Remembering and forgetting

There are so many holidays in Israel, between the government ones and the religious ones, that I have problems keeping track of them. I'm not kidding. More than once I've walked out the door with the intent of catching a bus, only to find it's one holiday or another and everything is shut for the day. I think I could make a nice sum of money developing a Goy Alert service, in which all of us unfamiliar with Jewish and Isareli holidays would be notified a week in advance so as not to have our plans completely derailed by a surprise holiday. But I digress...

Aside from the religious holidays, the two main holidays people always talk about experiencing are Memorial Day (יום הזיכרון) and Independence Day (יום העצמות). Given the history of Israel, you can imagine the significance of these two days to the Jewish and Israeli communities. They are also, thankfully and purposefully, placed one after the other; Memorial Day is immediately followed by Independence Day, a day of solemness and reflection followed by a day of celebration and partying.


As with all other Jewish holidays, the day begins as sundown. Memorial Day in Israel is nothing like that in the US. Instead of sales and picnics and parades, most shops and stores are shut and no one works in the evening. At 8pm, the air raid sirens blow and the entire country comes to a halt: people stop walking, cars pull over to the side of the road and people get out and stand. No one moves, no one talks. For a full minute, you do nothing but remember the people who have died for Israel to be where it is now. You remember the current conflict in which people are dying. You remember the surrounding countries which constantly threaten the people and statehood of Israel. You remember that no one here can take anything for granted, not even daily life.

A large ceremony was held in Kikar Rabin in downtown Tel Aviv. With performances by many famous artists and speeches by, among others, the Mayor of Tel Aviv and various military personnel, the night still has a very somber feel. Between the songs and speeches are video interviews with parents or spouses or children who have lost someone in one of Israel's wars. No one claps for the performers. No one cheers. 10,000 standing there, all focusing on the people who aren't there.

The following day is still in the same somber tone. Again, at 11am, the sirens sound and the country comes to a stand-still. Though the rest of the day carries on as normal, there is a constant cloud over the collective head of Israel. Even as someone who isn't Israeli and isn't Jewish, this morose feeling was inescapable. It probably didn't help that I watched "Beaufort", which is a fantastic movie about the experiences of Israeli soldiers but isn't the most uplifting piece of cinema. I still highly recommend it, though.

At sundown, which is the end of one day and the start of the next in the Jewish calendar, Independence Day begins. In an effort to throw off the melancholy of the previous day, Independence Day is celebrated much like in the United States: with parties, gatherings of friends and family, and revelry in all that is good about Israel. Israeli pride is out in full force, and the streets are filled with people out to have a good time.

The next day, which is still a holiday and on which no one goes to work, is celebrated with street fairs and ice cream and time at the beach. After such a melancholy day, the celebrations and parties are as much for Israel as they are for her people. The focus changes from what has been lost to what has been gained and, while the cost is never entirely forgotten, the sadness of the preceding day is put aside to focus on the achievements of Israel and her perpetuation into the future.

It's an odd feeling celebrating national holidays in a country of which one isn't a citizen. You celebrate a day which has no direct connection to your own up bringing or background. As a non-Israeli and a non-Jew, this is especially felt in Israel. My non-Israeli Jewish friends still have a connection to Israel and its existence; what happens to Israel, what happens to the Jews here, indirectly (and directly) happens to Jews throughout the world. National holidays here aren't just for Israelis, but for Jews everywhere.

And then there's me, standing amidst 10,000 people at a Memorial Day ceremony for a country and a struggle that isn't mine. It wasn't until the middle of that evening that I realized something: this is about me. It's about me because it's about people I care for. It's not about my connection to Israel or the Jewish people as a whole, it's about my connection to the individuals who matter to me. Without realizing it, I had become a kind of de facto Israeli. Politics and principles aside, Israeli matters to me because it matters to them.

Suddenly I had an idea of what they must feel and what their ties to this country are. The day was no longer about identity or religion or citizenship, it was about what my friends had lost to gain what they have. Through them, Israel had become a part of me and these holidays, their holidays, were also mine.

And after these highs and lows, everyday life, such as it is, resumed for another year.