A photo gallery for Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaAtzmaut

Because today, 13 May 2024, is Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day), and tomorrow, 14 May 2024, will be Yom HaAtzmaut (Israel’s Independence Day), I decided to share some of my photos illustrating what these holidays mean, and the history behind them.

Above are some of the graves from Mount Herzl Cemetery in Jerusalem, honoring fallen soldiers. Just about everyone goes to at least one cemetery to pay respects on Yom HaZikaron, and there are databases of soldiers with no family (e.g., Holocaust survivors who died in the War of Independence after losing their entire families), so everyone will be remembered by someone.

The grave of Hannah Senesh (Chana Szenes), who was born in Budapest on 17 July 1921 and immigrated to Pre-State Israel in 1939. She enlisted in the British Women’s Auxiliary Air Force in 1943, and on 14 March 1944, the day the Nazis invaded Hungary, she and two other servicepeople parachuted into Yugoslavia.

Though her companions decided to bail on the mission as too dangerous, Chana continued on the journey to Hungary, where she hoped to make an effort to help with rescuing her mother and brother. The parachutists were captured by Hungarian gendarmes (who were in league with the Nazis) and discovered as members of the British armed forces.

Chana was taken to prison and severely tortured for days, but she refused to name names, even when her mother was arrested. The fascist Arrow Cross murdered her on 7 November 1944 after a show trial.

To this day, she’s lauded as a great shero of the Jewish people.

The above four photos show what little of the Jerusalem War Cemetery I was able to see from the outside on my Birthright trip in June 2005. We didn’t go in, but we were sitting a short distance away for a discussion. It’s obviously not a Jewish cemetery, but we have great respect for our sincere friends and allies.

Buried here are British Commonwealth servicemen who were killed during the Sinai and Palestine Campaign of the Middle East Theatre in WWI. Some Germans and Turks are also interred here, as well as a large memorial to 3,300 soldiers with no known graves.

And just to remind people, Syria-Palestina was a name coined by Hadrian in 135 as a humiliating punishment, to try to sever the indigenous Jewish connection to our land. It was revived as the Anglicized “Palestine” by British Christians in the late 19th century. Never was that ever the native Jewish name of our homeland, and Arabs didn’t begin calling themselves that till 1964!

Mount Herzl Cemetery is right next door to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust memorial museum, because they’re so intrinsically linked, just like Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron. Yom HaShoah is a reminder of what happened because we didn’t have Israel as a safe haven, and Yom HaZikaron reminds us of the cost of having autonomy and self-determination in the world’s only majority Jewish country. Freedom is never really free.

I’m a pacifist because of my deeply-held beliefs, but I have the greatest of respect for those who made the ultimate sacrifice. The Arab world has launched so many sneak attack wars against Israel, there’s no choice but to have mandatory conscription. We need a large, strong military able to fight back at a moment’s notice.

In addition to honoring war dead, Yom HaZikaron also remembers victims of terrorist attacks. It makes me so angry to see these woke brats in their little tent cities on college campuses chanting for intifada. They weren’t even alive during the Second Intifada, when over 1,000 Israelis were murdered in suicide bomb attacks in buses, malls, discos, cafés, restaurants, stores, hotels, outdoor markets, bus stations, and streets.

My senior year of university was during the height of the Second Intifada, and it was absolutely terrifying to hear about all these deadly attacks, often multiple times a week. We were warned not to go on any buses during my Birthright trip because that potential danger still existed in June 2005.

Independence Hall in Tel Aviv was originally the home of the city’s first mayor, Meir Dizengoff. On 14 May 1948, David Ben-Gurion proclaimed our reborn independence eight hours before the British were due to finally leave. It’s very moving to listen to the recording of this meeting, which includes Rabbi Yehudah Leib Maimon (né Fishman) saying the Shehecheyanu, a blessing thanking God for preserving our lives and enabling us to reach this joyous occasion.

This building was chosen for declaring independence because it had bomb shelter-like features, such as small windows high up on the walls. Almost as soon as the British left, Egypt starting bombing Israel, and was soon joined by Iraq, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen.

Israel’s Declaration of Independence. The last surviving signatories were Zorach Warhaftig (1906–2002) and Meir Vilner (1918–2003).

The proposed U.N. partition plan of 1947, which would’ve given the Arabs a state in the yellow areas. They rejected this plan and instead launched a genocidal war against us.

We’ve triumphed over our enemies so many times, and stubbornly insist on surviving despite everything. This latest attempt to destroy us won’t succeed either.

WeWriWa—A spiritually muted Easter

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Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

Since today, 5 May, is Orthodox Easter (quite late this year!), I’m sharing an Easter-themed snippet from A Dream Deferred: Lyuba and Ivan at University. In the snippet I shared for the Western Easter on 31 March, 22-year-old Yustina Yeltsina-Baronova made an Easter basket for a handsome former Marine named Nestor Ugolnikov. The year is 1949.

Though Nestor hasn’t been to church in years, he caved to Yustina’s invitation to spend the holiday with her family. Nestor’s parents disowned him in shame and disgust after he lost his leg at Iwo Jima.

