04/22/2026
Yesterday started Yom HaZikaron and I wanted to share some thoughts, stories, and a blessing—for memory, for peace, for hope.
Let us share a blessing and hopefully you read on til the end for a couple of stories.
𐤉𐤄𐤉 𐤓𐤅𐤔𐤌 𐤅𐤄𐤁𐤉𐤉𐤍 𐤋𐤁𐤋𐤊 𐤋𐤒𐤋𐤌 𐤋𐤒𐤋 𐤉𐤄𐤉 𐤔𐤋𐤌
Yihyi ruḥam v’havinin l’valk l’kalm l’kol yihyi shalom
May the spirit of Peace and Remembrance rest upon your heart, abide within your home, and dwell with all you love. Shalom.
A Poem For Yom HaZikaron
Tonight, the siren rises, long and clear,
A single note that threads through every heart—It hushes laughter, stops the city’s rush,
And draws us each into a silent part
Of something larger, heavier than words.
Candles flicker in windows, golden, small,
And faces gather in the half-lit rooms
Remembering—names whispered, stories passedLike secret seeds that bloom in quiet gloom.
We hold their photos, faded edges worn
By years and fingers—
soldiers, sons, and friends—
The ones who left with uniforms new-pressed,
Returned as memory, love that never ends.
The ache is old, but every year it’s new—
A mother’s prayer, a brother’s empty bed,
A flag that drapes the promise of our youth,
A garden watered by the tears we’ve shed.
Yet in this hush, a kind of hope is sown:
That sacrifice has made this country home.
From silence, voices gather, soft and sure—
We mourn, we sing, we promise to endure.
So let the siren rise and let it fall.
We carry them—together—one and all.
For those who gave their lives, we stand and say:
We won’t forget. We live. We love. We pray.
__________________________________________________________
For those who aren't familiar with Yom HaZikaron, or Israel’s Memorial Day, it is a national day of remembrance in Israel for soldiers who have fallen in the line of duty and for victims of terrorism.
It’s a solemn day - deeply personal for many Israelis, since military service is nearly universal and almost everyone knows someone who has been lost. Yom HaZikaron was established in 1963 as a separate day from Israel’s Independence Day (Yom HaAtzmaut), which it directly precedes. Before that, remembrance for fallen soldiers was observed on Independence Day itself.
The separation was meant to draw a clear line between commemoration and celebration, giving space for grief and tribute before the country shifts to the joy and pride of independence.The day officially begins at sundown with a nationwide siren, during which people stop whatever they’re doing—cars pull over, pedestrians freeze in their tracks—and stand in silence for a minute.
A second, longer siren sounds at 11 a.m. the next morning for two minutes. There are official ceremonies at military cemeteries, as well as gatherings in schools and communities. The mood is reflective and quiet; businesses and restaurants close, and radio and TV programming is dedicated to stories of fallen soldiers and victims of terror.
Yom HaZikaron isn’t just about those who served in the military. Since 1998, the day has also included remembrance for civilian victims of terrorism, reflecting the reality that in Israel, the front line can sometimes be anywhere.
At sundown, as Yom HaZikaron ends, the mood shifts dramatically. The country transitions straight into Yom HaAtzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day. It’s a deliberate juxtaposition—grief followed by celebration—underscoring the cost of statehood and freedom.For Israelis, Yom HaZikaron is more than a public holiday.
It’s a day when personal and collective history intertwine, and the losses that shaped the country are honored in a way that’s felt in every home.
While the word “terrorism” is modern, acts we might recognize as terrorism—violence against civilians for political or ideological reasons—have definitely existed for thousands of years. Some historians trace early examples back to the ancient world, long before the birth of Jesus. For instance, the Sicarii, a Jewish group active in the first century BCE (before the Common Era), used targeted assassinations and attacks against Roman occupiers and collaborators in Judea. Their tactics—intended to instill fear and advance a political cause—are seen by many scholars as one of the earliest documented forms of terrorism.
