It is around the sunset that my friend Joel introduces me to his daughter. We get into her car and head to the school of her children in the east of Tel Aviv to attend an event. When we arrive, hundreds of people - students of all grades and their teachers, parents, and other family members - are already seated or standing in front of a big stage. The clock strikes eight, and a sudden sound of siren immediately fills the air. Everyone gets up and stands still. The siren is so loud that it is almost deafening at one point. After one minute, it stops.
A day begins after sunset in the Hebrew calendar. The siren is announcing the beginning of Yom Hazikaron, a memorial day in Israel for fallen soldiers and victims of terror attacks. This is the second memorial day I see in Israel after the Holocaust memorial day.
For the next hour, there is a series of reading, singing, and dancing by students, teachers, and the parents of the deceased on the stage. Next to the stage stands a large screen, on which my eyes are naturally fixed most of the time because I can't understand what people on the stage are reading in Hebrew.
The screen is constantly showing photos, mostly of the school's alumni who died in previous wars or terror attacks. Although I have no personal relation to the deceased or what happened to them, looking at those photos affects me somehow. I feel gradually weak in my legs while seeing a series of pictures present themselves in front of me -- a baby in his father's arms, a child in a playground or at the school, and then him again in the military uniform with a big, bright smile. He must have had a lot of dreams and ideas. He went through a life of 18 years and was waiting for a life of the next chapter.
Suddenly I realize that a woman on the stage is reading out a number of short words. I ask Joel's daughter what it is about. "She is reading the names of the alumni who died in wars," she answers.
I look at the students. Some are sitting still while the younger ones - maybe 7, 8 years old - are constantly fidgeting in their chairs. I am not sure what age is old enough to hear all these stories. This event is such a vivid reminder of tragic parts of history and present. The weight of the wars and their consequences is so physically felt. Even for me, a foreigner who doesn't understand a word, it is already too heavy to observe everything without feeling deeply affected. How do they take this? How do they do this every year?
When we walk out of the school, I say to Joel's daughter, a mom of two children.
"There must be a reason for holding this kind of events, but I imagine you've got to have a strong heart to go through this every year."
"You know what. In the middle of the event, I felt like crying out and saying, wars are terrible on all sides, by all means. Haven't we got enough of it? It's absurd that all this is still going on."
"How often do you see a big war break out?"
"At least every ten years."
Later on, I'm told that a lot of people will go to cemeteries tomorrow and the streets will become empty and quiet, and then tomorrow evening, the Independence Day starts and there will be parties everywhere. An extreme switch of mood overnight it will be. I'm curious to see what will be happening on the streets which were filled with depressive air and sadness today.