How Should I Feel?

By four the mood began to change. I was making plans to go out for an early dinner so that I’d be hungry enough for second dinner later (to clarify, you do not need to be hungry to eat second dinner: it just helps so you don’t feel like a bum after second dinner). Just hours before I was walking around Har Herzl, the military cemetery in Jerusalem, surrounded by thousands or mourning Israelis; people who had lost fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, close friends, distant relatives, and there I was wandering around not sure how to feel. Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day) is not a day of sales and History Channel specials; it is done right here. The country stops and remembers the family members they have lost both in the army and as a result of terror attacks: literally. At eleven in the morning a siren is heard throughout the country. Anybody with any knowledge of Yom Hazikaron or Yom Hashoah (Holocaust remembrance day in Israel, taking place just a week before) can tell you that when the siren sounds, everyone stands still for the 2 minutes that it blasts. Nobody can explain the experience of witnessing it. So here I go.

Our bus was late. We were supposed to be inside Har Herzl by eleven, waiting for the siren, waiting for the ceremony to begin where Benjamin Netanyahu would speak to the nation. We were outside the front gate; I think it was better that way. We approached the busy intersection outside the cemetery. It seemed like all of Jerusalem was flocking to the one location; a sea of white shirts converging on the cemetery. It is tradition to wear white on Yom Hazikaron, Yom Hashoah, and Yom Kippur (the holiest day on the Jewish calendar). Just as we crossed the street, rushing to get into the cemetery and to the top of the mountain where the ceremony would take place, it began. A motorcycle drove up onto the sidewalk next to me and both riders got off, removed their helmets and stared straight ahead. The buses remained still as the drivers got out of their seats, passengers stood in the aisles of the buses, again staring straight ahead. Car doors began to open as people put down their cell phones and stopped caring how late they were to work. The busy intersection was silent; silent save the ringing of the siren that was blaring from the cemetery I was about to enter. Nobody was remembering how much they appreciated the country they had; everybody was remembering the life of the family member or friend that could have been their own or the lives of their family members. When everybody serves to protect the country it’s not a story on the History Channel that you connect to; it’s the fear that any grave you visit could have been one of your brother: is one of your brother.

Actually walking into the cemetery was otherworldly. Thousands of people crammed into every corner of the mountain, and they were all remembering a loved one. I have been in Israel for nearly nine months; I have developed a routine; I know the bus schedules; I am comfortable here. I have never felt more out of place anywhere in my life than I did that morning. How was I supposed to feel? The entire country was mourning and there I was wondering around the cemetery just looking: intruding on something personal.

But then we left, and a few hours later we were talking about dinner. After a lot of failed planning, my friends Brian and Jason joined me for sushi. During our meal, the waiter offered us the Yom Haatzmaut special (yes, it was blue); the sun was just beginning to set and everyone in Israel was anxious to begin Independence Day.