Today is Yom Hashoah, the (specific, calendar given) day when we remember the victims of the Holocaust. In Israel, this is a national day of remembrance that is like nothing I have ever seen. In America, we have Memorial day, in which we are supposed to remember the soldiers who have died in combat, but let’s be honest, how do we remember them? We have huge sales in all the stores, have barbecues, and in general revel in having a day off from our lives.

In Israel, we REMEMBER this tragedy in our history. Everyone goes to work, school, what have you. But at 10 am, a siren sounds throughout the country, and no matter where you are, in your office, classroom, on the road in your car…you stop, you stand, for two minutes you are silent in memory of those who perished in the Holocaust. There is a great picture on Haaretz.com of the middle of the Tel-Aviv highway with all the cars stopped in the middle of the road and the people standing outside of their cars.

So how did I commemorate? I was lucky enough to be invited to the ceremony (Tekes) at the elderly home where I serve lunch. Yesterday, I was told to arrive at 9.30 and wear a white shirt. When I get there, there is cleaning up to be done from breakfast, so I help with that. In general, it seems like a normal day, except that I am at the center earlier than normal. Around 9.50, Ofra, the director of the center who is the only one there who speaks English (and speaks it well) comes in and tells me to start setting up a table in the center of the room and grab a big plate that we put candles on for the folks to light during their ceremony. While we are both setting up, I ask her if their are survivors in the center and she looks up and looks me straight in the eye and says “Of course…” and then we continue working. At this point it gets very rushed as everyone is looking at the clock for when the siren will sound. Just as we think we are ok and we have a few minutes left, the siren beings. It doesn’t just start at full blast, but it begins slowly, softly, and then sort of revs up to full blast. I walked over to the doorway of the eating room that lead out onto a porch and overlooked a street outside so I could get the full experience, and this is what happened during the siren blaring:

There were police cars in the street, and policemen and women standing guard, silently, outside their doors. The cars that were driving stopped, or pulled into a parking lot across the way, and EVERYONE opened their doors, got out of their cars, and stood in silence. The traffic lights continued to change as if for no one. Inside, I was with the people of that generation. All who had the ability to stand, did, even if it was difficult for them. There were some who were sobbing. There was one woman who began to bawl the second the siren started. As the ceremony continued, she continued crying the whole way through. She would sit when she needed to and stand when she felt the ability return to her. She was sitting at a table alone, unlike many of the others, so at one point I went over to her and put my arm around her, because I didn’t know what else to do. She immediately started telling me her story, and I have never in my life been in so much pain not to understand someone. My biggest problem in Hebrew right now is simple being able to make out the words when I hear them, and understanding when people talk to me. Besides that she was crying, and I could not understand a single word she was saying. She was obviously a survivor and telling me what happened to her. I wanted to know SO badly, and I wanted to be able to listen to her and I know she wanted me to hear her story, but I couldn’t, and I kept almost ORDERING myself to understand, but apparently that’s not how it works. in the end, I just listened, I hugged her, and tried my best to make her feel not alone. The one thing I did understand her say was “I want to forget. I want to forget what happened but I can’t. I see it always in my eyes. I hear the screams. It is always there with me and will never go away”.

The second the siren ended, one man immediately began saying the mourners Kaddish. When he finished, I faintly heard the sound of the children singing in their ceremony from the school next door. It was a perfect moment I wish I could make up but actually happened-the remembrance of the dead and immediately the voices of the future drifting in.

After that, the ceremony began. Other survivors from the group told their stories, or read stories or poems written by people during the Holocaust. Everyone lit little tea light candles, and a few lit Yarzeit (remembrance) candles (they burn for 24 hours). Some of the survivors in the group had brought BAGS of what looked like 25 or so candles. I don’t know if this was just their stock or if they were lighting all of them today, but it was a sight to see. The mourner’s Kaddish was said again. Throughout the entire ceremony, the survivors remained standing as much as they could. They would sit, and then stand up again when they were able. It was very moving, and again, I didn’t understand most of it, some, but not nearly as much as I wanted, but to be there, see their faces, and see the Jewish people continuing to live after such a tragedy was amazing. In Israel, we are not assimilating, we are not forgetting who we are. We are one nation, living together, supporting each other, and you see it, FEEL it everyday. And that is why these people are here.

After the Tekes (ceremony) we served coffee/tee/biscuits, cause it was eating time again (it IS a Jewish place, after all) and then at some point, the kids from the school next door came over and did their ceremony for the old folks. They did little interpretive dances, and read some statements. It was very reminiscent of all the times I did things like that when I was in grade school. At this age, they can’t understand how much what they were doing means, that it’s just another performance that they do on a holiday. But I could see in the faces of the people in the center that it meant the world. And I looked at the faces of the children and saw that this is what the Nazis feared. The Jewish people, generations later, living, breathing, singing dancing. It’s corny, but they are the future, and it was wonderful on this day to see that.

At the end of their ceremony, they sang hatikvah. It was the kids and the elderly singing together. You could hear their young, innocent voices, mixing with that of the voices of those with a past, who have seen the world and the crimes and everything in between. And they sang, one song together, speaking of the hope and the nation belonging to us all. And in those moments, we will not forget.

Posted by Kate