One last summer

I have one little sister, and her name is Noga. Noga is the most precious thing in the world to me. I have always been the big sister, I always behaved that way. When I was fourteen, Noga was eleven, and that was the year our mother passed away. I was reluctantly given an additional role, beyond that of the big sister, the one who paves the way. I wanted Noga to be able to walk more easily through life's difficult moments. I am not much older than her, just three years, but if I could, I would make all the possible mistakes, so that she wouldn't have to make them. Noga did a pre-army preparatory program in a kibbutz in the Gaza boarder and was about to enlist in the fall. I decided to document her last summer before the army. I followed her everywhere, with her friends and without them, and photographed her with my camera. Noga hated this ritual of mine, she said I was bothering her, but I insisted. Sometimes I would also go to photograph her friends without her. I even traveled with her to Atlit in the north of the country, where she was camping with friends. My military experience was nothing short of terrible. I was in a murky office, where there was barely enough budget for coffee, and the role itself was awful. I felt helpless in front of the system when I had to help other soldiers my age over a hotline, sometimes in emergency situations. That year, I realized how much my military service had affected my life, and I understood that I had a form of post-trauma. In the end, it was decided to release me earlier than expected from service. The pictures of Noga were a wish that her service would be easier, not like mine. I photographed her with the hope for a different experience, one that would not be as difficult and traumatic as mine was. I remember that a year later, when she was already in the army, she saw the pictures I had taken and claimed that the smile she had disappeared when she enlisted. When I looked at the pictures this year in the present reality, I was horrified to discover the innocence in my sister's eyes and in the eyes of her friends that summer, not knowing what was about to happen in three years to the kibbutz they lived in and not knowing how many close and distant friends we would lose.