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MAY 4• 2023 | 7

essay

I Never Thought 
It Would Be My Family
I 

remember myself standing 
at the siren, closing my eyes 
and shedding a tear over 
an emotional passage or a sad 
song. I’ve always connected to 
Memorial Day ceremonies. At 
least that’s what 
I thought. That 
this is how you 
feel when you 
connect.
But I never 
thought it would 
be my family 
— the one for 
whom the ceremony was writ-
ten. I see the pictures — in the 
news, around me, in the slide 
show at the ceremony. And it’s 
still hard for me to digest that 
it’s them. That it’s me.
For the last few days, I’ve felt 
sort of OK. We went out — 
Daddy, Keren, Yehuda and I. 
We went to a restaurant. And 
they’re bringing us the most 
delicious food, and I have the 
car any time I want. And then, 
suddenly, I realize that things 
will never be good again. There 
is a black hole inside me. And 
it’s there all the time.
Even when things are good 
for me — they’re not really 
good. And even in another 
five years or another 10 years 
— even at my wedding — this 
hole will be there.
These days the house is 
empty. Everything screams 
their absence. Someone put a 
bag of salad in the fridge. My 
mother would never let that 
happen. I went to fill up the 
car. It was complicated and I 
couldn’t call Mummy to explain 
it to me. I found myself asking 
for help from someone I didn’t 
know.

I find little notes that Rina 
wrote in the bedroom. I see 
the box of notes I kept from 
Mummy. Her wedding ring on 
my hand. In Maia’s closet, all 
her clothes are neatly arranged, 
just waiting.
Recently, I was sent a record-
ing of Mummy singing “Modeh 
Ani,
” the morning praise. “I 
thank You, living and enduring 
King, for You have returned my 
soul within me,
” but He did not 
return her soul and that’s all I 
have left. Her recording. How 
is it possible to understand that 
this is all I have left? I don’t 
have Rina to talk to or Maia to 
guide me, or Mummy to wake 
me up in the morning. To sing 
Modeh Ani to me.
I’ve always connected to 
Memorial Day ceremonies. At 
least that’s what I thought. That 
this is how you feel when you 
connect.
But nobody can relate to this 
pain. Not really. It is impossible 
to understand what it is to lose 
a loved one without experi-
encing it. I’ve never had such 
emptiness as this. I never knew 
what loss was.
I thought I understood, but 
I didn’t understand. And even 
now I don’t understand — I 
can’t come to terms with the 
fact that this is truly my reality. 
From a family of seven, we 
became a family of four. It’s 
impossible to digest. And it’s so 
scary to be so sad.
I want to jump ahead, to 
press the fast-forward button 
on my life, when all this will 
supposedly be behind me. I am 
waiting for the day when I will 
think about Rina and about 
Maia and about Mummy, and I 

will be able to breathe. And not 
cry. But can that be? I know 
this pain will not go away. That 
it won’t become easier for me.
I’ve always connected to 
Memorial Day ceremonies. At 
least that’s what I thought. That 
this is how you feel when you 
connect.
And I always knew that 
the transition from Memorial 
Day to Independence Day was 
extreme but strong. Full of 
power. And now, now I don’t 
understand how it can be that 
Independence Day has arrived. 
I haven’t the strength to cele-
brate. How do you make this 
transition from grief to joy?
Rina was so excited about 
Independence Day. She was 
responsible for the flag march 
with her youth group girls in 
the ceremony in front of the 
entire community. She shared 
the difficulties with us along 
the way, her concerns and her 
enthusiasm. But tomorrow I 
will come to the ceremony at 
my school, and they will talk 
about Rina there.
Sometimes what happened 
to us hits me, and then I can’t 
function. And then at other 
times I’m sort of removed from 

it, not believing that this is 
really my life. And there is no 
solace for this. This hole cannot 
be fixed.
These days, it’s hard to 
believe in the resurrection of 
the dead.
Everyone continues. The sun 
carries on shining, and people 
post normal statuses about nor-
mal things. But I stay behind. I 
don’t want photos that will doc-
ument the fact that I’m growing 
up, but Maia and Rina aren’t. 
In three years, I will be older 
than Maia. How is this even 
possible?
Even people who have expe-
rienced loss have not experi-
enced this triple loss at once. 
And I’m afraid of this loss. 
Afraid of the longing. Afraid of 
the sadness. Afraid to give birth 
without my mother.
I’ve always connected to 
Memorial Day ceremonies. At 
least that’s what I thought. That 
this is how you feel when you 
connect. 

Tali Dee is the daughter of Rabbi Leo 

Dee and Lucy Dee, z”l. Her mother and 

two of her sisters, Maia, z”l and Rina, 

z”l, were killed by terrorists while driving 

in the Jordan Valley during the 2023 

Passover holiday.

Tali Dee
Times of 
Israel

The Dee family, Rabbi Leo and Lucy in the center, Rina (L) and Maia 
are in the top row. Tali is on the right. Lucy, Rina and Maia were killed 
in a terrorist attack in the West Bank on April 7, 2023. (Courtesy)

