Dedicating our Hearts on Mt. Hermon

I sit on rocks and weeds on a high slope of Mt. Hermon in northern Israel focused on the three men addressing our group.  Each in turn struggles to speak without tears, without quivering lips, without voices that crack as they recall the battle to retake Mt. Hermon in the Yom Kippur War and the comrades-in-arms they lost doing so. 

Fifty years have gone by.

The three stand a bit below us, hoping that we’ll hear them over the winds. Their faces all share the lines and creases of decades of trying to forget. The sorrow in their eyes is evident even behind their sunglasses. Graying hair peeks out from green baseball caps with the symbol of Sayeret Golani, the elite reconnaissance unit of the Golani Brigade. “Salt of the Earth,” Israelis like to say. “Tough. Rugged.” Yes, they are. But softer today. 

These Golani soldiers ultimately did secure the Hermon – “the eyes and ears of Israel” – before the ceasefire of October 24th but not without great losses. Today, 500 family members, friends and Golani fighters past and current gather on the Hermon to dedicate a monument in the memory of the fourteen Sayeret soldiers who fell in the battles on the Hermon. 

I stand by the newly erected monument silently reading each name. I had never met any of these Golani recon fighters, but I know everything about one of them, Chuck Hornstein (Chaim Haran), through stories my husband and his friends tell each year when they gather at his grave in Jerusalem’s Mt. Herzl cemetery. In 1967, Chuck moved from New York to Israel, and in 1971, he enlisted in the Israeli army. His friends from New York who had previously made Aliyah to Israel, became his family.

The large staging area has four signs. We find the sign with Chuck’s name and the names of three of his buddies. Our group walks around the yellow iron gates that prevent civilians from entering the closed military zone, but not today. We continue up the paved road, veer off to the right and climb up a steep path, navigating around stones, prickly weeds and gravel as we make our way to the battle sites. Lookout posts and bunkers to our right and left blend into the stoney hills. Below us, Israel is visible in all directions. 

I stop for a minute, and close my eyes. 

I see these soldiers in dirty uniforms, loaded down with machine guns, rifles, helmets, and back packs. The odor of sweat and residue of not having showered since rushing out of synagogues on Yom Kippur mixes with the smell of gun powder and diesel fuel from tanks. The hills are hazy from explosions. I shudder as I hear the Syrian jet strafing Chuck and three others and I choke from the fumes of the MiG as the pilot comes around to finish the job, releasing its bombs. Tears come as I see the sliver of shrapnel fly into Chuck, killing him. 

Fifty years have gone by.

I open my eyes. These “soldiers” are nearing 70. They are walking near me, talking with the bereaved siblings, nieces, and nephews. One family. The bond between a fallen soldier’s unit and his family is sealed from the moment of loss.  

These “soldiers” are nearing seventy. They are walking near me, talking with the bereaved siblings, nieces, and nephews. One family. The bond between a fallen soldier’s unit and his family is sealed from the moment of loss. 

Our veterans take turns speaking, sharing their memories of the battles and how their comrades-in-arms fell. They don’t always agree on the details but allow each his version. 

Fifty years have gone by.

“The Syrian planes came from over there with bombs.” 

“No, they strafed us first.”

“No, fired rockets first.”

They all agreed on one sad fact: Four soldiers were killed.

They look towards the families. They gesture in different directions and their stories include battle jargon like, one hundred and four, Khader, Majdal Shams, Giva (hill) 16, upper tram station, the tank curve.

They may be veterans, but standing on the battle site today, they are once again very young soldiers. 

Oblivious to the fifty years that have gone by.

Galia Miller Sprung, who moved to Israel in 1970 to become a pioneer farmer, is a retired high school teacher, writer and editor.