There’s No Distance Left

Another Yom Hazikaron is coming to an end.

They translate it as “Memorial Day,” but as an American expat living here, I still can’t bring myself to call it that. The words don’t quite hold the weight of what this day actually is—how somber, how heavy, how sacred it feels.

In America, Memorial Day signals the start of summer. Beaches open, grills come out, plans get made. And maybe I’m only speaking for myself—but remembering fallen soldiers often feels like an afterthought.

Here, it’s the opposite.

The country slows in a way that’s almost impossible to explain unless you’ve felt it. The air feels heavier. Conversations soften. The streets go quiet. Grief isn’t private here—it’s shared.

Like all Jewish days, it begins at sundown. And it begins with a siren.

Everything stops.

Cars pull over. People stand still. Conversations cut mid-sentence.

And then again the next morning at 11:00 a.m., another siren.

For 24 hours, the country is in collective mourning. Television and radio don’t distract—they remember.

I think the first time I ever understood this kind of loss was over twenty years ago.

My roommate, Marla Bennett, was killed in the Hebrew University bombing.

It was fast. Permanent. And it rearranged reality in an instant.

And then, years later, after October 7th, I got a call.

One of my students, Eitan Ben Ami, had been killed in combat.

There are no words for that. A grieving teacher doesn’t fit into any category.

And over the past months, I’ve watched more of my students carry that loss themselves.

What once felt distant has become unbearably close.

The list of names doesn’t feel distant anymore.

It feels like us.

Yom Hazikaron is a day of mourning. But it’s also a day of strength.

Because here, remembrance isn’t something we visit once a year. It’s something we carry.

And lately, there’s no distance left to hide behind.