Salman Habaka was in seventh grade when he came home crying from school because he had scored 99 on the Hebrew exam, not 100 as he used to. Informed his mother that this was it. As far as he's concerned, he doesn't have a father anymore, because he unjustly dropped a point on the test.
Before falling in Gaza: Lt. Col. Habka tells about the battle in Bari // Photo: IDF Spokesperson
"He was mostly competitive with two girls in his class, who would constantly check his tests to make sure his dad hadn't missed a mistake," says his mother, and for a moment you can see the laughter settle in her beautiful eyes.
That laughter sat firmly in the eyes of her Salman, the eldest of four sons and two daughters born to her and Imad, who until a year ago worked as an educator and Hebrew teacher and insisted on teaching his children as well. He swore that he did not detract or add anything from them, that he treated them like other students. Just wanted to make sure they got the best rate.
"We have no other choice but to defend the homeland." Salman Habka, photo: Courtesy of the family
The green of the landscape and the green of Maccabi Haifa's flag waving on the balcony of the house in Kfar Yanoh, let everyone know that a burnt fan of the team grew up. And from it you can see the Lebanon, Rosh Hanikra and the coast of Nahariya. Acre, where Salman attended naval officers' school, is hidden by the hills.
In the living room, the walls are covered with souvenirs brought with them by the comforters. Photographs, paintings and candles on which was printed the portrait of the revered commander who, at the age of 31, was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel, the battalion commander of the 53rd Battalion, 33 years old in his fallen, who was already in elementary school it was clear that he was blessed with exceptional abilities.
Here and there a childhood picture pops up, and here is a photo of him with all the siblings at the wedding of Tamer, the third son, which took place last July. A whole family, so happy.
And Salman stands next to the beautiful Erin, whom he married four years ago, in the arms of Imad, the son born to them two years and seven months ago, and as is customary with the firstborn, received the name of grandfather. Little Imad, whose year of birth the god of separations wanted and Salman was studying for a master's degree in orientalism and came home almost every day, as if asking for one year to see his child grow up. After that came the appointment and it would come once every two weeks, and then came this war, after which Dad would never come again.
In the media and in the funeral procession, the memory of their son was wrapped in words of praise and praise for his great heroism. "How heroes fell out of the war," eulogized Gideon Sa'ar, who was a representative of the government. "I have come to pay tribute to one of the great heroes of the Israel Defense Forces. of the State of Israel. A brave military commander who thinks differently and outside the box. Many Israeli citizens owe their lives to Salman Habeqa. Even in the battle in which he fell, Salman showed heroism. He fell in a complex battle against dozens of terrorists. In the battle in which he fell, he again showed personal heroism."
"Salman has always been at the top. Pleasant but one that leads others." The Habka family, photo: Arik Sultan
"Who will watch over us?"
When I ask 'Imad if he knows under what circumstances their child was killed, if he cares about the details, he tells of a battle in which gunfire raged everywhere. "A tank can fire forward but someone can hit it from behind," he says. "At some point, Salman peeked out of the minaret, wanted to plan a shooting and reaction, and then was hit. That's how he's always been, not sending anyone. It's always 'follow me'. You can't expect your subordinates to show heroism unless you're a hero. Serves as an example. He understood that and acted like that all his life."
When he was a kid, did you see it coming? That leadership?
"He was always at the top. Pleasant, but one that leads others. When we sat in the people's house and the comforters arrived, a group of people who had studied with him at the officers' school in Acre came and they told about him endlessly.
"That was the visit that moved me probably more than anything. They remembered him in great detail, how he would help anyone who asked for homework without asking for anything in return, just because he could. Parents of a soldier who got into debt because of gambling came here and told how my child took him under cover and pulled him out of the mud. They told us that he would walk around the base and talk to the soldiers, and we were talking about 400 people. He would take an interest and implore them to simply come to his office for any problem. That's how a commander should behave. That's how a leader should be in front of his subordinates."
And in front of the collected words of the bereaved father, I ask Mohab if she once tried to dissuade him from a military career. To direct her talented child to the world of academia, to walk in safer fields.
"How come that?!" she replies, almost surprised by the very idea. "We have no other choice but to defend the homeland. Who will protect us? Who will give us life if not the soldiers?!" she says, and in her words there is some firmness when Imad says that God determines the day a person leaves this world anyway. It doesn't matter if Salman was in Gaza or on the road somewhere else. It was his day, fate, and nothing could change that.
Imad Habakeh, Salman's father: "There are Druze, Circassians, Bedouins and Christians here, who give blood to a state that enacts laws that harm them. I want Salman to be remembered as a hero of Israeli society, regardless of whether he is Muslim, Druze, Jewish or Christian."
And when I ask if the Druze belief in reincarnation alleviates the pain in any way, he says there is something to it. "Generally, yes. You're born again, and there's a family waiting for him now and they're happy to have a son. All that remains is to pray that this is a good family that knows how to embrace and raise," he explains, adding something that they believe that only those who fell in battle will remember something from this incarnation in the next life, but even with these words a lover does not find comfort.
