Yizkor and communal solidarity this Yom Kippur and beyond

The 10th of Tishrei bears layered meanings. In the halakhic-traditional code it is Yom HaKippurim, the day on which the decree is sealed — “Who shall live and who shall die” (Unetaneh Tokef). In the Israeli code, it is Yom Kippur, evoking the Yom Kippur War of 52 years ago. Since October 7, 2023, and the war that followed, this day carries yet another layer of collective trauma.

Today, death touches us both personally and communally. When mourning is ongoing and trauma is spoken of not in the past tense but in the present, Yizkor becomes a test: Do we stand as individuals remembering our own dead, or as a community carrying memory together? Do we continue the practice of leaving the shul for those not formally obligated in Yizkor, or do we remain together in solidarity? And are we able to expand empathy — to those who recite Yizkor not only because of terror and war, but for every form of loss?

This year, many mourners will recite Yizkor for the first time on Yom Kippur. Where will we be at that moment? Those accustomed to Yizkor know the experience of hearing the murmurs of people slipping outside for a “pause,” while they stand and pray in grief. At the very opening of Yom Kippur, we reflect on gathering as one before God — how then should that principle be enacted in the moment of Yizkor, in the very heart of the day?

I believe it’s time to update our practice and remain together in the shul during Yizkor, as a gesture of communal presence and support.

Yizkor: Redemption and Responsibility

The prayer takes its name from the longing that God will “remember” the souls of the departed. Those who are mourning recall their loved ones by name in personal supplication, which concludes with communal petitions for entire groups of the dead.

Already in Midrash Tanchuma on Parashat Ha’azinu (recited this very Shabbat), Yizkor is linked to the idea of redemption:

‘Atone for Your people Israel’ (Deut. 21:8) — these are the living. ‘Whom You have redeemed’ — these are the dead. From here we learn that the living redeem the dead. Therefore we recall the dead on Yom Kippur and pledge charity on their behalf (Tanchuma, Ha’azinu 1).

The act of remembering the dead is thus framed as an act of responsibility — the living redeeming the departed.

The familiar Ashkenazic formulation of Yizkor crystallized in medieval Europe, first for Yom Kippur and later for the pilgrimage festivals. Already Mahzor Vitry (§521) preserves early versions of the prayer. The practice became so strong that it was recorded in Shulchan Arukh: “It is customary to vow charity on Yom Kippur for the sake of the dead” (Orach Chaim 621:6). Over the generations, the prayer expanded to include martyrs, soldiers, and the victims of the Shoah. Yizkor thus came to embody not only personal but also collective memory.

Stepping Out during Yizkor: Between Fear and Communal Presence

In many Ashkenazic communities, the custom developed that only those obligated to recite Yizkor remain inside, while the rest of the community steps out. After hours of shared prayer, a physical split is enacted between “those who must remember” and “those who need not.”

The rationale is often tied to fear of the “evil eye,” akin to the reluctance to study laws of mourning until required. Some frame it as sparing one’s living parents the imagined burden of “anticipatory mourning.”

Yet rabbinic voices complicate this. Sefer Hasidim (§291) encourages learning the laws of mourning even in advance, as responsible preparation. The Talmud itself establishes, “The halakhah follows the lenient view in mourning” (Mo’ed Katan 20a), signaling flexibility meant to sustain rather than to burden mourners.

Iggrot Moshe (YD IV:60:4) finds no intrinsic prohibition in remaining present during Yizkor, provided one does so with proper intent. True, some poskim cautioned that including those not obligated may constitute stringency, especially on festivals, but the broader question is one of community care: does this custom in fact isolate mourners at the very moment they most need communal solidarity?

If the goal of the prayer is to strengthen hearts, the physical departure of part of the community risks undermining precisely that goal.

Two Years Later: When Death Came Close to All of Us

“Such a thing we have never known,” wrote the poet Shulamit Apfel in the days after October 7. In truth, every one of us can echo her words.

Over the past two years, death has become close to us all. Nearly every family has been touched directly or indirectly. The distinction between “in mourning” and “not in mourning” has blurred. The language of halakhah may draw boundaries, but the lived experience is one of shared grief —

In all their affliction, He was afflicted (Isaiah 63:9).

Casualties, injuries, kidnappings, destruction — this trauma is ongoing and resists being cast into the past tense. Some received terrible news instantly, others after long days of uncertainty, and some remain in the liminal state of “aninut,” acute mourning. To this is added the ongoing toll of war. In practice, we are all in a kind of extended mourning.

In such a reality, should not the community carry mourning together? Should not Yizkor become the moment in which we stand side by side, bearing grief collectively?

Staying in the shul during Yizkor is not a technical or formal question. It is about the very character of the community: do we embody a space in which mourning is not left to the few, but held by the many? To stay in silence is to say — we are with you.

Presence in Solidarity

This year, countless mourners will recite Yizkor for the first time — among them hundreds of orphans, some very young. Some will need an adult beside them, guiding their hand on the page. Others will need the community to say the names of their loved ones aloud, so that they do not bear the weight of memory alone.

Presence can mean more than quiet solidarity. It can mean stepping close to a child with sensitivity, helping them recite painful words from the Machzor, or ensuring the Shaliach Tzibbur includes the souls of their family in the community’s prayer.

For children and youth, remaining during Yizkor becomes a formative moment: they see that mourning is not a private burden, but something the community carries together. They learn in practice what Arevut — mutual responsibility — means.

As the Sages taught: “All Israel are responsible one for another” (Shevuot 39a). That responsibility extends not only to mitzvot, but also to memory and mourning. To stand together at Yizkor is to enact this principle in its most urgent form.

A Spiritual-Communal Choice

Yom Kippur is a day of collective standing — before memory, before loss, and before hope. Remaining in the shul during Yizkor is more than a change in custom. It is a spiritual and communal act: affirming responsibility, giving weight to grief, and offering comfort.

In the language of the High Holy Days: al da’at HaMakom ve-al da’at ha-kahal. Not by stepping away, but by standing together.