Avi Goldberg: A tribute to my childhood friend
I am not entirely sure how to write these words. How does one say goodbye to their very first friend?
These are words I mostly expected to write in our old age. Perhaps if it had come to it, you would have written them about me. Who knows what could have been? Writing these words, mid-life holds with it a special kind of pain and sadness that, unfortunately, has become commonplace this past year.
This morning, I received the news that my childhood friend, Avi Goldberg, was killed in action last night in Lebanon. I am generally good with words, but none can truly encapsulate the shock and the sorrow of your absence. I have been sitting here in front of my computer for hours, watching the cursor blink on a mostly empty screen as spells of grief flow through me like an electric current.
Avi, you and I go back to a time before either of us can truly remember; we met at the age of two, back when we lived in Kaminitz, Neve Ya’akov. Together, we navigated the first few years of our lives. Some so early on, they were captured in old photographs and became memories only later on. Our families were close as well — so close that my grandmother, may her memory be a blessing, once told me that she considered you another grandchild. In fact, in later years, when we grew out of touch, Grandma became the keeper of updates. Every visit would begin with her sharing what all the cousins were up to, and you were always among them.
One of my earliest memories is of you. Having arrived in Israel as a young child, I was immersed in a world of English speakers — my family, our friends, our neighbours, and even many in our synagogue all spoke English. But at Gan (pre-school), I was surrounded by Hebrew, a language I barely understood. I can still picture the scene: a teacher towering over me, speaking in sounds I couldn’t decipher. And then, there was you, who stepped in and became my translator. We were no older than three or four, but you saw I was upset and intimidated by the situation, so you came running over and stood by my side. You became my first friend, and this moment — my first memory of friendship.
Your ability to see people this way reminds me of your original namesake, our Father, Abraham. In the Parsha of Vayera, he encounters three figures who we, the omniscient readers, often recognize as angels:
“And God was seen (וירא) by him (Abraham) at the trees of Mamre, and he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. And he raised his eyes and saw (וירא) three figures standing near him, and he saw (וירא), and he ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them” [Bereshit 18:1–2]
The Rabbinic commentators stand perplexed by this encounter. Why does the text mention twice that Abraham sees the people? Isn’t once enough?
It is well known that there are no superfluous words in the Bible, leading many commentators to the conclusion that these two mentions allude to two different kinds of seeing.
The first is physical — Abraham sees three people in the heat of the day.
The second sight is more profound. Abraham sees that they are tired from their journey and concludes that they must be hungry and thirsty. The second sight drives him to action — “And he saw, and he ran…” When one sees another in such a manner, they are compelled to action.
That is how I remember you, Avi. A kind and gentle soul who could see people like Abraham. It compelled you to action in so many areas of your life. Indeed, It often seemed that you were born without a selfish bone in your body — always looking out for other people.
The last time I saw you was a few months ago. We met by chance at Ben Zackai St. We had just made it back to Israel, and while we found being stuck in the US while Israel was at war challenging, you had been that entire time in the reserves. It was a brief encounter, and most of it was spent on you wanting to hear about me. Then, just as we prepared to part ways, you gave me your winning smile and referred to the challenges of our people, saying — “… at least we have one another”.
These last few years have often left me doubting this Jewish fraternity you spoke of. But I walked away encouraged. We fall apart when we fail to see the other’s humanity; we come together when we aspire to see people with our hearts rather than our eyes, and you were always an example of that from childhood and throughout adulthood.
Rest in peace, dear friend, and thank you for teaching me friendship.
