Crossing the Yarden

By Yarden Frankl

The Siren's Call

Yom HaZikaron, 5766

How can a simple sound make me cry?

First was the siren on Yom HaShoah, the Holocaust Remembrance Day. No museum, no documentary, no book — has as much power as a two minute siren blast throughout the land of Israel. Like the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, the wail of the siren cuts right through to your heart and makes you cry.

Six million were murdered. They were old like my parents and young like my children. And they were also like me. While the demon in Germany proudly proclaimed what he would do to the Jews, the world sat on its hands. In that two minute siren, we hear the screams of our brothers and sisters from the grave.

Yet, the real power of the siren is based on the fact that I am hearing it here in the nation of Israel. The cliché "Never Again" has nothing to do with the determination of the world not to let genocide happen again. Since that time, there have been numerous examples of mass murder. Today, the President of Iran, a country much closer to my home than the United States arrogantly threatens that "Israel has no right to live." Where is the world with their "Never Again" proclamations?

No, the only truth behind "Never Again" is that today we have the Israeli Defense Forces. As I write this, IDF soldiers are at work in Jenin, Shechem, Hevron, and down the street in Bet Lehem. Others are flying jet aircraft putting the world on notice that Israel has a long reach to stop those who wish us harm. These young men are risking their lives, so that the rest of us can have our "Mongols" in relative safety.

Which brings me to the siren blast of Yom HaZicharon. This siren is not the scream of a defenseless victim. This siren is the tribute to those who have paid the ultimate price to protect us from the never-ending scum who believe it is their duty to kill Jews. It is a defiant stand against our enemies. Usually, anywhere in Israel you can hear the Minaret's wail. Today, every one of those who plot against us, every one who voted for a terror organization, every one who teaches their children that suicide bombing is heroic — today they all hear our answer to their threats.

I remember one day reading an amusing story of a mother who brought shwarma to her son's unit near Shechem. Dozens of people chipped in when she told them where she was going. At the height of the Intifada, it was a human interest story that made us all smile, admiring the intrepid Jewish mom who wanted to make sure her boy ate a good, hot meal.

The next week, he was gone. Cut down by an Arab bullet. A young man most of us had not known before the shwarma story is now unforgettable.

A few weeks before making Aliyah, I was invited to a talk given by Sheri Mandel, whose son was killed while he was trying to apprehend a group of terrorists. I did not want to go to the talk. The last thing one wants to hear before making Aliyah is a story of a boy who didn't make it. But I went. To ignore his heroism and tragic death would be to ignore a part of Israel that is as holy as the Wall itself.

Last year, one of our former neighbors who had made Aliyah called to tell an "only in Israel" story. She was pregnant at the time and nervous about giving birth just a few months after making Aliyah. She was in a pizza shop when one of the owners realizing that she was both an olah chadash and expecting decided that she needed some help. She sat her down and taught her all the Hebrew words she would need for the delivery. Even though customers waited, she told them to hang on, she was more concerned with this new pregnant olah than with making pizzas.

Even though I had never met this person, I felt stunned when we found out that the pizza lady's son had died in an IDF training accident. He was in an elite unite that was practicing parachuting. I have noticed that so many of the young men who live around here desire to serve in the elite units, the most dangerous and important jobs in Israel's defense. Yet it is because we have young people willing to do dangerous things like jump out of airplanes that our enemies fear us.

Can I really mourn for young people whom I have never met? Yes I can. All it takes is for me to hear my kids riding their bicycles or giggling in the park to realize how much I personally owe to those who have made the ultimate sacrifice.

Enemies of Israel, hear our siren call. When we say "Never Again" we mean it. It's our nation and we're not going anywhere.

With pride and tears from our blessed nation.

© 2006 Yarden Frankl