Who Does Yom HaZikaron Belong To?

In a few short days, we will stand together. The chill of a dusk breeze will make the hairs on our arms stand on end, but we will already have goosebumps. Clad in blue and white, draped in sorrow, we will listen to the names of the fallen reverberate, marking the annual day to commemorate Israel’s fallen, Yom HaZikaron.

The raw human tragedy of the day demands authenticity. But in order to truly honor it, we grapple with its essence. To whom does Yom HaZikaron belong? What is its purpose?

Is it a day for the martyred, a time to be honored and remembered? Or is it a day for us, the living, to immerse ourselves in grief and memory? To confront loss and survivor’s guilt, wrestling with questions that have no answers?

Our Sages shed light on the importance of burial, not merely as a mark of reverence for the deceased, but as a transformative experience for the living. Even a kohen, ritually forbidden from contact with a corpse, is compelled to bury his immediate family. Commentators like Maimonides consider this not a gracious exception, but a divine command. The Talmud teaches that proper burial is more important than both the study of Torah and the Temple service itself. It is a confrontation with mortality we are not permitted to deny ourselves.

But what about those of us who did not sit shiva in the chill of October, who did not experience firsthand loss? What is Yom HaZikaron to those who do not fear a knock at their door, and who do not gather at tables with empty seats?

Are they secondary participants in a commemoration meant for others?

Leviticus teaches, “the life of all flesh is its blood” (Lev. 17:14). It is blood that represents a being, distilled. Whatever values man holds most dear to him, they run through his veins, bring life to his cheeks, and quicken his pulse. Man is defined by the force that propels him forward each morning, his lifeblood. In death this blood ceases to flow, marking the end of his unique essence that once empowered his impact on the world.

Consequently, Jewish law mandates that when a Jew is slain in the name of God —murdered because he is a Jew — he is buried not in shrouds but in his bloodied clothing. The very act of martyrdom has sanctified his spilled essence. This is an act of sacred transformation, the blood itself has become a vessel of sanctity. Whatever the blood of the slain has stained, be it clothing, weaponry, or the very ground itself, it is similarly consecrated. The immutable values that defined those who made the ultimate sacrifice become synonymous with the faith and nation for which they gave their lives.

The revelation of our active obligation on Yom HaZikaron is anchored in the very first narrative of bloodshed in the Torah, the murder of Abel at the hands of his brother Cain. God ponders aloud where Abel has gone and Cain poses the perennial question, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” God, disappointed, responds: “The voice of your brother’s bloods calls out to me from the ground” (Gen. 4:10). Rashi explains that the plural “bloods” encapsulates not only Abel’s very life but the entirety of his potential — any future progeny or accomplishments preemptively erased by violence — demonstrating the depths of irreplaceable loss when lives are unjustly cut short and futures forfeited.

Yom HaZikaron is no more an obligation than it is a privilege, an opportunity to demonstrate that these sacrifices do not lay dormant within us but pulsate through our collective as one man with one heart. 

But Yom HaZikaron is the day that those who remain alive declare that we are indeed the keepers of brothers slain and sisters martyred, and we carry forth the torch of their ideals and aspirations. With each act of self-sacrifice and unwavering commitment, this nation and this land are revitalized with renewed accountability. Yom HaZikaron is no more an obligation than it is a privilege, an opportunity to demonstrate that these sacrifices do not lie dormant within us but pulsate through our collective as one man with one heart. 

A kohen must bury his kin even though it will render him temporarily unable to perform his Temple service because the entire nation is compelled — irrespective of status or occupation. All must internalize our responsibility to our nation’s unfolding, and pledge an active commitment to the ideals once embodied by men and women who now remain only in spirit. The blood of those who lie in the ground does not discriminate as the living do, it stains us all blue and white.

Yom HaZikaron is a call to duty for all — for those who knew the lost while they lived and for those who know them only in death. It is not our proximity to suffering that defines our right to claim this day as our own, but our willingness to carry their sacrifices forward. All have a stake in their legacy. The fallen, the taken — they are enshrined in the actions we take, the lives we lead, and the future we forge together, entrusted with the sacred duty of guarding their legacy in death as they guarded us in life. 

As the siren wails on this year’s day of remembrance, echoes of Eden resound from soil enriched by sacrifice, urging forth seeds of renewed commitment and responsibility, compelled to be nurtured by those who walk above it.

Adina Feldman is a Straus Scholar and Sophomore at Yeshiva University.