He is No More:

A Case Study of Yizkor Literature and the Israeli

Commemorative Tradition, 1967-1973

Master’s Thesis

Presented to

The Faculty of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences

Brandeis University

Department of Near Eastern and Judaic Studies

Ilan Troen, Advisor

Eugene Sheppard, Advisor

ChaeRan Freeze, Advisor

In Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements for

Master’s Degree

By

Adam Eisler

May 2013

Copyright by Adam Eisler

© 2013

iii

Acknowledgements

This thesis would have never materialized without the help of my friends, family,

and professors. It is truly a daunting task to thank everyone. I extend a sincere and

loving thank you to Adina, Aron, Roni, and Alon Shorr for graciously hosting me and

providing me with moral support during my two month research trip in Israel. The same

gratitude goes to Martin and Tamar Shacham-Barr for helping me coordinate my visits to

the Golani Brigade Archive and Museum and hosting me during my many weekend

hafsakot in the Galil. In addition, thank you to Noam Lekach, my friend and roommate,

for providing so much moral support and helping me translate ideas and emotions that

were seemingly untranslatable.

I am indebted to Professor Ilan Troen for drawing my attention to the existence of

Yizkor literature. Without this suggestion I may never have stumbled onto this treasure

trove. Thank you to Professors Maoz Azaryahu and Uri Bialer for meeting with me in

Israel to organize my ideas, Professor Yael Zerubavel for pointing me in the direction of

background material, and Professor Kanan Makiya for his continued support and

friendship. Last but certainly not least, a warm thank you to Professors Eugene Sheppard

and ChaeRan Freeze for the countless meetings, revisions, notes, and guidance

throughout the writing of this thesis.

Most importantly, this thesis is dedicated in its entirety to Jacob Eisler, my father and

best friend, for his solidarity and inspiration.

iv

Abstract

He is No More:

A Case Study of Yizkor Literature and the

Israeli Commemorative Tradition, 1967-1973

A thesis presented to the Department of Near Eastern and Judaic Studies

Graduate School of Arts and Sciences

Brandeis University

Waltham, Massachusetts

By Adam Eisler

Commemorative practices within Israel have received considerable scholarly

attention yet remain limited and understudied. These studies focus overwhelmingly on

the commemoration of Israel’s founding myths without exploring the impact of

subsequent historical events on the myriad of commemorative modes. This thesis

analyzes arguably the most central of these modes, Yizkor [memorial] literature,

following the watershed October War of 1973 while consistently referencing Yizkor

books from the Six-Day War (1967). Given the October War’s far reaching effect on

Israeli society, one should naturally assume that Yizkor literature would reflect the social

mood on the eve of the war however this is not necessarily the case. An analysis of

similarities in the structure and content of memorial books for over 25 combat soldier,

challenges popular conceptions of Yizkor literature as a private mode of commemoration

while raising important questions about the nature of the commemorative genre as a

whole. Against this backdrop, the thesis explores ostensibly rare instances where

commemorative narratives go “off script”, expressing pain, disillusionment, and

bereavement. Finally, I argue that memorial literature’s ability to remain largely

insulated against the post-war discourse lies in its inherent structure.

v

Preface

So the nation, in tears of amazement, will ask:

“Who are you?”

And they will answer quietly:

“We are the silver platter on which the Jewish

State was given to you.”

This was their answer as they fell back into the

shadows

And the rest will be told in the history of Israel. Natan Alterman, “The Silver Platter”1

And even on that Friday I was informed of his

death, before going to identify him, very lonely,

wandering across lawns, between university

buildings, under a fierce sun, even then I began

to think of you, of the things I should say to you,

how out of my private sorrow a common truth

would illumine us all …

A.B. Yehoshua “Early in the Summer of 1970”2

My journey toward this research topic may be more interesting than the thesis

itself.12

I grew up knowing that my father had been in the Israeli army. I was certain that

he had fought in a war, though I’m not sure that he ever explicitly told me this. When I

think back to our relationship, I can’t seem to overcome how preoccupied-- perhaps even

obsessed—I was with my father’s military service. I remember playing with an army of

toy soldiers, imagining my father as the hero of the battle, an act that is captured on a

dusty VHS tape somewhere in my childhood home.

At a certain point in my youth, I became acutely aware that my father had seen

something during his military service that had profoundly impacted his life trajectory.

Though wholly disinterested in the politics and history of Israel, these topics began to

slowly creep into my consciousness. My father would become enraged at Israeli political

events. This was always in Hebrew and always at the dinner table. One of my father’s

1 Yehoshua, Abraham B. Early in the Summer of 1970. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1977.

2http://jpress.org.il/Default/Scripting/ArticleWin.asp?From=Archive&Skin=TAUHe&BaseHref=DAV/1947/12/19&EntityId=Ar00205&ViewMode=HTML.

vi

most recurrent expressions, “this is why we are here” appeared more and more

frequently. And while I can’t remember ever probing the value of his decision, Israel

nevertheless held a dear place in both of our hearts. Jumping ahead in the timeline, I

became familiarized with the lore surrounding the Six-Day War and Yom Kippur War. I

learned that my father had served in the latter and also that he did not want to discuss this

at all.

During my undergraduate years, I grew increasingly interested in the history of

Israel and the Middle East. Alan Dershowitz’s A Case for Israel, a gift from my father,

sparked an interest that subsists to this day. I began to ask my father questions about his

military service which in retrospect may have been invasive. His repeated refusals to

share his experiences with me did little to allay my fascination. I continued to delve

deeper into the Arab-Israeli conflict, even deciding to enroll in a semester abroad at Tel

Aviv University, yet I could not seem to satisfy my curiosity.

Finally, during a 2008 Passover Seder, my father unexpectedly opened up to my

sister, mother, and myself about everything that had happened to him during October

1973. His experiences, which I have no right or permission to share with the reader, are

unimaginable. What remains is a date and location: October 22, 1973 and Fayid

Airbase. My father endured something that should not be part of the human experience.

And yet, generation after generation endures these experiences. Some people integrate

them into their overall life story, as if only an unpleasant but necessary stage in life.

Others carry this trauma on the surface of their consciousness. My father is somewhere

vii

in between these two categories, outwardly discounting the war’s traumatic effect on him

while also admitting to its profound influence on his life trajectory.

Rather than presenting a sense of closure, my father’s story only inspired more

questions. I contacted the IDF Archives, read through military histories and personal

memoirs from the Yom Kippur War, and spent hours scouring the internet for any

pictures or stories that might clarify what I had heard from my father. The IDF Archive,

still under strict censorship, could not release any information concerning Fayid Airbase

on October 22. The more I struggled to understand my father’s experience the less this

struggle seemed possible. In the end, I was left with an interpretation of the Yom Kippur

War as a disruptive, traumatic event which pushed my father to relocate our family to the

United States. In no uncertain terms, it is this complex relationship between memory and

history which has inspired this study.

My research began with the assumption that memorial literature following the

Yom Kippur War would reflect the same feelings of disillusionment and betrayal that

were foundational to my father’s interpretation of the war. The prominence of these

reactions in Israel’s post-war protest movement was matched by Israel’s leading visual

artists and poets, strengthening my resolve that I would be able to locate these feelings in

many of the Yizkor books. After a cursory examination, I discovered that in fact most of

them remained faithful to the preexisting national narrative. My problematica thus

shifted to accommodate the marginal position of deviant narratives.

By dissecting the structure and content of Yizkor books, I discovered that

narratives which I had originally interpreted as deviant were in fact integral to the overall

viii

structure of memorial literature. I dissected the structure and thematic content of Yizkor

literature revealing that seemingly critical narratives were all directed at abstract

conceptions of God or land. Motti Ashenkazi’s famous placards calling for the

resignation of Golda Meir, Moshe Dayan, and other ministers during the winter of 1974

never find expression in Yizkor literature.3 Instead, each book follows a standardized

format, never fully allowing any deviation from the traditional national narrative. In this

way, the Yizkor book resembles the military cemetery with its rows of uniform

headstones. The changing national discourse vis-à-vis patriotic sacrifice and national

service after the Yom Kippur War would present a challenge to Yizkor literature and

inevitably result in its gradual marginalization.