Khristos voskrese (Christ is risen) is the traditional Russian Easter greeting. Father Timofey is a crossover character in my Atlantic City books, as Cinnimin attends his church during her 1940 birthday trip to New York and again during graduate school.

All the votive candles around the church are simultaneously lit by a special spark, and the ikonostasis doors are flung open. Father Timofey reappears, having changed his dour black robes for silver and white, embroidered with tiny gemstones sparkling in all the candlelight.

“Khristos voskrese!” Father Timofey proclaims.

Nestor sits and daydreams as the service wears on. Every so often, he crosses himself and mutters, “Indeed he has risen” in response to the constant parade of “Khristos voskrese!” so as not to seem too tuned-out. After the interminable Easter Matins and Easter Hours, Father Timofey invites all the faithful to come up for Communion. Nestor mindlessly crosses himself when Communion is brought to him. He closes his eyes and swallows the wine and bread on the spoon, feeling as spiritually detached as he usually does.

Divine Liturgy then begins, and Nestor goes back to half-heartedly paying attention. Finally, Father Timofey delivers the closing benediction and entreats everyone to forgive one another.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

Nestor stands up as quickly as possible, his candle by now having burnt down about an inch and a half. On his way to temporarily depositing it in one of the sand-filled containers used for this purpose, he averts his eyes from all the people hugging and kissing in the traditional end of Easter services custom.

Yustina approaches him, an Easter basket on either arm, right after he’s placed his candle among all the others still flickering away. “Khristos voskrese!”

Before Nestor has time to react or realize what’s happening, Yustina has set both of the baskets on chairs, jumped up on another chair, and hugged him. Before she jumps back off the chair, she kisses him on the cheek.

“Now look who’s being too friendly with men she barely knows,” Milada whispers.

Yustina hands Nestor one of the baskets, with a dark blue bow on the handle. “I made this just for you yesterday. Please don’t try to refuse it.”

WeWriWa—A last-minute Easter basket

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Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

Since today is Easter, I decided to switch to a holiday snippet for my readers who celebrate. This comes from Chapter 27, “Emotional Easter,” of my WIP A Dream Deferred: Lyuba and Ivan at University. It’s the eve of Orthodox Easter 1949, and 22-year-old Yustina Yeltsina-Baronova is making an Easter basket for 26-year-old Nestor Ugolnikov, whom she met in St. Nicholas Park earlier that day.

Nestor is a former Marine who was disowned by his parents after he lost a leg at Iwo Jima. He just moved into Yustina’s grandmother’s boardinghouse after years in the veterans’ hospital. Though he planned to celebrate Easter alone in his new suite, Yustina insists he join her family for both services and meals.

Kolbasy are sausages. The Russian letters XB stand for Khristos Voskrese (Christ is risen), the traditional Easter greeting.

Paskha, a traditional Slavic cheese dish eaten at Easter

Yustina places a lamb mold around a chunk of butter. “Would anyone like to contribute some spare paskhi for Nestor’s Easter basket?”

“We’ve already made all the paskhi we’re going to make,” Naum says. “We only expected eight people, and we’re not in the habit of putting multiple paskhi in each basket.”

Yustina shrugs. “Then I’ll have to go out and buy one. How about extra kulichi?”

Valya points to several plain kulichi still on a cooling rack. “Have at it.”

Yustina pulls an embroidered placemat out of a drawer and sets it in the basket, which she fills with ham, kolbasy, salt, horseradish, wine, bacon, roast beef, pork, lox, plenty of colored eggs, and chocolates.

The ten lines end there. A few more follow to finish the scene.

She then grabs several cheese balls and sticks cloves into them in the shapes of crosses. After that, she places a cross mold around more butter.

After the butter is in the basket, Yustina liberally applies a mix of chocolate and vanilla icing to the three unclaimed kulichi, followed by slivered almonds, colored sprinkles and sugar, candied flowers, shredded coconut, powdered sugar, cinnamon, brown sugar, and chopped, candied walnuts. Almost as an afterthought, she ices the Russian letters XB on the side.

“Are you trying to give him diabetes?” Artur asks. “His kulichi are a lot sweeter than any of ours, and you barely left any room for the candles.”

“He hasn’t properly celebrated Easter in a really long time. Why shouldn’t I go all out for him?” Yustina places each kulich into the Easter basket in turn.

Kulichi, Copyright Loyna

WeWriWa—Inga’s first Christmas presents

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Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

This comes from Chapter 76, “Ups and Downs of Rehabilitation,” from Journey Through a Dark Forest. It’s Orthodox Christmas 1943, and 18-year-old Inga Savvina is celebrating the holiday for the first time since coming to America last summer to meet the father who had no idea she existed. Her mother is imprisoned in Siberia.

Some of you may remember Inga from the snippets of her arrival in New York and meeting Yuriy Yeltsin, a family friend from Toronto who came to her rescue when she injured her knee and quickly fell in love with her. Inga insisted her father and grandparents open their gifts first, and now it’s her turn.

