Masa Kumta – The March to the Beret

I got up at 5:30 am. Early for me. I’m not complaining. My granddaughter Barr had been up all night walking, trudging along, taking turns as a stretcher bearer, carrying one of her soldier buddies– the rescued “victim.” It was the coveted Masa Kumta:  the traditional 30K “Stretcher March” the soldiers must complete before they are awarded their brigade’s beret. 

In the rain. Through the mud. The only rainy day over the last few weeks. Well, why make it easy for these combat-bound male and female soldiers? They had just completed six months of training to be officially certified soldiers of the Homefront Command’s Search and Rescue brigade. Families were invited to join the soldiers for the last kilometer of the march (or to wait in the amphitheater). We were among the minority who chose to slosh through the heavy mud to make the final push together with our personal soldier. 

While we were waiting somewhat impatiently in the rain and cold for Barr’s company, messages popped up on my phone.  It was also International Holocaust Day. Articles and videos of testimonies and reports of upcoming ceremonies. Interviews with remaining survivors. It’s difficult not to compare. Not to imagine. Not to remember the words, “Never Again.” Yet here we are “Again” but this time we have an army. We have soldiers. And there they were. Still very distant, but the line of exhausted, wet, weighed-down soldiers continued toward us. 

Finally, I saw Barr, firmly holding onto the back pole of the stretcher sitting on her shoulder as she made her way up the incline. Another soldier took over her stretcher-bearer duties when she spotted us. 

However, it’s difficult to hug a soldier dressed in full battle gear: tactical vest both front and back (survival equipment, first aid, canteens, magazines and no idea what else), helmet, M-16 rifle, berkiyot, protective knee and shin pads. How can you kiss a face with black, white and green camouflage paint?

I was again overcome with pride. We are strong. The Jewish People are not defenseless like we were then – the “then” being observed today. 

We stood during the ceremony to get a good view of Barr and her company. We wanted to clearly see Barr receive her orange beret – orange for Homefront Command. Barr was getting hers from one of her commanders, a high honor. Soon she’ll start the course for squad commanders. I take a “here and now” moment and succumb to a jumble of pride and trepidation. I say a little prayer of thanks and appreciation for all our soldiers and gratitude that I am here to see it. I should be used to this as it’s not the first time. My daughters and three other grandchildren before Barr have served or are serving in the IDF. But still, the tears blended in with the rain.

I’m writing this while sitting at the new lookout hill in memory of Aviya, a young woman from my community who was murdered at the Nova festival on Oct. 7. I buy coffee and a sandwich from the coffee agala, a converted small trailer, that helps fund the memorial site.  I have a clear view of Tel Aviv in one direction, Kfar Saba, Netanya and Hadera in another. The coffee agala is busy.  There’s a line of soldiers taking a break from whatever they were doing, residents of my community out for a stroll with babies or dogs, and even strangers who drive by and decide to stop for coffee and the view. Attempts to move forward.

It’s Sunday, three days since Agam Berger, the last of the observers, the last female soldier, was released. A radio station plays on my phone, and I hear Agam’s aunt tell the interviewer that Agam doesn’t understand how everyone knows who she is. She thought she was anonymous. “The whole world knows you,” the aunt said. “You just don’t know them.”

And that’s just it. Everyone does know her name. All the names. We never thought we’d have anything like Oct. 7. But we did. I am surrounded: Oct. 7, Holocaust Remembrance Day, three granddaughters serving in the Israeli army. I can’t stop thinking about Barr’s ceremony taking place on International Holocaust Day.  Prior to October 7, I might not have given the timing much thought. Now I do.

Galia Miller Sprung moved to Israel from Southern California in 1970 to become a pioneer farmer and today she is a writer and editor.