Yom HaZikaron: Grief, Heroism, and an Unbreakable Bond

By Leah Garber

Words fail me today; breath itself becomes a burden on this day when an unfathomable sorrow blankets our nation, weaving its dark threads through our ever-growing tapestry of bereaved families, casting long shadows over our all-too-crowded cemeteries. Language itself crumbles in the face of such grief. This is a day when sorrow forms an unbreakable bond among orphaned children—Jews, Druze, Bedouins alike. A day when young widows, their lives forever altered, find momentary solace in one another’s embrace, united by a fate they never sought, searching for comfort where no true consolation can be found.

For 572 endless days, a dense, obsidian cloud has shrouded the heavens of our cherished homeland, stubbornly denying even the thinnest ray of healing light to penetrate its darkness. This Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, feels unlike any we have endured before. The anguish cuts more sharply now, a searing flame that brands our flesh and etches permanent marks upon our collective soul.

As every year, we gathered for the Memorial Day ceremony in our city, Modi’in, last night. Thousands stood together, a sea of bowed heads in reverent silence. Yet this year carried something palpably different in its solemn air. Fresh grief hung heavy, the newly bereaved families stood among us, the roll call of the fallen having grown so terribly long since we last assembled—it was as though we had become one massive shiva, a nation transformed into a single house of mourning. Everywhere, people reached for handkerchiefs, shoulders trembled with quiet sobs, sighs of heartache punctuated the silence.

Since last Yom HaZikaron, 319 precious souls have been inscribed in blood upon the hallowed register of IDF casualties. These 319 soldiers who, just 12 months ago, stood in this same solemn silence, heads bowed in respect before the fresh graves of their brothers and sisters in arms, never imagining that when the next Yom HaZikaron arrived, it would be their names etched in stone, their loved ones weeping over earth freshly turned above them, just as they themselves had done the year before.

Naval commando Neta Yitzhak Kahana—barely 19, his life still unfurling—fell in fierce combat against terrorists in Gaza. Captain Ido Voloch of the Armored Corps, just 21 and burning with courage, rushed to rescue him—and was killed in the attempt. Both fell last Friday in Gaza. Neta and Ido were not merely soldiers but souls aflame with dedication and purpose. They chose combat units with a clear-eyed understanding of what might come, driven by a love for their homeland that transcended personal safety. This year, in a cruel reversal of fate, Neta and Ido will not stand vigil beside their brothers in arms as they did before. Now they rest beneath the soil they gave their lives to defend.

Vered Vaspi Tzabari carries a burden few could comprehend. Her father, Lieutenant Colonel Yoav Vaspi, commanded a tank battalion until he fell heroically during the Yom Kippur War in 1973, awarded a medal of honor for his bravery. Her brother Arnon was killed in Lebanon in 1983, 10 years later. Then, 18 months ago, the harbingers of heartbreak came to her door for an unimaginable third time, bearing news that her son Arnon—named in loving memory of his uncle—had fallen in battle in Gaza. Vered went through childhood overshadowed by a father’s absence, grew up as a bereaved sister, and now the most unbearable curse that war can bestow—a mother who must bury her child. Three generations of her family offered upon the altar of our homeland’s survival. What depths must the chalice of suffering reach before a single soul has drunk its fill? What measure of tears can one family be asked to shed?

In February 2016, during a brief respite from military service, Yanai Weisman and his wife Yael ventured out shopping with their 4-month old daughter, Neta. Without warning, terrorists wielding knives invaded the store, plunging their weapons into an unsuspecting customer. Yanai, heard the desperate cries and did what heroes do—he ran toward danger, not away. With nothing but his bare hands against their blades, he engaged the attackers, drawing their fury away from their victim, halting their murderous rampage with his own body. In that act of sublime courage, Yanai was grievously wounded.

At his funeral, his widow Yael—who is also my beloved niece—spoke words that echo still:

I couldn’t hold you back from running toward danger, and I have no regret for that inability. Had you hesitated, had you turned away, you would not have been my Yanai—the man whose soul I recognized, whose heart I cherished. Your essence was one of boundless giving… How I wish you could have witnessed more of Neta’s unfolding life. We carried so many dreams between us. In our brief two years of marriage, we created a lifetime of love. Yanai, you stand as Israel’s true hero; facing killers without a weapon, yet you never faltered. I am forever grateful that my path crossed with someone so luminous and extraordinary. And I thank you, above all, for our precious Neta.”

