Yom HaShoa (Holocaust Remembrance Day)

In early May there are three…are they called Holidays? Somehow that seems like an odd word for the first two -- there are three special days recognized in Israel: Yom HaShoa, Yom HaZikaron, and Yom HaAtzmaut. Yom HaShoa comes on the 27^th day of the month of Nisan, which falls either at the end of April or beginning of May (it’s shifted if that day would be on or adjacent to Saturday). Yom HaShoa is the Holocaust Remembrance Day, and like other holidays here, it begins at sunset the day before. Flags are lowered to half-mast, and the television channels are filled with stories about the Holocaust, and across the country there are ceremonies remembering the 6,000,000 Jews and 5,000,000 others who were killed during the Holocaust.

This year, Yom HaShoa was on a Monday, therefore it started Sunday at sundown. At Shema that day we had a lesson with the kids about the Holocaust. They talked about some of the key orchestrators (Hitler, Eichmann, etc.), went over what happened, and then shared some stories about their grandparents who survived – how they escaped and what has happened since.

I was working on my research pretty regularly at one coffee shop those days, and hadn’t realized the holiday would start that evening. I’d been planning to head over there after Shema for a few hours, but when they mentioned that it would start at sunset, I asked if the café would be open. They told me that yes, it would probably be open until 8pm or so. Nope.

I got there at about 5pm, and hardly had a sat down and received my order, when the barista began cleaning up around myself and the other patrons. I asked when he would close and he estimated 6:30pm, but before 5:30pm, everyone had left and all but my table were cleaned and ready for closing, so I packed up as well. I stuck around as he finished cleaning and chatted with him and his friend that had come by for a little bit, and he told me a police officer had come by earlier to ensure enforcement of the law that everything must close before sunset that day. That was so surprising to me! Of course there are days in America when almost everything is closed, but there is no law against remaining open. I found it odd, but appreciated it, too, that people take it so seriously. No one seemed against the idea. I head home and my roommate and I watched some of the programs on TV for a while, and then went online for similar memorials in English.

The next day people went about their normal daily routines of school and work, but aware of what day it was. There were ceremonies held all over the country. The one at our school was sprinkled with beautiful music, and the main speaker was a man who escaped from Europe through a small window on one of the trains he'd been put on, on its way to a concentration camp. His story was filled with twists and turns, and absolutely incredible (as related to me over lunch after the ceremony, by my Israeli coworker – I’d caught a word here and there, but mostly watched the audience to gather information about his story while he told it), but then again most people’s survival stories are incredible (someone was talking about how almost every Jewish person here has a story about how their family survived, and then he stopped and said, “Well, I guess that makes sense. If we’re here today, it’s because somehow our grandparents and parents survived. If there’s not a story of escape, there are no children to tell about it.”) On the other hand, it seems not uncommon that those who experienced the worst of it cannot bring themselves to talk about it in any detail, and their stories die with them.

At 10am, they sound sirens all over the country for two minutes, and everyone stops what they’re doing and stands at attention in honor of those who died. I didn’t see it, but I was told by many people that drivers even stop on highways and get out of their cars to stand when the siren sounds. People had made it a point to warn me that this would happen on Monday, so I would not be alarmed, and I was very interested to see it. I made sure to get to campus well before the siren, and asked my coworker to go with me to a populated part of campus, rather than us being just in our lab with a few of us. (I wondered if the siren is the same sound as the ones that warn of an incoming missile. From what I’ve heard from my friends living in Beersheva, when you hear those sirens you have less than one minute to get to a shelter before the missile hits. In 1973, Egypt and Syria attacked on Yom Kippur, an incredibly important religious day in Israel, when absolutely no one is working – even the radios and television do not play, as no one is in the studios. I wondered if people who want to see Israel abolished might take advantage of the two-minute siren and moment of solemnity, to cover their attack. What a foreign thought that never would have occurred to me a year ago.)

We walked up to the main building, and it was strange to me that everything seemed like normal. The night before the streets had been empty and silent. Now everyone was back to chatting, eating, laughing, nothing out of the ordinary. I wondered if they were having any special conversations today more than other days, or if, growing up with this day, they experience it more like we in America may experience some of our less-observed holidays. My coworker and I took a seat at a central location, and while we talked, I kept one eye on the clock across the way. 9:58…9:59…10:00…nothing. “Hey, it says it’s –” And then we heard it, and stood. At first it seemed like everyone had stopped talking and stood. (I tried to surreptitiously satisfy my curiosity by looking around subtly.) Some lowered their heads. Some titled their eyes upward. All were silent. It was very eerie, and really turned your mind to all the stories you’d heard of victims, oppressors, and survivors. Two minutes is a long time.

And then I saw someone walking. And then another. Three girls walking and talking (not loudly, but not in hushed voices, either). And one other. I was shocked. And hurt. Even if you don’t like Jews…millions of other human beings were killed as well, and more lived on with horrendous injuries and memories. And you openly refuse to join in the tribute to them? I couldn’t help but feel like it was a statement of hate. And that their action somehow condoned what the Nazis did, and what they believe and teach. Not that their faces were set in angry expressions or anything. I was hoping they just didn’t understand what the siren was about. But the fluency of their language I heard as they passed by seemed to indicate they weren’t just visitors. It made me very sad.

It was surreal when the siren ended, that it seemed that conversations picked up just where they’d ended, but kind of metaphoricalish, too. Life goes on, for those who are still alive. We cannot be silent and still forever, but that doesn't mean we've forgotten.