More Than a State

On Yom HaZikaron, We Remember the Soul We’re Fighting For

In memory of the soldiers who gave their lives not just for land, but for the soul of a nation.

In this blog, I share three reflections — one national, one personal, and one concluding thought.

Tonight, a siren will sound across Israel.
And when it does, time will stand still.

Cars will pull over. Conversations will stop.
People will rise, still as stone.
A sacred hush will fall across a nation — united not by comfort, but by memory.

Yom HaZikaron — the Day of Remembrance for Israel’s fallen soldiers — is not just a ceremony.
It’s a collective heartbeat. A national soul laid bare.

On this day, we don’t argue politics.
We don’t debate ideology.
We remember.

We remember the young lives cut short.
The dreams buried far too soon.
The families who carry the weight of loss every single day.

And in that sacred silence, a question rises:
What were they dying for?

Not in a cynical way — but in a soul-searching, spiritual way.
What is the deeper purpose they gave their lives to defend?

The Dream That Power Alone Could Heal the Pain

Theodor Herzl believed that a Jewish state would solve antisemitism.
With a homeland, a flag, an army — Jews would be normal. Respected. Safe.

It was bold. It was beautiful. And it was necessary.

But history shows that Herzl’s dream was only partly true.

Yes, we have a strong country today.
But the hatred didn’t end. It just transformed.

Israel isn’t just criticised — it’s obsessed over.
Its right to exist is questioned.
Its actions are judged by standards no other nation faces.
Jewish students around the world face hostility, not because they are Israeli, but because they are Jewish. Jews connected to Israel, whether they like it or not.

Herzl thought normalisation would end the obsession.
Instead, strength became the new excuse for hate.

So what is the world really reacting to?

A Story That Took Years to Understand

Rabbi Poston of Yiboneh shared a story with me.

As a young man, he was walking through Philadelphia when a sharply dressed man approached him — a follower of the Nation of Islam, a red bow tie, a disciple of Louis Farrakhan.

Without a word, he handed Rabbi Poston a letter.
It wasn’t personal — it was being handed out to Jews in the area.

The letter said:

“Dear Jew, God gave you the Torah at Mount Sinai, and He gave you the Land of Israel — on the condition that you keep the Torah. You have not kept the Torah. Therefore, get out.”

At the time, Rabbi Poston felt the sting of antisemitism and dismissed it as hate.
But the words lingered.
They wouldn’t leave him.

And over time, he realised something:
The message wasn’t new.
It wasn’t foreign.
It was ancient.
It was ours.

“If you walk in My statutes… you shall dwell securely in your land.” (Leviticus 26)
“But if you do not… the land shall vomit you out.” (Leviticus 18:28)

The Torah itself teaches that the Land of Israel is not an unconditional gift.
It is a covenantal responsibility.

The World’s Deepest Obsession: Not Jewish Power — but Jewish Purpose

When the world says, “We don’t recognise Israel as a Jewish state,” we rightly hear political hostility.
But beneath the rhetoric, maybe there’s a deeper, even subconscious, spiritual cry:

“You are not living like the people you were meant to be.”

It doesn’t justify hatred.
But it challenges us.

Because the world doesn’t really hate us for being strong. (Although it’s debatable?)
It hates us for not being who we are supposed to be.

Even our fiercest critics, consciously or not, sense it:
The Jewish people carry a mission.

We’re not meant to be just another nation.
We are meant to embody Torah, radiate justice, and reflect the Divine.

When we fall short, the world’s confusion turns into obsession.

What Our Soldiers Died For

Tonight, we remember not just names carved in stone, but souls who lit up the world.

They didn’t die just defending borders.
They died defending a dream.

Not just protecting a country, but a covenant.
A future rooted not only in land, but in destiny.

They gave their lives for the Jewish future — for a world where Jews could live freely, and live meaningfully.

