A Year of Sirens, A Day of Silence

Reflections on Yom Ha’atzmaut in a year that has been anything but quiet.

There are three sirens that we expect this time of year.

They are the scheduled sirens for Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron, which are sounds that lead the national pauses. Each one ushers in a moment of silence where the entire country comes to a halt, united in reflection, remembrance, and often, tefillah. For three moments each year, regardless of our backgrounds or beliefs, we stand together as one people. In a country which is often marked by its differences, these sirens remind us that beneath the surface, we are still deeply connected.

When it comes to Yom Ha’atzmaut, we have a full day without a siren. There isn’t a distinct moment that forces us to pause nor is there any ritual that defines what we are meant to do. It arrives quietly, and for many of us, it remains in a quiet place.

This year, that silence feels especially noticeable. Over the last few months, we’ve experienced way more than three sirens. Albeit, with a slightly different sound, these sirens interrupted regular life, blaring in the middle of the night or in the middle of routine, and always without an invitation. They reminded us how much remains uncertain and how much still matters.

And, life continues.

As families, we adjusted, as communities, we showed resilience, and our children returned to school time and time again. Despite it all, or perhaps because of it, people moved forward.

Yom Ha’atzmaut is experienced differently by different people.

Some approach it with songs, flags, and generally a BBQ with family or friends.

Some see it as an ordinary day, like a good old Sunday without work.

Many hold a quiet gratitude that resists labels.

Regardless of the expression, the underlying feeling is often the same: appreciation, mixed with weight. It is a day of presence, shaped by history, as a reminder that we’re still here, still building, and still part of something unfinished.

This may seem confusing, however it’s what it means to be part of something still unfolding.

The absence of a siren on Yom Ha’atzmaut is an opportunity. It allows us to acknowledge our continued existence, and the diverse realities within this land.

In this space, we can feel pride alongside uncertainty, and gratitude even with ongoing challenges. We can celebrate perseverance as much as achievements, and engagement as much as results.

This Yom Ha’atzmaut, like every day we live here, holds more than one meaning. The sophistication is part of its beauty.

One day, both the scheduled and non-scheduled sirens won’t be necessary—not to remember tragedy, and not to warn of danger. In their place will be the sound we’ve been waiting for all along: the clear and complete call of the shofar. It will be a sound of return, in place of fear.

Until then, we must continue to show up, hold the space, and build towards that great day. Perhaps, part of building that future is being honest about the tensions and fine balance that we still hold today.

P.S.
Last year, I tried to put some of the tension of Yom Ha’atzmaut into words, of what it means to live here, to love this land deeply, and still not always know how to express that love in halachic or communal terms. The response was overwhelming. One comment, from a Rav I’m connected to, who asked to remain anonymous, stayed with me in particular. His words helped crystallize the very thing I was trying to articulate.

He suggested that maybe the struggle we feel isn’t a lack of identity, but the emergence of a new one, something that doesn’t fit into old labels, and maybe isn’t meant to.

There’s a little more clarity now than there was then. But it’s still blurry.

Sharing the original post again, along with his comment, because they still feel deeply true: