On Tuesday night, we will gather to commemorate Yom HaZikaron—Israel’s Memorial Day. It is a day of national grief and sacred remembrance. And in a way that only Jews and Israel can sustain, this day of mourning flows—without pause, without buffer—directly into Yom HaAtzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day.
This is not a coincidence. It is a choice.
It is the way we carry our history—pain and pride, tragedy and triumph, intertwined. It is the way we say that the price of freedom will not be forgotten, even as we celebrate the fact that we are, indeed, free.
This year marks the 62nd Yom HaZikaron. For 62 years, we have stood together in silence, honoring the memory of soldiers who fell in defense of our homeland, and civilians murdered simply for being Jews living in our ancestral land. For 62 years, we have read names, lit candles, and visited graves. And for 62 years, we have continued to build.
This year, of course, is different.
This year, the pain is fresh. This year, the siren pierces more deeply. This year, Yom HaZikaron does not feel like history. It feels like right now.
The massacre of October 7th shattered any illusions we still held. The murder of families in their beds, the slaughter of children, the burning of homes, and the kidnapping of over 240 human beings—this was not just a tragedy. It was a reminder. A reminder that the Jewish people are still hunted. Still hated. Still in need of refuge, safety, sovereignty.
And still willing to fight for it.
We have learned, over our long and tormented history, that when our enemies tell us they want to kill Jews, we must believe them. We learned that lesson too late in Europe. We will not learn it too late again.
The almost unbearable price we are paying for our freedom—as Israelis, as Jews—is staggering. We bury our sons and daughters. We grieve for the kidnapped, the wounded, the traumatized. The dreams that have been extinguished, the families that will never be whole again.
But we know the alternative. And the alternative is far worse.
We know what happens when Jews have no army. We know what happens when Jews must beg for refuge. We know what happens when the world’s pity is all we have left to rely on. That is why—even with all the sorrow—we must say: we are fortunate to live in this generation. A generation that oversees its own destiny. A generation with a country, an army, and a home.
It is not perfect. But it is ours. And we will defend it.
Let us be clear: we do not glorify death. We do not romanticize war. We do not sanctify bloodshed. We are a people who believe that pikuach nefesh, the saving of life, overrides almost every commandment in our tradition.
We do not celebrate martyrdom. We celebrate life.
And so, on Yom HaZikaron, we do not gather to lionize the dead. We gather to remember lives well lived. We mourn individuals—not just numbers. We grieve for artists, engineers, parents, poets, teachers, and teenagers. For Jews, Druze, Bedouin, and Christian soldiers alike. For peace activists and combat fighters. For grandparents and toddlers. For people who deserved to live.
Perhaps, one day, Yom HaZikaron will be a day solely of memory—a solemn day when no new graves are dug, no new names are read, no fresh blood still stains our souls. But we are not there yet.
Until then, we honor the fallen by defending what they died for: a free and democratic State of Israel.
And this Tuesday night, we will also take a moment to learn and reflect. We have the distinct honor of welcoming Matti Friedman as our guest speaker—one of the most important Israeli journalists and authors of our generation. His work—including The Aleppo Codex, Pumpkinflowers, and Who By Fire—along with his essays in The Atlantic, The New York Times, and elsewhere, has helped shape how the world understands Israel, war, and the layered complexity of Jewish life.
Over the past few months, we’ve welcomed remarkable thinkers to Omaha—Amir Tibon, Noah Feldman, Shlomo Brody—and now Matti Friedman. These are voices that refuse to let this moment pass without truth-telling. And they help us, as Jews and Americans, to hold multiple truths in our hearts at once: grief and resilience, critique and love, despair and hope.
At some point, ignorance becomes a choice. The world may be comfortable looking away. We do not have that luxury.
So I urge you, in fact I plead with you —change your plans. Rearrange your evening. Bring a friend. Join us at 6:00 PM on Tuesday night (TONIGHT).
I promise you: it will be worth your time.
Because memory is not passive. It is an act of resistance.
When we remember, we refuse to let our pain be forgotten. When we tell their stories, we ensure they are not reduced to headlines or hashtags. And when we gather—year after year—we say to the world: our dead are not anonymous. Our losses are not abstract. Our grief is not theoretical.
And neither is our love.
We love this people. We love this land. And we love the freedom that comes with having a home, even when that freedom comes at the highest cost imaginable.
There is a line in Israel’s national anthem, Hatikvah, that often gets overlooked:
“To be a free people in our land / The land of Zion and Jerusalem.”
It is not a guarantee. It is a hope. A tikvah. And it is a hope that must be protected, generation after generation, by those willing to pay its price.
This Yom HaZikaron, may we honor the memory of the fallen with tears, with stories, with silence, and with song. And may we step into Yom HaAtzmaut with gratitude—not blind to the suffering, but grounded in the miracle of Jewish sovereignty
The dead do not need us to glorify them. They need us to live with purpose. To protect what they gave their lives for. To build a country worth their sacrifice.
Zichronam livracha. May their memories be a blessing.
And may their legacy be our courage.
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