A Hike Through Memory: Reflections for Yom HaZikaron

I’ve lived in Israel for 30 years.
And yet sometimes, it feels like I’m only just beginning to uncover the deep layers of history and sacrifice that lie just beneath everyday life.

Last Friday, just before Yom HaZikaron, my brother-in-law suggested we go on a simple hike near a bakery in the Judean Hills.
I agreed, expecting nothing more than a casual morning walk and a good coffee.

We drove to Harim Bakery in Kiryat Anavim, nestled in the hills outside Jerusalem.
The place was packed — the bakery buzzing, the air filled with life and laughter.

After a delicious breakfast, we set out on our hike — the Sanatorium Walk, an easy-going loop through the Judean Mountains.

And almost immediately, we found ourselves passing through a cemetery.

At first, I thought little of it.
But then I noticed: this wasn’t an ordinary cemetery.

It was a military cemetery — and not just any military cemetery, but one filled with the young faces of the fighters who defended the road to Jerusalem in 1948.

Boys as young as 15 or 16.
Names I didn’t recognise, but who had fought for my very ability to live and breathe here.

We discovered that Kiryat Anavim wasn’t just a kibbutz but a battlefront.
The staging ground for the Palmach’s Harel Brigade, led by a young Yitzhak Rabin.

From January to October 1948, battles raged in these hills to secure the only road into a besieged Jerusalem.

Without their sacrifices, Jerusalem might have been cut off and lost.

The cemetery holds 138 graves.
The nearby memorial honours 418 fighters who fell across the Jerusalem corridor.

The Story Behind Kiryat Anavim

Kiryat Anavim was founded in the early 1920s, one of the first kibbutzim in the Judean Hills.

The land was purchased from the local Abu Ghosh clan — a rare Arab community that chose peace over war.
During 1948, while other villages attacked Jewish convoys, Abu Ghosh stayed neutral and even helped.

Had more followed their example, history might have looked very different.

There has always been enough land and prosperity here for all who seek peace.

Personal Reflections on Yom HaZikaron

That day left a deep mark on me.

We came for a simple hike and a coffee.
But every step was heavy with memory.
Every breath was a gift bought by sacrifice.

Standing in that military cemetery, I understood Yom HaZikaron on a new level.

It’s not just about sirens and ceremonies.
It’s about the sacred debt we owe — written into the very land beneath our feet.

Their courage built the foundation of everything we cherish today.

Rejecting Existential Dullness: Remembering Who We Are

As I close these reflections, I’m thinking of a powerful idea I came across recently.

Jonathan Lieberman, writing in The Jerusalem Post, quoted Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo, who warned of something called “existential dullness.”

It’s not laziness.
It’s not apathy.
It’s the slow, deadly normalisation of miracles.

When the extraordinary becomes routine, when the hand of God fades into the background, something vital inside us begins to die.

Today, Tel Aviv shines as a centre of innovation and culture.
But the danger is when Tel Aviv becomes just another Silicon Valley.
When Jerusalem becomes just another capital city.

When we forget the miraculous story we are part of, we lose our soul.

We are not here just to survive or thrive materially.
We are Jewish Jews.
We are here to bring justice, compassion, holiness, and a higher moral consciousness into the world.

Living in a tough neighbourhood, under constant threat, makes it tempting to forget.
But precisely now, we must remember even more fiercely who we are.

In Their Merit, For Our Mission

In the merit of those who gave their lives,
let us live with joy, gratitude, and fierce loyalty to our mission.

Let us celebrate survival — but also renewal, purpose, and hope.

Because this story — the story of Israel, the story of the Jewish people — is not just about wars and survival.
It is about faith.
It is about hope.
It is about sacred destiny.

We are part of something extraordinary.

We must live like it.

יהי זכרם ברוך — May their memories be a blessing.

I invite you to read further reflections in my blog titled “War, Empire, and Survival: The Bloody Price of War: Why Israel’s War Is Different”

https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/war-empire-and-survival/

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