Thousands poured into the streets of Yerushalayim, their tears soaking the ancient stones, as the aron of 13‑year‑old Rachel Aliza Nisanov, a"h, was carried to its final resting place. The silence was shattered only by heart‑wrenching cries and the sound of Tehillim rising from broken lips. It was the kind of grief that left no one untouched.
At the front stood her father, Rabbi Shlomo Nisanov, clinging desperately to the aron, his body trembling as he sobbed: “Hashem gave me 13 years as a gift from Heaven, and now He has taken her back. When I saw them in the water, I jumped in without knowing how to swim. I did everything to save them.” His words—raw, unfiltered, the plea of a father who tried to fight death itself—drew weeping from even the strongest men in the crowd.
Her siblings broke down beside him. A brother, choking through tears, cried out: “Racheli, I am so sorry. I was supposed to protect you. Forgive me!” A sister, her voice cracking, whispered, “You weren’t just my sister—you were my best friend. Who will I laugh with now?” Their cries pierced the air, binding thousands of mourners together in a grief so heavy it seemed to stop time itself.
Gedolei Torah and rabbanim tried to give words to the anguish. One Rav declared, voice shaking: “Whoever believes has no questions. Whoever does not believe, there are no answers.” Another, wiping his eyes, told the crowd: “This is not the pain of one family, but the pain of an entire nation. A pure neshamah like Rachel Aliza goes straight beneath the Kisei HaKavod, yet the loss leaves us shattered.”
Around them, scenes of unbearable sorrow unfolded. Friends who had flown from Queens clung to classmates from Yerushalayim, reciting Tehillim through sobs. Mothers held their daughters tighter, fathers bowed their heads in silence. At the graveside, a little boy whispered, almost to himself: “Racheli, wake up.” And when the aron was lowered on Har HaMenuchot, her father clutched it and cried out with the force of a man broken beyond repair: “Take me with you!”
The voices of the rabbanim led perek after perek of Tehillim, every word shaking with pain. The people answered with shattered voices, am Yisrael united not by joy, but by grief. One Rav reminded them of Chazal’s words: “Whoever does not mourn for a child is cruel.” On that day, no one stood unmoved—Klal Yisrael cried as one.
This was not only the funeral of a single child; it was the cry of a nation. Yerushalayim bore witness to the anguish of parents burying a daughter too soon, siblings begging for one more laugh, friends whispering goodbye. Rachel Aliza, a holy soul taken in the spring of her life, has bound us together in sorrow and in prayer. Her memory will not fade. It lives on in the tears that fell that day, in the faith that carried her family, and in the eternal embrace of am Yisrael, who refused to let them stand alone.
By Shabsie Saphirstein
From Queens To Yerushalayim: A Young Soul Returned To Her Maker
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