As a new immigrant from the States, and a new resident of Tel Aviv, I
was prepped for months before my arrival about this vibrant city, its
exuberance so present that it often won’t let me sleep. Yes, this city
is full of excitement, more than I could have ever prepared for. Yet, as
a lone soldier, I found myself counting the days until I would get to
witness this city not on the loudest of nights but on the quietest of
days: Yom HaZikaron, Memorial Day.
On the eve of Memorial Day, I walked around the center of Tel Aviv,
watching with astoundment as the last of the stores were closing up, as
music was dimming down and as noise was coming to a discreet halt. Sure,
this country may be small, but in a time when it seems the whole world
has surrendered to non-stop distractions, lack of awareness, and this
innate inability to stand still, I can’t help but feel amazed that an
entire country can step away from this eternal rush we’re in to shut
down for one day and mourn together.
As Memorial Day was about to begin, I was making my way to a ceremony
in Rabin Square in the center of Tel Aviv. The walk from my apartment
to Rabin Square was not a lonely walk, as the streets were filled with
people heading to the ceremony. I realized then and there that, today,
no one in Israel will feel alone. On a day like this, a sense of
responsibility grabs hold of Israel’s citizens and we become bound to
one another by the common presence of pain for the 23,085 soldiers
fallen in defense of Israel.
As I approached Rabin Square, I was stopped by the siren wailing at 8
P.M. The silence seemed unreal for the number of people who were
present, and the shift in atmosphere became palpable. For one minute, I
stood silently and watched as thousands of people gathered together,
mourning the fallen soldiers. They were not planning for tomorrow or
excited for the following day’s festivities (the day after Memorial Day
is Israel’s Independence Day, a day of celebration for Israel), but very
much in the moment. All too aware that, if it weren’t for the fallen
soldiers we remember today, we would have no reason to celebrate
tomorrow – or any other day.
Songs were sung. Poems were read. Stories were shared. Between songs
and poems of mourning, clips were shown of personal stories. I learned
of Yoav – and of his son, Arnon, who fought in combat to honor his
fallen father and who, too, fell while serving in the IDF. I learned of
Tamir, a Druze soldier who fell in the Second Lebanon War, and of
Daniel, an American lone soldier who fell in 2008. It is a special thing
when, even among IDF’s fallen soldiers, Israel’s diversity is still
visible.
Unfortunately in Israel, nearly everyone knows someone who has fallen
while serving in the IDF. It is not a commonality we appreciate, but it
is certainly one we embrace together as a country. And tomorrow, when
it comes time to look up and to remove ourselves from the period of
mourning, the entire country is once again there to pull us up. Of all
the loud and memorable nights I have spent in Tel Aviv, it is on this
quiet and solemn night that I understood the beauty of Israel and its
warm embrace.