3 Weiss, Bracha, “Motti Ashkenazi: The Pioneer of the Yom Kippur War Protest,” The Marker, March 21, 2012, http://cafe.themarker.com/post/2570803/.

viii

Table of Contents

ABSTRACT .................................................................................................................. iv

PREFACE ...................................................................................................................... v

INTRODUCTION ......................................................................................................... 1

The Evolution of Yizkor literature ............................................................................................... 4

Source Base .............................................................................................................................. 12

A Brief Overview of Memory Theory ....................................................................................... 15

Israeli National Memory and Commemoration .......................................................................... 19

Mourning, Loss, and War in Israel ............................................................................................ 25

CHAPTER I: Narrative Structure and Thematic Continuity ................................... 28

Structure of Yizkor Literature ................................................................................................... 30

Common Tropes ....................................................................................................................... 34

Narratives of Land Attachment............................................................................................... 34

Narratives of Military Service and War ................................................................................. 39

Narratives of Death and Personal Sacrifice ............................................................................ 44

CHAPTER II: Tearing the Commemorative Fabric ................................................. 53

CHAPTER III: The Commemorative Bilingualism of Yizkor Literature ................. 66

Remembering in Two Languages ............................................................................. 69

BIBLIOGRAPHY ........................................................................................................ 76

APPENDIX .................................................................................................................. 78

1

Introduction

Yizkor literature is a symphony of independent voices making up a synchronous

roar. For centuries it served as a documentary response to Jewish loss and trauma- from

early memorial books following the first Crusades to the post-Holocaust yizkher bikher.

In the Israeli context, Yizkor literature serves as a safeguard against the passing of time

and the people that pass along with it. As one of the primary modes of commemoration

for fallen soldiers, the dedication to compiling Yizkor books seems almost frenetic, as if

each cease-fire initiates a new struggle against collective amnesia. It is a vessel for the

legitimate and sanctioned expression of powerful human emotions such as grief, loss, and

pain. On the whole, Yizkor literature presents an opportunity to articulate one’s grief

privately within a normative national commemorative tradition. This perceived sense of

privacy, coupled with a strong sense of commemorative tradition, makes Yizkor literature

an invaluable historical tool for uncovering how “private” commemoration interacts with

social change.

By analyzing the Yizkor books of twenty-five fallen soldiers from the Yom

Kippur War, this thesis offers a new understanding of Yizkor literature as a whole.

Applying a comparative approach, I will offer a close reading of Yizkor books from the

Six Day War (1967) and Yom Kippur War (1973) that were dedicated to soldiers from

the Golani Brigade. The first chapter will analyze the Yizkor books in terms of their

2

structure and content with close attention to similarities between books dedicated to the

fallen of 1967 and those of 1973. In chapter two, I will examine instances where the

commemorative narrative seems to go “off-script,” exposing exceptional deviations. On

the whole, these rare commemorative deviations demonstrate that widespread feelings of

disillusionment that emerged in the immediate post-war period did not find expression in

the commemorative literature as explicitly as has previously been assumed.4 In fact, this

study will argue that Yizkor literature remained largely insulated against changing social

tides in part due to its adherence to the rigid structure of the genre and in part due to its

reluctance to challenge the normative Zionist narrative of patriotic sacrifice and heroism.

As a form of memorial, Yizkor books are literary monuments intended to leave a

lasting and accurate portrait of a hero. Though frequently dedicated to one individual,

they may commemorate collective groups based on their shared place of upbringing,

military unit, background and so forth. Collective Yizkor books are typically assembled

and funded by an umbrella organization and contain brief biographies of the individuals.

Consider the example of a Yizkor book published by Israel’s largest bank, Bank Leumi,

for employees who had lost sons in battle or another published by the Northern town of

Beit HaShita for its fallen soldiers. The latter, entitled Pene haverai (The Faces of Our

Guys) opens with a one-page poem about the ten soldiers who will be commemorated in

the following page- a poetic table of contents. On the second page, Natan Alterman’s

ha’aish ha’hai (The Living Man) sets the tone for the rest of the book by reminding the

reader that it is through the dead that one is able to continue living. “And don’t say: I

4 Sivan, Emmanuel, Private Pain and Public Remembrance in Israel. In Winter and Sivan, War and

Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, U.K.; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999),

177-205; Shamir, Ilanah. Hantsahah ve-zikaron: Darkhah Shel Ha-hevrah Ha-Yiśra;elit Be-yitsuv Nofe

Ha-zikaron (Tel Aviv: am oved, 1996).

3

come from ashes. You come from he who has fallen under you.”5 Over the next thirty-

three pages, each individual is introduced with a single black and white picture next to

the information that one might expect to find on a military gravestone.

Alon Eilat

Son of Shoshana and Abraham

Born in Beit HaShita

9th of Tevet 5713, December 29, 1952

Fell in battle in the Suez Canal

Yom Kippur 5734, October 6, 19736

A biography, various eulogies, and correspondence do their best to present the reader

with a full picture of the fallen hero. This format is repeated for each soldier. Finally,

the book concludes with a description of the war: “The Yom Kippur War was a cruel and

terrible war— concentrated, intense, and fatal— that put all of ours sons to the test. And

the IDF stood up to this test and we are here.”7

Even larger in scale Israel’s Defense Ministry published and also the most

ambitious of collective Yizkor books is. The first of these books, which often appear in

multiple volumes, commemorates the lives of fallen soldiers during Israel’s War of

Independence from November 29, 1947 until March 10, 1949. The second series of book

begin on March 11, 1949 and includes all fallen soldiers up until June of 1967. The

Defense Ministry continued to publish memorial volumes until April 1993 when official

Yizkor commemoration was faded out. Similar to other modes of institutional

commemoration, these volumes maintain a rigid format. Resembling traditional

newspaper obituaries, eulogies rarely exceed one page and contain a single I.D.-sized

photograph.

5 Beit Hashitta. Pene ḥaverai (Bet-Hashiṭah: Ḳibuts ha-me’uḥad, 1974), 5

6 Ibid. 7 Ibid. 33

4

Compensating for the stenciled format of the Defense Ministry memorial

volumes, Yizkor books commemorating a single soldier are funded and assembled

spontaneously by family or friends as an attempt to keep their grief and memories

separate from those of the collective. They have the potential to be profoundly personal

and often contain a wealth of ephemera, pictures, and drawings that are a testament to the

lost lives. Words strip away anonymity in a manner that is simply far more explicit,

sentimental, and private than the average planted tree, stone structure, or nondescript

gold-plated eulogy in the local synagogue. The tragedy and brutality of war is not spared

on the reader. Interspersed between pages of unsent letters, woeful poetry, and fond

memories are photographs of the individual at various life stages; they lament a life cut

short. Beyond their aesthetic value, assembling a Yizkor book offers a potentially

therapeutic quality that would be difficult to find in other commemorative practices. As

Emmanuel Sivan argues: “unlike wakes in other cultures, the Israeli one is likely to end

up in a written and edited product…the therapeutic potential of the activity primes it

all.”8

The Evolution of Commemorative Literature

Tracing the historical development of Jewish commemorative literature takes one

across many centuries and borders. Beginning with the memorbuch of 1296 until the

modern Yizkor book of the present day, Yizkor literature has undergone significant shifts.9

To be sure, applying the term Yizkor to the original Jewish commemorative booklets

would be an anachronism. According to an entry in the Jewish Encyclopedia of 1906, the

8 Sivan, Emmanuel. Private Pain and Public Remembrance in Israel. 179.

9 For a much more detailed account of the development of Yizkor books up until Israel’s War of

Independence, see Sivan, Dor Tasha"ḥ: Mitos, Dyoḳan ṿe-ziḳaron, 172-175.

5

title of the first known commemorative book derived its name from the biblical Sefer ha-

Zikaron or Sefer ha-Zikaronot but gradually adopted the secularized German term

memorbuch, or memory book.10

This first book, The Nuremberg Martyrology of 1296,

features the names of prominent community members, benefactors, and martyrs, dating

back to 1096. As if to compensate for too many lost lives, this anthology put to paper the

names and deeds of individuals who had hitherto been commemorated orally during

religious services.11

While not quite on the level of saintly commemoration in

Christianity, the encyclopedia also suggests that due to its completeness and organization,

the first memorbuch must have followed a model of commemoration developed by the

church.

The distinctly religious and exclusivist character of early memorbuchs highlights

an important first stage in Jewish commemorative literature. Of primary importance, the

first wave of memorial literature served as an anthology of exemplary individuals whose

example could be followed by the community at large. While directly linked to the

service of God, the Nuremberg Martyrology also intended to demonstrate proper

communal behavior. Preceding the list of dead is the Hazkarat Neshamot prayer urging

God to remember the souls of all those who have died. Names were accompanied by the

individual deeds of the deceased or the amount of money they had donated to the

community. However, with an increase in waves of persecution, the memorbuch began to

include the names of persecuted communities spanning across Europe.

