From Yom Ha’Zikaron to Yom Ha’Atzmaut
Audra Mintz and Tammi Lazarus, members of Harry Kay Leadership Institute’s Cohort 11, reflect on their experience in Israel.
In Israel, the transition from Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day) to Yom HaAtzmaut (Independence Day) is always profound—a 24-hour emotional journey from collective mourning to national celebration. But being here during this time and bearing witness, this passage feels heavier and more complex than ever.
After a year marked by deep pain, loss, and resilience following the October 7th attacks and the subsequent conflict, Yom HaZikaron has become not just a day to remember the fallen soldiers, but also the civilians, hostages, and families whose lives were forever altered. Across the country, sirens wailed, and time froze, uniting people in silence and memory. There is a rawness in the air—a quiet acknowledgment that the cost of freedom has been deeply personal for every Israeli. Since arriving in Israel, you can’t help but be thinking about the hostages. 59 men and women, alive and dead, who are still in Gaza. Their pictures are everywhere starting when you arrive in the airport, reminding you that until the 59 are home, there is no moving on. All the Israelis we have met with on this trip echo the confliction of celebrating Yom HaAtzmaut when so many of our brothers and sisters are not free and Israelis live by the ethos of no man left behind.
And yet, as the sun sets and Yom HaAtzmaut begins, the nation makes a conscious choice: to hold grief and gratitude side by side. To honor those, we’ve lost by celebrating what they’ve helped protect. Flags rise, music plays, and you dance in the streets, not in forgetfulness, but in defiance of despair. It is not an easy joy—it is a hard-earned one. It shows the resilience of the Jewish people.
This year, Israel’s independence is not just a historical milestone; it’s a testament to endurance, unity, and hope. The shift from mourning to celebration isn’t about moving on—it’s about carrying the memory forward, lighting the torch of national pride with the flame of remembrance.
Our group visited the Nova festival site on Yom HaZikaron. It was interesting to see the contrast between these sites and the experience we had a week ago of visiting concentration camps. Auschwitz, Birkenau and Treblinka in Poland. We recalled how driving to Auschwitz, we all felt sick and full of heavy anticipation. We kept picturing how it must have felt for our brothers and sisters all those years ago to be crammed into cattle cars, often from far off lands, and how scared after the already horrific years in the ghettos they must have felt. The drive for us to Nova was different. We identified with these kids who planned to attend. We have driven down roads just like these on the way to musical festivals in the states. These kids were joyous and happy, not possibly imaging what was about to happen. As we turned the corner on Highway 232, we were struck by how close Gaza is, you can see it in the background. You can hear the shelling, feel the ground shaking, holding you still for a moment realizing you are in a war. Many in our group sent texts to family and friends just telling them we loved them. In that moment, despite being in a warzone, we still felt safe.
Visiting the Nova music festival memorial was a deeply emotional experience, filled with stark contradictions that make it hard to process in a single moment. The site itself, once a place of joy, freedom, and celebration, now bears the weight of unimaginable violence and loss from the October 7th attack. Standing there, it’s almost impossible not to feel the visceral frustration—the kind that comes from knowing that such brutality unfolded during a moment meant for peace, connection, and dancing.
There, we had the opportunity to meet Youssef Zaidaen. He is not a soldier, a firefighter, or a trained emergency responder. He’s an ordinary man who drives a shuttle, and yet, on October 7th, in the face of unthinkable terror, he became something much more.
When violence erupted that day—violence that tore through communities and left so many dead and living in fear—Youssef did not hide. He received a call from his clients in the early morning that woke him up and all he heard on the other line was “Youssef, save us”. He did just that. He ran toward the danger. More than once. He risked his own life to pull others to safety, without hesitation, without knowing if he’d survive the next minute. His decisions weren’t fueled by calculation or strategy. They were fueled by heart.
Youseff told us, “You don’t think about yourself in those moments, you think about humanity”. He was raised by his parents in that way. That sentence has stayed with us. It speaks to the instinctive humanity that still exists in this world—beyond politics, beyond religion, beyond borders.
We live in a time when divisions often dominate the headlines, where identity is used to separate rather than connect. But Youssef Zaiden’s actions shattered that narrative. As an Arab Israeli, he could have chosen neutrality, or silence. Instead, he chose life—for anyone who needed saving, regardless of who they were.
