By Paula R. Stern
May 11, 2005
One of the hardest transitions a human being can make is moving from sadness to joy. It's relatively easy to move from joy to sadness. It only takes a special news bulletin or a knock at your door, a telephone call bearing sad news or a look at a calendar on a particular day. But to move from sadness to joy usually takes longer. The heart continues to hurt, the head continues to wonder if a different decision or course might have produced a different
outcome, and sad thoughts linger.
Yet each year, Israelis make this transition, moving from the tragedies we remember on Yom Hazikaron, our national day of remembrance for Israel's fallen soldiers and victims of terrorist attacks, to the joyous celebrations on Yom Ha'atzmaut, our independence day. In many ways, this year's transition is the hardest I've ever faced because I am not sure how to celebrate when Sharon's expulsion plan hovers over the heads of so many and is likely to bring further violence and terror to our borders, rather than the positive results one would assume any real peace plan would offer.
Yom Hazikaron begins with a siren. The siren wails for two minutes as cars and people come to a halt and stand at attention. The siren sounds again in the morning, another two minutes of reflection and honor we offer. I live on the edge of Maaleh Adumim, able to see the highway that climbs up to Jerusalem to the west, and stretches of desert to the north and east.
I like to stand alone on the balcony, facing towards Jerusalem when the siren wails. I think of the battles that were fought so that I could stand here in a free and independent Jewish country. I remember that we are need to be united against our enemies, even though we are more divided than ever.
Just a week ago, on Yom HaShoah, the National Holocaust Remembrance Day, I stood overlooking the Jerusalem hills and watched the Arab taxi drivers speed along past the numerous Israeli cars who were parked during the two minute siren. I wasn't surprised that they didn't stop, and yet it bothered me.
Why should they have stopped? I guess it their lack of respect for the victims of the Holocaust flows from their anger and hatred of the Jews today. I shouldn't have been surprised, I kept telling myself, and yet I was.or perhaps the better words was disappointed. I view the Holocaust as a universal tragedy, not only a Jewish one. Certainly most of the victims were Jews, but still, it is a crime recognized around the world, a period that defies reason and crosses religious and national borders.
Contrary to Yom HaShoah, I did not expect Arabs to stop during the siren that sounded on Yom Hazikaron. This is a day when we mourn those who died protecting the State of Israel from wars with our Arab neighbors, those who died in terrorist attacks perpetrated by Palestinians and those dedicated to destroying our country.
I stood in my place and watched as down in the valley, soldiers prepared the field for a celebration that would take place tomorrow, on our independence day. A few minutes to 11:00 a.m., the soldiers gathered in the field, standing at attention, with one soldier standing across from them.
They were hundreds of meters away, perhaps even a few kilometers (I've never been good at estimating distances and the little talent I had was destroyed in an attempt to switch my measuring instincts from miles to kilometers), so naturally, I could not hear what the commanding officer was saying.
I spent a moment imagining what he might have told the soldiers, but my thoughts were quickly interrupted by the start of the siren. A quick glance at the road confirmed that most cars had stopped, even the Egged bus climbing up to Jerusalem. I could imagine all the people standing at attention within the bus; I could see the truck driver who had stopped his truck in the middle of the highway and climbed down to the road to stand by the open door, and I watched as the Arab taxi drivers continued speeding along, unaware, apathetic, or intentionally defiant to the national moment of mourning.
As the siren wailed, I closed my eyes and thought of my sons who grow closer and closer to army age. Just the night before, when my oldest son who will turn 18 in just two weeks, was lighting the memorial candle, I said a prayer that God would never take him from me. I cannot even imagine the pain so many parents were feeling.
Two minutes is a long time when all you have to do is stand and think. I opened my eyes and turned to look at the street. I don't know his name. I never have. I'll ask it next time he comes down my street. He is an Arab worker, one of dozens hired by the city to sweep and keep the city clean. In the winter, I sometimes bring him a cup of mint tea with two spoons of sugar, and in the hot summer, I'll offer him a cold bottle of water. He stood there and didn't move. As the siren wailed, he stood there at attention and what all my thoughts had failed to do, that one image accomplished. My eyes filled with tears and I thought, with this man, we could live.
I don't believe in peace so much anymore. I'm not sure when my feelings changed. I always assumed that some day there would be peace between Palestinians and Israelis. But somewhere in the last four years, I came to the sad conclusion that it will never happen. I think it might have been after Reem Saleh Riyashi, the female suicide bomber sent by Hamas killed herself, murdering four Israelis in the process. Riyashi was the mother of two young children who announced "I have two children and love them very much. But my love to see God was stronger than my love for my children." Such incredible hatred, I remember thinking. Such anger.
I have no doubt that Riyashi and her terrorist handlers would proudly defy our day of mourning. Blinded by their hatred, they will do whatever they can, often crossing all lines of human decency to accomplish their goals. They have not stopped at targeting our innocents, our children, what would a siren mean to them?
So, this time I was prepared to see the Arabs defy the siren and I was determined to not let it bother me. Strengthened by the belief that they were not interested in peace or co-existence, I was prepared to focus on my thoughts, on the soldiers who stood so respectfully at attention, the bus passengers, the truck driver, and the other drivers on the road.
In the end, the image that remains in my mind, is of one Arab man who felt it proper to give respect to the dead, no matter what religion or nationality they held before they were killed. I don't know his name, but as I watched him stand at attention, I began to wonder if maybe all hope is not lost.
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