The Last Voice Message
“Hey brother, what’s up? We just got back from an especially tough week. I have the most incredible soldiers. It’s such a privilege. Hopefully I’ll get home for Shabbat. What about you?”
A voice message. One of hundreds. Two brothers. Two best friends.
Growing up in the Golan Heights. Among the springs and winding streams. In the wide-open spaces that teach a child to look toward the horizon. In a home where their father taught them the meaning of responsibility, and their mother taught them the meaning of love.
“Bro, I’ve been waiting to tell you. I had the craziest flight. One drill after another. I landed with almost no fuel left. But brother, the views were unbelievable. And my instructor is such an inspiration.”
One chose the elite ground forces. The other chose to fly. But they walked the same path. A path of responsibility. Of excellence. Of service. Of love for the country they called home.
Then came the day when the skies darkened. And ever since, I find myself thinking about all the messages that will never be sent. All the “What’s up, brother?” And all the “Wait until you hear what happened to me today.”
Soon, there will be his graduation ceremony. The coveted pilot wings. Everyone will be there. So proud.
But one person will be missing.
And I imagine a fighter jet cutting across the skies of the Golan. Above the streams, the trails, and the hills where they grew up together. As if he is searching. Not for a target. Not for an enemy. Just for a familiar voice. For his brother. And perhaps, somewhere above the clouds, one final message will be heard: “I’m here, brother. Keep climbing. The sky is ours.”
Yesterday (Sunday), I stood beneath the eucalyptus trees at the cemetery of Keshet and watched as Captain Shahar Gamla was laid to rest. As I looked around, I found myself thinking that a new heritage site had been created in the Golan Heights.
Just as visitors stop at the old cemetery of Kinneret to learn about the pioneers. Just as they visit the Valley of Tears to understand the price paid by an earlier generation. One day they should stop here as well.
Tour guides, educators, youth movement leaders, teachers, commanders. They should stand beneath those eucalyptus trees and tell the story of the boy who grew up in the open landscapes of the Golan.
A boy who pushed himself to excel. Who searched for meaning and truth. Who loved this country through its trails, its mountains, and its people. Tell the story of the commander who led from the front. Who demanded so much from himself and inspired others to do the same. Tell the story of the young officer who chose, again and again, the path of responsibility, service, and sacrifice.
And tell the story of the price. Of a life cut short far too soon. Of an extraordinary family. Of a community that now carries both pride and heartbreak.
Because heritage is not the story of how a person dies. Heritage is the story of how a person lives. In the years ahead, visitors will stand there overlooking the hills and valleys that shaped him.
They will hear about the commander. The son. The friend. The brother. And perhaps they will understand that Shahar’s story does not end at a graveside. It lives on in the soldiers he led. In the values he embodied. In the landscapes that shaped him. And in a younger brother who will soon receive his wings and carry both their dreams into the sky.
May the memory of Captain Shahar Gamla be a blessing.
