By Tal Bahar, Jewish Agency Israeli Emissary
At the Jewish Community Federation of Richmond
Editor’s Note: Due to her schedule, Tal will not hold a discussion program in May.
In ninth grade, for the first time in my life, I attended a military funeral.
If I remember correctly, it was the very first funeral I had ever been to. It took place at the cemetery in Rehovot, my hometown. The older brother of a girl my age from my Scouts youth group had died during his army service. Not in war, but under terribly tragic circumstances.
It was a shock to us all.
You know, grief and loss surround every Israeli, even if not directly. The parents of my generation—and the generations before—lost friends or family members in Israel’s wars.
Like many, I grew up on stories: about the liberation of Jerusalem from my grandparents Avraham and Estee, about the immigration journey from the Soviet Union of my grandparents Ben-Zion and Lea, and my mother Marina, and of course about serving in the army—a part of family legacy, just like it is in almost every Israeli household.
To give you an idea: my grandfather Ben-Zion served in the Red Army, and when he made aliyah to Israel, he decided to serve in the IDF too. He spent months inside Lebanon during the First Lebanon War.
I remember that when I was five years old, my mom and dad told me there was a war in the north, and we all went down to the shelter in our building—Buffy the dog included—to try on the gas masks that the IDF had handed out to every civilian.
I think they were chemical warfare masks. Somehow, my parents managed to make it feel like a fun little adventure, so honestly, I was kind of excited about the idea of going back down there with all the neighbors and putting on the masks together.
But then, a few days later, I had the first dream I can remember from my childhood: I was in the living room alone with Buffy, knowing my parents were dead, and Nazi soldiers—dressed like Roman warriors—started climbing in through the giant window we had in that room, carrying swords, wearing helmets and armor, coming to take me and Buffy away with them.
I was only five years old when I dreamt I was being taken to the Holocaust during the Second Lebanon War.
Like me, all other Israelis my age grew up with fear and the memory of loss that comes with wars, terrorism, and acts of hatred.
We grew up on stories of the pogroms before and after the founding of the state, on tales from the First and Second Intifadas. Even through TV shows and movies, we learned about that time.
I remember when my mom told me about the “Dolphinarium,” how when she was little she would go there with her parents to see the dolphins. The same Dolphinarium, that later on, when she was already a woman, became a nightclub for teens.
One night, long after she’d stopped going, and I was just a six-month-old baby, terrorists blew it up. They murdered 21 innocent people, most of them teens, and injured 120 more.
I wasn’t born during the First Intifada. I was too young to remember the second. But I do remember the Knife Intifada. We knew about the exploding buses, the exploding restaurants, the explosions in general.
We were taught how to identify a suspicious object, and not to leave our bags unattended—so no one would mistakenly think they’d spotted a suspicious object.
And when we grew up and joined the army, we learned that the weapon we were given, the one we took home with us, was meant to be used only to protect.
So we learned how to notice suspicious behaviors—and not to take our eyes or hands off our weapon, whether we were inside or outside the base.
Even when I got used to the weight of responsibility and the physical weight of the it on my shoulder, I still used to write the word weapon on the back of my left hand with a thick black marker. The responsibility was so heavy, it even followed me into my dreams.
Other events also shaped my Israeli identity. Not only those that shook our national and personal security, but also those that tested our societal resilience.
The Altalena affair, the Reparations Agreement with Germany, the Eichmann trial. The social protests that swept the country in 2014 — I remember walking with my dad and my sister Yuval down Dizengoff Street to see all the people camping out in tents. The Black Panthers movement. Operation Moses.
The assassination of Rabin. My dad, Yoray, has a big framed picture — he looks young in it, and handsome (not that he’s any less so today, of course) and excited.
In the photo, he’s shaking hands with Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. For as long as I can remember, I knew Rabin was assassinated by a Jewish extremist.
Just like I knew that six million Jews were murdered in the Holocaust, that there was slavery in Egypt, who Bar Kokhba was, what the disengagement from Gush Katif meant and how it tore the country apart.
That if you want to go to the beach without running into many people, you avoid Trumpeldor Beach in Tel Aviv, and who Trumpeldor the man was.