So yes, it’s fair to say that what we now call terrorism predates both Yom HaZikaron and even the Christian era.Jewish people’s survival is something that echoes throughout history—including in the time of Jesus and his followers. Both Jesus and the apostles lived in an era marked by conflict, Roman occupation, and frequent violence in Judea—conditions that often shaped their teachings and actions.
While they did not observe Yom HaZikaron, the experiences of loss, oppression, and the longing for peace that this day commemorates were certainly part of their world.In all truthfulness, Yom HaZikaron is rooted in the modern Jewish experience, but its themes—remembrance, sacrifice, and hope for a better future—are timeless and resonate with the values and struggles that would have been deeply familiar to Jesus and his earliest followers.
Personally, I don’t think it’s ever right to hurt anyone. Yet, it feels like Jewish people are targeted the most, and I don’t understand why. What’s happening now is appalling—it’s everything Eisa tried to heal, this endless need for power and control. The land isn’t ours to own. Innocent people being killed over such things isn’t honorable, it’s heartbreaking.Sometimes I wonder if the world will ever learn.
Every year, as the siren sounds and the candles burn, we promise ourselves: never again. But the ache keeps coming back in new forms, different names, the same old story. It’s not just history repeating—it’s grief that refuses to fade, because the lessons we need are so hard to live out.I think about all the families—Jewish, Muslim, Christian, anyone—who sit by empty chairs and wish for just one more ordinary day. I think about children who inherit memories of fear, about parents who can’t protect their kids from a world that sometimes seems bent on repeating its worst mistakes.
And I think about how easy it is, from a distance, to forget that every “side” is made of people who love, grieve, and dream just like we do. Yom HaZikaron is a reminder that the cost of hate, of violence, is never abstract. It’s paid in birthdays missed, in laughter that goes quiet, in the ordinary beauty of life that gets stolen away. Maybe that’s why the day always feels so heavy—because it asks us not just to remember, but to imagine a better way, even when it feels impossible. And yet, after the silence, after the tears, something stubborn in the human heart insists on hope. We gather, we tell stories, we light candles for those we’ve lost and those we still have.
Somehow, through all the sorrow, we keep choosing to believe that peace is worth fighting for—that love and memory are stronger than fear. That’s the real tribute, I think: not just to mourn, but to keep living with open eyes and an open heart. To refuse to let the pain make us numb or bitter. To keep hoping, even when hope costs everything.I keep coming back to the color pale blue. It’s strange, but if I could, I would choose a very pale blue candle for yesterday and today—a soft, almost translucent blue, barely there. I
I’m not entirely sure why, except that it feels right. Maybe because pale blue is quiet, gentle, unassuming. It’s the color of early morning, of hope before the world is fully awake. It doesn’t demand attention the way red or gold might. It just is—subtle, almost like a breath.
Pale blue reminds me of the sky after a storm, when things are still heavy but the light is returning, slowly. It’s the color of memory, of longing, of the space between sadness and peace. Maybe it’s my way of holding the grief softly—not erasing it, but letting it rest somewhere calm. In a world where so much remembrance is loud or sharp, maybe pale blue is my wish for gentleness, for healing, for a kind of quiet that holds both sorrow and hope at once.In Jewish thought, blue—particularly a light or sky blue—has historically represented a link to the divine and to spiritual understanding.
Jewish custom includes a blue thread (tekhelet) in the tzitzit, the tassels of a prayer shawl, as a reminder of the sky, the ocean, and ultimately, the presence and laws of God. Blue is thought to lift the gaze and open the spirit to hope and contemplation—a color of balance, prompting us to consider the broader perspective beyond our immediate suffering.
Beyond Jewish tradition, gentler blues and sky blues are frequently selected for memorials and moments of mourning because they represent tranquility, healing, and emotional receptivity. They offer solace, providing a serene atmosphere where grief can be eased, and memories honored with tenderness, not just sorrow.
