Reflections From This Year’s Family Visit to Israel

Photo courtesy of the author.

Israel and I have been celebrating our birthdays together for many years. We were both born in the spring of 1948,

My Israeli husband Mickey and I often celebrate Yom Ha’Atzmaut (Israeli Independence Day) in the Hatzar, the courtyard complex of his family home in Ramat Gan, Israel, as we did this year. It’s my favorite time to visit Israel. From Yom Hashoah to Yom Ha’Atzmaut, the meaning of Israel’s birth and existence takes over. Plus, the weather is great.

Our experience this time was very different. The Hamas-Israel war gave new meaning to this period of time in Israel

Several years ago, I started painting my nails in various combinations of blue and white to celebrate Israel’s and my birthdays. This year, in preparation for our visit, yellow, the symbol for the hostages being held by Hamas, has taken over the simple variations of blue and white. I joined together with Hadassah’s social media campaign around the image of yellow nails. The #EndTheSilence Campaign was created to sound the alarm about the horrific acts of sexual violence perpetuated by Hamas and to demand that the remaining hostages be returned to Israel.

We had hoped and prayed that the negotiations would have brought the hostages home and that a treaty would have been signed; that Yom Ha’Atzmaut, would be a day of true joy. However, it did not happen. Dark clouds hung over our heads from all directions as deaths of more soldiers were announced daily.

Neither the southern nor the northern borders were quiet. The theme everywhere in Israel was (and remains) “Bring the Hostages Home Now,” characterized by posters of the hostages and yellow ribbons which were seen everywhere—in public spaces, on the streets and outside people’s homes. Yellow ribbons adorned the jackets of newscasters. Female performers on television sported yellow nails.

This year, on the evening of Yom Hazikaron, we attended a community ceremony in the Tel Aviv suburb of Hod Hasharon, where my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Amir and Haya Alhallel reside, honoring their city’s individuals who lost his or her life fighting in a war or through terrorism. Each citizen’s picture was shown, and the name was read. On this day, all over Israel, the country mourned 1,533 additional soldiers and civilians who were killed since last Memorial Day.

On the morning of Yom Hazikaron, we attended a ceremony at the cemetery for those killed before 1948. Mickey’s uncle is among them. The traditional ceremony was different this time. The Black Sabbath (as Israelis call October 7th) and its aftermath hung over all of us because we were not just remembering those killed in helping to establish the State of Israel. Rather, we, speakers and audience alike, adorned in yellow ribbons were all remembering the soldiers killed in the current war and the hostages still in Gaza as well.

On the afternoon of Yom Hazikaron, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law drove us south to the Nova Music Festival memorial site. As we approached the area, we were shaken by the realization that this was the exact area we had visited with our cousins on a previous trip.

We had been to Kibbutz Beri! It was there that we had visited the bakery and picnicked at its table. On the grounds of the Nova Music Festival, we had seen fields of beautiful red wildflowers, called koloniot in Hebrew. Somehow, before we came to Israel this time, neither Mickey nor I had made that connection.

Now, the fields are marked with red ceramic flowers, surrounding the markers where each body was found. Red flowers are no longer growing there, only the red of blood. We witnessed marker after marker, picture after picture, memorial after memorial, for all those young revelers who were violently killed as they were enjoying music, dance and fun. We learned that 354 festivalgoers and police were murdered there. As we wandered the fields, we heard the booms of rockets in the distance as they were being destroyed by Israel’s Iron Dome.

The memorials I witnessed shook me to my bones—the agony and sadness was overwhelming. While I simultaneously admired the families’ and artists’ creations in tribute to these young victims, the tactile structures brought on strong visceral reactions of horror within me.

Mickey’s great-grandfather, Shmuel Eliezer Zilberman, was murdered by Arabs in the Old City of Jerusalem in 1920. His uncle, Nissan Goldenberg, was murdered while driving workers in Petach Tikvah in 1938. So many years later, we are still being senselessly murdered, as well as being held hostage. Rockets are still flying in the north and south, soldiers are being wounded and killed. Families remain displaced from their homes.

This year, Yom Ha’Atzmaut was a subdued family barbecue in the comfort of the Hatzar. Thank G-d our family members are all alive and well. Those who were called to war have now returned physically unscathed, back to living their everyday lives. But the scars of war and the dark clouds, fears, anxieties, and sadness hang over us all.

Am Yisrael Chai! The nation of Israel lives.
Together, we will survive and win.