She shakes her head from side to side as she says, almost like to herself, that no pain is worse than losing a child—and I think in all incarnations, where would you find other parents like this who every time one of their children walks into the living room, like another little sun shines in it? In which home will he teach lessons with the kind of love and devotion he learned when Hussam, the second child, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and Salman went out of his way to encourage him? He would sit by the hospital bedside so that Mom and Dad could get some rest.
And in what other family would he have a sister like little Lamar, who is only 14 years old, to whom he gave the name which means golden water, and there is something in her laughter that reminds him of his. Something about the bastardized body movement, like the one that came out of him when he danced at weddings. A man shines in souvenir videos, where his feet dancing the rhythm of the roads surrender to the rhythm, and his lips singing the rhythm of the command are in the joy of the song.
Upright dedication
The funeral procession, the likes of which have not been seen in the village, was led by the head of the Druze community, Sheikh Muafek Tarif, who eulogized the illustrious commander, saying, among other things, that "the leaders of the state and the government must bow their heads today to Salman, to his friends and to the thousands of Druze soldiers who were called to the flag during the war. They have the obligation to wake up from their coma, apologize to the community and bring about real, substantial and noticeable change. We are partners not only in war, but also in times of peace that we all hope for."
But the country's leaders did not bow their heads, and the Nation-State Law still reverberates over the blood of the people of this country, as does the Kaminitz Law. And when I am interested to know whether its very existence does not harm the motivation of young people to enlist in the IDF, does not harm their loyalty to the homeland that has failed, my parents say that this is a miserable law that was passed without much thought.
"There are Druze, Circassians, Bedouins and Christians here, who give blood to a state that enacts laws that harm them," Imad pains the words. "And there is this feeling on the street that every Arabic-speaking citizen knows. I want Salman to be remembered as a hero of Israeli society, regardless of whether he is Muslim, Druze, Jewish or Christian. On this day I will know that we have reached something.
"But even these will not be able to form an alliance that the Druze community has forged with the State of Israel. This is the homeland, even if sometimes it hurts. We had many ministers, Ben-Gvir also came to console us, said that our child is a hero. Whether it is appropriate or not, this is not the time to talk about it on such a occasion.
"If he had come, it would have been harder for us to accept, because he is the upper vertex. He is responsible for everything. Yariv Levin, who at the beginning of the war said there was no room to change the Nation-State Law, would probably not be able to be accepted in a Druze community at all."
And I listen to all the words and think how unworthy this country is of the totality of these people, of their dedication sitting tall in the stench of racism and discrimination.
'Imad: "The parents of a soldier who got into debt because of gambling came here and told how my child took him under cover and pulled him out of the mud. They said he would walk around the base and beg the soldiers to come to his office with any problem. That's how a commander should behave. That's how a leader should be."
"If gone maybe will come back"
On Black Saturday, Salman was home. They planned to go to the Golan to celebrate Mohav's birthday before he returned to base, but from the south the gates of hell opened and he said goodbye to the woman and child and bounced the entire battalion along the way, dividing them into small forces. Two or three tanks per settlement. He himself entered Bari, from which he did not emerge four days of fighting that tied a crown of heroism to his head.
And at home the worry spread between the rooms, because no phone came in the days when rumors exchanged news and chaos was everywhere. When he left, he called my mother and asked for forgiveness for not calling on October 8 to congratulate her with good luck. And she, who from the beginning of the war sensed that something terrible was about to happen, told him that she wanted nothing, only for him to return home safely.
She cooked all her love for him. On weekends, when he stayed at the officers' school and the family came to visit him, she would prepare large pots of food. She knows that as soon as they leave the room, the other students will storm the food because everyone knows that there is no pool sitting on her hands.
She cooked for him in basic training, cooked and sat waiting for him with hot food on nights when he arrived late, insisted on sitting with him until he finished off his plate, drinking a cup of mint tea with him before bed. She cooked for him on 28 October, just before entering Gaza, when she arrived with his wife Erin, sisters and brothers, and a few friends from the village. They deployed in Ofakim to the 53rd Battalion, just before.
He was shocked when he saw Mom among the following. He asked why she had come and said it was dangerous. "Because I missed you," she told him, "because I wanted to see you."
Since that morning, Thursday, November 2, she has barely entered the kitchen. Vine leaves and maclova she probably doesn't make. "I don't feel like making everything he liked to eat," she says, filling the glass with more water with mint and Louisa that she grows and dries that will last all year round, no matter what she brings.
"He wasn't just my son, he was my best friend. I would call him and consult about everything, and he always answered. If not immediately then a few minutes after. He felt me. He said, 'Mom, don't be afraid.' I said, 'OK, but don't always be first. Don't always be at the top.' Even though I knew he would always go forward. And off he went. I'm not saying that word, I'm just saying he's gone. Because if he went, maybe he'll come back."
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