As Memorial Day nears, I can't stop thinking about my Saadia. My little baby boy. The baby who arrived in this world three weeks ahead of schedule, as if he already knew he needed to make the most of his time. I always talk about him as if he were an adult, and suddenly today, his absence feels unbearable.
Days like this feel just like in the song "To the Land of the Deer," where it says: "Her sorrow and her joy are the warp and weft of her daily cloth." In our private world, there is bottomless grief over what is no longer, and also endless joy and pride in what still is, in who Saadia was, in what he symbolized, and in what he left behind for his children.
In the national sphere, there is profound grief over everything not yet achieved, the defeat of evil, the release of our hostages, and the price we have paid in fighting evil. And at the same time, there is immense pride in what we have accomplished in 77 years of statehood, and in the extraordinary society we call the people of Israel.
Today, on Memorial Day, we are held together as a family. People come from all across the country, bringing a symbolic gift, a flower, or kind words. Knowing that these fallen heroes are held in the heart of this nation gives us strength. Because when you face a mountain of sorrow alone, that's all you can see. But when others stand with you, you grow stronger. On Memorial Day, we are all together.
Last week, I participated in the March of the Living at Auschwitz-Birkenau, standing before tallitot that the Nazis, may their names be erased, stole from the Jews. I couldn't stop thinking of the image of Saadia on the last day of his life, wrapped in a tallit and wearing tefillin, just moments before going into battle. About two months ago, when his son was born, his wife Racheli gave my husband Chaim her late husband's tallit to wear at the brit. That image, of the continuation of generations, shows how much sorrow lives in our people, and just as powerfully, how much pride. Pride in belonging to a nation that refuses to surrender to evil, that insists on hoping for a better future.
And I say "hoping" because hope is an active choice. It means doing something to make things better, not assuming it will happen on its own. That was Saadia. And that was the spirit of his comrades when they put on their uniforms. Miracles, fighting for the sake of good.
I wasn't born in this country; I chose it. And when I see people treating it like it's a given, I cry out. Because this country is anything but a given. It's the result of thousands of years of history coming together. And we must never take it for granted.
The author is the mother of Staff Sgt. (res.) Saadia Yaakov Derai, who fell on June 20, 2024.
