Do you hear the people sing?

I’ve already written extensively on Israel’s Memorial Days, both for the Holocaust and members of its military.  Obviously, Israelis have raised memory to an art form.  After all, what other country gets the vast majority of its citizens to completely stop in unison at a given moment?  But with so much mourning you might wonder if people in this country have anything to celebrate.  Well, a person can only wallow in self-pity for so long before he simply tears off the shroud and throws a party.

And that is precisely what Israelis do.

The day immediately following Yom Hazikaron is Yom Ha’Atzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day.  In a single day the tone of the country changes completely, moving from sadness to utter joy with the swiftness and seeming effortlessness of replacing the Tragedy mask with that of Comedy.  Melancholy songs and stillness are replaced with concerts, fireworks, and barbecues (not unlike our own Independence Day), and the country suddenly overflows with celebration.  Our own kibbutz ceremony was filled with song and dance of a more cheerful tone, and sanguine laughter and applause erupted after every performance.

For as talented as Israelis are at remembering, they are equally talented – if not moreso – at living in the moment and celebrating it for all it’s worth.

It is worth pointing out the curious timing of all of this.  Independence Day is when it is because it is the anniversary of the date when David Ben-Gurion announced the Proclamation of the State of Israel in 1948.  But Yom Hazikaron could be any day of the year.  It could just as easily be in January as August, so why should this solemn, even depressing day directly precede the most joyous political holiday in Israel?

Jews have long understood the concepts of sorrow and joy and the intricate relationship between the two.  As a people we have experienced destruction and expulsion time and again throughout our long history.  In some instances – namely the destruction of the temples – we are taught that we brought the tragedies upon ourselves because of our own failures.  However, there is one hardship in our history that, as a young teenager in Hebrew school, made me wonder.  In discussing the various punishments the Jewish people have endured, I asked the rabbi “But what about the slavery in Egypt?  We hadn’t gotten the Torah yet and weren’t technically Jews.  So what did we do to deserve that?”

At the time he didn’t give me an answer, but as I grew up I divined that it wasn’t a punishment; rather, the generations spent as slaves in Egypt served to teach us and prepare us for freedom, for who can truly appreciate freedom unless they have experienced captivity?  And how can a people have compassion for those who are not free unless they themselves have suffered the same injustice?

Thus the concept of suffering begetting joy is born into us, both individually as Jews and collectively as a nation, and Israel’s decision to celebrate their independence only after remembering what it took – and continues to take – to earn it seems to reflect that.  The timing is, in and of itself, a metaphor for Israeli existence and survival: that sorrow and ecstasy are both present in life, that neither should be forgotten or ignored, and that often, one leads to the other.

If you will, permit me one last metaphor:  The timing of Israel’s Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha’Azmaut appears to have a Biblical connotation as well.  In the first chapter of Bereshit (Genesis), each day of Creation is marked by the phrase “It was evening, it was morning, the [first, second, etc.] day.”  Again, darkness precedes the light, and we continue that tradition when celebrating all Jewish holidays, starting at sundown one day and concluding after sundown the next.  With that order in mind, we should never take the light, the joy, for granted, and though we should not dwell on the negative, we should recall the night that preceded the day to make it that much more worthy of celebration.  In so doing, let us hold onto that memory of darkness to remind us of what not to allow in this world in order that we might reach an era of everlasting light, endless joy, and universal peace for all.

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.
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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.

UPDATE

This weekend I went hiking on another part of the Shvil Israeli, the Israel Trail, and took plenty of pictures while I was at it.  Check out the link on the Photos page and enjoy!

Always remember, never forget

At precisely 10:00 am, Israel stood still.  For a full minute, a siren droned on a single, melancholy pitch, piercing the minds and hearts of the citizens who stood at attention throughout the land.  Work stopped, traffic ceased, and for two minutes complete stoicism descended upon the country.

Today is Yom Hazikaron leShoah v'leG'vura, Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day, commonly known as Yom HaShoah among American Jews.  It is precisely what its name suggests - a day dedicated to the memory of Holocaust victims, the lives of Holocaust survivors, and the heroes that make such a day possible.

