By Sammy

This past week, Israel had two of its most important holidays: Yom HaZikaron and Yom Haatzmaaut. Yom Hazikaron, the Day of Remembrance, is a day full of sadness, stories, and broken hearts, as the entire country remembers its fallen soldiers who died to protect the country. Then, right when the sun sets on Wednesday evening, the entire country shifts in a flash to celebrate Yom Haatzmaut, Israel’s joyous Day of Independence. So how does an entire country transition so seemingly seamlessly from sadness to celebration? And why are these two contradictory holidays so close together?

Yom Hazikaron started with a trip to Jerusalem. Some of us on the program, including myself, left very early to spectate the bitter struggle between an organization called “Women of the Wall” and the religious men who pray at the Western Wall everyday. We watched as the members of the organization tried to bring in a Torah to pray with at the female section of the Western Wall, while religious men and women blocked their path. The whole situation was extremely messy, with both sides truly dedicated to their point of view. The Women of the Wall sincerely believe in the statement they are making for all Jewish women, illustrating their strong push for equal opportunity between men and women within the religion of Judaism. At the same time, the religious men and women believe that trying to change the time-honored customs of the ancient religion is foolish, and that God does not want these traditions changed. It was very interesting to be a bystander to this conflict, watching how both sides at the Wall thought the other was delusional.

Following the event at the Western Wall, we went to our old campus at Kiryat Moriah in Jerusalem (where we spent the first semester studying), to listen to speakers and watch films about Yom Hazikaron. To begin the day of remembrance, we stood in silence on the grass, waiting for the long wail of the siren. Throughout the whole of Israel, a siren flares up in remembrance for the fallen soldiers. All life stops, and every single Israeli stands for a minute or two, simply listening to the scream of the siren and honoring the day. Various Israelis came to the campus to speak about their lost siblings, children, friends, and fellow soldiers. I felt such a deep connection to the fallen soldiers, realizing that I have been living in a country that these brave troops died to preserve. My connection to the day was magnified, not only from living in Israel for the year, but also because of my age. If I was born in Israel, at eighteen years-old I would currently be in the Israeli army, enlisting along with all my friends. The story of one soldier, Benaya, was especially impactful. Benaya’s brother explained to us how Benaya served in a unit that discovered and cleared out the underground tunnels used by terrorists. After leaving a seemingly clear area, Benaya’s squad walked back to the rest of the unit. A terrorist, hidden beneath a secret entrance, popped out and fired round after round from a machine gun at the retreating soldiers. Miraculously, every single bullet struck Benaya and no one else, as the rest of the squadron quickly took out the terrorist. Benaya’s brother showed us a film of Benaya’s life. Clips were shown of Benaya as a kid, Benaya with his brothers, and most impactfully, Benaya returning home from duty one weekend to surprise his mother. I could easily picture my own family, and I could imagine the crippling, heartbreaking toll it would take on them. Later, a couple of my friends and I bused up North to Holon, where we ran a 5K along with hundreds of other Israelis in remembrance of Benaya. I witnessed each of his family members speak, viewing pain just as fresh as in the video we were shown earlier. Finally, at the end of the day, my friends and I made our way to the bridge overlooking the highway by our apartment. We waited there for the last siren, watching as speeding cars slowed down, pulled over, and stopped. Israelis got out of their cars, and we all stood together as one community.

While somber, I felt such a sense of communal support, knowing that throughout all of Israel, we were all hearing and thinking and remembering the same ideas.

Then, in a flash, Israel transformed. The sun went down, flags went up, music started blasting, and people began flooding the streets. Israel’s day of independence had arrived. I asked my Israeli friend where I should go Wednesday night in Tel Aviv to celebrate Independence Day. He replied: any street! We quickly mobilized, and went to one of the busiest streets in Tel Aviv.

Already, hundreds of people were dancing, laughing, singing, and spraying fake snow out of canisters for some strange reason. Large pick-up trucks pulled up, with giant speakers in the back. These “Nachman” (named after Rabbi Nachman, a venerated teacher of old) vehicles were driven by religious Jews, playing festive Israeli and Jewish songs. My friends and I danced all night with Israelis from all over, celebrating the holiday. The party continued throughout the whole next day, everyone full of joy for the existence of the Jewish state of Israel.

So how does a whole country shift moods in just a flash? How do we jump from a solemn day of remembrance to a joyous one of celebration? Perhaps the two days are not so different after all. The men and women that died serving Israel died with love and dedication for the country in their hearts. They sacrificed their lives to protect Israel, preserving its existence for now and for the future.

Yes, we can never forget the lives lost, never fully overcome the pain of the fallen young men and women, torn from their families and friends. However, we can celebrate what they died to protect and be grateful for the gift of protection and existence that they gave the people of Israel. In some ways, the days are one and the same. We would not have fallen soldiers if we did not receive independence, and no independence without soldiers risking their lives on the battlefield. Israel as a whole must be able to never forget the past and prices paid, but never stop being grateful for their sacrifice and hopeful for the future.