As the martyrological tradition laid its roots in many of Europe’s most prominent

Jewish communities it was also subjected to internal social changes. It should come as

10

1906 Jewish Encyclopedia, s.v. “Memor-Book” accessed April 15, 2013. http://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/10613-memor-book 11 This work is alternatively referred to as the Memor-book of Mayence and Memorbuch of Nuremberg.

6

no surprise then that commemorative literature, as such an integral aspect of Jewish

historiography, would begin to reflect the growing secularization of many European

Jews. Memorial books gradually shed their liturgical character by deviating away from

the transcendent and moving toward a more comprehensive portrayal of the local

community as an organic entity independent of the divine. This is demonstrated by the

gradual prominence of communal histories, or pinkes, often centered upon administrative

records. In sum, this new adaptation alluded to the scrupulous record keeping of

sixteenth century European municipalities and focused on chronicling communal

destruction.

On the whole, the destruction of Jewish communities in Europe during the

Holocaust added an unprecedented urgency to commemoration that transformed the

Yizkor literary genre. Centuries of persecution that had necessitated Yizkor

commemorations reached a point of critical mass following the war. The totality of

destruction is expressed by the sheer breadth of Holocaust Yizkor books, preserved in

Holocaust museums and libraries all around the United States. Often, these books are the

only remaining histories of entire communities that were decimated. Taking this into

consideration, these Yizkor books grasp at each detail in an attempt to fully recreate the

community that existed prior to destruction. While Holocaust memorial literature is

outside the scope of this paper and has indeed received considerable scholarly attention a

brief analysis of one Holocaust Yizkor book reveals the extent to which memorial

literature became a primary vehicle of Jewish historiography.12

12 For scholarship on Holocaust Yizkor literature see: Hartman, Geoffrey H. Holocaust Remembrance: The

Shapes of Memory.(Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1994); Horowitz, Rosemary, Memorial Books of Eastern

European Jewry: Essays On the History and Meanings of Yizker Volumes (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland,

2011).; Kugelmass, Jack, and Jonathan Boyarin. From a Ruined Garden: The Memorial Books of Polish

7

The Kostopol Yizkor book follows the standard format for Holocaust literature,

beginning with the community’s establishment and maintaining a strict timeline that

takes the reader into the post-war era.13

Immediately, one should notice that the book

was written in Hebrew, published in Israel, and released in 1967.14

While many

Holocaust Yizkor books are indeed published in Hebrew, this is certainly not the rule.

Within the first pages, historical details overwhelm the reader. A hand-drawn map of the

community, including the location of private homes, schools, graveyards, churches,

synagogues, sports facilities, are recalled from memory. Interspersed between poetry and

private anecdotes from community members is a brief history of the town. Census

information dating back to 1847 reminds the reader of the sheer breadth of destruction.

Historical details give way to personal memories and testimonies taken from Holocaust

survivors who had moved to Israel following the war. Spanning nearly 400 pages, the

book includes dozens of sections detailing daily life from Passover celebrations to

military service; from the local gentiles to the town rabbi; from eating habits to dentistry

and everything in between. As a whole, the book is organized according to the following

chapters: Kostopol of the Past, War and Revolution, Hebrew Education in Kostopol, In

the Day of Polish Control, The Russians are Coming, The Holocaust, Survivors Speak,

From the Stories of Wanderers. The book closes with a Yizkor section dedicated to the

lives of Kostopol community members and their descendants who died in Israel.

Jewry (New York: Schocken Books, 1983); Young, James Edward. The Texture of Memory: Holocaust

Memorials and Meaning (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993). 13 Kostopol is a town in Poland (present day Ukraine) that was first occupied by Soviet forces in 1939 and

later by German forces in 1941. Of the roughly 3,920 Jews in Kostopol before the war, only 240 survived. 14 Though there were in fact Yizkor books published immediately following the war—the first published in

1943-- much of the Holocaust commemorative genre emerged years, if not decades, after the war. A

serious examination of the Holocaust only emerged in Israel after the Eichmann Trial of 1962. Holocaust

commemoration was thus slow to gain momentum leaving many survivors with a tremendous amount of

emotional baggage.

8

On the whole, the Kostopol Book is victorious in its resistance against collective

amnesia. Like the entire Yizkor genre, it fights time’s destructive effect by constructing

an image of what was. Though the reflected image merely a reflection, it succeeds in

preventing time’s destructive influence. Yizkor commemoration’s original focus on the

sacred relationship between the Jewish community and God was promptly superseded by

a communal history that expresses a curious tension. The historical timeline projected by

the Kostopol Book, ending with stories of community members in the Land of Israel,

embodies Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s concept of “an aching nostalgia for a vanished

Jewish past.”15

Throughout the Kostopol Book, remembering teeters between “repulsion

and attraction, rejection and a sense of loss, iconoclasm and grief”.16

And while this

tension runs rampant in Israeli Holocaust commemoration, Yizkor’s relocation to the

Zionist framework would add a new layer of complexity inherent in the tension of

memory.

Accompanying the waves of Jewish immigration to Palestine during the Second

and Third Aliyah (1904-1914 and 1919-1923, respectively), memorial literature entered a

new distinctly Zionist phase. The first Yizkor book to appear in the Land of Israel was

published in 1911 to commemorate the lives of eight Jews that had been killed in

confrontations with Arabs. Though Zionist pioneer Yehoshua Radler-Feldman originally

conceived the commemorative volume, contributors included Alexander Ziskind

Rabinovich and Yosef Chaim Bsrenner.17

The Second Aliyah’s significance in forming

15 Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayim. Zakhor, Jewish History and Jewish Memory (New York: Schocken Books,

1989), 97. 16

Ibid. 17 Rabinovitz, Alexander Siskind. Yizkor: Matsevat Zikaron Le-ḥalale Ha-poʻalim Ha-ʻIvrim Be-Erets

Yiśraʾel. (Yafo: Defus A. Atin, 1911).

9

the prevailing Zionist ideology makes the 1911 Yizkor book particularly significance. In

the words of the Jonathan Frankel:

The importance of the Yizkor book published in 1911 lies in the fact that

nowhere else, perhaps, is it possible to observe in so concentrated a

manner, the process by which members of the Second Aliya were

developing ways of thought and speech suffused with mythological

motifs… provid[ing] an ideal forum for those who felt driven at that time

to create a pantheon of heroes, or perhaps a martyrology, for the

movement. Inevitably, the enterprise aroused the strongest possible

emotions and called forth a broad range of reactions, both ideological and

personal, involving different views of the past, the present, and the future

of the Jewish people.18

The reworking of a Jewish tradition to fit the needs of the Zionist movement was both

typical of the movement and established a martyrological precedent that would prove

difficult to shake. Commemoration was transformed into an arena in which opposing

ideological groups battled for ideological supremacy in an infantile society struggling

with an identity crisis.

The language of commemoration used in the 1911 Yizkor book established an

iconography that was both familiar and unique, connecting imagery that would have a

deeper spiritual resonance with a secular, nationalist movement. Connections to the land

of Israel are described in existential term, as if Eretz Yisrael and the Jewish individual are

inseparable halves of one whole. The relationship between land and person emerges as a

dominant theme of the Yizkor book as violent death symbolizes a blood oath between he

who dies fighting for the land. Again, the editors of the Yizkor book articulate bloodshed

in the land of Israel as if the earth demanded blood-sacrifice. In his contribution, K.L.

Silman writes:

18

Frankel, Jonathan. The “Yizkor” Book of 1911: A Note on National Myths in the Second Aliya. In

Religion, Ideology, and Nationalism in Europe and America, 355-384 (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center

for Jewish History. 1986).

10

Blood, Blood. Beautiful is its color and the earth in which it sinks is cherished

and dear to us. As the body needs blood, so too does the entire nation and the

earth. The rock on which their blood boiled remains there for the book of

memory but more than this, it is the earth. Its memory is with us from generation

to generation. And if it were not for the spilling of blood on this soil, our

thoughts would not be fructified with life…And if we had no irrigated the land

with our blood, we wouldn’t be standing on it today.19

In this eulogy, Eretz Yisrael is the divine, transcendent force. As God demanded the

sacrifice of Isaac, the land of Israel demands the spilling of blood. Commenting on this

phenomenon, Boaz Neumann argues that in the language of the halutzim bodily fluids, of

which blood is central, was often described as crucial for the transformation of the

physical land in Palestine to become the land of the halutzim, or the land of Israel.20

Blood, sweat, and tears were essential to the dissolution of boundaries between land and

man.

