They are like a big family -- 300 bereaved fathers, who came together for one day that focused solely on them. In a conference hall at the Dan Panorama Hotel in Tel Aviv, as they listen to a lecture by Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar on how to find personal happiness, with the slogan "Lift your gaze up to the sun and you shall not see the shadow" projected on a slide behind him, this great mass of Israeli bereavement becomes palpable. Hundreds of fathers, who raised sons to be proud of and lost them in Israel's various wars, gathered for a one-day retreat. Hundreds of eyes clouded by sadness even decades after "what happened to us," as many of them say. No one refers to the loss for what it is, knowing that what has been lost can never be found. This unique family is easily divided between veterans and newcomers. This is the kind of family that mourns its unfortunate expansion, one whose members share a connection an outsider could not possibly understand. Those with bereavement "experience" know that time does not really heal all wounds, even if eventually, it does bring with it a small measure of relief. The newest members, fathers whose sons were killed during Operation Protective Edge in the Gaza Strip last summer, who have been dealing with the loss for only a few short months, long to listen to the voice of experience, to receive the green-light that means it is okay to smile again, to enjoy life, and to move on. Shahar Yeori, father of late Staff Sgt. Amit Yeori, traveled to the conference from Jerusalem. According to conference organizer Or (Light) to Families association director Irit Oren-Gunders, he is largely responsible for the event taking place. According to Oren-Gunders, Yeori's wife, Einat, approached her with the idea to hold a retreat for bereaved fathers, saying, "It's a little easier for us women, we're more verbal and communicative, so we talk more, we share, and we draw strength from each other. It's our husbands who are at a complete loss. "We talked amongst ourselves, the mothers who lost sons in Operation Protective Edge, and many of the women described how their marriage was in trouble, how their husbands have become withdrawn, how they barely leave the house, and refuse to share their difficulties. They don't really know how to stop the circle of bereavement." Yeori's tries, forcing on a shy smile, and giving in to everything the retreat had made available to the fathers, including professional literature, massages, reflexology treatments, and a wine-tasting session, to name just a few activities, all of which were donated by the various service providers. Sitting outside the hall, Yeori shows me photos of his son, and of the memorial site erected in his memory in the Arava, in southern Israel. Amit would have finished his military service in March, he says in a cracked voice. He tries to keep the pain and tears from overflowing, but fails. A tall, sturdy, broken man; a father who lost his firstborn son to a wretched war. "I try to carry on because I don't really have much of a choice. I get up in the morning and I go to work, which is good because I've heard about many fathers who quit their jobs. I have two children, ages 18 and 16, who need me. I try to maintain a busy routine but it's very difficult, the loss is incomprehensible," he said. "I used to exercise and play sports before Amit fell [in battle], but now I barely go riding with my youngest son. I can't seem to recapture that momentum. Since Amit fell we no longer have Friday night dinners alone -- it's always with the extended family or with friends. "Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar said he wasn't going to tell us that what happened was 'for the best,' but he did advise us to try to make the best of this harsh reality. So I try. Six months ago, it wouldn't have even crossed my mind to attend a day like this, which is all about 'have fun, you deserve it.' I met the veteran [bereaved] fathers, looked at them, listened, and I realized it's possible. You can smile. You can move on." A knife through the heart Dudu Barak is the father of Staff Sgt. Eitan Barak -- the Gaza campaign's first fatality. Looking rejuvenated after undergoing a quick facial, he jokes about it, allowing himself to enjoy the moment. "What's happening here is just wonderful. We're men, we're supposed to be tough, but it's only pretence. We're the ones you have to remind that it's okay to let go, to smile. What Irit has cleverly done for us here it touch on the good and beautiful side of life," he says. Barak said that when the shiva (the weeklong mourning period) for his son ended, "My wife and I made the decision to go on with our lives. That's how we raised Eitan, to always look ahead. I went back to work, and I do my best to carry one, but losing Eitan -- I feel this loss in my bones , and I can't detach myself, not for one moment from the son I had, from his impressive character, and his humor. His loss is tangible every minute of every day. Dealing with the pain is a daily mission, so a day like this is very comforting." Yoram Tal, whose son, Capt. Omri Tal, was killed in the Gaza campaign, met Barak at a different Or to Families event. Together with their