The Day of Memory

Everything here is inside out.

In America, death is a private matter. And mourning is a private matter. It is done, yes, but discretely, quietly, and above all, privately. Mourning takes place alone, or perhaps with family. Mourning is a chasm of pain and anger and longing that is so hard to crawl out of, and so difficult to cross. It is infinitely lonely, yet universal. Love begets grief.

Israeli Judaism has not one but three days of national mourning. And today, Yom Zikaron, is I think the most intense. No grief is more acute, more searing, more impossible to heal, than that for a young adult taken before his life begins. And when those lives were taken in the act of defending the country, the pain is shared. Everyone knows that it could have been my brother, my cousin, my son. It could have been me.

But for most American Jews, Yom HaZikaron barely registers. The Forward has exactly zero articles on the holiday on its site, from what I can tell. That Julian Edelman is retiring from football is clearly more important than the Day of Remembrance of Fallen Soldiers. I click on the “Israel News” button…the last article is from six weeks ago. Really? An election for Prime Minister that may be decided by an Islamist Party? The explosion at the Natanz plant in Iran? Yom Hashoah and Yom HaZikaron? None of these seem to have even entered the American Jewish media, and thus, the American consciousness. It only underscores the feeling that like close childhood siblings who have drifted apart, American Jews and Israelis have parted ways.

23,928. It’s not a particularly notable number, except today. That is the number of people, most of them in their teens and twenties, who Israel remembers on Yom HaZikaron. And yes, they are remembered collectively, but also as individuals, as unique human beings who touched the lives of those who knew them, and whose absence leaves another chasm in the landscape of the heart. Yoav, my big brother. Yossi, my cousin. David, my son.

Today, I feel with stark clarity that I am an outsider. My first half century on this planet has not been in this place. I do not know Yoav, or Yossi, or David. I don’t remember Yoav’s bear-like hugs, or Yossi’s practical jokes, or how much David loved my chocolate chip cookies. But I know that without their sacrifice, I would not be here, in my apartment in Jerusalem, watching my neighbor’s Israeli flag billow in the wind.

Everything here is inside out. As a Diaspora Jew, I didn’t realize how much I lived Outside In until I came here and experienced the opposite. In America, when holidays like Yom Hatzmaut would come around, with the expectation of attendance at a large public gathering, or the placement of an Israeli flag in a visible place, I always cringed. It always felt, well, wrong. Because America is not a Jewish country, and to feel public space should also be Jewish space never sat well with me. What would the neighbors say? I felt embarrassed, cringing like my teenagers do when I say something that reveals my ignorance of an unspoken taboo.

But here, everything is Inside Out. It is not just Yoav, and Yossi, and David’s mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles and friends and teachers who are mourning each of their deaths. It is the whole country. We, together, are sharing the heart wrenching pain. No, we can’t really make it better, but we can be present.

Last night at 8 pm, the second siren of the season sounded. Everyone stands still for one full minute. I stand behind my 16 1/2 year old son on our balcony, where he has moved to watch the neighbor’s flag. He is tall and muscular, this boy man of mine. He has a few hairs on face, and his peach fuzz mustache is already turning dark. He watches the flag, and I watch him. Tears well up. I say nothing.

At 11 AM this morning, the third and final siren of the week. One more minute. I stand at attention. The traffic has stopped. I listen to the birds, chirping as always, and the shrill piercing cry. It goes on forever and ends too quickly.

After the siren, to my surprise, the sky emits a quiet roar. I watch the Israeli flag across the street fluttering, and the sound gets louder and louder. Suddenly, a single fighter jet soars across the Jerusalem sky. I feel the pilot’s adolescent defiance. Never Again, he says, his triangular fighter jet wings piercing the blue. We will live free, in our own country. And if some of us must sacrifice our lives, such is the price we have to pay.

There are 52 military cemeteries around the country. On Yom HaZikaron, the Day of Memories, families mourn with loved ones, some of them living, some of them dead. On the television, the only programming are eulogies, interviews with friends of specific soldiers interspersed with home movies. On a news channel, one newscaster plays guitar, another sings, and the third bows her head in silence. On the radio, only sad songs, most of them written in memory of fallen soldiers.

Tonight, in just a few short hours, the pall will break. The country will start to dance. But for now, we mourn.