The connection between man and God, characteristic of the crusader Yizkor

books, is replaced by the transcendental connection between man and Earth. Boaz

Neumann argues that this rhetoric must not be perceived as rhetorical or allegorical. On

the contrary, the language of the halutzim whom Neumann describes as the “paradigmatic

Zionists” must be taken at face value if one is to fully grasp the extent of their existential

“being-in-the-land.”21

When put into writing, this affinity was translated as a central

component of Zionism’s national ethos. Familiarizing oneself with Israel’s physical

landscape – knowing each rock or tree – was central to the Zionist experience and could

not be achieved from a distance.

19 Rabinovitz, Alexander Siskind. Yizkor: Matsevat Zikaron Le-ḥalale Ha-poʻalim Ha-ʻIvrim Be-Erets

Yiśraʾel. 50. 20

Neumann, Boaz. Land and Desire in Early Zionism (Waltham, Mass.: Brandeis University Press, 2011),

57. 21 Neumann, Land and Desire in Early Zionism. 1-2.

11

Surrounding the symbolism of the 1911 Yizkor book is the forthright message

that martyrdom, achieved through violent confrontations with the enemy, is not only

integral to national redemption, but constitutes a holy act. The opening lines of the book

implore the Jewish people, rather than God, to remember those that were killed doing

their “holy work.”22

Continuing, the dead are described as “lines of holy-pioneers”

(halutsim-kadoshim). National sacrifice and the settlement of the Land of Israel are thus

articulated as holy, rather, than secular acts. While I do not doubt the secular character of

the Zionist pioneer movement, it bears mentioning that the emerging Zionist national

ethos, as expressed through commemoration, was not devoid of spirituality or

existentialism. The blossoming national ethos, seeping from each page in the 1911

Yizkor book, set a commemorative precedent that would ebb and flow during each

following phase of Yizkor literature. As Jonathan Frankel notes:

Images of blood and soil, of sheer heroism as the negation of Galut and guarantee

of Geulah; of the new man as direct heir to the warriors of ancient times…[were]

rendered still greater because they had taken hold particularly in the Poale Zion

party which was to produce so many of the dominant leaders of the labor

movement and the Yishuv.23

Commemoration, though only one factor, contributed to the solidification of a distinct

Zionist national ethos. Similarly, as part of a broader domination of Israeli social and

political life by these figures, Yizkor literature would naturally accompany Israeli society

during each historical milestone.

The 1948 War of Independence marked an integral stage in the development of

Yizkor literature and what would become the Israeli commemorative tradition. While the

Yishuv was the predominant benefactor of commemoration prior to 1948, the war’s

22

Rabinovitz, Alexander Siskind. Yizkor: Matsevat Zikaron Le-ḥalale Ha-poʻalim Ha-ʻIvrim Be-Erets Yiśraʾel., iv. 23 Frankel. The “Yizkor” Book of 1911: A Note on National Myths in the Second Aliya. 384.

12

devastating impact on Palestine’s Jewish population- particularly among young men (19-

21) -- resulted in a collective state of mourning that inspired a new commemorative

approach.24

As a direct result, much of the post--1948 commemoration became though

still reliant on pre-war commemorative traditions. Of these, Yizkor literature was able to

best capture the collective mood following the war. As Emmanuel Sivan explains:

The emergence of ‘booklets of commemoration’ highlights the Israeli cult

of the fallen and the centrality of the 1948 experience. Patterns of this cult

were shaped in the years just after the War of Independence and spread

throughout society, helped by the impact of some Yizkor books which

became best-sellers.25

Yizkor books such as “Friends Talk About Jimmy” and the overarching involvement

Israel’s new social and ideological elite made Yizkor literature into something of a status

symbol. Moreover, the accessibility of the Yizkor book in terms of cost and availability,

coupled with the Zionist establishment’s virtual nod of approval, made Yizkor literature

uniquely popular. Of the roughly 4,000 soldiers killed in 1948, 32 percent were

commemorated “unofficially”. By 1973, this number would almost double.

Source Base

In a poll recently conducted in Israel, the Golani Brigade ranked as the most

sought after infantry brigade among new recruits, a fact that has not always been true.26

Owing in large part to its reputation as comprised of fiercely brave soldiers that have

been at the frontlines of every Arab-Israeli conflict, many new Israeli recruits see Golani

as the most direct way to prove their patriotism and loyalty to Israel. In the first decades

24

See Sivan. 1948 Generation: Myth, Profile,and Memory. 25

Ibid., 182. 26 Lappin, Yaakov. “Golani Brigade Top Choice for New Recruits.” Jerusalem Post. 29 October 2012. Web. 11 April 2013.

13

of statehood, though, the Golani Brigade was a standard, non-volunteer infantry brigade

that lacked the prestige of the Israeli paratroopers, reconnaissance battalions, or air force.

As a result, physically fit recruits were typically filtered into Golani after being denied

acceptance to many of the most prestigious, volunteer units. However Golani’s successful

recapturing of Mt. Hermon during the Yom Kippur War and the subsequent media frenzy

contributed to the brigade’s current reputation as the IDF’s spearhead [ḥad ha’ḥanit] in

battle. In fact, the percentage of new recruits expressing a desire to serve in Golani

doubled between 1974 and 1980.27

Of primary importance to this study is the aura of equality that Golani

represented. Golani: Family of Warriors, a brigade history published in 1980, places

considerable emphasis on the unit’s heterogeneity.28

Several testimonies are included by

high ranking officers describing the high level of equality and comradery that

transcended Israeli social fissures. One officer mentioned how it was only during his

military service that he met “the second Israel,” while another claimed that the many

stereotypes applied to certain ethnic groups were dispelled during his service.29

It is

precisely this fact that makes this brigade the perfect case study for commemoration as it

reflects the entirety of Israeli society (barring the ultra-Orthodox and Muslim minority).

Of the 127 Golani soldiers who fell in 1973, roughly 63% were from urban areas while

36% were from kibbutzim or moshavim. Death did not discriminate in battle and

therefore one would certainly come across Sabras and immigrants, traditionalists and

secularists, Ashkenazim and Mizrachim, and even Druze among the casualty lists. In

27

Gal, Reuven. A Portrait of the Israeli Soldier (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1986), 64. 28

Beṭelhaim, Avi. Golani: Mishpaḥat Loḥamim (Mifḳedet Ḥativat Golani, Ḥinukh be-siyuʻa Ḳetsin ḥinukh rashi, ʻAnaf hasbarah be-emtsaʻut Misrad ha-biṭaḥon, 1980). 29 Ibid., 13-14.

14

light of this data and reputation, the Golani Brigade offers a unique opportunity to

uncover how the different strata of Israeli society commemorated their loved ones--

irrespective of ethnic ties, religious involvement, or location within Israel.

In large part, this study is based almost on Yizkor books that were printed

immediately following the Yom Kippur War and Six-Day War for Golani Brigade

soldiers. Though I tried to be as thorough as possible, it is impossible to be certain that I

have looked at every piece of commemorative writing for Golani soldiers from these

periods. In fact, the Golani Archive and Museum and Defense Ministry were unable

(perhaps unwilling) to provide me with a comprehensive list of Golani’s casualties during

the Yom Kippur War and Six Day War, let alone a comprehensive list with details

revealing how each soldier was commemorated.30

Admittedly, my research began somewhat haphazardly. After looking through a

public memorial list that contained the names of every Golani soldier that fell from 1948

to the present, including their date of death, I began to compile two separate casualty lists

for 1967 and 1973. To create a general sketch of each soldier’s background information,

including how they were commemorated after the war, I looked up each name in the two

volume Yizkor book released by the Defense Ministry. What emerged was an

enlightening, albeit general, prosopography for each war’s casualties, though this will be

discussed in greater detail later. In compiling the prosopography, I was able to get an

idea of how many soldiers were commemorated via Yizkor literature versus other means,

as listed earlier. Out of the 127 soldiers that were killed during the Yom Kippur War, 61

were featured in some form of commemorative literature. This proportion stands in stark

30

My visit to the Golani Archive and Memorial took place in early June 2012. During this visit, the manager of the archive cited his moral and professional responsibility to the families of fallen soldiers as his reason for not providing me with memorial materials.

15

contrast to the 34 out of 50 soldiers that were featured in some form of commemorative

literature following the Six-Day War.

