The Graveyard Comparison I Wish I Didn’t Make

This Memorial Day, I stood at my cousin’s grave and found myself thinking about something unexpected: my friends in America.

I lived in California for several years, where I formed deep friendships and immersed myself in a culture vastly different from my own. But standing in the cemetery in Israel, surrounded by mourning families and rows of flags gently fluttering in the wind, I couldn’t help but compare how we remember our fallen — and how they do.

It’s a comparison I wish I didn’t make, especially here, especially now.

In Israel, Memorial Day is a sacred national pause. Sirens wail and the country stops — cars pulled over on highways, shoppers frozen in place, conversations silenced. Grief does not belong to the bereaved alone; it belongs to the nation. Every name carries a story, and every loss is collective. The sorrow is raw, the unity palpable, and the purpose clear.

In America, Memorial Day is… different. When I first arrived, I was struck by the dissonance. I remember Googling the meaning of Memorial Day after seeing ads for mattress sales and BBQ recipes. Was that really all there was to it? A three-day weekend with a nod to the troops?

Over the years, I learned that there is solemnity to be found in pockets of American life — in cemeteries, in ceremonies, in families who have known sacrifice. But broadly, the day passes with little reflection. The country, for the most part, keeps moving.

Last year, as part of an honors program at my university, we visited West Point — home to some of the brightest and most committed minds in the U.S. military. I was deeply curious to hear why these cadets had chosen to serve. I thought I had an idea, but I wanted to hear it in their own words. Many spoke of the benefits, the prestige, and continuing a proud family legacy of service. Not one mentioned politics, or values, or the greater good. I don’t say this with judgment — how could they? When wars are fought oceans away, when Memorial Day is mostly about discounts, and when your own life remains untouched by violence, how can a sense of national mission truly take root?

In Israel, we have no such distance. Our wars are not “over there.” They are here, in our cities and our homes. Our soldiers are not anonymous; they are our classmates, our neighbors, our children. We live with skin in the game.

This year, I cannot keep moving. My cousin, Major Moti Shamir, was killed on October 7th while defending civilians at Kibbutz Re’im. He didn’t have to go — but he went anyway, out of duty, courage, and love. That day, we lost Moti. But in his absence, we gained a deeper sense of what we are fighting for. What are we willing to risk for each other?

Memorial Day in Israel has always been painful. But now, it is excruciating. And yet, somehow, more meaningful than ever.

I often wonder how my American friends — many of whom are kind, thoughtful, and principled — would relate to this reality. I don’t ask that they understand what it means to send children to the army at 18, or to carry war and remembrance so personally. I only ask that they try. That they pause. That they see the human stories beneath the headlines and hashtags.

I never wanted to compare cemeteries. But when you bury someone you love, you begin to notice who else is mourning — and who isn’t. And in that silence, you wonder what kind of world we might build if remembrance were universal, and not just national.

This year, Memorial Day in Israel is not just about remembering the past. It’s about defending our future — with love, with sorrow, and with the courage of those, like Moti, who gave everything.