This Yom Hazikaron I’ll light a candle in memory of all the fallen soldiers
I light this candle for you
For every mother and father who had to bury their son or daughter. For parents who had to hold each other up at the funeral of their child, so they wouldn’t break into a million pieces.
I light this candle for you
For every son whose father will never be there to tuck him in at night, to teach him how to wrap his tefillin, or tell him how he will know if she’s the one. Who will not be there to show him how to be a loving father or caring husband.
I light this for you
For every daughter whose mother will not be there to help mend her broken heart, who won’t be there to walk her down to her white chuppah under a starry sky, or help her cradle her new baby and ease her into the mysterious world of motherhood
I light this candle for you
For all the brothers and sisters whose families were left with a gaping hole, who showed the world that losing a sibling is really like losing a best friend and a piece of your soul.
I light this candle for you
For all the grandparents, Sabbas and Savtas who chose to be strong despite being broken in order to support their grieving families. Who secretly returned to their beds each night privately mourning their broken hearts. Whose pillows could wring lakes of tears.
For the grandmother crouched at her grandson’s grave, with numbers branded on her arm, who whispers words of comfort to the people around her, yehiyeh biseder/it will be all right.
To the great grandfather who walked barefoot for weeks across scorching sands delivering his family a new life of freedom, now placing a smooth pale stone on the grave of his great-granddaughter.
I light this for you
For the scores of uncles and aunts and cousins and nieces and nephews who lost family who were like friends
Or perhaps friends who were like family.
I light this for you
For the brave young men and women in sweet olive green, light tan or crisp blue who had to learn too early in life what it means to bury a friend, whose tears and cries are enough to break an entire nation’s heart.
I light this for you
For Gilad, Naftali and Eyal, three beautiful souls who in turn became the one unified soul of our people.
I light this for you
For the young pregnant wife who just kissed her new soldier husband goodbye, only for the last time.
I light this for you
For all the families whose sons never came home. Whose bodies are being held as nothing more than cruel bargaining tools. Who are left to face each day without closure and peace.
I light this for you
For the innocent travelers just trying to get home, whose lives were cruelly ended.
And for the survivors of trauma and insurmountable loss, who took their nightmares and grief and used it as a platform to heal the world.
I light this for you
For the 23,544 soldiers who gave their their lives al kiddush Hashem
I light this for you
For all those who endured
Loss
And
Pain
And
Despair
And
Loneliness
And
Heartache greater than our comprehension.
I light this for you
For a broken nation who rose from the burning of ashes, who looked death in the eye and shouted Am Yisrael Chai, and whose sweat, tears and visions built a country bursting with color and life, overflowing with love and the song of hope on all our lips.
I will light this candle for you.
By Esti Rosen Snukal
Esti Rosen Snukal made aliyah 4 1/2 years ago from Teaneck to Chashmonayim together with her husband and four sons. She is the adopted mother to a lone soldier from Highland Park and future lone soldier from Teaneck. Esti documents many of her aliyah experiences on Facebook and can be reached at [email protected].