Last night there were Holocaust Memorial ceremonies held in every kibbutz, moshav, town, and city throughout Israel.  At our own in Kibbutz Naan, the dining hall was set up with rows upon rows of chairs facing a stage and a screen.  Upon entering, you first heard a recording of names being read, slowly and methodically - family members of kibbutznikim who were killed in the Holocaust.  The program began with a young girl playing an accompanied piece on clarinet.  It was not introduced, was given no title, and when the girl finished nobody applauded.  This was not a performance, this was a ceremony.  She sought no recognition for her talent for she was merely using it fill the room with an atmosphere befitting memory and respect.

A Yizkor, remembrance, passage was read.  Other kibbutznikim read stories, excerpts, and anything else that could best honor the dead and surviving.  Sad songs in minor keys were sung, and we watched a short documentary.  At the end, we sang Shir Hapartizanim Hayihudim, Song of the Jewish Partisans, and the ceremony came to a close.  The audience was entirely silent throughout the presentations - no clapping, no commenting, no whispering.  Even children recognized the solemnity of this memorial.

Today work resumed as usual but even there the atmosphere was somewhat lugubrious, heavy.  The Galgalatz radio station played but without any of the American pop music that makes the station so beloved.  Instead we heard Israeli songs, Jewish songs, songs of heritage and hope, of memory and faith and pride.

And at 10:00, the music stopped and the sirens began, all of us together standing guard over our collective memory.

(At right: Video footage of the Tel Aviv Highway during the sirens on Yom HaShoah, 2008.)

But today is not just Yom HaShoah, for today we added yet another thought in our contemplation: the death of Osama Bin Laden.

When I arrived at work this morning one of the men came to me and said "Did you hear the news?  Bin Laden was killed."

I thought certainly this was some incomprehensible joke.

My doubt was dismissed when I saw the BBC article on his computer - indeed, Bin Laden is dead.  I didn't know how to feel.  For 10 years we have been chasing this man.  Ten years.  From the time I was in 7th grade when I sat in Orchestra rehearsal and heard something about a tower collapsing and was unable to grasp the severity or gravity of the situation, this man's name has lurked somewhere in our minds.  After so long, he almost seemed like some evil character in a comic book, about as real as a two-dimensional costumed villain with a maniacal grin and a thought bubble.  But there is nothing fake about a BBC article on a computer screen boldly portraying the title "Osama Bin Laden is Dead."

With his death, the wound of 9/11 is re-examined and as I listened to President Obama's speech I cried at the memory of the single most catastrophic event ever caused by a human being in the United States.  Memories I didn't know I had surfaced, and just as I wept for Holocaust victims I never knew, so, too, did I weep for the more modern victims of baseless hatred.  How fitting, then, that the two events should coincide.

In Judaism, we are told to "Never forget."  This is not just an admonition to remember the Holocaust; no, it is much more than that.  Never forget the Holocuast; never forget the pogroms; never forget the expulsions; never forget the Inquisition; never forget the destruction; never forget the hate.  Because if we are ever to forget, it will happen again.

Now, 56 years following the end of World War II, we can proudly proclaim that the world has been rid of yet another evil human being, but let us not be so naive as to believe that someone's death marks the end of hateful rhetoric.  Hitler's defeat did not mark the end of anti-Semitism, and Bin Laden's death does not mean Islamic extremists will suddenly abandon their guns and bombs.  So as Jews vow to never forget the wrongs that were done to us, I feel that all of us as global citizens should vow to never forget the atrocities of terrorism in the past decade.  But more challenging than the task of never forgetting is the task of forgiving.  Never forgetting does not mean harboring hatred, for if those memories cause us to viciously hate those who are innocent we become no better than our enemies.  Instead, we must keep the memory in our minds while we open our hearts to compassion for those who suffer the same injustices we have suffered.

Never again.  Never forget.  Always remember.  Always live.