It happened on a Friday. Not just another tragic headline. Not just another young face added to the unbearable list.
Sergeant Yishai Elyakim Urbach. Twenty years old. A combat engineer in the IDF’s 605th Battalion. A newlywed—two months married to Yuval, the love of his life. Gone in an instant, after an RPG fired by Hamas terrorists struck a building in Rafah, Gaza. The structure collapsed. Yishai was killed. Several of his brothers-in-arms were seriously injured.
But here’s where the story turns from tragedy to testimony.
At his funeral, held on Sunday, there was a soldier who had no business being there. At least, that’s what the hospital staff thought. His body shattered from the same explosion, his wounds fresh, his pain constant. But when he was told “no” — that he couldn’t attend Yishai’s funeral — he didn’t argue. He didn’t plead. He just refused to accept it.
So they brought him.
Not in uniform, but in a hospital gown.
Not walking, but in a hospital bed.
Because in Israel, we don’t leave each other behind.
Even when we can’t stand—we show up.
That is the soul of this nation.
This is not a country of perfect politics, polished PR, or easy answers.
This is a country of people who don’t run.
Who don’t quit.
Who fight beside each other, bury each other, and then keep fighting anyway.
Yishai wasn’t just a soldier. He was a student at the Golan Hesder Yeshiva. A young man of faith. A man who sang “Kinesher Yair Kino” — as if he knew, even then, that his life would be a song cut short but never silenced.
And now the world will try to move on.
The media will forget his name.
The headlines will fade.
But the people of Israel will remember.
Because we don’t just bury our dead.
We carry them.
In our hearts, in our mission, in the unspoken promise we make to each other:
If I fall, you keep going.
And if you fall, I’ll carry you — even if I have to come on a stretcher.
Yishai’s life was short.
But his legacy? It’s longer than the tunnels of Gaza.
It stretches from the hills of Judea to the gates of Heaven.
May his memory be a blessing.
And may the wounded soldier who came to say goodbye live a life so full of light and strength, it brings healing to us all.
This is Israel. Not a slogan. A reality.
Even in mourning—we rise.
Even in heartbreak—we hope.
Even in war—we love.
Because we are one people. One family. One nation.
And our brotherhood?
It doesn’t break. Not even in death.