Thirty-one years have passed, and still the anniversary arrives with the same mixture of love, disbelief, and stubborn continuity. Time moves forward, 10 Nisan comes every year; memory does not. It waits for you.

This past year has been a lifetime unto itself. A new great-granddaughter was born. A grandson was married just days ago. And, of course, there is the war in Israel. I found myself caught up in it, living in Jerusalem when it began. For family reasons, I cut my trip short and returned to the United States by a route that felt more like an escape than a journey—thirty-six hours through Israel, Egypt, and Romania before finally landing back in New Jersey.

Experiences like that force you to confront where life takes you—and where it never lets you leave. Had Alisa not been murdered, I doubt I would have been in Israel at all, certainly not as a citizen. That is the quiet, enduring consequence of loss: it reshapes the map of your life.

In Israel, parents like me are called “bereaved parents.” It is a large and unwilling circle—those whose children fell defending the State, victims of terror, and now victims of the Israel–Iran war. No one seeks entry into this fraternity. But once inside it, you understand its weight, and you carry it differently.

On Yom HaZikaron, Israel pauses—not to celebrate, but to remember. Last year, I was honored to participate in a program conducted by World Mizrachi and the World Zionist Organization honoring individuals who made a difference in Israel. Alisa was among them. Four thousand people—mostly American gap-year students—filled the hall. They listened. They understood. And in that moment, her life continued to matter in a very real way.

And then, just days ago, I stood at my grandson’s wedding. Five hundred people gathered to celebrate. For a family that has endured terror, joy and grief do not take turns—they coexist. We dance with full hearts, but never with empty memories.

I have come to believe that the Almighty does not script these tragedies. He grants human beings the burden—and the dignity—of free will. The same freedom that leads one person to build a life can lead another to destroy one. That is not divine design; it is human choice.

Which is why the Torah’s command is so stark, and so necessary: Choose life.

There are those who glorify death, who measure honor in martyrdom. I have seen where that road leads. It is not noble. It is not holy. It is a betrayal of everything life is meant to be.

Alisa chose life. She lived it fully, purposefully, and with conviction. That is the legacy worth remembering—not how she died, but how she lived, and what she continues to inspire.

And so, as her thirty-first yahrzeit approaches, I will raise a glass of wine, look heavenward, and say what I have said every year:

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)