While a majority of commemorative literature could be found in the National

Library of Israel, I was still unable to locate a Yizkor book for each soldier listed by the

Ministry of Defense as having received one.31

Nevertheless, as I will demonstrate, the

distinct narrative trends present in the available literature from 1967 and 1973 imply that

even the books that were untraceable would likely follow a similar pattern. Indeed, it

would be hasty to make any definitive claim as to why these books may not have been

submitted however one wonders whether these families elected to keep their

commemoration explicitly private out of a sense of embitterment or disaffection.

A Brief Overview of Memory Theory

Despite being a fairly recent hot topic in the academic world, theories of

collective memory have been undeniably influential across many disciplines and borders.

It should come as no surprise, then, that scholarship on Israeli collective memory builds

upon many of the most canonical writings concerning ideas of collective memory and

commemoration from Maurice Halbwachs to George Mosse. As such concentrated

expressions of memory, an analysis of Yizkor literature should naturally heed these

studies. This section will touch upon what I consider to be the most important writings

on collective memory for the purposes of this study.

31

The National Library of Israel is home to the largest collection of Hebraica and Judaica literature. Interestingly enough, all printed material is submitted to the library by law. All Yizkor literature is cataloged according to the last name of the soldier. It is thus interesting that some of this literature was untraceable.

16

The idea that individual memory is intrinsically linked to one’s social framework

can be traced back to Maurice Halbwachs. According to his theory, individual acts of

remembering naturally occur within a given social framework and are therefore held up

to the light of the present. Society is the site of every facet of memory from the moment

the event occurs to the later recollection, recognition, and localization of the event. The

act of remembering continuously negotiates with an existing collective memory and

ultimately becomes subservient to it. Halbwachs also points out that memories are

continuously recalled by the individual in light of a constantly changing collective

memory. Collective memory thus uses the social framework “to reconstruct an image of

the past which is in accord, in each epoch, with the predominant thoughts of the

society.”32

Using Halbwach’s scholarship on collective memory as a theoretical framework,

Yizkor literature from the Yom Kippur War must be interpreted against the backdrop of

Israeli collective memory. Like all nation states, the Zionist establishment invested

considerable energy to shape a collective memory that binds individuals together and

legitimates future goals. Commemoration, a fundamentally nostalgic act, cannot be

separated from the social framework in which it takes place. In this sense, Halbwach’s

placed too much emphasis on the influence of social context.

It is impossible to overstate the significance of Pierre Nora’s essay Between

Memory and History for the study of collective memory. Nora interprets memory as

being in a constant struggle with history. History encroaches upon the act of

remembering though is itself influenced by the multiplicity of memories in a given

32 Halbwachs, Maurice, and Lewis A. Coser. On Collective Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 40.

17

society. He argues that the result of this interaction is an invented landscape of memory

[lieux de memoire] that becomes an integral part of a society’s collective memory. This

lieux de memoire stands in opposition to the real environments of memory (milieux de

memoire) while also taking its place. In essence, Nora asserts that history has replaced

memory.

Is Yizkor literature then a secretion of pure memory, uninhibited by Israel’s

collective memory, or is it merely part of the vast lieux de memoire? In a sense, Yizkor

literature replaces the act of remembering. In a short and concentrated burst of

remembering, inspired by intense feelings of grief and loss, an individual is projected into

the vast landscape of collective memory. This act heeds the national call to remember

and reinforces the idea that “without commemorative vigilance, history would soon

sweep them away.”33

Yizkor literature can thus be thought of in terms of its place in

Israel’s lieux de memoire. Moreover, the commemorative genre is consciously and

continuously reinforced by society in an effort to immortalize death and protect against

the destructive nature of time.

Jan Assman’s theory of cultural memory builds upon Halbwach’s theory of social

conditioned memory.34

Assman argues that if collective memory perpetually negotiates

the formation of the individual memory, cultural memory is the passing down of a much

more immense temporal conception. Cultural memory is the degree to which individuals

connect to the past, are sustained by its significance, but are equally as instrumental in its

own sustenance. Finally, cultural memory is not static and is continually shaped

generation after generation.

33

Nora, Pierre. “Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire”. Representations 26, 7-24. (1989),12 34 It is only fair to mention that despite appearing under Jan Assman’s name, he credits Aleida Assman with helping conceive of this theory.

18

Assman’s analysis of Halbwach’s conception of collective memory indeed has

much to contribute to the present study. His idea of communicative memory, or narrative

memory, complements Halbwach’s conception of a memory shaped by social

interactions, but emphasizes the importance of interpretative factors. This point holds

significant weight when considering the act of remembering, through memorialization, an

individual killed in battle. Interpretative factors play a significant role in the

representation and commemoration of the individual in Israeli society. In this way,

commemoration communicates memory within the Neitzschean concept of society as a

straightjacket, ultimately subverting it into an act that supports communal goals and

functions.35

Paul Connerton reiterates the concept of social or collective memory in How

Societies Remember. He states that experiences are always placed in a social context to

ensure that they are intelligible to other members of the collective. Commemoration, as a

function of collective remembering, is also placed within the social context in an effort to

convey values that legitimate national aspirations. Connerton refers to commemoration

as an explicit reference to “prototypical persons and events” but is clearly alluding to the

commemoration of national figures (forefathers, national heroes, etc) and national events

(i.e. memorial day or independence day).36

While this is undoubtedly applicable to

Israeli society, Yizkor literature represents the linkage of a community of heroes with the

community of fallen. Each soldier is transformed into the prototypical person by virtue

of his personal sacrifice for the sake of the homeland.

35

Assmann, Jan and Rodney Livingstone. Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. 2006), 6. 36 Ibid.

19

Another way of conceptualizing Yizkor literature is based on Laurence Kirmayer’s

theory of the metaphorical landscape of memory. According to Kirymayer's definition,

landscapes of memory constitute a multiplicity of memories that hold personal and social

significance and contribute to the way one remembers a significant event. Echoing the

theories of Assman and Halbwachs, Kirmayer states that landscapes of memory are

culturally constructed.37

Trauma narratives become part of this landscape of memory if

the event is recognized and integrated into the collective identity, though never

unconditionally. Kirmayer emphasizes that trauma narratives are placed in a "moral

quarantine" wherein they are restricted by the social order. Deviation often leads to

social ostracism and delegitimization thus having a considerable impact on the formation

of these narratives. The content of Yizkor literature from the Yom Kippur War should be

thought of then as conforming to the moral quarantine of Israeli society.

Israeli National Memory and Commemoration

Born out of the fire of war and continuing until the present day, Israelis often

perceive their national story as a relentless cycle of tragedies, victims, and sacrifices.

Popular representations of Israeli national history are steeped in what Salo Baron referred

to as the “lachrymose conception of Jewish history”. This perception has been channeled

into an extensive network of commemoration that is simply part and parcel of the Israeli

national identity. On one hand, it is manifested in the physical landscape of Israel

through monuments, bulletin boards, placards, and literature. On the other, it is firmly

entrenched in Israel’s temporal structure, demarcated by national days of remembrance

37 It should be useful to note that Kirmayer’s study focuses on the parallel trauma narratives among Holocaust survivors and child-abuse victims.

20

and commemoration. Even before 1948, the emergence of a “cult of the fallen” set a

commemorative precedent that would be followed during each violent rupture. It would

also become a yardstick by which Israel’s national ethos could be measured.38

Though

Yizkor literature is only one means of memorialization, it occupies an important place in

the Israeli commemorative tradition.

Scholarly approaches to Israeli collective memory have been largely

interdisciplinary and interconnected. They are in large part inspired by scholarship on

European collective memory and apply a similar methodology to the Israeli context. In a

sense, studies on collective memory work in tandem – that is to say, as each respective

scholar examines the Israeli national memory from a different field, the entire subject

benefits. And while a brief overview of memory theory was no doubt beneficial, other

works related to collective memory on an international scale, while still important, are

outside the scope of this paper, which will focus on scholarship related to Israeli

collective memory.

The creation of a distinctly Israeli collective memory naturally began prior to the

establishment of the state in 1948 and thus occupies a prominent role in the literature. In

Yael Zerubavel’s Recovered Roots: Collective Memory and the Making of Israeli

National Tradition a handful of Israel’s most important national myths, manifested in

popular culture and mainstream education, are meticulously deconstructed. Using the

cases of Bar-Kokhba, Tel Hai, and Masada, Zerubavel highlights how the predominant

38 George Mosse coined this term In Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars, referencing the intensive commemoration of German soldiers. Mosse links the commemoration of French soldiers during the Napoleonic War and the German Wars of Liberation. This network of commemoration serves as a constant reminder of the glory of war and national sacrifice even during times of peace. Moreover, the cult of the fallen soldier masks the cruelty and brutality of war in an effort to justify future conflict.

