'My second Memorial Day as a Bereaved Parent'

Wednesday, 30 April 2025 | Wednesday will mark my second Yom Hazikaron (Memorial Day) as a bereaved parent. And it is a very strange place to be. The war is ongoing, and there were new fallen soldiers in recent days, after three months during which we did not have to see or hear the words "permission to publish the death of an IDF soldier." This, as you might imagine, is very triggering. 

Last year, when my family attended the ceremony in our community of Karnei Shomron marking the eve of Memorial Day, we sat in the front row, joining the four families whose sons had been buried in the military cemetery section of our hometown for many years. Our son Amichai was the first soldier to fall in this war from our small town of about 10,000 residents to be buried in the local cemetery, but by no means the last. On that first Yom Hazikaron, we were joined by the families of two young men from our community who fell in Gaza just three weeks after him. 

Since then, the small military section of our local cemetery has had to be expanded and expanded again. First, the new graves were set closer together and every one of the soldiers was added to the start of the single row of military graves in the cemetery. But when the last man to be buried in our cemetery fell in October 2024, a father of 10, the powers that be started a second row, and horrifyingly dug more graves for the future, which are currently and blessedly covered. 

This year, we are among the "experienced" ones, and we will be joined by the families of five more local soldiers who have fallen in the Iron Swords war since last Yom Hazikaron and the family of a police officer killed in a terror attack on the road near our community. 

But I don't feel like the experienced one. It is still new and sad and awful. The pain is the same as last year, and greater because of the new families (so many of them!) and because we are still in the midst of the war.With Yom Hazikaron approaching, I don't really know where our place is. Our family is old news. Amichai fell just three months into this war. "I thought you'd be over it by now," someone told me. I wish I could, even though I know that I never want to forget my talented son with the wide smile and calm nature. I will never get over it. 

I spent this past weekend at a One Family program with hundreds of bereaved parents, most from the current war, but also many whose children were killed in previous wars and terror attacks. 

I'd like to think that I didn't look as hollow-eyed as some of the most recently bereaved parents, though there were points during the weekend where I felt as lost as ever, right back at square one. I think some of them hoped we could provide them with some words of wisdom, but I sure do not have the answers. 

I appreciated the even more experienced parents, who told us that we would grieve forever, but assured us that we would still experience great joy, though it would always be tempered by the loss of our son. 

We have already felt this. Just six months after our son was killed in Gaza on January 1, 2024, I danced at the wedding of my oldest daughter. I cried when the photographer took the photo of her and her siblings, because he was not there. And we all cried under the chuppah [Jewish wedding canopy] as we remembered Amichai and led our guests in the prayers for the welfare of the soldiers and the hostages.

 And last week we celebrated the birth of our first grandson. A boy who will never know his uncle, except through photos and the stories we tell him. 

But he will be forever linked to this uncle because he bears his name, Adi Amichai.

And even more incredibly, this little boy is also part of a chain that begins with my father, as the first name, Adi (jewel), is in honor of him, a jeweler, whose work is still prized by families who own them.