wives, they have kept in touch -- two couples, two losses, one shared destiny. "I could talk to a close friend, someone interested and caring, but it wouldn't be the same," he said. "He just won't be on the same frequency as we have been living on him since this happened to us. "For me personally, this day offered a welcome pause from the constant pain I'm in. It's like walking around with a knife through the heart, and the pain doesn't let up for even a moment. They're offering us fast-pace activities here, and it's great for me, because I quickly realized that I can't afford to have free time on my hands, something any other person wishes he could have," he said. Shmuel Gottlieb is the father of late Staff Sgt. Matan Gottlieb, killed during Operation Protective Edge. "The real difficulty is making the decision to come to a day like this and confront your reality," he said. "If you attend, you meet this family, and you don't really want them as 'in-laws,' and you don't really understand how you happened to become a part of it, despite the fact that who you see here are some of the best men in Israel. "They say the fallen are the cream of the crop, but they were raised by the best of fathers," Gottlieb continued. "We all served in combat units and we've all been in battle. We were lucky enough to make it through, to have children, and to raise them to love this country. As fate would have it, we lost them. I draw a lot of strength from the veteran fathers. I try to get their advice on how to deal with the pain. I know that what works for someone else might work for me as well." The right to grieve Oren-Gundars, a retired lieutenant colonel and formerly head of the Combat Engineering Corps' Personnel Directorate, said she never dreamed she would one day head an organization whose motto would be celebrating life. Or to Families has been operating for eight years, and according to its director, the bereaved families are often relieved to realize they were not forgotten. "They buried their child and I can't bring him back, but I don't want their lives to turn into a struggle for survival," she said. "From my experience, there are three scenarios that take place after a couple losses a child in war: Couples divorce, which is something we unfortunately see happen a lot; one parent may see their career derailed; and worse -- many suffer from seriously failing health, so it's important to me to try and bring them some joy." According to Oren-Gunders, "Many fathers commit suicide by their sons' graves. Mothers don't do that. In a bereaved family, the mother is rarely the weakest link. It's the fathers who need to vent, who need to find an outlet because they constantly keep things bottled up." She was able to convince many of the fathers whose sons were killed during Operation Protective Edge to attend the retreat with the help of David Kahlon, whose son, Staff Sgt. Eliav Eliyahu Kahlon, was killed last summer. The bereaved father manages a WhatsApp messaging group for many parents whose sons were killed in the Gaza campaign. "I came here, and they gave me a facial," he smiled. "We made fun of wearing [mud] masks, and sent pictures to our wives, but really, this is where I can afford to take off the masks. I can laugh and cry, and I can just be Kahlon, Aliav's father, without fear or trepidation." The late Lt. Paz Eliyahu's father, Uri, said the day had energized him. "The feeling here is that we're all in this together, and that gives you strength. Every day, we have to learn how to manage this thing called grief, and it's important to stop and catch your breath. Today I was able to catch my breath." Toward the end of the day, comedian Dina Or performed her stand-up show, getting the bereaved fathers to laugh for a while. Or herself was on the brink of tears by the end of the show. "I thought I would have to walk on eggshells, but there are some extremely resilient men here. I could see the sadness in their eyes, but there was no despair. "Some let themselves laugh out loud, and some were clearly struggling, but they saw the ones who were laughing, and next time, they'll be able to enjoy themselves without feeling guilty. There's nothing like humor and laughter to make the pain go away." Staff Sgt. Bnaya Rubel's father, Ze'ev, agrees. "I was making jokes during the shiva. It was my way of dealing with what happened to us, and it still is. When I'm by myself, driving for instance, that's when the tears flow. I, who have never cried before in my life, no matter how great the difficulty, tear up in seconds now, but I prefer to laugh -- for my other children and for my grandchildren. " Ze'ev Valenstein, whose son, Cpl. Elad Valenstein, was killed in a terrorist attack in 2000, still visits his grave every Friday, even 15 years after tragedy struck. Several recently bereaved fathers have approached him in the cemetery since the Gaza campaign, he said, his voice laced with pain. "I tell them what my experience has taught me, and what I know from other bereaved parents: People don't like to see a sad face, so smile. Smile and try to make the best of a terrible situation. As hard as it is, as impossible as it seems at first, choose life. That is what your son would have wanted."