So maybe my instinct for a pale blue candle isn’t random at all. Maybe it’s an echo of something ancient and universal—a hope for peace, a longing for comfort, and a quiet invitation to remember with gentleness.I think of all the blood that has been shed and all the lives lost… and it hurts deeper than any knife could cut or any bullet could pierce. It’s not just the physical pain—it’s the ache of knowing that so much love, so much potential, has been taken from the world , and from the hearts of those left behind. Every life lost is a story unfinished, a song cut short, a future that will never be. And when I look at the faces of those who grieve, I see the weight of that loss in their eyes—a weight that never really goes away.
While there is pride in standing up to oppression and fighting for what is right, it’s also a reminder of how fragile life is, and how easily it can be taken away. Eisa and his apostles and followers tried to teach a different way—a way of compassion, of turning the other cheek, of loving even when it’s hard. Yet violence keeps coming back—and from it, no good has or shall come. Will it ever be? I dont have the answer because I can see -I can hear -What do we do Lord let them kill us? Let them take whatever they want and we do nothing? It puts you all in an impossible situation I see this I know. I look for the right answer but what can I say? What will there be to take when there is nothing left? What then will there be to fight over? What will there be to control?
I want to say it takes just one person to make a difference but I know that’s not true for every situation - sometimes it takes a whole community, a whole nation , even the world, to stand together and say “enough.” But even then, it’s not always enough. Sometimes the pain is too deep, the wounds too raw, the history too heavy.
Even if the world isn’t ready to learn, we can’t stop trying. We can’t give up on the idea that love is stronger than hate, and that peace is possible—even when it feels far away.
________________________________________________________________
In the spirit of Yom HaZikaron—a day of memory, longing, and searching for meaning—I would like to share these stories:
There was once a small bird who lived in a vast and tangled forest. Each morning, the bird would wake hungry, feeling the ache in her belly as the sun crept over the treetops. The other birds would take flight, dipping and diving through the grass, searching for worms hidden beneath the dew.
But one day, the little bird grew tired and sat still on her branch. “Why must I always search?” she wondered. “Why doesn’t the worm come to me?” So she waited, and waited. The sun climbed high, the shadows grew short, and still she sat.
Soon, the hunger in her belly became sharper. She watched as her friends returned, their beaks full, their songs bright. The bird realized: to eat, she must rise. She must leave the comfort of her branch and seek what she needed.
With a flutter, she leapt down, turning over leaves and poking through the soft earth. At last, she found a fat, wriggling worm. She ate, and her hunger faded.
From then on, the bird remembered: the world gives to those who search, who hope, and who do not let fear or weariness keep them from seeking what they need.
So it is with all of us.
There was once a weary traveler crossing a wide, unforgiving desert. After many days beneath the relentless sun, he came upon a fork in the road.
One path was straight and familiar—he had walked it before and knew it led to a small, predictable village with water and shelter, nothing more. The other path twisted off into the dunes, unknown and shrouded in heat and mystery.
The traveler hesitated. He was tired, and the comfort of what he knew pulled at him. In the end, he chose the well-worn path, the one whose end he could already see in his mind.
But as he trudged toward the village, he couldn’t shake a quiet doubt. The horizon behind him shimmered, and for a moment he thought he saw, far off on the hidden path, the glint of water and the green of palm trees—a true oasis, waiting to be found by those willing to step into the unknown.
He reached the village, drank from the well, and rested. Yet a part of him always wondered what might have been—what wonders had waited just out of sight, if only he had dared to trust the path he did not know.
Sometimes, the greatest gifts are found not by walking where we are certain, but by stepping into mystery. And so, as we stand at the edge of what we know—hearts uncertain, spirits longing—we gather our courage and step forward, trusting that even in the mystery, something sacred awaits. It’s there, in that quiet unknowing, that we offer our prayers and let ourselves be held by hope.
