Yom HaZikaron: A Modern Day of Awe

A reflection on technology might seem like an odd beginning on a day like today. But perhaps it’s exactly where we need to start. Because what a strange and holy thing it is, in this world of ours, to think about where and when we are. You might be reading this from anywhere in the world. The invisible cords and waves of connection, the zeros and ones of our devices—these are not just technological marvels. They are sacred tools that collapse geography and time. They allow us to say, without irony, Hineni. Here I am. Wherever “here” might be.

And so, as Yom HaZikaron begins in Israel—just as the sun sets and the sirens wail—we are also there. Even if we’re still in yesterday, in another timezone. The day of remembrance reaches us nonetheless. Because Am Yisrael—the people of Israel—is not bound by borders. We are a people of shared memory, of collective pain, of united hope.

The number we remember this year is 30,646.

30,646 souls—soldiers and civilians, men and women, Jews and non-Jews alike—who have died defending the State of Israel or have been taken from us by terror.

And after 571 days since October 7, 2023, that number has risen. Horrifically, violently. We grieve for each one. And the truth is, we do not grieve alone.

Because we are not alone. And this too is the strange, beautiful truth of modern Jewish life: the same technology that lets us share a screen, send a prayer, see each other’s faces—it also reminds us that we are inextricably bound. That an attack in Be’eri reverberates in Baltimore. That a funeral in Tel Aviv echoes in Toronto. There is no “over there” anymore. The grief is ours. The fight is ours. The story is ours.

Which brings me to this week’s Torah portion, the double parsha of Tazria-Metzora. It speaks of tzara’at, a mysterious skin affliction that renders a person impure, and which demands that the afflicted be removed from the community until healing is possible.

The Sages taught that this illness isn’t simply physical. It’s moral. It reflects something off in a person’s speech, in their relationships, in their soul. And because of that, the community must respond—not with judgment, but with care. With boundaries, yes—but with the hope of return.

That’s the Jewish way. We name what’s broken. We step back. And then, we come close again. We bring each other back.

And this is what Yom HaZikaron asks of us too. To feel the weight of the losses—not only as headlines or statistics, but as family. As part of Am Yisrael.

And yes, I know there are people who argue you can be anti-Zionist and not antisemitic. Maybe, in theory. But that theory neither acknowledges nor explains the surge of hate graffiti, the broken windows, the threats against Jewish students and institutions in the diaspora since October 7.

It is painfully clear: when Israel bleeds, we all bleed. When Israel mourns, we all mourn. To be part of Am Yisrael means that we are implicated in each other’s grief—and, God willing, in each other’s joy.

It is no small thing to be a self-determining people. And it is no small thing to sacrifice for that right. We remember today that Jewish freedom has a cost. That Jewish pride was rekindled after the Six Day War not only because of victory, but because the world saw us, and we saw ourselves, as strong again. Visible again. Dignified again.

And so we grieve, and we give thanks.
We say the number—30,646—and we let it burn on our lips.
We say their names.
We carry them in our hearts.
We promise never to look away.

Because this day—Yom HaZikaron—is not just a modern Israeli holiday. It is a global Jewish Yom Kadosh, a sacred day. It is one of the modern Yamim Nora’im—Days of Awe. Like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, it shakes us to our core. And just like those ancient holy days, it asks us to choose life. To build again. To hope again.

So tomorrow, when we enter Yom HaAtzmaut—Israeli Independence Day—we will do so with hearts still raw, but also full of pride. Full of faith. Full of memory.

May the number not rise. God forbid, if it does, we will remember each one. May their memories be for a blessing.

May we honor their lives by living ours with purpose. And may we merit to see the day when Jewish self-determination doesn’t come at such a cost—when peace is no longer a dream, but a shared, global reality.

Amen.

Am Yisrael Chai.