The Unspoken Pain: The Voice of the Bereaved Brothers Comes to Light

(live here) – For many years, national bereavement in Israel spoke with only one voice – the voice of the bereaved parents and spouses. The siblings, who sometimes lost the person closest to them, were left on the sidelines. They were called “the son of,” “the sister of,” but their deep pain was not given the place it deserved. They were asked to support their parents and not process their bereavement. Only in the last decade, thanks to independent initiatives and quiet public struggles, has the country begun to recognize this pain. This article tells the story of four bereaved siblings – Yonat, Anton, Matan, and Eli – each of whom carries with them the wound of losing a brother or sister, and the need to remember, to voice, and to live.

The slow recognition of the loss of siblings: "We were told to take care of our parents"

Yonath Schreier, 50, from Ramat Hasharon, lost her brother Yiftach in the summer of 2006, during the Second Lebanon War. Yiftach was a young soldier, 22, who fell in the midst of battle. "I was seven months pregnant with my second child," she recalls. "I had a 3-year-old daughter and another one on the way. The loss completely changed my life." Yonath describes a normal childhood alongside three brothers, until death entered the family and ravaged the cards.

"Immediately after Yiftach's death, I realized we had no voice," she says. "The focus was naturally on the bereaved parents. We, the brothers, were told to just take care of our parents. We, the bereaved brothers, founded the association 'Lanitzah Achi' – to put ourselves at the forefront."

Yonath describes a process of slow change. "Since the Second Lebanon War, people have begun to understand that there are also bereaved spouses, good friends of those who fell, and also brothers. Yiftach's friends accompany us to this day. Sometimes I think they were hurt just as much as we were."

The pain that doesn't go away: "It doesn't get easier with the years"

For Yonath, the 19 years that have passed have not made the loss any easier. "I have a twin brother to Yiftach – Yarden. Watching Yarden get married, become a father, move forward – it's hard. I see the present versus the non-present. I am in a very close relationship with Yarden and think about what could have been with Yiftach and of course it won't be. Yiftach and Yarden's birthdays will always fall on the same date – 11/09, a charged date also on the world stage, the day of the twin disaster. It's symbolic."

She describes a family that chose to continue living, alongside the pain. "We didn't make a decision, but each of us – my parents, my siblings, and I – chose life. Alongside the commemoration, alongside the memory, our lives continued. But it never goes away." Yonath also wants to convey an important message – "We realized that siblings also lost a part of themselves. Sometimes we are forgotten. But our loss is deep, permanent, and life-changing."

A childhood break: "The house was happy - today it is sad"

Anton, 13, an eighth-grade student at the Urban C School in Haifa, lost his eldest sister, the late Daniela Petrenko, in the events of the massacre in Nova, on the day the Iron Swords War broke out, along with her partner. He has difficulty talking about her, but remembers every detail. "We were three siblings. Daniela was the oldest. When she would come to visit from out of town, it was a special moment. She would take me to eat, talk, and go for walks. We were friends."

The moment he realized his sister was gone was etched in his memory. "At first we didn't know what happened. In the end, my grandmother and I found out through a post on my mother's Facebook. My parents went to look for her and find out what happened to her and as soon as they realized she had been murdered, my mother published the post. She never imagined that this would be how my grandmother and I would realize that Daniela was gone. It was a shock. Even though I was only 12 years old, I was at the funeral and also at the shiva. After that, it was hard for me to study, it was hard to talk. I didn't tell my friends about what happened. After the murder, a lot of students from school wrote to me and were interested in me, and teachers from the school also just wanted to help me and support me."

Anton describes a house that has changed from end to end. "Our house was happy, full of life. Today it is sad. I hardly bring friends home. I help my mother with the shopping, with the dishwasher – because I see that it makes her happy. One of the things that does improve my mother's and my feelings is Daniela's friends, who surround us. I talk to them when they come. It helps me, but it doesn't fill the gap."

A father who asks for a memorial: "Isn't it obvious that there will be something in her name?"

More than anything, Anton seeks recognition. "We are a Haifa family. Isn't it obvious that Daniela will be remembered? That my mother should beg for commemoration? It hurts me. I see my mother's grief and her struggle, and it breaks me." He also grapples with thoughts about the future. "I'm waiting for military service, I have mixed feelings. I still have time to think, but I know it will come. And I don't know how I'll deal with it."

Pain and life at the same time: "I am an amputee, and he didn't see it – and it's a good thing"

Matan Banjo, the eldest brother of the late Itay, describes a deep and unique connection with his brother, who was also murdered at a party in Nova. "Itay was always my little brother, even when he was already 30 years old. We called him 'Bully'. He was loved by everyone, an amazing child. As he grew up, he became a curious person, studying, working, enjoying life."

A few days before the murder, Itay tried to call Matan. "I was in the hospital for a medical procedure. He called, and I didn't answer. When I tried to call him back, I couldn't reach him. I live with the thought that maybe, just maybe, if I had talked to him, I would have convinced him not to go to the party, even though I know he loved those parties and he would have gone, and that thought still doesn't let go."

Matan, who is now an amputee, finds comfort in the fact that Itay didn't see him that way. "I know that Itay had a very difficult time dealing with my situation, and I take comfort in the fact that Itay didn't see it that way. It's a small comfort, but it exists."

Bereavement without recognition: "We don't want money - we want to be recognized"

"When they say 'bereaved brother,' it's a title, nothing more," Matan emphasizes. "We're not asking for money or rights. Just consideration. Just that they understand that we too were broken. We too went through a loss from which there is no return."

He recalls a family trip to Barcelona, ​​a moment of pure happiness with his two brothers and parents. "We were a complete family. That will never happen again. This picture, just before everything, shows me what we lost."

The pain that doesn't let up: "What happened - unfathomable, unforgivable"

Itay's family, like many of the families of those murdered at the party, has not yet received clear answers. "We weren't there when they shared the investigation. There are so many questions – how did this happen? Why wasn't there a warning? Why was the Migonit a death trap? I keep thinking – what would have happened if only the army had acted first? Every thought like that exhausts me."

Old loss, new pain: "I became a broken vessel from the last war"

Eli Debi lost his brother Tzadok in 1978. But he feels that it was precisely in the Iron Swords War, decades later, that the pain resurfaced in a way he had never known. "It was only in 2007 that I felt like I was truly a bereaved brother, when I founded 'Lanitzah Achi.' Before that, there was no reference to brothers. This year, the pain returned with a force I had never known. Every time something is published and allowed to be published and I see another soldier killed and another family joining the bereaved family, I break down." Eli's brother was crushed between two trucks and then sent to the clinic. No one knew that his internal systems had collapsed following the truck's impact, and therefore it was not treated. He died as a result of the accident, and since then Eli has been dealing with bereavement, the severe family trauma following the separation from his beloved brother.

Bereavement that passes from generation to generation: "My mother is also a bereaved sister"

"My mother lost her brother ten years before Zadok was killed. My father was a soldier. Our family lived the country – and now also the bereavement." He talks about a small but significant memory: "Every time we came to Zadok's grave, there was a burning candle, a fresh flower. Someone was there. That means a lot. From our point of view, no one was to blame for the accident in which Zadok died, because it was not, God forbid, directed against him, and my father believed that too and did not want anyone to be found guilty of the accident."

Time is not doing its job: "Today's brothers don't yet know how hard it is"

Eli is convinced – the bereaved brothers from the Iron Swords War do not yet understand what awaits them. "In a year, in two years, they will understand that Israeli society focuses on parents and spouses. They will discover the feeling of abandonment that we experienced. Although there is no doubt that over the years we have been present for the pain of the bereaved brothers, so that the bereaved brothers from recent years will not encounter our struggles."

That's why he dedicates himself to public activity. One of the projects he's particularly proud of is "Living the Songs," in which songs written by fallen soldiers are composed - and given new life. "I'm reaching out to all bereaved families, and even if the fallen soldiers didn't write songs themselves, you can write a song about them and their lives. Then, with the help of artificial intelligence, music is added in the style that was loved by the fallen soldier. I heard a song my brother wrote - composed, recorded, played. It's as if they've brought it back to life. This is the most powerful feeling I've had in recent years."

Looking to the Future: "Bereavement is Changing – and Leadership Must Change Too"

Today, Eli is running for the leadership of the Yad Labanim branch in Haifa, along with a mother who was bereaved from the last war. "We want to bring in a new, young spirit. Understand that bereavement has changed. There are now young families, children, young siblings, a different reality. It's time for the leadership to adapt as well."