By Sammy

Hebron—a city split between the Palestinians and Israelis, where the air is thick with animosity. While the Hebron Massacre fractured the city more than ninety years ago, the cracks still remain. The 1929 massacre occurred when Palestinian neighbors, infuriated by Israel seizing some of Jerusalem, invaded Israeli homes in Hebron and murdered Jews. While some Jews were hidden by their Palestinian neighbors, almost seventy were killed. Today, 80% of the city is owned by the Palestinians with more than 150,000 residents. Our group travels to the remaining 20%, where despite being owned by Israel, 700 Jews reside among 30,000 Palestinians. While Israelis can be from various religions, all the Israeli residents in Hebron are Jewish and observant.

Walking around, we see far more IDF (Israel Defense Soldiers) than Jews.

The few Jewish people that reside in the area are outnumbered by the security that they need, and we stop to chat with a few of the soldiers. One soldier, almost as young as myself, tells us about his service in Hebron. He speaks about constant conflict, palpable hostility, and short bursts of violence amid long, uneventful hours.

If I was born in Israel, it could easily be me in that uniform, serving in one of the most heated areas of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. For some reason, I feel slightly ashamed. I stand across from the soldier, holding a water bottle and my airpods while he held seventy pounds of military equipment, risking his life for the Jewish Nation.

The difference in our two nations’ realities has never felt so glaringly obvious.

Next, we travel to the Cave of the Patriarchs, one of the most holy sites for Jews and Muslims as the founders of our religions (Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Leah). While immensely sacred, the site also symbolizes another major point of the conflict. Initially, only a mosque was built above the caves, exclusive to the Muslims. However, in 1994, a mentally-ill Israeli

open-fired on a crowd of Muslims praying there, killing almost thirty. After this horrible act was condemned and denounced by Israel, the government thought the next safest step was to add a synagogue at the site. Now the area is divided in two, with the mosque and synagogue split on either side of the graves of our ancestors. Iron bars and glass windows as thick as the tension itself partition the two sides.

Before entering the Cave of the Patriarch’s, I observe the extensive security process, noting how long it takes for two boys to pass through.

I walk towards the entrance with the group, but our guide, Josh, takes a surprising turn towards one of the shops near the entrance of the site. Josh brings out his friend Mohammed, a Palestinian resident in this Israeli-owned territory, to share his unique perspective. While light-hearted and personable, Mohammed speaks of a difficult life, under constant suspicion by Israeli soldiers in the area. I notice an unhealthy cycle, where frequent attacks increase the constant need for suspicion, in turn prompting more attacks.

He continues telling his story, and then answers questions from our group of Americans and Israelis. When asked why he does not simply apply for Israeli citizenship, he tells us of his pride to be a Palestinian, explaining how applying for an Israeli citizenship would feel like betraying his people. He continued speaking, telling us about stories of interrogation, his perspective on the conflict, and disapproval of the actions of Hamas, a terrorist group in Gaza.

While I disagreed with him on topics such as the need for a Jewish nation and how to properly carry out a two-state solution, I wondered again what I would be like if I grew up as a Palestinian in H2 (the Jewish area of Hebron). Under constant conflict with the Jewish settlers and tension with the police, I could have adopted similar views to Mohammed.

As we finished the conversation, I walked away feeling conflicted. On one

hand, hearing Mohammed’s unique perspective was extremely interesting, and it was wonderful to have a logical and respectful discussion. On the other hand, after comparing the opinions and upbringing of the Israeli students in our group to Mohammed, I felt that the conflict was too deeply rooted in both sides’ culture and history to ever be truly solved. However, while these opposing narratives may always exist, sharing perspectives will only aid in finding a solution.

Following our talk, we finally made our way into the Cave of Patriarchs. I walked through the synagogue, perhaps treading in the very footsteps of Abraham Aveinu himself. I peered through the bars into the tombs of each ancestor.

Since the synagogue was built above the caves, I realized the tombs were only symbolic. If this was indeed the burial location mentioned in the Torah, then our ancestors would be below in the caves. We walked down towards the caves only to be met by giant iron doors with countless locks. Here, Josh (our tour guide) explains the intriguing and infuriating story of why no one can enter the sacred caves. I would highly recommend finding the entire story online, but to summarize…

The Muslims believed that the caves should be banned, some not wanting to disturb the ancestors, and some believing that traversing into the burial site would release a demon. Though the Jews, still yearning to enter the caves, returned to Hebron, they were not allowed in. In 1968, the Jews snuck into the caves and began excavating, finding bones, artifacts, and other pieces of evidence that the patriarchs were buried there. After the excavation, the Jews left for the night, planning to return with better equipment. However, Muslims found dusty footprints the next day, sparking widespread riots and outrage, forcing Israel to permanently shut down the caves.

Listening to the story, I am astounded that the sacred caves before me are unexplored, possibly full of glaring evidence that can prove numerous historical events. I cannot believe that we have not fully excavated the area, dying to know the secrets that lay below.

While I have learned about the conflict in various cities, Hebron proves the most striking and informative. I feel more worldly, and my perspectives have expanded significantly, all from witnessing divergent lifestyles and contrasting views amid a splintered, holy city.