Standing under the canopy of an unfortunately new section of Har Herzl’s military cemetery, with its rows of identical tombstones stretching out in solemn order, I felt the weight of history and sacrifice settle into my soul. I had come here with my daughter, her small hand clasped in mine, following the words of Rabbi Moshe Taragin that echoed in my mind: just as important as going to the Kotel on a trip to Israel is visiting this cemetery, where the hero warriors who fought to defend our nation rest. The Kotel, with its ancient stones, connects us to our past, but Har Herzl binds us to the present—a stark reminder of the cost of our survival, paid by the soldiers who gave their lives in the war of October 7 to ensure Israel’s future.
As I stood there, I realized that this visit was not just a journey to honor the fallen; it was a deeply personal experience that reshaped my understanding of loss, love and unity, especially as I held my daughter close in a way these buried heroes never again can. I felt the power of being there with my daughter, her warmth against me a poignant contrast to the cold stone beneath our feet. Each grave marked a life cut short, a family left incomplete. I could hold my daughter in my arms, feel her heartbeat and whisper to her about the bravery of these soldiers, but the parents of those buried here could not. The thought struck me with a visceral ache—these young men and women, many not much older than my own child one day will be, gave everything so that I could stand here with her, safe and free. It was a privilege they would never know again, and it made me hold her a little tighter, grateful for the life we have because of their sacrifice.
One grave in particular stopped me in my tracks. A cluster of 24-year-old birthday balloons swayed gently in the breeze, their bright colors jarring against the somber gray of the tombstone. Next to them, a yahrtzeit candle flickered, its flame a quiet tribute to a life that could have been but isn’t. I stood there, imagining the celebrations that should have been—the laughter, the cake, the shared dreams of a future that would never come. Instead, this young soldier’s 24th year was marked by absence, by a family’s grief, by a nation’s gratitude. The balloons and candle were a heartbreaking reminder of the milestones these heroes would never reach, and I felt a lump rise in my throat as I explained to my daughter, in simple terms, why we light candles and what it means to remember.
As we walked further, I was struck by the way the graves, though uniform in their layout, were each a canvas of individuality. The tombstones may have been identical, but the mementos left by loved ones told stories of unique lives. One grave bore the colors of a favorite sports team, a scarf draped over the stone as if to cheer on a game that would never be watched. Another had bottles of wine and vodka, a small gesture of comfort in a place of eternal rest. There was an invitation to a loved one’s wedding, a bittersweet token of a joy the soldier would never witness, and books of Tehillim to say psalms in memory of and in admiration for the fallen. These personal touches spoke to the essence of each soldier—how they were all the same in their sacrifice, yet all different in their passions and dreams. In that sameness and difference, I felt a profound unity. We are a people bound by our shared purpose, but enriched by the unique stories we each bring. Har Herzl, in its quiet dignity, brought us together, reminding me that our strength lies in both our collective resolve and our individual spirits.
Leaving the cemetery, I carried a message that I will hold close for the rest of my life: when you visit Israel, nothing will speak to you more personally than visiting the graves of these recent fallen soldiers at Har Herzl. The Western Wall, the beaches of Tel Aviv, the Shuk—they each have their magic, but Har Herzl speaks to the heart of what it means to be part of this nation. It is a place of raw emotion, where the cost of our security is laid bare in the rows of stones and the stories they tell. I believe that when dignitaries come to Israel, they should be brought here immediately. Let them walk these paths, see the balloons and candles, the sports scarves and Tehillim. The raw emotions they will feel are so powerful that the souls of these fallen soldiers will become a guiding hand as critical decisions are made by them on Israel’s foremost enemy, Iran, and the stakes involved.
As I left Har Herzl with my daughter, her hand still in mine, I knew this visit had changed me. It was a reminder to live with gratitude, to honor the fallen by cherishing the life they fought for, and to teach my daughter the value of memory and unity. Har Herzl is more than a cemetery; it is a testament to the resilience of a nation and the enduring love of its people. For anyone who seeks to truly understand Israel, this sacred ground is where that understanding begins.
