Author: Galya Globerman
Yom HaShoah, Israel’s Holocaust Memorial Day, is a day I observe while still working and going about life. That is, until the siren rings.
On Yom HaShoah, there are sirens that ring throughout the country. During those single minutes, nearly the entire country comes to a complete halt. Drivers stop their cars along the highways, cashiers stop the grocery conveyor belt while shoppers put their lists aside, and mothers walking their kids ask them to wait on the sidewalk. We (myself included as an Israeli Jew) all stand in absolute silence. For Israeli Jews, this is a national observance, but more so, it is a near-sacred ritual. However, in contrast, in Arab and Palestinian circles, the sirens may represent an endless range of emotions, depending on the person, their environment, and their worldviews.
On this year’s Holocaust Memorial Day, Tharaa Kirresh, Dr. Maisa Totry, and I had a scheduled site visit to a student’s project in Majd El Krum, an Arab town in northern Israel. On this visit, we were going to meet local council officials. On the night before the excursion, I made the connection that I would likely be in Majd El Krum when the siren rang. My thoughts were racing and anxiety set in.
“What am I going to do when the siren rings? Will it ring in the meeting with the council officials? Does this extremely uncomfortable situation warrant postponing our visit? Am I going to stand in silence and acknowledge Yom HaShoa or should I ignore the siren? How would my peers and hosts react? What would they think of me?” I knew I needed to settle this before the siren rang.
I thought about it. I believe that Yom HaShoah is a day that transcends current geopolitical conflicts. More importantly, I lost family in the Holocaust, I’m Jewish, and I’m certainly not ashamed of who I am. To be true to myself, I needed to stand. Furthermore, not standing would project the opposite: shame, indifference, and nonchalance about my history and identity. I had to stand.
As we drove, I asked Tharaa if she thought it would be okay for me to stand, and she said yes, it would be okay. I had no illusions nor expectations that my Muslim and Christian peers, let alone the hosts of our meeting, would stand - after all, the sirens are not commemorating their tragedy. When the siren rang, we were in a meeting with the Mayor and the head of the Education department. I tried to quickly and quietly find a corner where I could stand. I wanted to remember and honor the lives lost during the Holocaust, but I also wished that the siren would just end. The situation felt so uncomfortable. Our hosts left the room, and I choose to believe that it was out of discomfort and not necessarily an act of opposition or protest. A fellow student remained seated. However, Tharaa and Maisa, while hesitant at first, stood with me. Why did they do that?
It wasn’t until weeks later, when Dr. Emily Silverman asked me about that moment, that I began to comprehend what had happened. Dr. Maisa Totry is a Christian Palestinian who has lived in Haifa her whole life and is often surrounded by Jews. She has experienced this scenario from the other side. As she has done before with her Jewish friends, she did with me. Dr. Totry chose to stand out of respect and compassion. She holds hope that her peers will recognize Palestinian suffering as she recognizes Jewish tragedies. And Tharaa, who didn’t plan on standing, looked out the window at the local cemetery and felt moved by a sign that read, “Everyone on Earth is mortal.” This compelled her to stand. Where least expected, in an Arab town, and in the face of scrutiny from others, my peers and friends stood beside me.
That single silent minute was a beautiful expression of solidarity, bravery, and friendship.
Credit: Tharaa Kirresh
In hindsight, that moment meant more than most words can express. It reflected the deep respect we have for each other and the bonds we have cultivated. It reminded me that in the little time we have, we must boldly choose to better our world. We choose to be compassionate. We choose to be courageous.