Shalom all,

The siren pierces the air and for two minutes, everything stops. It is not the warning of incoming missiles that we had gotten used to hearing. It is a call to remember.

Cars freeze in the middle of highways. Conversations fall silent. Heads bow. And in that stillness, a nation holds its breath – not because it has forgotten how to live, but because it refuses to forget those who no longer can.

Last night began Memorial Day in Israel for the fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism. But it is not just a date. It is not just the ceremony that took place this evening. It is a wound that never fully closes. It is a whisper that becomes a cry: Remember me.

We see their faces. Not as a number. Not as a statistic etched into a report. But as someone who laughed, who loved, who had plans – plans that were never meant to end this way.

They were someone’s son. Or someone’s daughter. Maybe they were a brother who teased too much, a sister who cared too deeply. They were a woman’s husband or a husband’s wife. They were the parents, who sparked the joy of their children in a loving embrace or word of encouragement. Maybe they had a favorite song, a place they loved to go, a dream they hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

And now – there is an empty chair. An unfinished sentence. A phone that will never ring again. Silent voices, like honor that needs no sound, that are not silent to the heart. They speak in the quiet places within us – calling us to remember, to try to live in the light of what was given for us.

Since the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, more than 25,000 soldiers have fallen in defense of this land. Alongside them, over 5,000 civilians – men, women, and children – have been murdered in acts of terror. Since the last Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day), an addition 170 Israeli soldiers have been killed during their military service.

More than 30,000 lives. Thirty thousand worlds. Thirty thousand stories that ended too soon.

But even that number feels wrong. Too clean. Too distant. Because no number can capture the weight of a mother collapsing at the door when the soldiers arrive to tell of her child who was killed while defending this country. No statistic can hold the silence of a child who will grow up without a father. No tally can measure the echo left behind in a home that will never be whole again.

“Do not mourn – only sing a song for me when I die”, the poem says (Remember Me; by Miriam Yalan-Shteklis, 1949). The poem, written in Hebrew, was read at the end of the Remembrance Day ceremony that took place last night on Mt. Herzl in Jerusalem. Its content is riveting. Its message direct – the voice of those who are no longer with us is not loud, but it is heard in the heart, in memory, and in the life that goes on.

But, the question lingers: How can we not mourn? How can we not break when we think of the moment they went out – into battle, into danger, into a reality they did not choose, but accepted because someone had to? They stood where we could not. They went so we could stay. They gave everything so that life here – fragile, beautiful, stubborn life – could continue.

There is something unbearably personal about this day. Because in Israel, no one is truly distant from loss. The fallen are not strangers. They are classmates, neighbors, cousins, friends of friends. Their names are spoken in familiar voices. Their faces are recognized in photographs that line schools, streets, and hearts. 

It means that when we say “they fell,” what we really mean is: We lost them.

And yet, somehow, life goes on. Children are born. Trees are planted. Songs are sung. Not because the pain has faded – but because their sacrifice demands that it doesn’t end with them. The poem notes that many who love will not return from battle and that even in death, their voices will be clear and their hearts will shine. The words are almost unbearable . . . because they are true.

Every ordinary moment – every cup of coffee, every laugh, every quiet evening – is built on something extraordinary and terrible: the willingness of someone else to give his life so that others may live. 

And so today, we do not look away. We do not soften the reality. We let it hit us fully – the cost, the grief, the unbearable weight of what has been given. Because if we forget, even for a moment, we lose something sacred.

As for those, who are no longer here: We remember their youth. We remember their courage. We remember their love. We remember that their hearts still shine. And we carry them with us – in every step, in every breath, in every fragile hope for a future that they helped secure, but did not get to see.

The siren ends. Life resumes. But something lingers in the air – a quiet, sacred obligation.

To live in a way that honors those who gave the ultimate sacrifice. To build what they gave their lives to protect. To stand, even when it is difficult, even when the world does not understand, even when hatred rises again.

Because this nation exists – not by accident, not by ease – but by sacrifice. Their sacrifice.

So today, and every day, we answer their cry:

We remember you. We will not forget. We cannot forget. God, help us never to forget!

“Behold, I am bringing them from the north country, and I will gather them from the remote parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame, the woman with child and she who is in labor with child, together; A great company, they will return here.” (Jeremiah 31:8)

“Also I will restore the captivity of My people Israel, and they will rebuild the ruined cities and live in them; They will also plant vineyards and drink their wine and make gardens and eat their fruit. I will also plant them on their land, and they will not again be rooted out from their land which I have given them,” says the Lord your God.” (Amos 9:14-15)

“Weeping may last for the night but a shout of joy comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

Bless, be blessed and be a blessing!

Marvin