the rest of us. I do not know whether he complained of his lot or bore it with humor. I do not know if, after 18 years, he was running the kibbutz dairy or still a “simple worker” milking five times a week. I image, at age 53, his feet and back hurt him. I image that, as he spent his final days in closed rooms or tunnels, he worried for his family.

Remember Youssef Alziadana. He was a part of us in the Gaza tunnels, just as he was a part of us in life. I hope and pray that he and his son, Hamza, will be the last hostages pulled from tunnels in “heroic actions,” that a new deal will lead to the release of every last hostage and bring an end to the war.