I hate funerals, always have.
Truth be told, I hate weddings too, ceremonial formalities in general, really.
My friend is having a funeral tonight and I’m not going.
I cried all afternoon.
Then I drank.
I spoke to a few people by phone about it.
My heart hurts.
I cannot be in a space of hundreds of people who feel just like me.
Instead, I’ll write. It’s what I do.
I write everyday. I write in my journal mostly.
We live next to enemies that want to kill us.
We live next to humans who want to coexist with us.
We live next to otherness that we don’t understand.
We live next to a different culture, a different ideology than ours.
We talk to them.
We ignore them.
We date them.
We hate them.
We are afraid of them.
We trust some of them.
They stab us.
They stone us.
We destroy their homes.
We arrest them.
They are financially compensated for terror by their government.
They are released in a prisoner swap.
They are shot on site and forever memorialized as a shahid.
We bury our dead.
They bury their dead.
On and on it goes with no end in site.
Zionism demands a great deal from us, doesn’t it?
One cannot comprehend the magnitude of the responsibility it requires of us if they do not live here.
Zionism takes its toll on us all here.
The Zionist enterprise is a tiresome, uphill fight- every damn day.
My friend died a Zionist. He died fighting for Israel everyday.
I ask myself if this teenage little bitch knew who he was.
Was my friend targeted?
I also feel like if a big guy that is also armed can be taken down so easily, I too am at risk.
Of all the people in this whole country that could’ve been murdered today, it was he. They picked the wrong guy. Seriously.
He was pro-Israel alright, but he would talk to anyone. He never got sloppy or used personal attacks. He helped every person he knew. He was a real life hero. He cared about this land and its people through actions, not Facebook rants.
I’m upset because he brought me over a plastic stool to reach this storage cabinet that was up too high in my old place. When I moved to another apartment, I left that plastic stool behind. I’ve needed it on a couple of occasions and kicked myself for not going back and getting it. I wonder if it’s still there or not? Had I kept it, I would have a memento of him. I’d remember him every time I looked at it. I’d remember the time he stood on it and tried to break the pad lock on the cabinet door because I lost the key. Hell, I think he even used his gun to break the lock, lol!
I’m upset that the guy who literally and figuratively kept us all safe is gone now. He was a real life friend. People say they are your friends, but then when you are in need, they don’t show up. He showed up. Friendship is an illusion made up of words. Without actions, there is no friendship. Friendship is a high price and few can afford to pay it.
Ari Fuld redefined friendship for me.