Yom HaZikaron

In honor of Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day), I decided to publish a blog based on a chapter out of my first book, Settling for More: From Jersey to Judea. The following contains a description of my first Yom Hazikaron in Israel shortly after moving here in the summer of 2006. 

Despite all the different factions among our people in Israel, one most certainly senses the feeling of oneness. The loss of loved ones transcends all barriers on Yom Hazikaron, at least for this one day.

Yom Hazikaron is not marked by barbecues and picnics; it is a true day of mourning, in every sense of the word.

In Efrat, where I live, on the eve of Yom Hazikaron, practically the entire community squeezes into the community center gym for a special ceremony in honor and in memory of all the soldiers who fell while protecting our land, and of all those among us who were murdered by terrorists.

The evening began in silence save for the siren, a two-minute declaration marking the national day of mourning, and then with the traditional prayer for the dead. A video presentation showed the fallen soldiers and the terrorist victims from Efrat, first as they were babies, then as children, some pictured with friends, others with family, and the last photos taken of the soldiers smiling with the other young men in their units.  Some parents and siblings of the kedoshim went up on stage to say a few words, a blessing, or just to recall a memory. Another local boy wounded in the recent war in Lebanon was helped up onto the platform to recite Psalms.

Here in Israel, it is not something far away or abstract.  There are no faceless victims. It is your neighbor, the teacher's son, the doctor at the clinic, the child of the owner of the local pizza shop.

The ceremony ended with everyone standing up to sing Ani Ma'amin (I Believe) and finally Hatikva, (Hope), our national anthem. I have to say, that singing these two songs in Israel, alongside my Israeli neighbors, in a community nestled in the Judean hills that I now call my home, takes on a whole new meaning for me.

I thought of my mother's brother, Moshe, who was killed in 1948 in the War of Independence, and of his son, Amit, a first cousin I never knew, who was killed in the War of Attrition on the Egyptian border. I thought of how I was fortunate to stand here among my people because of their heroism and sacrifice - because of the heroism and sacrifice of all our soldiers throughout the years.  I thought of how their courage would enable all of us to celebrate our independence in just 24 hours from then.  I thought of the friends I stood next to, whose sons were already in the army, and I thought of my two sons who have yet to go.

With so much sacrifice, so much loss, so much anguish, and with so much of our blood spilt on this holy soil, we must take great pains to do our very utmost, to do all that we are physically and spiritually able to do, to make sure that we are truly deserving of this land and the enormous sacrifices made on its behalf.

Some families in Efrat, whose sons were killed in the line of duty, opened their homes to the community to talk about their child, his life, his achievements, his promise, and his last days.

I went to one such family, and saw with my own eyes what real strength is. And what real pain is. I sat in the corner of the room listening intently to reminiscences about the beauty of this boy's life - how he succeeded in profoundly touching so many people, and how his life was cut so short.  After attempting to fight it, I found myself succumbing to tears and sat there unable to control my sobbing. Not because the mother was sobbing - because she was not. I cried at the incredible loss endured by our people. I cried for the precious souls that no longer walk among us. And, above all, I cried because I realized that I was in the presence of remarkable strength, faith and conviction. This mother spoke softly yet sturdily, and with a steadfast and unshakable faith; a faith that told her that her son was chosen to fulfill a higher purpose, among the heroes of Israel.

So to all our enemies I say; All your plans, your devil tactics, and evil scheming and calculations will be for naught. We have something stronger than all your missiles and kassams. We have something more powerful than your blood-lust and calls for jihad -- something more commanding than your vacuous souls.  We are guided by a strength of spirit 4,000 years old. We are a people that has endured the unendurable. We have, despite all odds, and despite all reason and rationale, clung to a mightier and supreme force, not our of fear, but out of love and allegiance to our faith. We are here and with God's help, it is here that we shall forever remain.