Roni — The woman who taught me the meaning of open
There are two days in the Jewish Calendar that make me anxious. One of them is a religious day, Yom Kippur, the day of Atonement, where I self-reflect. The other one is a secular nationalist day, Yom Hazikaron, Memorial day, where I reflect on people I knew and are now gone. Today is Memorial day.
As a state, Israel commemorates two memorial days one after another. The first, for the Holocaust, the war we could not fight. The other one, just a week after, is the memorial day for the soldiers, where we have fought in these short 70 years. Then, just as the memorial day ends at 8 pm, we go to the streets and celebrate Yom Haatzmaut, Independence day. A nation that can’t grieve for too long, that has to remember the good things straight after the most horrible of all. It is one of the hardest things one needs to do ever, to switch from sadness to happiness. Maybe we are not doing it that well.
For the last 12 years, my memorial days have been about her. I lost three people that I cared about in the army, and none of them died in a war. At least not a physical war. Two of them died at war in their brain. They committed suicide. She didn’t do such a thing, she died in a car accident, but I still think of her for the last 12 years. Her beautiful face and wise words don’t leave me. She is there, a constant reminder.
I have tried to write about her so many times in Hebrew, but I stopped mid-story every time. I guess Hebrew makes it too close, I lose my words and my sentiment. Something about writing about it in English makes it a bit more distant. Easier for the brain and the heart.
I met Roni on the first day of officer school. It was a cold sunny day in the desert, and I saw her just at the entrance to the door of the room that was allocated to me. We were 6 girls in a room, but I saw her first and I knew she was special. She was almost as tall as me, and she had this beautiful body — not too thin but curvy in the right places. She had this infectious smile, and I was lucky she got my sarcastic jokes.
She was from the Air Force, I was from the Intelligence Force: two forces in a constant rivalry for resources, for fame and for better technological tools. All about ego. We didn’t care about that, we were immediate friends and on our first day, we had these brilliant conversations about our young life. We got our cosy side of the room, the one without a window, and we shared our bunk bed in a way that each week we swapped beds — One week I was on the top and the next week, Roni was — so it would be fair.
She was always my partner and she pushed me. She pushed me to run when I didn’t have air. She pushed me to think differently, that I can do anything. I want to believe that I was there to listen to her when she had a rough time. To be that shoulder to lean on. I was there to tell her that her ideas are great. I was there to hear her rants. She was a born leader, and I looked at her with sparkly eyes, she reminded me of a better version of me. A relentless inspiring one.
Winter was almost over, but the mornings in the desert were still freezing. I vividly remember the morning where we had this heart to heart conversation. I was snuggling in my coat, trying to avoid the winds that attacked us from everywhere on our way to the dining hall to eat breakfast. As we entered the hall, a sweet smell of semolina porridge filled the air. Most soldiers hate the texture and taste of semolina porridge, but I loved it. It was soothing, warm and comforting. Just what I needed. I remember it was extra special that cold morning — it was chocolate! Roni looked at me in disgust as she got some eggs and cheese. We sat facing each other. The hall was still pretty empty. This was our routine. Eat and talk. That morning I was complaining about the evaluation that we were having the same afternoon — 360 degrees evaluation, and how I can tell her stuff, but what is the point to say to X that he or she is annoying in public? How can I smooth the blow? How nice should I be?
She waited until I took a spoon into my mouth, so I won’t speak while she is speaking. Then she said gently —
“Mor, sometimes we just need to say what we think. Actually, we need to say it always. The world would be easier if we would not complain behind people’s backs and just speak to them.”
I swallowed my porridge, stirred it a bit, and said: “But the truth can hurt, Roni.” “Well”, she said smiling, “lies and bad mouthing hurt more. Try it, just be yourself, stand for yourself”.
I did try it that day, it felt rewarding. However, I didn’t have a chance to go all in. Midday I was called out by another cadet who was in my old team. Yogev died. He was from the team I was about to manage in 4 months and he just moved to my old team before I left for Officers School. He committed suicide that day. It was time to leave the desert and go back up to the center of Israel to take part in his funeral. I had to drop all the assignments that were given to me (and I had a bunch), pack a small bag, and go home for 48 hours.
48 hours was enough time to change some things. I remember telling my commander at Officers School that I don’t wish for any commander to lose a soldier, to deal with death. When I reflect on it now, I remember how confused I felt. How I needed space, which Roni gave me.
Two weeks later, she was gone. One Friday after Officers School she came home, changed her clothes, took the keys to the car, and drove to her father’s birthday party. He was 70, and she was excited to celebrate it with him. She will always remain 19.
In the beginning, I thought it was me. I was on the team’s laptop in our room, writing the secret exam I was tasked to do, and Roni just wanted me to put it off and go to sleep. I thought I caused her tiredness. If I would not keep her awake, maybe she would not die the next afternoon. Today I know it was not me. We don’t know why her car went into the other lane, what caused her not to notice. Did she sleep at the wheel? Did she try to change the radio? Did she look at her phone?
It doesn’t matter. She was gone, and we were left to mourn all the conversations we won’t have with her, all the smiles she would not smile, all these achievements she will now never have. Her legacy though is still with me: Say what you think, even if it’s not always nice. Make sure to fight the injustice. Be open, be real.
I want to believe I did all of these, starting with her funeral. The legendary discipline Sergeant of the Officers School asked only the man to form her guard of honour. Everyone was scared of him, but not me. I looked at him and told him that she would like to have women too in her guard of honour because that’s the type of person she was. Tears came out of my eyes when I said it, but I didn’t care. Everyone was terrified when I did that, but the Sargent looked at me, and I could see the compassion in his eyes. “Alright”, he said in a soft tone, “I think you have a point. Women, who wants to join?” We all joined. We all stood there next to her freshly dug grave in the spring heat. We all honoured her.
I remember picking up her laundry at the base, the same laundry we both brought together two weeks earlier. I remember taking all of her stuff from her cupboard because the HR officers didn’t want to deal with a dead woman’s belongings. I remember the rage I felt when I had to put all of her stuff in a box. All these objects that are left behind, all the little traumas that stay
I have not gone back to that grave in a decade. I don’t feel like I need to. Roni is always with me in one way or another reminding me to be a better, more open person. Not to be afraid to be blunt, not to be afraid of my feelings. I want to believe that my short period of time with her, made me a better person.
So this memorial day, I try to tell our story, Roni. I know she impacted each person on our team in a different way, but this is how I see her. Strong, bold and smart. I want to think that Roni, and the loss of her, made me a better commander and a manager later on. Thank you, Roni, for teaching me the meaning of open.
Roni Shpiller Reshef — 1987–2006.