21

commemorative narrative used selections from Jewish history to create a shared past and

legitimate future. According to Zerubavel’s interpretation, this process was not inventive

but rather selective in its reading of history. The interaction between remembering and

forgetting, between inclusion and exclusion is in its very essence central to the Israeli

commemorative tradition.

Another important work is Emmanuel Sivan’s 1948 Generation: Myth, Profile,

and Memory which examines in on the commemoration of soldiers from the 1948 War of

Independence with a special focus on Yizkor literature. Taking some of the most widely

held myths concerning the war and its causalities, Sivan demonstrates the extent that

Yizkor literature contributed to the way the 1948 war is categorized. The study begins

with the widely held notion that 1948 was the bloodiest war in terms of its death toll and

that the casualties consisted primarily of young men between the ages of 18 and 25 and

women. However according to Sivan, the heavy toll exacted upon the civilian population

was neglected and is therefore outside the scope of commemoration. Moreover, he

grapples with the popular misconception that in 1948, an entire generation of young

Sabras was wounded [nifga] during the war and as a result, the Yishuv and the future state

of Israel suffered a considerable loss in terms of future leaders and elite. Once again, a

more nuanced examination reveals that the death toll among Sabras was actually more or

less identical to that of recent immigrants and Jews that had grown up in Palestine,

though Sabras overwhelmed the post-war commemoration. If nothing else, Sivan’s study

emphasizes the potential of Yizkor literature in contributing to Israel’s collective memory

while at the same time functioning as an extension of social trends.

22

Eight years after the publication of 1948 Generation, Sivan expanded his analysis

of Israeli war commemoration in an essay entitled Private Pain and Public Remembrance

in Israel By analyzing the commemorative trends following the War of Independence,

Six Day War, Yom Kippur War, and Lebanon War, Sivan argues that in fact,

commemoration and in particular Yizkor literature echoed the social and political

dialogues during each respective conflict. If Sivan’s argument is to be followed, Yizkor

literature is an active agent in the creation of Israel’s collective memory. It must be

assumed, therefore, that Yizkor literature following the Yom Kippur War not only

reflected the broader societal feelings of betrayal and doubt over the meaning of war and

sacrifice but contributed to the prominent position of these feelings in the Israeli national

narrative. As a whole, Yizkor literature embodies a process of remembering, mourning,

and healing that occurs on a small, personal level but becomes a national act.

The integration of Yizkor literature into the Israeli commemorative network

coincided with a period of intensive negotiations between the state and bereaved families.

Maoz Azaryahu traces the development of different commemorate patterns following the

War of Independence, with a focus on military parades, military graveyards, headstones,

and Yizkor literature. Through an active negotiation between state institutions and

bereaving families, the commemoration of fallen soldiers took on a distinctly patriotic

element. Azaryahu rightly draws attention to the expressed obligation of the state

towards bereaved families and demonstrates how commemoration becomes “symbolic

compensation” to the families. The bereaved family is transformed into a separate

societal unit through its relationship with the state and comes to embody national

sacrifice. It is precisely this dynamic that, according to Azaryahu, played a significant

23

role in Israeli society’s reaction to bereavement. The formulation of Yizkor literature thus

becomes an extension of this relationship, though we will see that this is not always the

case.

A central component to Israel’s national commemorative tradition is the

symbiotic relationship between its “cult of the fallen” and commemorative style. Though

we have already seen how memorialization stirred up a significant debate among Zionist

leaders prior to the War of Independence, 1948 crystallized many of the most popular

notions of heroic sacrifice: the few versus the many, and the notion that individual

heroism can lead to military victory. The War of Independence also articulated the social

obligation to pay homage to those who “in death, commanded us [the community] to

live”, as the popular expression goes. Commemoration assumed the leading role in

linking these violent deaths to the nation and its survival thereby glorifying military

service and national sacrifice. While Yizkor books certainly reflected these

commemorative patterns, they were much more prevalent in institutional forms of

commemoration.

Against this backdrop, the stories of Masada and Bar Kokhba, the focus of

Zerubavel’s study, assume a startling new relevance. These narratives transformed the

fallen of 1948 into a community immune to the passing of time that “rests on the patterns

of thinking and sophisticated mechanisms of commentary that existed in the Hebrew-

native tradition that developed in Israel.”39

National sacrifice becomes characteristically

mythological and is fueled by stories of individual acts of heroism in battle. It should

thus be point out, that heroism becomes a function of violence, confined to the battlefield

39

Azaryahu, Maoz, and Merkaz le-moreshet Ben-Guryon. Pulḥane Medinah: ḥagigot Ha-ʻatsmaʾut ṿe-hantsaḥat Ha-noflim, 1948-1956 (Ḳiryat Śedeh-Boḳer : [Beersheba]: ha-Merkaz le-moreshet Ben-Guryon, 1995), 116.

24

and violent death. Despite the tremendous resolve of civilians to continue functioning

throughout the 1948 war, they were largely excluded from commemoration.40

Though Yizkor literature offers an excellent insight into how the Israeli national

ethos is articulated, it can also be used as an ideological map Zionist ideology’s gradual

development. Focusing on the Yizkor book of 1911 – indeed the first Yizkor book

published in the Yishuv- Jonathan Frankel argues that “nowhere else, perhaps, is it

possible to observe in so concentrated a manner, the process by which members of the

Second Aliya were developing ways of thought and speech suffused with mythological

motifs.”41

This Yizkor book set the commemorative precedent that elevated violent death

over passive death and infused it with mythological imagery. Equally as important, the

Yizkor book of 1911 exhibited the degree to which this rhetoric was met with opposition

from other community members. And yet regardless of the dominant narrative that

emerged out of this ideological clash, this was certainly not the last time that

commemoration became the sight of ideological disagreements.

In fact, the entire premise of Israel’s national ethos rests on the unequivocal

connection between antiquity and modernity. This supposed link “continuously

negotiates between available historical records and current social and political agendas”

in an unending search for legitimacy.42

Through an elaborate network of

commemoration, the Israeli national ethos became integrated into schools, youth

movements, and most other facets of public life through universalized education and

40

See Sivan, Dor Tasha"ḥ: Mitos, Dyoḳan ṿe-ziḳaron. 41

Frankel. The “Yizkor” Book of 1911: A Note on National Myths in the Second Aliya. 357. 42 Zerubavel, Yael. Recovered Roots: Collective Memory and the Making of Israeli National Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 5.

25

memorialized days."43

There can be no doubt that state efforts towards creating a

cohesive national culture were tremendously successful. As we will see in chapter two,

Yizkor literature retained a seemingly unbreakable connection with the national ethos,

even during periods of social upheaval.

Mourning, Loss, and War in Israel:

Israel’s history of protracted conflict has had an immense impact on the way that

Israeli’s respond and interpret death. Commemoration, though extremely important in

the articulation of these responses, is equally as dependent on expressions of

bereavement. Studies of bereavement and social responses to war are relatively recent

phenomena in Israel though the topic has unquestionably demanded attention. This

section highlights some of what I found to be the most relevant and important scholarship

on mourning, loss, and war in Israel. Many of these studies have emerged within the

field of psychology though I will focus primarily on the elements that are related to

bereavement, loss, and war as expressed through commemoration.

The prominent place of war and death in the Israeli collective experience touches

upon Emile Durkheim’s notion of altruistic suicide. Israel’s culture of conformism

during the first decades of statehood, though still persisting to various degrees into the

twenty first century, creates an environment in which altruistic sacrifice flourishes.

Within this environment, the social needs of society are transformed into moral

obligations. In cases where war is perceived as a primary component of societal

sustenance, national sacrifice becomes a moral national obligation. As Whitney Pope

43 Ben-Amos, Avner and Bet-El, Ilana. Holocaust Day and Memorial Day in Israeli Schools: Ceremonies, Education, and History. Israel Studies 4 (1, 1999), 258.

26

notes in her analysis of Durkheim, “compliance yields honor and glory; failure to

comply, disgrace.”44

Yizkor literature is the quintessential reflection of this process

though it is merely one component among many. The soldier is transformed from a

passive agent into a national model by willingly sacrificing himself for the nation.

