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When the siren wails across the country on Yom HaZikaron – Israel’s Memorial Day — I hear it as a cry; like a shofar, it is a prayer beyond words.
This year — our third Memorial Day since October 7, with Israel still at war and losses continuing — words feel especially elusive. What remains is the sound of silence, deep pain and heartbreak.
We are reminded of Aaron the High Priest, who stood in silence after his sons were tragically killed: “And Aaron held his peace,” reads the book of Leviticus. Shocked, broken, confused, and justifiably angry, Aaron did not speak. No words could articulate the protest or justify the pain.
We in Israel are absorbing the intensity of the moment and its full, incomprehensible weight. We grapple with grief, memory, and longing; we struggle to express what we feel. Everything feels blurred. We are silent because there are no words large enough to contain the depth of loss. Words are empty in the face of such pain.
At the same time, we have questions. Eicha? How could this happen? While we have all seen the hand of God on a daily basis, we have justifiable grievances. We have criticism. We are confused. But in the face of such loss and suffering, asking questions when it is impossible to find answers is futile. So silence becomes the default. It feels louder than the siren.
I have come to understand that this silence has power. The tragedies of the last few years have changed the nation and world Jewry. We are not silent simply because we lack answers. We are silent because what we are witnessing defies description. The magnitude of sacrifice of those we honor, their selflessness and courage, has revealed something about this country and our people that speech cannot adequately capture. Our youth are leaping into action, whether for military service or for community volunteering, with a sense of purpose and love that leaves us speechless. Har Herzl and all the military cemeteries grow larger with superheroes whose devotion humbles us. Citizens of Israel have redefined what it means to love this country. While this is obvious to all, it cannot be adequately formalized in words. In this wordless space, we sanctify not only our grief and our befuddlement, but a reverence for what these men and women have shown the world about who we are.
Jewish tradition has always appreciated such silence. According to Jewish law, visitors to a house of mourning refrain from conversing with the mourner, and especially asking questions, until the mourner speaks to them. We sit beside them, present but quiet. These actions enable us to engage and support, even when words fail us.
The siren of Yom HaZikaron is another such ritual. For two minutes, the nation stands together in complete stillness, providing relief from the pressure of having to find the words for the overwhelming feelings of grief, questions, and boundless appreciation. We can just feel and remember, without having to talk. In a society so often divided by words, silence becomes the one language that we can all share.
This year, as Israel continues to live with strain, anxiety, and uncertainty, that quiet becomes not only meaningful, but necessary. It allows us to cope, to make it through the day. It frees us from the impossible task of finding the right words to adequately express our gratitude and admiration for those who have given their lives for this country, and for their families who carry that loss forward.
This year, we need not force speech. It is not what we say that honors them, but what we are willing to feel together in silence.