The Wrong Dead Man

The soldier died as one dies for Israel: shattered, at twenty, his uniform torn, his blood rotting in the scorching dirt. He defended a country that, the next day, spat on his corpse.

Because his mother was Russian. Because his mother was Christian. Because his mother was the wrong kind of woman to bear a national hero.

Then came the rabbi. A man with soft hands, a man who had never held a rifle, who had never buried a son, who had never even buried a stray cat. He arrived with his thick book, with the voice of someone who speaks for God, and ruled with the ease of a man ordering his morning coffee:

— He cannot be buried here.

The city lowered its head and obeyed. The town always obeys. There was no protest, no scandal. The baker opened his shop. The butcher sharpened his knife. The woman at the market picked out fresh peppers. Life went on.

And the dead man? The dead man was sent to the wrong side of the fence—the side of suicides, of bastards, of those born without a divine pedigree.

And no one thought twice about it.

Because in the same cemetery lay the others. The saints. The untouchables. The ones who had never held a rifle, never marched through dust, never buried a friend blown apart by a rocket. Those who live without working, without fighting, without giving anything to Israel—but who, in death, have their burial plots secured.

Because God does not need soldiers, God needs sheep.
The soldier’s grandfather stood before the shallow grave. Silent. Dry-eyed. Then he spat.

A loud, phlegm-filled, revolting spit. He spat as one spit out a tumor that wouldn’t go down. He spat with disgust. He spat with rage.

People pretended not to see. The world prefers the dead who accept their burial.

The next day, the government lowered the fence. They said it was a symbolic gesture—a noble gesture.

But the dead man was still on the wrong side.

And the others, who had never fought, bled, or lost anything, remained on the right side.

The city whispered:

— Did you see it? The grandfather spat.

— He didn’t even cry.

He didn’t cry because he didn’t need to.

His grandson had died three times.

The first was when the enemy killed him.

The second was when Israel buried him as a mistake.

The third, when those who had never given anything claimed the proper grave on the right side of the fence—and the wrong side of history.