Inga grudgingly peels open her presents, more and more embarrassed at how much money must’ve been spent on her. Leather-bound notebooks, clothes, hats, shoes, books, a victrola and some records, a blue marble ink blotter and blotter paper, fancy hairpins. Her gifts from Zhenya, Mireena, Milena, and Vasilisa are more modest—embroidered hand towels, candy, tin cookie cutters, a basket lined with blue fabric and filled with basic sewing supplies.

“Now you must open Yuriy’s present. He sent it all the way from Canada just for you.” Mrs. Kharzina nudges the yellow parcel. “We’ll have breakfast afterwards.”

Inga carefully pulls away the tissue paper and opens the box. She smiles as she takes out the contents, a pure white rabbit hat with earflaps, a teddybear, a book of English poetry, and a necklace with fat blue wooden beads. When she flips open the book, she sees an inscription in deep blue ink, with a fancy, flourished script she’s surprised a modern man would use.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

Yuriy has written first in Russian, then the English translation.

20 December 1942

Happy Christmas to my best penpal. I hope you enjoy your first Christmas, even if you’re not Christian. Everyone likes presents and a nice family celebration. I know you miss your first family, but your new family treats you very well. Most families wouldn’t welcome a surprise addition with such open arms so many years after the fact.

Pozhaluysta [Please], enjoy these humble presents. You deserve everything nice in the world after you lost your mother and first family and had to go so far to a strange land. Even if you’re lonely and homesick, you can have a nice fur hat, another cuddly friend, humble jewelry, and something nice to read while you’re learning English.

Very truly yours,

Your Canadian friend Yuriy

“He’s sweet on you,” Mrs. Kharzina repeats. “A man only buys a woman fur if he cares a lot about her. It’s a serious investment in a woman, even if it’s just rabbit fur. Mishenka only started getting me fur after he was seriously interested in me. No man buys a woman poetry or jewelry if he’s just her friend.”

“You can think that if you want. Yuriy and I know the truth.”

“That depends on whose truth you mean. A good man’s worth his weight in gold, and I’ve known Yuriy long enough to know how nicely he’s turned out. Don’t be surprised if he makes his intentions known after the war. Determination can make a person do amazing things.”

WeWriWa—Inga’s first Christmas

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Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

This year’s Christmas snippets come from Chapter 76, “Ups and Downs of Rehabilitation,” from Journey Through a Dark Forest. It’s Orthodox Christmas 1943, and 18-year-old Inga Savvina is celebrating the holiday for the first time since coming to America last summer to meet the father who had no idea she existed. Her mother is imprisoned in Siberia.

Some of you may remember Inga from the snippets of her arrival in New York and meeting Yuriy Yeltsin, a family friend from Toronto who came to her rescue when she injured her knee and quickly fell in love with her. Her father’s real name is Mikhail, but he’s only ever called Ginny.

Inga pulls on her new blue robe and pads down the stairs in her matching slippers, already seeing the distant twinkle of the lights on the tree. Ginny doesn’t have a massive tree, but it’s a respectable four feet tall, and festooned with dried cranberries, white and colored lights, popcorn strings, shiny glass bulbs, little birds’ nests, and sparkly garlands. Never having seen a Christmas tree before, Inga has no preconceived notions of its grandness or lack thereof.

As proudly atheist as Inga has remained, her eyes can’t help but widen at the sight of the brightly-wrapped presents underneath. The presents are crowding out the beautiful Russian crèche Ginny bought from Valya’s boutique many years ago, while a large miniature train runs on little tracks around the tree, away from the pile of presents.

“Do you like Christmas enough to get baptized?” Mrs. Kharzina asks hopefully as Inga plops onto a fat green velvet cushion.

“I wasn’t raised to believe in God or to see the Bible as anything but ancient literature and some verified history. But I’m happy to help you with celebrating your holiday. You have your traditions, and I have mine.”

Mrs. Kharzina scoops up a medium-sized box in yellow tissue paper, with a blue bow, and dangles it in front of Inga.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

“Your young man sent this. If Yuriy’s just your penpal who happens to be a man, he wouldn’t send you such a nice-sized Christmas present.”

Inga sets it off to the side and reaches for the present she bought her babushka. “You and Dedushka should open your gifts first. You’re my elders.”

Ginny and his parents commence unwrapping their presents while Inga watches. America still seems like a land of great material wealth, even in wartime and compared against the old money she was raised in. People in a destitute country wouldn’t have the money to afford jewelry, cameras, hardcover books, records, upscale clothes, and silverware. She wonders how many ration coupons they cost, though her grandparents have more disposable income since they only had one child, and Ginny has been a bachelor for years. Inga only had her modest income from the boutique for presents, and bought a green crocheted coin purse for her babushka, a green drinking glass with an interesting shape and texture for her dedushka, and a blue ceramic candy dish for Ginny.

“Now you must start opening your presents,” Mrs. Kharzina insists. “I always thought my grandchild would have her first Christmas as a baby, but it’s never too late to start.”