A Blurry Day

Yom Ha'atzmaut Reflections

Today is Yom Ha'atzmaut, a day that is supposed to symbolize unity, independence, and national pride. But for many of us, it has always been a source of deep communal confusion. It feels as if, on this day, we are experiencing a different set of traditions and perspectives than many of those around us—those with whom we pray, socialize, and work.

To provide some context, many of us grew up in typical American frum homes, American Yeshiva families with a touch of open-mindedness. We were raised in an environment where Yom Ha'atzmaut and Yom HaZikaron, the preceding memorial day, were non-entities. They simply did not exist in our consciousness.

Personally, my family made aliyah to Israel two decades ago. This transition changed little for me, aside from spending the Chagim in Israel, keeping one day, while still studying in the US. When I eventually came to learn in Israel, I was enveloped in the American bubble of the Mir Yeshiva. Here, my awareness of days like Yom HaShoah grew; we were taught to pause for the siren and reflect. Yom HaZikaron was less clear, and Yom Ha'atzmaut was perceived as a secular celebration, irrelevant to our religious lives. In fact, the sirens of these memorial days were often drowned out by the sounds of learning in the Beis Midrash.

A memory that stands out starkly is from Yom HaShoah: I was on a bus on Rechov Yaffo, and to my horror, Arabs on the bus cheered during the siren. This incident woke me up to the animosity that exists. From that moment, it became important for me to respect the siren.

Fast forward to today, I am married and raising a family in Ramat Beit Shemesh, an Anglo community of Olim. This area, while home to both Charedi and Dati Leumi populations, prides itself on mutual acceptance. It's beautiful. At this point in my life, I have settled into myself a bit more and I live in this funny reality. On one hand I consider myself more open-minded, educated, and mature than I was during my yeshiva prime. I no longer wear a black hat; I daven and learn with Jews from all walks of life.

Labels, however, remain problematic. Being called Charedi or Dati Leumi feels equally inaccurate. Many of us have fallen into this blurred state of community, where we are not clear what we stand for. Maybe "confused" is the most fitting term. In past years, some of us have self-consciously displayed an Israeli flag—an act of courage in neighborhoods where hanging a flag is more a statement than a sentiment.

With maturity and a stronger sense of self, we have come to understand and appreciate Yom HaZikaron, making an effort to honor the soldiers and victims of terror who fell for being Jews in Eretz Yisrael. Yet, I compartmentalize these feelings, only allowing them to surface during the siren before continuing with my day.

This year, after the tragic events of October 7th and the ensuing war, we feel a greater need to make this day meaningful. However, in our label-less, confused community, no cohesive effort exists. While other neighborhoods might be ablaze with flags, BBQs, and celebrations, ours remains a blend of different observances. Some people go about their lives as usual, others attend festive Maariv services, and a few homes and cars sport Israeli flags.

We deeply appreciate the opportunity to live in the Holy Land, the miracles of the modern state of Israel, and its potential role in paving the way for the ultimate Geulah. Yet, many of us do not say Hallel or wear festive clothing on Yom Ha'atzmaut. In fact, we look askance and are uncomfortable when we see people shaving or playing music during Sefiras HaOmer.

This is not to disparage those who observe differently. It’s to express our communal struggle with where we stand on this day. It's a legal day off from work; our children have a half day at their Charedi schools. We don’t have BBQs or any specific celebrations. It feels more like July 4th, minus the summer vacation vibe, amidst the routine of spring. Again, I don’t think I am alone in feeling this way. Many of us face this struggle.

Today, the blurred lines between different societal segments become starkly clear, though we prefer to keep them blurred. We’re unsure whether to align with neighbors on the left or right or to remain in our middle ground, perpetually leaning on both sides of the fence, confused yet appreciative.

We may find ourselves wondering: Are we alone in this discomfort? Do others share this lack of clarity? Even if they are on the other side, do they see our struggle? How does it make them feel?

Discussing this with my Rebbe, Rav Gerzi, he suggested that perhaps the best approach is just to be. It is best to accept what is, rather than wallow in confusion. The purpose of this day is to reflect and recognize that there are different approaches (to everything) and that is okay. In fact, it is more than okay because it shows us that the Geula is in process. When things are in process, they are transitioning and therefore not stable nor aligned. Right now, our nation is in a state of movement.

So here we are, standing by the fence, looking at all sides, appreciating what we have, yet struggling to celebrate it in a way that feels true to us. Maybe, just maybe, acknowledging this struggle is the first step towards finding our place in this beautifully complex land we call home.

Let’s take our disjointed observations and appreciate the diversity of how the day is marked. Through this we can gain a new perspective and see the broader view of the continuous Geula process.