The sacred duty of bringing a body home

I saw this reverence when I went to witness the washing of the dead. As the bodies arrived at Tel Aviv’s main facility, they were carefully cleaned, purified and dressed in shrouds modelled after the clothes of the High Priest. It was a haunting illustration of the way Judaism honours every person, even in death.

That honour is so fundamental that our connection to the Land of Israel begins with the story of a burial. When Sarah dies, Abraham is offered a burial plot, free of charge, but he insists on purchasing a separate plot to bury his wife; thereby taking the first step to defining the Jewish people as a distinct nation.

Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, the former Chief Rabbi of Efrat, explains that where we are buried is not just a commemoration of the past, it is a marker for future generations.

Our earliest national encounter with the burial of dead hostages took place in 135 CE when the Romans besieged Betar, a city rich with Jewish life. Rabbis there maintained a vigil of prayer and fasting, but to no avail.

The Roman legions crushed the community so forcefully that midrashim portray pools of blood rising to the height of a horse’s head. Even allowing for hyperbole, it is clear that there was carnage and the Romans compounded the calamity by banning the mourners from burying their dead.

Years later, when Jews were finally allowed to hold funerals, they were amazed to discover that the bodies had not decomposed. They instituted a blessing, recited in Grace after Meals to this day which thanks God “who is good and does good”. It was, according to Rabbi Sacks, a demonstration of our people’s ability to find hope and comfort even amid catastrophe.

The Romans eventually released the bodies of the fallen, but when our enemies refuse to do so, how far should we go to recover the remains ourselves? The Bible recounts that after King Saul died, Philistines from the Gaza area captured his body and desecrated it. Men from Yavesh Gilead risked their lives to retrieve his body and bring it back for burial.

Ordinarily, perhaps such risks could not be justified, this was an exceptional case because as king, Saul symbolised the nation. Alternatively, the biblical story may serve as a precedent for our current situation, indicating that we should do all we can to return the remains of captured Israeli soldiers. Like Saul, they too become national icons, when seized by ruthless enemies.

Rabbi Dr Yehuda Zoldan teaches at an Israeli yeshivah for young men combining their Torah study with army service. When he addresses such questions, it is not just theoretical. He asserts that burying the dead is exceptionally important. It overrides almost any other mitzvah. But, as significant as it is, protecting the living is even more so. One should not sacrifice one’s own life in order to save another’s, let alone for the sake of a corpse.

There is one possible exception. Seeing fallen colleagues on the battlefield can be traumatising. Soldiers may fear that they and their friends will not receive a decent burial and this might undermine their ability to fight effectively. In such circumstances, leading authorities such as Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach allow the army to take some risks to recover bodies.

Rabbi Zoldan concludes that we must make all such decisions on the basis of national security, while educating our soldiers to recognise the overwhelming value of life even over respect for the dead.

Having reached the end of my discussion of these laws with Rabbi Melchior, it was time to go. As I rose to leave, the doorbell rang. Hadar Goldin’s father had arrived. When he entered, I faced a dignified but tormented man, mourning his son and desperate to bury him. In that moment, all my arguments — logical, historical and textual — vanished. I was overwhelmed.

​

Gideon Sylvester is the United Synagogue’s Israel rabbi

Image: An IDF guard of honour stands watch over the bodies of hostages recently returned from Gaza (photo: IDF)