Supporters of Israeli hostages, who were kidnapped during the deadly October 7 2023 attack by Hamas, hold torches as they attend a protest to demand a deal to bring every hostage home at once, amid Gaza ceasefire negotiations, in Tel Aviv, Israel, January 15, 2025. Photo: REUTERS/Ronen Zvulun

There are few nations in the world where memory is not only preserved — but lived. In Israel, remembrance is not just about looking back. It is a living, breathing act of collective identity. Every year, on Yom HaShoah, something extraordinary happens. Without government mandates or media campaigns, life pauses — not out of obligation, but from a shared internal rhythm. The siren sounds, and a nation of millions responds in unison. The image is powerful, but its strength lies not in silence — it lies in meaning, in the understanding that remembrance binds us.

But such national memory did not appear fully formed. It was cultivated. In the early years of the Israeli state, Holocaust survivors struggled to tell their stories. The ethos of the “new Jew,” the sabra fighter, clashed with the image of the persecuted victim. That’s why the state didn’t create “Holocaust Memorial Day.” It created “Holocaust and Ghetto Uprising Remembrance Day.” Heroism came first.

It took decades of political, cultural, and educational work before Israeli society could embrace the Holocaust not only as a tragedy — but as part of its moral and historical DNA. Only then did the siren become sacred.

And now, as we approach Yom HaShoah 2025, a new question confronts us: How will we remember October 7th?

It is not a rhetorical question. It is a national challenge.

October 7th was a rupture. A moment of profound trauma — but also of remarkable unity. It revealed painful truths about our vulnerabilities and our divisions. Yet, in its aftermath, it also uncovered a core of resilience: families opening homes to evacuees, young people lining up to volunteer, strangers embracing one another in tears.

This is the essence of Israeli society at its best. But moments fade. What remains is memory. And memory must be shaped.

Do we allow October 7th to become a political football? A symbol of betrayal, anger, or blame? Or do we craft a new ethos — a foundational story that speaks not just of horror, but of heroism and responsibility? One that doesn’t erase the pain, but transforms it into a source of purpose.

We must ask ourselves:

Who are the names our children will memorize?
Who will be the Hannah Szenes or Mordechai Anielewicz of this generation?
What symbols will we pass down? What songs? What stories?

This responsibility cannot rest solely on the state. It belongs to all of us. To our educators and artists. To our journalists and rabbis. To parents, commanders, and influencers.

A siren alone is not a memory. Memory requires meaning.

That’s why now is the time to speak. To publish. To teach. To propose the rituals, the school curricula, the memorial days that will give form to what we feel. If we wait too long, others will shape the memory for us — and perhaps not in ways that heal.

Israelis have always known how to come together during a crisis. But now, the test is deeper: can we build a lasting unity, not born of fear, but forged through memory?

That is the true challenge of October 7th — not only to mourn, but to mold. Not only to remember, but to renew. To ensure that, like Yom HaShoah, this day will one day bring us together not in darkness — but in dignity, clarity, and hope.

Itamar Tzur is the author of The Invention of the Palestinian Narrative and an Israeli scholar specializing in Middle Eastern history. He holds a Bachelor’s degree with honors in Jewish History and a Master’s degree with honors in Middle Eastern studies. As a senior member of the “Forum Kedem for Middle Eastern Studies and Public Diplomacy,” he leverages his academic expertise to deepen understanding of regional dynamics and historical contexts.