My Visit to Har Herzl

Originally posted in August 2024:

An interesting story happened to me last week, and I’m still trying to figure out what to make of it.

My new son was born on Wednesday morning at Shaarei Tzedek. After everything settled, I got a bug in my head that Har Herzl is across the street and that I should go there. I had never been there before, but I figured it was probably a good place to daven for bracha and extra zchusim.

I reached out to Marcy, whom I used to work with, since her son Yakir was recently killed in Gaza, and asked her where the kever was.

When I was outside the hospital, I realized it wasn’t right next door; rather, it was actually a bit of a hike.

So I flagged down a cab and asked him to take me to Har Herzl and then to Beit Shemesh. He gave me a crazy-cheap price, and I took it. He said he would wait for me for ten minutes.

We got to the parking lot at 10:55, and three chayalim approached us, looking to complete a minyan.

I agreed right away, and the taxi driver, a typical secular sabra guy, pulled out a kipa. Then the chayalim took us into the memorial hall.

I was definitely confused, as I was expecting to be taken to a kever, perhaps for a yahrzeit for someone to say Kaddish. However, all I heard was a woman reading a list of names in this eerie memorial hall.

It turns out that every morning, at exactly 11:00 a.m., a memorial service is held to honor those who fell on that specific date. Their individual stones, engraved with their names and the dates of their passing, are illuminated within the walls of the hall.

They asked me to say Kaddish, but I declined because I have living parents. They then asked the secular taxi driver, and he accepted. I was asked to say a chapter of Tehillim, which I did. The minyan was an eclectic mix of different segments of Israeli society, from Charedim to chayalim to taxi drivers to me.

After Kaddish, the driver turned to me and said that he hadn’t said Kaddish in years, and it must be min HaShamayim that we were there, so he would not charge me extra for the time.

They proceeded to say Kel Malei and sing “Hatikvah” (which, admittedly, I did not know the words to, nor did the guy next to me), and the ceremony was over.

Then the soldier who had initially asked me to join walked with me to Yakir’s kever. When we got there, he thanked me for coming and gave me a hug.

There were many fresh graves, and I noticed a crowd around them. It turned out that NCSY Kollel, one of the elite summer programs, was bringing the talmidim to reflect at each of the kevarim. In a very special way, their guide conveyed the uniqueness of each of the chayalim.

I took a picture for Marcy, hoping to give her some chizuk. However, I walked away feeling like somehow, for a reason I will probably never know, I needed to be there at exactly that time to say the exact chapter of Tehillim I had said just a few hours earlier while my wife was in labor.

I paid the driver the full price, telling him that he had done something really special. He was in shock and responded that we had done it together.

After a few days of reflection, I realize that he was right—we did do it together. It is only when we do such things together that we can accomplish such powerful things.

I still don’t know the rest of the story, but it is clear to me that, as a society, we must accept the contributions of those who sacrificed their lives so that we can live here.

We also must realize that it is not about kiruv, getting the secular Israeli to say Kaddish. Rather, it is about us going out of our comfort zone to recognize that which we may not have recognized before, to go to places and do things we may not have done before, to realize that “together” is an embrace that needs a contribution from both sides.

When we are together, we can accomplish amazing things.