Coming off, “Why is this night different from all other nights,” we all had our clever quips on how this Passover was celebrated in what, we hope, will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
With the muted observance of Holocaust Remembrance Day and an upcoming, unplugged Remembrance Day for the Fallen of Israel’s Wars and Victims of Terrorism, and Independence Day, we’ll all bandy about how “this year is different from all other years.” We’ll offer the usual responses, with the hope that next year will indeed be different, back to “normal.”
I hate to break it to you, folks: My only question at this time of year is, “Why is this day different from all other days?” On all other days, my heart still yearns for my son’s smiling green eyes as I lay his favorite foods in front of him at the Shabbat table. On all other days, I remember the honor of washing and folding his still-warm army uniform and socks (with a little surprise tucked in here and there) and laying them on his bed.
On all other days, I remember watching him gel his hair, preparing for an all-nighter with his friends, as well as horsing around with his siblings on the living-room couch. On all other days, I hear him cheering on his Chicago Bulls basketball team or, better yet, coming home sweaty and exuberant as he and his friends once again beat Dad and his buddies in a pickup game (a no-brainer, at best).
For us, this day, Remembrance Day, is no different than any other day of the year. The memories, the heartbreak, the wound is always there. I suppose that today we’re allowed – even encouraged – to openly express our grief and our pain, while sharing it with so many who would do anything to take it away.
The entire country is absorbed with grief, as our son is among the many who belong to the nation at large. The never-ending support of our friends and our community, the army and the government – complete with our annual gift and letter from the prime minister – along with calls, posts and messages from near and far, remind us that we are not alone. Not today, not ever.
After that, we park the pain back inside and pretend that we go through our day just like everyone else. No – that’s not right; we don’t pretend. We’re still blessed with a full life, a wonderful family and friends, a beautiful home and community and a life that encompasses both the mundane and the meaningful.
Every so often that wound is cut open with sudden pain whenever we hear his favorite song, smell his favorite food or even enjoy a visit with his many still-dedicated friends, who are all family men by now.
So no, I won’t be going to his grave this Remembrance Day. I won’t be greeting the families of his fallen neighbors. I won’t jump with fright at hearing the 21-Gun Salute or softly moan as the Israeli flag is lowered to the haunting tune of the trumpet. I won’t see the back-slapping annual reunion of his fellow soldiers and friends, marveling at how they’ve become the accomplished young men and women who are shaping the country in which we live.
As our soldiers continue to put their lives on the line for us each and every day, we have the obligation to protect ourselves and our fellow citizens as well by being vigilant and staying safe. But this does not mean that we will not observe Remembrance Day. We will do so, but in our home.
Not everything that we do is according to our needs, whims or desires – just ask any combat soldier. I think Ari would be proud that we are following the orders of our government and Health Ministry, as directed by the commander in chief.
We don’t need to stand by Ari’s grave to show that we still love and miss him. He knows that we do. Every. Single. Day.
The writer is the mother of St.-Sgt. Ari Weiss, who fell in battle on September 30, 2002, in a firefight with Hamas terrorists in Nablus.