That Ben Gurion was the first prime minister, what was “Hamahapach” in 1977, and that President Katsav did terrible things. Who Arik Einstein and Naomi Shemer were, to know all the songs from HaKves HaShisha Asar by heart.
That the best place to get rugelach is Marzipan in Jerusalem’s Machane Yehuda market — even though I don’t even like rugelach, or chocolate spread, or sweet things like that. Or tomatoes.
But shakshuka? Absolutely. These are the things that, as an Israeli, you just know. No one hides the truth from you or tries to sugarcoat the past. Every year there’s a ceremony, every year you learn it again. So that no one forgets, and no one gets confused.
So we remember that it’s part of our identity.
I’ve looked at that photo of my dad and Rabin so many times. I always thought the man standing there with him had such a good face.
My parents, Yoray and Marina, were at home the night Rabin was assassinated after the rally for peace. My mom was in the shower when my dad called out to her from the living room. They mourned, just like the rest of the nation, when it happened.
Long before I understood anything about politics or Oslo or diplomatic agreements, I knew: if my parents say he was a good man, then this good face probably wasn’t lying.
And in the end, it doesn’t even matter, because he was a prime minister who was assassinated, and that changed Israeli society forever.
In October 2022, Ido Baruch z”l fell while protecting civilians during a march in Judea and Samaria. A vile terrorist murdered him. I knew Ido from the Israeli Scouts as well—”Shalom Shalom” only—he was in the Gedera tribe. I remember his smile, his kindness, how warm and welcoming he was.
Until then, for me, it had always been a soldier who fell here, a soldier who was wounded there—but this was the first time it was someone I actually knew. It was a shock.
Many of us came to accompany him on his final journey at the military cemetery in Gedera. The shock stayed with me, though I’m ashamed to admit—for only a few days, maybe a little over a week. But in Israel, like in Israel, you get used to it. The routine creeps in and buries the shock.
And then a different name, of a different soldier—someone who also had a family and friends, and a beautiful smile and kind eyes—appears in the news, right under that familiar headline: “Cleared for Publication.”
Half a year later, in April of 2023, just a few months before October 7th, I came back home for Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day for Israel’s Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Hostile Acts) and Yom HaAtzmaut (Israel’s Independence Day).
In the evening, I went to the ceremony in my neighborhood and then for a night of singing songs for the fallen soldiers together with all the generation of my scouts tribe in Rehovot.
On the morning of Yom HaZikaron, I went to my high school with a few friends. It’s a tradition for alumni to come back in uniform. I was especially moved that year because my sister was a senior, and there was something so emotional about showing up in uniform, with my lieutenant ranks on my shoulders.
After that, I went to the military cemetery in Rehovot, where I had first been back in ninth grade. My best friend and her dad go every year, and I began joining them. It, too, became a tradition—for me and for many others—to come and pay our respects to the city’s fallen soldiers on Memorial Day.
In April 2023, I had no idea that I would stand in that very same cemetery again, not even a year later, to say goodbye to so many friends.
Who would have believed it?
I’ve written and spoken a lot about October 7th, about the friends I lost, about the incredible people we all lost.
Then now, I want to share shortly, not about that day, but about the before.
About the Israel of April 2023. Or really—the Israel that existed right up until October 6th, 2023.
That vibrant, divided, aching, strong, sorrowful, hopeful, fearful country—before it became even sadder, stronger, even more afraid, on that cursed day.
It’s important to know that on Yom HaZikaron, government ministers and Knesset members are assigned to cemeteries throughout the country.
At that Memorial Day ceremony in April 2023, at the military cemetery in Rehovot, as the minister stepped up to speak, voices suddenly rang out from “the audience” from the bereaved families, the ones we sometimes forget are the true honored guests at these ceremonies.
The country was on fire at the time.
The battle for judicial reform—or against the judicial revolution (depending on your political stance)—had become an existential fight over life itself in our Jewish democracy.
“You are not welcome here!” shouted the builders of this nation—led by an 80-year-old bereaved father, a general in reserves, wearing his uniform.
