Kati and Giyora

KATI & GIYORA – In Every Generation Each Person Must Look Upon Himself as if He Had Left Egypt

Near the house where I grew up is a war monument. It commemorates two local soldiers, Kati and Giyora, who died during military service. The monument is made from a single boulder cut in two, creating two large grey stones. The surface of each stone is covered with a polished metal plate, offering a cold, smooth and shiny texture on one side, in contrast to the rough texture of the stone. Growing up, all the local children used to play around the stones; I remember a photo from one of my childhood albums, of my mother holding me as a baby on one of the stones. When I was too old to climb the stones, ‘Kati and Giyora’ became a meeting point for friends.
When I was a little girl, I remember being afraid of those stones: the fact that they were cut and covered in metal made me think that the two soldiers, Kati and Giyora, were buried inside them. The stones looked enormous to me and I imagined they could hold a body (or two) easily.
I didn’t really know who Kati and Giyora were, and maybe I didn’t care. I assumed they were two friends who grew up together: neighbours, best friends, both killed during military service, maybe in the same war. There might have been a metal plaque near the stones telling their story, but it does not exist in my childhood memory.
My family left the neighbourhood years ago. Even though I was no longer a child when we left, in my mind the stones remained enormous. Recently I revisited this childhood place. I was surprised to discover the stones were not big at all. Apparently scale changes when you grow up.