A significant part of the scholarship on bereavement and commemoration in Israel

touches on the interaction between the collective and the individual. As demonstrated by

Yoram Bilu and Eliezer Witztum, the interconnectivity of personal and collective

bereavement has a powerful effect on the dynamics of commemoration. Bereaving

families, which constitute a more exclusivist “family of bereavement, are expected to

contextualize their loss and articulate it in terms of the national ethos. While they are not

denied their intense feelings of grief, the central position of patriotic death and sacrifice

in Israeli society has shaped the way families express. As the national ethos is

scrutinized, bereavement is subjected to greater assertions of individuality. Bilu and

Witztum therefore claim that changing conceptions vis-à-vis national values invariably

affects the way bereavement is expressed.

Meira Weiss picks up on this dynamic and emphasizes the standardization of

death through the appropriation of bereavement and commemoration by the collective.

The state infuses bereavement with political utility and social mobility thereby

transforming death-in-battle into the embodiment of national principles. At the same

time, families that have experienced the loss of a loved one in battle become inseparable

members of an exclusive subgroup in Israeli society that is afforded considerable respect

and leverage. Furthermore, public commemoration depersonalizes the individual in order

to reinforce national values. And while this ideology may be challenged, Weiss makes

44 Pope, Whitney. Durkheim's Suicide: A Classic Analyzed (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), 20.

27

clear that public commemoration still reinforces a collective identity that continues to be

held in a critical light.45

Bereavement within Israeli society has also been the focus of extensive research

from a clinical perspective. While this is certainly outside the scope of this paper, many

of the findings have important implications for the study of commemoration in Israel.

After counseling 102 parents that had lost a son in the Yom Kippur War or Lebanon War,

a fascinating picture emerged: the loss of a son in war left a powerful existential feeling

that continued unabated for upwards of fifteen years.”46

These findings clearly indicate

that the social pressures on many bereaving parents to put their loss within the context of

national sacrifice have little remedial effect.

45 Weiss, Meira. “Bereavement, Commemoration, and Collective Identity, in Contemporary Israeli Society” Anthropological Quarterly, 70 (2, 1997), 91-100. 46

Rubin and Dicterman, Teguvot horim shekholim l’nepilat ben b’milkhama of Malkinson, Ruth, Simon Rubin, and Eliezer Witztum. Ovdan U-shekhol Ba-ḥevrah Ha-Yiśre’elit (Yerushalayim : [Tel Aviv]: Kanah, 1993), 54.

28

Chapter One

Narrative Structure and Thematic Continuity

Omer Grynsztein and Yehuda Amichai stand shoulder to shoulder: Grynsztein in

a black and white photo and Amichai in a five line poem. Omer peers over black rimmed

glasses which subtly betray his date of death. Beneath this standard military photograph

are just two dates and a name: “Omer Grynsztein Born: December 20, 1953” “Fell:

October 22, 1973.” Amichai’s words begin where the picture ends:

Even those who never knew him

love him after his death

love him: now there is a space

an empty place whose form is his form

whose name is his name.47

This format is repeated time and again in the Israeli commemorative landscape,

signifying the opening of a Yizkor book. Titles declaring the contents of the book are

simply unnecessary. Over the next thirty three pages, Omer’s life is revealed in careful

detail. Accompanying photographs of playful infants and smiling youth are descriptions

of Omer’s childhood that cannot hide their motherly voice. His weight at birth and

weight upon leaving the hospital stream into an ocean of precise details marking the

archetypal beginning of many Yizkor books.

As the book progresses, the reader becomes immersed in personal expressions of

47 Grynsztein, Omer. Yizkor books will henceforth be cited simply by the last and first name of the fallen soldier.

29

grief and nostalgia. The narratives of Omer’s friends and comrades connect to those of

his parents inspiring a complex web of memories. Battle stories sprout naturally from

tales of high school tiulim [hikes] in the Israeli frontier. Scattered amongst these tales are

impossible attempts at consoling Omer’s parents.

This chapter will examine the Yizkor books on two fronts: the first will analyze

the narrative structure shared by this particular commemorative genre. In other words, it

will examine the representation of a Golani soldier's life in a specific chronological order

from infancy until his death in the Yom Kippur war, which highlights certain milestones

and achievements. The biography of the soldier, narrated in this highly standardized

structure, at once emphasizes the individual's personal uniqueness and his belonging to a

broader national story. The latter element forms a second layer of the Yizkor books. That

is to say, the underlying national discourse becomes embedded not only in the structure

of the collective narrative but also in the language of masculinity and national identity.

The compilation of a standard Yizkor book necessarily entailed the cooperation of family,

friends, and the state. In most cases, tensions between the individual story and collective

narrative are carefully sublimated and masked. There however are a few striking

moments in which these unresolved contradictions erupt while remaining firmly within

the narrative structure of the book.

Finally, I will analyze common thematic elements tying together each book while

consistently referencing Yizkor commemoration from the Six-Day War. The significance

of the Yizkor book’s content is compounded in light of the unlimited number of memories

that were not included in this book. As Dan Sperber and Deirdre Wilson argue, people

first find pieces of information that are worth sharing with others and then “select a

30

context which will justify that hope: a context which will maximize relevance.”48

The

result is that each narrative, however seemingly banal or parenthetical, contributes to a

complex, multidimensional construction of heroism existing within the Israeli collective

consciousness.

Structure of Yizkor Literature

Structurally, Yizkor literature maintains a rigid chronological format that maps the

trajectory of the individual’s life. Each book typically begins with a maternal eulogy or

anecdote describing the subject’s infancy or childhood. In some cases, a narrative from

someone closest to the soldier replaces the maternal narrative. These narratives naturally

emanate from the immediate family and focus on the individual’s relationship to the

place in which he grew up. As the Yizkor book unfolds, contributors become increasingly

disassociated with the individual’s immediately family. The commemorative narrative

swells, radiating outward to include friends, teachers, neighbors and comrades-in-arms.

The structural uniformity, while on the one hand reflecting the typical life

trajectory of an Israeli male, standardizes a particularistic conception of Israeli life that

culminates in a heroic death. The subject is born, goes to school, joins a youth movement

or hikes with his friends, and upon completion of high school, volunteers for service in a

combat unit. When the inevitable war breaks out, the soldier dies in battle defending his

comrades and homeland. For reservists, this chronology is expanded to accommodate

earlier wars, travels, and employment. War punctuates the subject’s historical timeline

48 Sperber, Dan, and Deirdre Wilson. Relevance: Communication and Cognition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986), 142

31

creating a feedback loop which is seemingly inescapable. The structure of the Yizkor

book provides a temporal restriction in which death in battle is projected as the peak of

the individual’s life by virtue of its prominence within the book.

To illustrate the prototypical structure of Yizkor literature, take the example of

Moshe Timsit, commemorated as part of a Yizkor book to the relatives of Bank HaPoalim

workers. Though relatively brief, Moshe’s commemoration retains a heavy emphasis on

his military career. Towering above a nine-line summary of his life is the slogan: “the

soldier who wanted to hoist the flag on Mt. Hermon.” To the right is a photograph of

Moshe staring coldly in his military beret and uniform (fig. 1). In lieu of family

photographs, poetry, or a somber eulogy is a brief in biography: “Moshe (Morris) Timsit

was born in Morocco. When he was nine years old, he immigrated to Israel and settled

with his family in Kiryat-Shmona.”49

The introduction summarizes where Moshe

attended school, what he studied, his military trajectory, and finally the circumstances

surrounding his death on October 22, in the battle to recapture Mt. Hermon. The next

section, entitled “To Moshe’s Character” reveals how Moshe was perceived by his

friends and comrades. One learns that, among other things, Moshe loved carpentry and

repair work, chose his friends carefully, and was the first to give up his seat to the elderly

in the bomb shelter. The last section, “The Story of the Battle” recounts in greater detail

how Moshe was killed while shielding a friend who had run out of ammunition (fig. 2).

Perhaps mirroring the abruptness of Moshe’s death, the final line of his commemoration

reads: “At the very moment, [Moshe] was hit in the neck with a bullet and fell.”

49 Timsit, Moshe.

32

Moshe’s commemoration exemplifies the tension presented by Yizkor literature’s

structural rigidity. Contributors appear restrained by the prototypical structure of Yizkor

literature and are thus unable to find the balance between commemorating Moshe ‘the

brother’ or ‘the son’ and Moshe ‘the hero’. As a result, each section reads as if directed

outward toward the national collective rather than his closed circle of friends and family.

The overwhelming focus on his military service and death in battle, juxtaposed with the

absence of personal eulogies directed at Moshe’s pre-military life, projects the image of

youth as a mere precursor to death in battle. In this way, the structure is an integral

component in the enforcement of heroic narratives. Even still, a sharper analysis of

Yizkor literature reveals a collection of individual narratives which are informed by, and

inform, the commemorative narrative.