A young man dressed in black recited Kaddish. Others began singing “Hatikvah.”
On the other side stood bereaved families, just as honorable, begging with all their hearts for the protests to stop, to leave the politics for another day.
There were shouts, someone poured water on the general in reserves. There was pushing on both sides. And there were those sad ones, mourning not only their loved ones but also the fact that even in these sacred hours, we couldn’t leave the fight over our country’s identity behind.
When the minister stepped down and returned to his shaded seat, the sweaty crowd was once again split in two. Some applauded, some were furious at the clapping, others stood silently with tearful eyes, and I began to cry too. I was moved, but also, I was in pain.
I couldn’t decide — should the minister have come but not spoken? Finished his speech in silence? Walked away mid-sentence? Or perhaps he shouldn’t have come at all.
Should I shout out their cry, or clap, or remain silent alongside their silence?
Everyone was right, and everyone was wrong.
Everyone was fighting — because in each one of them, Israel burned in their bones.
We’re all brothers.
And suddenly, Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaAtzmaut weren’t separate anymore.
I didn’t need to wait for sunset and the Torch-Lighting Ceremony to feel the shift from sorrow to joy.
There was sorrow, and there was joy.
The sense of memory didn’t stand alone — it was woven into a sense of independence, a commitment to fight for our country and celebrate its 75th birthday.
Since then, October 7th has come, and those existential internal battles suddenly feel like dust in the wind compared to the earthquake we all experienced and are still experiencing.
One massive quake, and the aftershocks just keep coming.
Grief and joy. Disaster and resilience. Loss and renewal. Death and life.
It’s not just Memorial Day and Independence Day — they all hold hands.
And in Israel’s 77th year, even stronger.
“You can’t stop this melody,” wrote Oded Feldman in his song We Must Keep Playing. Not even in times like these.
That’s how it is in a people like ours — the melody follows the people.
The colors of memory and the future blend into that unique blue and white of the Israeli spirit and society.
And with all the pain, I hope that they always hold hands — just with a little more contentment, a few more good tidings, and maybe a few more hugs too.
Since I arrived here, 11 months ago, so many people have asked me if I want to stay in the U.S. after my Shlichut. It always makes me smile. Why would I want to?
Sure, life is easier here in many ways. It’s cheaper. You make more money. You can buy a house without mortgaging your soul. You live in the strongest country in the world — the land of endless opportunity!
Kids don’t grow up with the same stress we did, always alert. Everyone smiles at me on the street — sometimes so much it’s a little scary.
White Toyota pick-up trucks aren’t driven by terrorists. A siren just means an ambulance. A motorcycle revving its engine is just a motorcycle revving its engine.
And there’s a pretty high chance that unless your child chooses to, you won’t have to send them off one morning on a bus to the same army you and your parents served in — the same army that might one day knock on your door and tell you terrible news, G-d forbid.
And yet — there’s one thing no place on Earth will ever be for me: home.
Maybe not cheap, but money doesn’t buy happiness.
Family, community, purpose, and love do.
Maybe our children grow up learning about war and existential threats — but also with oceans of pride.
Maybe they must serve in the IDF — but they also choose to.
They learn values, friendship, shared destiny, and that there’s something bigger than themselves worth standing for.
Maybe opportunities are limited — and that’s why we’re so smart, so innovative, so creative. We must be.
And maybe we don’t smile at each other on the street. Maybe we yell on the bus, cut each other off in line, argue about politics.
But we all donate blood when the ambulance pulls up to the school or the mall.
We all cook for soldiers during war, pack food for the elderly during a pandemic.
We fast together, wear white shirts, hug in the streets on Yom Kippur and whisper apologies between the whir of bikes and children’s laughter.
So, when people ask me, I explain — the only reason I’m outside the State of Israel right now… is the State of Israel.
“There are more beautiful than her, but none as beautiful as she,” wrote Natan Alterman in I Swore, My Eyes, about something else entirely — but it perfectly captures how I feel about my homeland.
There is none as beautiful. And there never will be.
May we all live, and grow, for the glory of the State of Israel.
