|
|
December 12, 2003/Kislev 17 5764, Vol. 56, No. 12
Facing life in Israel
VICKI CABOT
Contributing Editor
I have seen the face of Israel.
It has dark eyes, a fringe of bangs, head covered by a modish knit cap. It has delicate features, a soft voice, a graceful demeanor.
Too, it has a strong nose, a balding head, a direct manner. Or shining tresses and laughing eyes. Or an open face and ready smile. Or a tiny heart-shaped punim framed with curly wisps.
We spent Shabbat with Galit and Shlomo Leibovitch and their children, Hilah, Moshe and Shirah, when in Israel last month for the UJC General Assembly. It was the most meaningful part of a trip filled with countless high points.
The Leibovitch family became victims of a terrorist attack last June. Their fourth child, almost 8-year-old Noam, was killed; 3-year-old Shirah was critically injured.
The Leibovitches lived in Phoenix for four years as Israeli emissaries. Galit and Shlomo taught at the Phoenix Hebrew Academy, and the entire family immersed themselves in Jewish communal life. But then it was time to go home. Two years after they returned, Noam died when a Palestinian sniper opened fire on their car.
I had not met the family when they lived here. I wish I had; they are lovely people, warm, friendly, engaging. When we learned of the tragedy, I had e-mailed condolences; now we would have a chance to express them in person. What to say? What to do? How to comfort when words and gestures seem so meaningless?
Not to worry.
Our concerns disappeared as soon as we met, exchanging spontaneous hugs and kisses, exclaiming over Shirah's "baby" in her stroller, complimenting Hilah on her outfit, shaking Moshe's hand. We had brought small gifts for the children on behalf of the community - a Diamondbacks cap, a beaded bracelet, a Care Bear - quickly dispensed as we walked to the dining room for Shabbat dinner.
We sat at the table and welcomed the Sabbath with song, chanted the blessings over wine and bread, ritually washed our hands and readied to eat. Shirah asked for a high chair, then opted first for the lap of one parent, then another. The older children adjourned to their own table, keeping an eye on their little sister. After the meal, there were more songs and a d'var Torah. I looked over at Galit. She had a far away look in her eyes as she clasped Shirah ever tighter and swayed slightly to the melodies.
Later, after dinner, we talked. About Noam. About the poem she wrote. About the songs she sang. About the joy that she brought to her family. About the profound loss, once a family of four children, now made three.
The Leibovitches brought out an album of family pictures and flipped through its well-thumbed pages with likeness after likeness of Noam. At school, at play, in Phoenix, at the Grand Canyon, in Yellowstone Park.
Galit told me that people ask her how she can still be religious after suffering such heartbreak.
Shirah cuddled on her lap. "I have three living children," she said softly.
"How can I not?"
Contact the writer at vicki_cabot@jewishaz.com.
|
