When I was a little girl in Israel, every Yom Hazikaron (Israeli Remembrance Day) meant
standing in my school courtyard, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, with a white Yizkor sticker
bearing the iconic red flower on my chest. As poems were read and sad songs played, I thought
of the fallen soldiers and their “bereaved families” with quiet compassion—but always as “the
other.” Never in my wildest dreams—or nightmares—did I imagine I would one day become part
of that club.
But then, it happened.
On October 7th, everything changed. My brother, Adi, who lives in Israel with the rest of my
Family was called up as a reservist. From that moment on, our entire family lived in dread—
glued to our phones and WhatsApp thread, waiting for a single emoji or brief message from him
in Gaza. We called these “tweets,” and they gave us temporary relief… until silence returned,
heavy and haunting.
Meanwhile, here in America (where I moved years ago), life continued as usual. Neighbors
smiled, walked their dogs, went about their days. And yet, in places like New York—my former
home—hatred simmered in the streets. It felt as if Israel, and perhaps the Jewish world, had
fallen asleep on watch. We thought horrors like the Holocaust or the Yom Kippur War belonged
only in history books. But here we were, reliving them.
It was like living a double life: raw grief and dread on one side of the ocean, polite small talk on
the other.
And then it happened.
On December 6th, 2023, at 6:29 AM, our world shattered.
The hours that followed are etched into my soul like a surreal film I never auditioned for. Even
now, speaking of that day feels like describing something that happened to someone else. But it
happened. And now, all we can do is keep Adi’s memory alive—love his wife and daughters
fiercely, and honor his life with positive actions and good deeds.
Adi joins a long line of legends in our family—Holocaust survivors on one side, pogrom
survivors on the other. Great-Grandmother Yaspe Rubin, who opened a soup kitchen near
Warsaw, lost her life and most her family to Treblinka—except for my grandmother and her twin
sister. Great-Grandfather Pinchas Margalit, a delegate at the 1921 World Jewish Congress, who
purchased land plots in early 1900s Israel and donated them to Keren Kayemet LeIsrael (JNF),
helping lay the foundations of today’s modern cities. My beautiful grandmother Ada who chainsmoked and rode horses with Bialik in the Haganah. My grandparents Abraham and Leah
Shkarlat were entrepreneurs who opened a goldsmith shop in Tel Aviv by The Shalom Tower.
A family friend once shared a story with me: When my great-grandfather sold a lot to an eager
young man who wanted to build his home in Kiryat Ono, the man said, “I want to build a Jewish
home for my family, but I don’t have the money.” Pinchas told him, “Take the lot, build your
home and pay me one day, when you can.” I was astounded to see the deed to that house with my own eyes.
These are not just stories—they are a legacy of resilience, vision, and purpose.
Adi’s life—his sweetness, humor, mischief, deep love, fierce loyalty, and courage—was a legend
I had the privilege to witness in real time. From his diaper days to becoming a devoted father and everyone’s hero, his story is now part of our family’s Jewish legacy.
Earlier this month, I left the Dan Carmel Hotel in Haifa after attending the Voice of the People
conference. I walked away energized, surrounded by modern-day pioneers—our generation’s
halutzim, partisans, Goldas, Herzls, and Ben-Gurions. I met thinkers, builders, dreamers. And I
realized: we are the leaders we’ve been waiting for.
This is our moment. Our drop in the vast bowl of matzah ball soup that is Jewish history—each
of us adding flavor, nourishment, and depth.
I wish I could say we’ll never again wear that white Yizkor sticker or attend another soldier’s
funeral. But I’ve learned something: while we can’t predict the future, each of us has a role to
play. Each of us can contribute to this vibrant, complicated, beautiful Jewish tapestry.
I know Adi’s spirit is with us—and I believe he would be proud of what he saw at Voice of the
People.
Recently, I read The Atlantic article declaring the end of the “Golden Age of American Jewry.”
But after what I’ve seen—in Israel, in our people, in our collective response to heartbreak—I
say: watch out, world. We’re just getting started.
I’ve sat with the hard questions—about war, humanity, and how people come to commit
unthinkable acts. In one Zoom conversation, someone suggested to me that we, through our pain or our policies, might somehow shape the course of future enmity. As I always do, I took that in and reflected. What determines whether someone chooses destruction—or healing?
And then I think of my grandparents—refugees who lost their families in the Holocaust and
pogroms, who arrived from cultured, comfortable cities to the sand dunes that would become Tel
Aviv. They didn’t seek revenge. They became builders. Survivors. Dreamers. They chose life.
While I wasn’t alive then, I find inspiration and pride in their stories, in old photographs, and in
books that capture those early days. One that fills the gaps is A Small Town with Few People by
Nahum Gutman. Through his writing and illustrations, Gutman brought to life the rhythm and
spirit of early Tel Aviv—its struggles and its soul. Like my family, Gutman immigrated as a child
and grew up in Ahuzat Bayit, witnessing the birth of a city in the making. His stories—of
neighborly quarrels, streetlight ceremonies, and historic upheavals—mirror the modest but
monumental efforts of a generation that chose to build against all odds.
And now, it’s our turn.
To carry the torch passed down by our grandparents who planted seeds in sand. To rise in the
shadow of those who gave their lives not only in past wars, but just yesterday—for our safety,
our freedom, and our future.
Yom Hazikaron is not only a day of remembrance—it is a call to action. To live lives worthy
of their sacrifice. To ensure that the dreams they died for do not die with them.
We are their legacy. Their hope. Their unfinished story.
Publish date: May 13th
By: Keren Shani-Lifrak
