Empty chairs at empty tables

In the musical Les Miserables, Marius sings a melancholy song to a simple melody bemoaning the loss of his friends.  In the middle of a revolution, the middle of war, he pauses to reminisce about those who have gone, leaving memories and empty chairs behind.
____________________________________________________________________________

Tonight is erev Yom Hazikaron, the evening of Israel's Memorial Day for fallen soldiers, and unlike the colorful and triumphant Memorial Day of the United States, Israelis throughout the country are mournful, contemplative, melancholy, and reminiscent.  The evening began with the sound of the siren at 8:00 PM sharp and the entire country stood at attention.  As the sirens wound down at 8:01, the ceremonies began.  As always, this kibbutz's ceremony was marked by the arts - music, dance, and film - and in addition to honoring all fallen soldiers, it was a memorial to all the members of our kibbutz who died fighting for Israel.

The ceremony was short, lasting less than a half hour, but the evening was far from over.  While some kibbutznikim said their goodbyes and began walking home, many others turned toward the gallery next to the dining hall where there was an exhibit of banners with photographs and information of all of Naan's fallen soldiers.  But the true reason people came was to sing.

The room was set with rows of plastic chairs, and once people got their coffee, tea, and a little nosh (snack), quiet descended as the chairs were filled.  Someone approached one of the microphones at the front, gave a little speech (none of which I understood), then handed the microphone to another kibbutznik to lead the first song.  We each had booklets with the lyrics to the songs, but most people didn't need them.  These were old songs, memorized from little on, possibly even carried with them from birth.  The words lay not only in their minds but in their hearts, and each Israeli in that room undoubtedly felt the words with their being.

For each song a member of the kibbutz was prepared to lead it from the microphone with a piano accompaniment.  We let the soloist sing the first line or two before joining, often quietly and timidly as if each person were saying their own solemn prayer.  For an hour we serenaded one another with songs of loss and longing, of hope and heartache.  Sometimes people sang, sometimes they listened, and sometimes we all let ourselves fall silent while the voice of an angel beautified our pain and sorrow, lifting it to a place of peace we surely could not reach alone.

As I glanced around the room I felt the complete and total significance of this experience.  This was a communal therapy session, a moment for shared grief and memory, catharsis through song.  And during one particular melody I was reminded of that scene in Les Miserables and I realized I finally understood it.

I thought about how drastically different this Memorial Day is in comparison to the United States.  In Israel, I see none of the hubris, the brazen pride, the celebration.  Instead of praising the soldiers who made it home the focus is on those who can not be there to sing with us, on those who made it possible to sing even sad songs.  When all the songs had been sung I spoke with a friend on the kibbutz and he admitted that Israel is probably the only country in the world whose memorial day is so melancholy.  Really, how can it be otherwise when every single person in the country has been touched by war?  When every person in the country knows someone who has died.

Tomorrow morning there will be another siren, another ceremony, again all throughout the country.  Like on Yom Hazikaron leShoah, the radio stations and television channels will be somber.  It will be a day devoted to mourning brave citizens and bemoaning the wars that made this day a necessity.  While we work or study the first half of the day (for life must go on), we will remember - zocher - and pray for a day when the memory of the past is not accompanied by an equally fearsome present, a day when we can stop adding names to the lists of soldiers killed.  We will remember and we will pray for peace.