This is an amazing time of year to be in Israel. We are in the midst of a series of post-Pesach holidays and commemorations that began last week with Yom ha Zikaron le Shoah ve le Gvura, Holocaust Martyrs and Heroes Remembrance Day. This week we observed Yom ha Zikaron, Remembrance Day for Soldiers Fallen in Wars and acts of terror, immediately followed by Yom ha Atzmaut, Israeli Independence Day, with Lag b'Omer coming up next Monday. This sequence creates a powerful emotional arc: two days filled with very solemn, sad observances culminating in an outburst of patriotic hoopla, picnicking, bonfires and raucous release. During this period the radio and TV stations broadcast official ceremonies and play appropriate and iconic music and films; the newspapers are filled with stories, reflections, and assessments of the current state of the State. Of course, we are experiencing only a small slice of the events in Tel Aviv (Jerusalem is another story) and have stuck primarily to the mainstream events to establish a baseline understanding of the dominant cultural norm. I was especially interested to see how these events would be presented in my aleph plus class (more on this in another post). There are also many alternative ceremonies and events that reflect different perspectives on the focus and meaning of these holidays (see www.combatantsforpeace.org).
Standing Still, Silence, Stories and Song
On erev (eve)Yom Ha Shoah (all Jewish holidays begin at sundown) we managed to tune into the webcast of the official ceremony at Yad Vashem which incorporated this year’s focus on children. A performance of a haunting song by a children’s choir, another elegiac song performed by a young woman with guitar accompaniment; the lighting of commemorative torches by survivors, including a pair of twin sisters who, as children, survived Mengele’s experiments in Auschwitz; poetry selections and recitation of a memorial prayer by a young soldier—all of these captured the somber spirit of the moment but did not feel altogether different from what we experience at our ceremonies at home. The political element, however, was different. The audience consisted of important political figures and other dignitaries and in his remarks Netanyahu bypassed the focus on children and spoke mainly about the need to counter the nuclear threats and distortion of the truth about the Holocaust emanating from Iran.
The sounding of the memorial siren next morning raised the experience of Yom Ha Shoah to an entirely different level. Wanting to witness the full effect of this phenomenon, I hurried out to busy Namir Rd., the major boulevard closest to our neighborhood, arriving moments before the 10 a.m. blast. From my vantage point on the corner of a busy intersection I could see the traffic flowing steadily as it usually does at that hour but a police van was stationed on our cross street. Even though I knew when to expect the siren, I was not prepared for the loud impact and the instantaneous response: the sound went from the low hum of traffic to a deafening wail covering absolute stillness; the picture went from ordinary movement of cars and people to a freeze frame of cars, trucks, and buses and people standing stock still at attention with heads bowed in the street and on the sidewalks. Two minutes elapsed, an eternity of time to think about the horror, and then things returned to normal. One is entirely alone with one’s thoughts and yet entirely surrounded by others who are sharing this moment. I experienced the two additional siren blasts for Yom ha Zikaron (for the soldiers) in a less anonymous setting in my neighborhood: at 8 p.m. on Monday I stood among a dense crowd in the schoolyard of Jerushalami-Bavli school as the blast brought the assembled neighbors of all ages to attention and initiated the memorial tekes (ceremony); at 11 a.m. the following day Lew and I ended up in the same location as the schoolchildren assembled to repeat some of the songs, dances, and poetry from the previous night’s commemoration--each time very moving but this last occasion had its own special impact. At one moment we were watching a group of young kids animatedly chattering and bouncing around with no sense of anticipation; the next instant the deafening siren drew them to attention as if strings attached to the tops of their heads were being pulled from above. They stood absolutely still, some with hands clasped behind their backs, with heads bowed. After about a minute a gaggle of little boys of about seven or eight began to squirm a bit and to bump each other, causing me to smile inwardly in recognition of familiar boy behavior (yes, Gregory I remember you and your friends at that age) crossing national boundaries.In ulpan class, Edna, a 30-year veteran school teacher, gave us an hilarious demonstration of how to stand appropriately, “dom” (at attention). “Like this”: standing tall with hands at her sides, “and not like this”: slouching, hands on hips, scratching and wriggling. I guess the little boys missed that lesson at Bavli school.
Now that I have experienced the siren, I think that this form of observance is a very powerful cultural phenomenon that has no parallel in the U.S. Of course I don’t know what goes on all over the country, particularly in Arab neighborhoods and non-Jewish towns, but it is certainly hard to evade the impact of the siren in most places throughout Israel. Also, while individuals could be thinking of anything during those two minutes, outwardly at least their demeanor conveys respect and acknowledgement that individual deaths are significant and must be remembered both personally and societally. Understandably, there are Israelis (including Druze and Christian Arabs) who feel conflicted about these observances and the events they commemorate, but I think that a two-minute pause to breathe and reflect is sorely needed in a country with so many divisions .
I’ve included a few photos from the ceremony at Bavli school on erev Yom ha Zikaron (repeated the following day) which included a procession of flag-bearing scouts and residents carrying wreaths to commemorate lives lost from the neighborhood—children, parents, and teachers; songs, dance, and poetry reflecting this year’s focus on children performed by the students; and recitation of the El Ma’ale Rachamim prayer by Rav Frenkel, the rabbi who lives in our building (the link is to a gender neutral version). The entire ceremony was signed because, as our friend and neighbor Edna Barromi explained to me, deaf children attend the school. I ran into Edna after the ceremony and we began an interesting conversation that we picked up tonight (at son Udi's flute concert) and will likely continue tomorrow when we join her family for Shabbat dinner. She found the ceremony disturbing due to what she described as a synthetic, lock step, monolithic viewpoint, imposed by adults, that left little room for diverse perspectives or for the kids' genuine expressions of individuality or creativity. Because she feels that the school reflects the homogeneity of the neighborhood, and thus would not expose her children to diverse ideas or offer them an opportunity to relate to youth from different backgrounds, she and her husband have chosen to send them to schools that are more inclusive.
After the Bavli ceremony I joined Lew in Rabin Square for the main Tel Aviv commemorative event. Here large screens were erected on either side of the stage to project the ceremony—the presenters, the popular singers and the words to the well-known songs--but also to show a series of memorial films about the lives of individual soldiers who lost their lives in wars since the declaration of the State of Israel. Those assembled filled the square to capacity and overflowed into the streets. I found myself surrounded by young people, many in tears and embracing, raptly watching these film clips which included photos, home movies and stories shared by mothers, fathers, and spouses about the loved ones they had lost. Both ceremonies (at the school and in the square) proceeded in respectful silence without applause and closed with the singing of HaTikva, the Israeli national anthem. In stark contrast to the Tel Aviv 100 event and the next night's (Yom HaAtzmaut) party atmosphere, the young people were not smoking, texting and chatting with friends. As I looked around, I felt that these could be my kids and the knowledge that they or their friends could be among those commemorated was heartbreaking. A thoughtprovoking article in HaAretz provides another take on the underlying gender and militaristic biases built into the celebrations of Independence Day.
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