Yes. A day for remembrance. To remember. This is not a mistake – a day for remembrance. I will never forget Oct. 7, 2023. I won't ask, "When was it, remind me?" On that day, my life, my family's life, and all of our lives took a sharp, painful, and searing turn.
A day for remembrance is also Dec. 15, 2023, that same day when they informed me, my family, and all of you about the killing of our son, Yotam Haim, who was accidentally shot by our forces when he escaped from Hamas captivity and was mistakenly identified as a terrorist. Even if I want to, I won't be able to not remember those days. I won't be able to erase them from my very existence, my being. They are etched into my flesh from now until forever.
Memory is something that makes me laugh on certain days; those days when I see Yotam in my mind, with all his silly antics, laughing and imitating me speaking English with the most Israeli accent there is. Imitating politicians. He and I watching a stupid TV show, cracking up with laughter.
Memory is also something that makes me cry, a lot. When I hear songs we listened to together, songs that will always be etched as songs of mine and his: "Everyone, sometimes, whistles in the darkness / It's nice, it's innocent, to whistle in the darkness / Even I to myself, even another in my place / Everyone's a little scared alone in the darkness / Everyone's a little lonely in the darkness / Nothing really, just a touch of unrest" ( by Israeli singers Arik Einstein and Yenkeleh Rotblit).
Memory is the little dash between Yotam's birth date, Jan. 2, 1995, and the date of his departure to the world beyond. That dash is the time we spent together, growing up together. So many life events. Some good, some difficult, and sad.
A day for remembrance – to remember the reason we live here. I have a private memory, a memory of me with my son – laughing, crying, working, hugging his mother tightly. This memory is embedded in me. Memories of voices and conversations, Yotam calling me "Mamo", coming home with another new tattoo while holding Bepanthen cream and asking shyly: "Mom, put some on for me." Memories of physical touch that no one can take from me.
And in the same breath, I also have a national memory. The memory of all the beloved people who lost their lives at a young age, while defending our homeland. A memory that we have a homeland, a memory that once we didn't. A memory that once there was no army to protect us, a memory that now there is. A memory to give thanks every day for the right to live here, and also to die here, because we have no other place.
Memory is my ability to connect to the history of my people and to know that this time, in these times, I, my son Yotam, Tuval, Noya, and Raviv, the extended family, people in the Israeli nation – we are all inscribed in the pages of history. Our history is written in blood – in each generation they rise against us and in each generation we persevere and exist.
Memory revives what has ended. Sometimes it is unbearable, sometimes we don't want to remember. Memory has an important role – without it, everything would be immediately erased, just like for dementia patients. We have a collective memory and a private memory, memory books, photo albums, and special days for the Jewish people that are meant to remind us of human frailty, our tenuous existence, and the fact that reality usually does not necessarily depend on our actions.
On this Memorial Day, the first in which I am called a "bereaved mother", I join all those mothers who remember their sons and daughters without the need for a special day. I join the 827 families affected by terrorism from that day we will all remember forever.
