I wasn’t supposed to break down at the Oct. 7 memorial at the Saban Theater.
They asked me to introduce the candle lighting ceremony. There was no speech for me to write. I was to call up those who would light the candles.
I expected it would be emotionally difficult, but I was determined to keep my composure. I didn’t want to draw attention away from the main event: the stories behind the candles, as told by those lighting them.
My plan broke down as soon as I began the introductions:
“More than 300 IDF soldiers were killed on October 7, and we have lost over 600 more in the war since then. These brave Israeli men and women of all ages lost their lives defending our people and our homeland, and we will never forget their courage and their strength.”
The mere fact that I was engrossed by each word threw me off. Standing in front of 2,000 people and having to utter words like “300 IDF soldiers were killed” and “brave Israeli men and women of all ages lost their lives” choked me up. It brought back too many images, too many news stories.
With my voice quivering, I trudged along: “Please welcome, to light the first candle, in honor of the Fallen Soldiers from October 7 and in the war that followed, former IDF Special Forces Combat Medic, Dean Golan Cohen.”
I figured that while Cohen spoke, I would regroup. But how could I regroup when he spoke words like this:
“We don’t measure a man like Hamami by the years he was given, but by what he leaves behind in the soldiers he shaped, the standards he set, and everyone whose lives he touched. He is gone, but the mark he made on us doesn’t fade.
“He was killed during the Nirim attack on October 7, 2023, and his body was kidnapped to Gaza by the Hamas terrorists. He was among the highest ranking IDF soldiers to be killed on October 7, and his funeral in Israel was attended by thousands.
“May we honor him by living up to the example he set. In this moment, we remember all the brave soldiers we lost on October 7 and in the war since then.”
That is pretty much how it went for all seven candles: I would struggle to keep my composure while reciting words designed to tear it apart.
What choice did I have?
The horrific uniqueness of Oct. 7 is what haunts us. No tragedy we’ve witnessed in our lifetime comes close to that lingering nightmare. Yes, we have lives to lead, and we can’t allow the memory of Oct. 7 to paralyze us.
When you’re at a memorial, though, you realize that the horror does paralyze you. There is nowhere to go. There is no moving on. There is nothing to do but see candles and hear stories that tear your heart out.
How could I have kept my composure when I had to say things like:
“Of the 251 people kidnapped from Israel into Gaza on October 7, 85 of them did not come home alive.”
“We now light a candle in memory of the hundreds of residents of the Kibbutzim, Moshavim, and towns near the Gaza border who were murdered, as well as for the children who were tragically, brutally murdered on October 7, or afterwards, in captivity.”
“The Hamas attack at Nova stole the lives of 364 young adults, the largest number killed at any single location on October 7.”
“We honor all those civilian heroes who put their lives on the line that day.”
“We honor the fallen first responders and police, who bravely gave their lives in service of our people and our country.”
“We honor the lives of those who were lost to antisemitic violence in the three years since October 7.”
About midway, I thought I had regained my composure and told the audience the stories were giving me strength.
But who was I fooling? As soon as I went back to reading about fallen heroes, I went back to my natural state on that day: impossible grief.
Memorials, especially a memorial for an unspeakable tragedy, are a reminder that we can never really “move on.”
We do move forward because we have no choice; because that is the Jewish way; because that is how we can best honor the memories of those we lost.
And yet, as I stood on that stage, I also realized that no matter how hard we try, Oct. 7 will always be with us. That darkest of days will follow us, hovering, ready at any moment to break our composure.
Maybe that is how it should be.