Yet, in both places layered within that frustration is an equally strong undercurrent of hope. As you move through the site—passing photographs, notes, and symbols of remembrance—you encounter countless signs of courage. Stories of people who shielded others, who ran back into danger to help friends or strangers, who fought not with weapons but with humanity. Visiting the shelter where American Israeli, Hersch Goldberg Polin was taken hostage, we were taken aback by how small the shelter is, approximately, 4ftx10ft” with no door. We learned about Hersch’s best friend, Aner Shapria who stood guard at the opening continuously catching and throwing back grenade after grenade. Aner saved around 30 individuals piled in the shelter with his bravery before experiencing his own demise. That juxtaposition, the brutality of what happened and the bravery it revealed, you’re left carrying two truths at once. You see the pain of how vulnerable and broken the world can be, and the quiet, determined hope that people can still choose to be brave and resilient, when it matters most. And in that conflict— frustration beside hope, horror beside heroism—the meaning of remembrance deepens.
Amid the profound loss, pain, and outrage, the incredible Israeli spirit emerged with clarity and strength. Communities mobilized instantly to support survivors, soldiers, and one another. We saw this so brightly today after visiting the Shuva brothers’ makeshift place for peace, a place a mile from Gaza where soldiers can go to get a meal or supplies or whatever else they need. In the face of horror, Israelis stood united—volunteering, donating, defending, and comforting—driven by an unbreakable commitment to life, to resilience, and to each other. The tragedy revealed the deep well of courage and solidarity that defines the Israeli people, turning anguish into action and loss into resolve.
Our final stop in the Gaza envelope was at the car grave. Over twelve hundred cars that were abandoned on Highway 232 due to the terrorists blocking the road. Cars that have been blown up, including the ambulance that our speaker earlier in the week Mohammed Darawshe lost his nephew in. As we sat for a moment of reflection, like our experience at Auschwitz, the wind and dust picked up and a storm came in. Thunder and Lighting accompanied us as we left that site the same as the March of Living. G-d was weeping.
We drove back to Tel Aviv where our Yom HaAtzmaut celebration would begin. Our cohort enjoyed a delicious dinner followed by dancing the night away in honor of the Nova festival victims. Released hostages and those who survived the October 7th attacks often say “we will dance again”, and many of us did just that until three in the morning.
As our journey through Tel Aviv ends, it’s impossible to not feel the pulse of this vibrant city still echoing within. From the subtle serenity of its golden beaches to the war, expressive energy found in the graffiti lined streets of Florentine, Tel Aviv offers more than a destination – it offers a state of mind.
Relaxing by the Mediterranean today and watching the waves roll in against the backdrop of a striving urban skyline, reminds you how Israeli’s master the balance between resilience and joy. And walking through the Florentine alleys, where every painted wall tells a story of struggle, pride, of being a Jew, and unbreakable spirit, you witness art as a form of defiance and identity.
Together, the calm of the coastline and fierce expression of the street art paint a powerful portrait: Tel Aviv is a city that breathes strength. It’s a place where people live fiercely, even when surrounded by complexity.
Israel doesn’t just welcome you; it challenges you to feel more, think deeper and walk away inspired by the strength of the Israeli people.
In conclusion, our trip to Israel and Poland, we reflect on how it was far more than just a journey through beautiful and historical lands both deep with Jewish culture –it was a deeply meaningful experience and brought us closer to the culture, the people, and the spirit of the county and each other. When we first got the itinerary, some were worried about the heaviness of the trip. But after experiencing it, we all agree that part of being Jewish is to learn and remember what happened to our people. We came home with hope and pride to be Jewish. Whether it was singing Hatikvah with former October 7th hostages in the gas chambers in Auschwitz where so many of our brothers and sisters were killed, or watching the Jewish community rebuild Poland were it thrived for 800 years, or praying underground at the western wall alone as a group 2000 years after the Temple has been burned down, or finishing the trip on Rothchild Blvd where Israel was declared a state 77 years go. We are our ancestors’ wildest dreams.
As we remember Israel, we also now have a chance to remember this trip which had incredible shared memories, laughter, uncomfortable moments, and the ones that changed us. From walking ancient streets to watching sunsets in the dessert, we built connections to last a lifetime. We heard stories that made us who we were and who we are now, we, together as Cohort 11, the future leaders of America can continue and build those stories propelling us to use our Jewish identity and be next leaders of America. We will dance again.