Yanai received posthumous honors for his courage, but little Neta doesn’t yearn for a hero enshrined in medals and memory—she longs simply for a father’s embrace, Simply Abba.

Neta, who entered orphanhood before she could form words, has now reached 9 years of age. She moves through the world with an old soul dwelling within a child’s innocent frame, living in the long shadow of a father’s legendary courage. Upon Yanai’s gravestone, Neta and Yael placed a living tribute—a planter bearing the sacred words “Eternal life planted within us” from the blessing recited after reading Torah. Her very name—Neta in Hebrew means “planted” or “sapling”—carries profound symbolism, a testament to the hope Yael and Yanai invested in their daughter. She is their living legacy, growing toward a future they dreamed would be brighter, a world where Abba returns home on leave and is not returned to the earth.

Once again, a two-minute siren rends Israel’s skies, its mournful wail summoning us to memorial ceremonies in military cemeteries throughout our land. And I find myself wondering if that piercing sound, made heavier by the collective weeping of an entire nation, might somehow penetrate the barriers of hatred, filter through earth’s depths into the terror tunnels where 59 hostages have endured captivity for 572 interminable days. For them, today marks a second Memorial Day far from those who love them, subjected to torment, deprived of life’s most basic dignities, feeling each heartbeat as potentially their last.

Words fail when attempting to convey the atmosphere in Israel’s streets this week. Our shared destiny binds us with invisible but unbreakable threads, fusing millions of separate souls into one unified vessel of remembrance.

Today, tears flow without cessation. Sorrow streams from countless eyes in an unending river of grief. Our nation wears mourning like a second skin. From across the Jewish world comes an embrace of solidarity, millions sharing the pain. In JCCs, countless Israeli flags fly at half-mast, our anthem—”Hatikvah” | “The Hope”—rises from millions of throats in bittersweet harmony, and the stories of our fallen are recounted with reverence. Tale upon tale of sacrifice and courage, each one a universe extinguished, yet illuminating our path forward, honoring the ultimate sacrifice of those no longer with us, cherishing the memory of Yanai, both Arnons, Yoav, Neta, Ido, and the multitudes—far too many—who were killed: all 25,420 soldiers who fell protecting Israel and 5,229 innocent victims of hatred’s blind fury. Their passing was not futile; through their sacrifice, we maintain our home, our sanctuary, our nation. Despite the unceasing challenges—we stand independent, proud of all we have created from the ashes of history, nurturing within our hearts the profound hope that we shall forever safeguard this precious gift: our singular, irreplaceable homeland.

We were hoping, as evening descends at 8 p.m., to attempt the most difficult transition—to shed the garments of grief and don the raiments of celebration. The same Israeli skies that last night mirrored our tears with countless stars will tonight burst with fireworks’ ephemeral brilliance. A nation in mourning will transform itself, however tenuously, into a nation rejoicing in its 77^th year of hard-won independence.

However, restless winds and extreme temperatures have unleashed unprecedented, massive wildfires, throwing the country into a national emergency. Various towns have been evacuated, central Israel and the road to Jerusalem are blocked to all traffic, and the flames are advancing relentlessly toward major cities, including Modi’in, my city.

All Yom HaAtzmaut celebrations throughout the country, including the central state ceremony at Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, have been canceled. An entire nation now lifts its eyes toward orange-stained skies and thickening smoke, gripped by overwhelming anxiety. As if the emotional weight of this most difficult day were not enough to bear, our collective attention has been forced to shift from remembrance and commemoration to mere rescue and survival.

The path of being Israeli, of living as a Jew, has never been an easy one. Yet I would never trade my soul’s bond to Zion, the ancient heritage flowing through my veins, for all the world’s treasures. The annals of my people’s journey through time are not merely stories I have learned—they are inscribed within the very fiber of my being, shaping who I am, filling the chambers of my heart—all our hearts—with an enduring love that neither time nor tragedy can diminish.

“I have no other land
Even if my ground is burning…
Here is my home…”
– Ehud Manor

Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.