Two minutes were not enough

Every year in Israel most of the country stands for two minutes in silence to honor all the individuals who were killed due to terror or war.

A siren sounds, similar to the one we hear when we need to run for shelter. The one that echoes our fears as missiles are heading in our direction.

For the last 15 years, each Memorial Day, during the two minute silence, I would think about the soldiers I knew personally and the ones I only heard stories about.

This year, I stood next to my husband and cried with a deep wave of pain all over. There was no space to think. Our heartbroken souls stood in utter sadness.

Next to our flat, they have started construction and shortly after the siren of silence, we met Mustafa, the head of the project. He introduced us to his son who is training with horses to heal individuals with trauma. We talked about the trauma this nation holds; regardless of religion or identity. Next to us were his team, kneeling down to the ground for their prayer times.

I felt the sand crawling over my skin from the tractor and I felt this land engulfing us. Some of us kneeling to the floor and some of us facing a certain direction, to show our commitment to God.

I felt the sand our ancestors walked on and fought on for centuries. I felt the particles of newness, as this construction site was laying out the foundations for a fresh start. Here everything feels so new and yet equally, so ancient.

Here everyone is so kind in real times of need, and yet in an instant can scream at each other, complete strangers, as if they are family for their entire lives.

Here we have Memorial Day which then transitions into Independence Day. Our darkest moments of grief turn into our brightest moments of hope.

And yet, this year, unlike any other year, even those of us with remaining dreams for peace, mourn like never before. For our friends brutally murdered on their way to the Nova Music Festival, or for our friends who fought terrorists until they were murdered, too.

And we mourn for the divide. Our country is broken into many pieces, and around the world people are declaring Free Palestine or I Stand With Israel, when sides often only add fuel to this separation.

Our prime minister gave a speech on Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day) about the fallen and in the same sentence talked about how we will win. In that moment, I felt anger and pain. Can we please just pause and think about all the people we have lost. All the good ones. Pray for their souls to be flying somewhere in the world and heavens. Why do we always have to equate the fallen to the continued mission.

I now think about this symbolic and literal sand.

Where will it fall next? Or what will it unveil?

I pray, from the depths of my soul, for the dust to rise from the ashes. For us to integrate each person equally into our society. For us to embrace the differences and to learn from each other with compassion. For us to hold onto the loss and not just pass it onto our manifesto.

We hug and hold onto the fallen. For the sand we dust onto their graves and for the future sandcastles our children will build.

It’s easy to conclude with words that are so much easier to write than do, but
I ask of my friends outside of Israel: Don’t hate us.
I ask of my friends in Israel: Don’t hate each other.
And I ask of myself: Don’t hate yourself.

I prefer to smile to the sky up above with the deep and flowing tears and to imagine all these innocent souls flying and dancing somewhere special.

May they not be lost.
May they be on their new journey.

And for all of those not at home, not reunited with their families, may there be miracles and deals for every single person taken hostage. They must return home. Now.

I wrote these words thinking about Liam Shrem, Yonatan Zirkel, Benji Trakeniski, Eyal Weiss, Ori Ansbacher and all the innocent lives taken by terrorism and war.