On the whole, individual narratives can be considered contributions which relate

to specific moments in the subject’s life. They mirror the temporal structure of the

commemorative narrative and generally begin with the moment when the contributor met

the individual. Broadly speaking, individual narratives conclude at the moment when the

contributor discovers that the subject has been killed. This format is maintained in the

Yizkor book of Ehud, an officer who died in the Golan Heights. Dorit, a childhood

friend, recalls meeting Ehud in kindergarten in a transcribed conversation between what

one assumes is Ehud’s closest group of friends. Her three-paragraph anecdote impresses

upon the reader a sense that Ehud is a polite, caring individual with strong familial and

kinship bonds. Her narrative is then interrupted and passed on to another contributor.

Finally, toward the end of the Yizkor book, Dorit recounts the moment when she

discovered that Ehud had been killed:

33

When we heard on the radio about more than 600 killed, we understood that they

probably wouldn’t release the names of anyone. I sat and waited by the telephone

that they might notify who died, but they didn’t notify anyone. I went to sleep

with a calm heart. The next day, my mother-in-law told me that they called from

Beit-Keshet and told me that Ehud was killed.50

Dorit’s narrative ends with the news of Ehud’s death. Yizkor literature, as such, is a

continuous juggling act between distinct individual narratives.

Adding an additional layer of complexity to Yizkor literature’s narrative structure,

one can conceptualize individual narratives as functioning within two commemorative

spaces: the private and the national collective. In the private commemorative space,

family and friends memorialize the subject by recreating his life through a multiplicity of

personal testimonies related to a given life stage. Within this level, individual narratives

are merely biographical thus emphasizing the subject’s humanity. For example, Shai

Plati was born in Kibbutz Maoz Haim on October 28, 1952. He was active in youth

movements, enjoyed hiking, and volunteered for the Golani Brigade’s Special Forces

because he wanted to challenge himself. Photographs, poetry, and correspondence are all

employed to familiarize the readership with the fallen soldier. Upon opening Shai’s

Yizkor book, one finds a picture of him as a baby, peering curiously at the camera during

a section of the book dedicated to his childhood. Another picture shows Shai and a

friend, perhaps already teenagers, standing posed in front of a building. The agency

involved in choosing each biographical detail rebuffs the standardized conception of

death that is reinforced by institutionalized commemoration. Gravestones, military

burials and the average page long eulogy included in the Department of Defense Yizkor

anthology may not be perceived as sufficient in memorializing a loved one. As a result,

50 Ben-Gara, Ehud.

34

individual narratives frequently maintain complete honesty in an attempt to recreate the

subject in all of his insecurities.

When individual narratives are placed in the national collective commemorative

space, individual narratives articulate commemoration through an institutional language,

demonstrating the extent to which the Israeli national ethos permeates commemoration

and the bereavement process. In this space, individual narratives articulate memory in a

way that can successfully radiate outward and become meaningful to the collective. To

be sure, this does not imply distinct narratives. On the contrary, each contribution

functions simultaneously within each commemorative space.

Common Tropes

Setting aside the predominantly monolithic structure, common tropes also serve

as a point of unification for Yizkor literature. Of the many similarities, the most common

thematic elements to emerge out of Yizkor literature from the Yom Kippur War were

narratives of land attachment; military service and war; and death and personal sacrifice.

In one sense, the ubiquity of these thematic elements problematizes an interpretation of

Yizkor literature as a private mode of commemoration, free from the normative guidance

of institutional commemoration.

Narratives of Land Attachment

Early Zionist writings on the land of Israel convey an existential attachment to the

physical land. Boaz Neumann argues that this rhetoric must not be perceived as

35

rhetorical or allegorical. On the contrary, the language of the halutzim whom Neumann

describes as the “paradigmatic Zionists” must be taken at face value if one is to fully

grasp the extent of their existential “being-in-the-land.”51

When put into writing, this

affinity was translated as a central component of Zionism’s national ethos. Familiarizing

oneself with Israel’s physical landscape – knowing each rock or tree – was central to the

Zionist experience and could not be achieved from a distance.

Among my sampling of Yizkor literature, commemorative narratives emphasizing

the subject’s personal connection to Israel’s physical landscape occupy an important

position. Given that familiarity with the land can only be achieved through exploration,

hiking (or tiulim) is the primary activity of choice that ties together so much of the Yizkor

literature from both 1967 and 1973. Expressions of attachment to the physical land of

Israel range in their descriptions from marginalized anecdotes to the main focus of the

Yizkor book. Daniel Vardon, part of Golani's elite reconnaissance, is an example of how

this theme is subtly incorporated into commemoration. Among the detailed, often

grizzly, accounts of battle that take pride of place in Daniel Vardon's commemoration is

just a few sentences highlighting Daniel's relationship to Israel's physical landscape. In

two paragraphs, following pages of battle descriptions, Daniel's friend, Gidi, describes

the details of their hikes. When their bodies had reached physical maturity, they naturally

began to explore Israel's landscape, reaching familiarity by virtue of physical immersion.

Together, they covered great distances, with Daniel in the lead due to his “wide steps and

agility”.52

The sights they encountered “astounded [Daniel's) heart and mouth in their

rugged expression”, surprising the two when the landscapes validated what they had

51 Neumann, Land and Desire in Early Zionism, 1. 52 Vardon, Daniel.

36

previously studied on maps. While physical immersion in the land of Israel is impressed

upon the reader as a natural, national pastime, Daniel excels at it.

Gidi's recollection, however sparse, creates a link between Daniel’s heroism,

displayed in battle, and his existential connection to the land told through stories of

hiking. In this case, the connection manifests itself in stories of bonding between the two

men. In other Yizkor books, however, the connection between Israeli-Being and physical

connections with the land takes pride of place.

One of the most concentrated examples of this phenomenon appears in Avi’s

Yizkor book, the same Avi who was described above according to his dislike the military

establishment. Even before opening the book, the cover reveals a serene sand dune

sloping upward, away from Avi’s name, printed in the top left of the cover. Footsteps

follow the sloping dune into the horizon, their owner invisible to the observer, but

presumably Avi’s. The opening pages carry this theme forward with poetic anecdotes of

a young Avi proclaiming his love for nature.

It was the hour of the setting sun. The sight was exciting. The child stood

enchanted looking over the sea, over the sunset, and called: “Behold the

wonderland”. Already at a young age, he discovered a special love for the beauty

of nature.53

As Avi matured, his affinity for nature grew, making him increasingly reclusive and

closed off to other people in favor of an independent life lived in the wild. While Avi did

not lack friend and loved ones, his reclusiveness is often juxtaposed with his love for

nature. Following the typical temporal trajectory of other Yizkor books, Avi’s love for

nature becomes dominates the commemorative narrative as the book progresses. Pictures

53 Yaakov, Aviezer (Avi).

37

of bare-chested, tan young men wielding pick axes and shovels accompany stories of Avi

leading groups of tourists through the Sinai desert. Whereas Daniel embraced Israel’s

landscape as a facet of his Israeli Being, Avi’s existence was synonymous with the

physical land of Israel, integral and irrevocable.

The prominent role of physical space in Israeli commemorative narratives

stretches across temporal boundaries, creating a link between the earliest Zionist Yizkor

books and those from the Yom Kippur War. Given the physical demands of the Golani

Brigade, it may be tempting to underestimate or write-off the connection between Israeli-

ness and physical land. After all, it would be natural to assume that individuals with an

affinity for nature and physical activity, particularly hiking, would make quality

infantrymen. Examining the Yizkor book of a non-Golani soldier, side by side with those

of a soldier from the Golani Brigade puts this point into perspective. Dani Berenheim, a

kibbutznik in the artillery corps, was killed while attempting to evacuate his wounded

comrades on October 20, 1973 during an Egyptian rocket barrage. He left behind a wife

and infant daughter. Dani Berenheim’s Yizkor book, perhaps more than any other,

demonstrates the extent to which Yizkor books utilize a language familiar to the

collective.

Covering Dani’s Yizkor book is a black and white photograph of Israel’s national

flower, the cyclamen [rakefet]. Opening to the first page, Dani’s mother recounts the

story of how one day, Dani returned home from an artillery exercise with a large bag on

his back. When his mother asked him about the contents of the bag, he responded that

during the exercise, they had blown up rocks with heavy explosives. When the

38

explosions subsided, the soldiers saw that scattered throughout the field were cyclamen

that had been growing between the rocks. As Dani’s mother recounts:

When everyone went to relax, Dani took a large bag and meticulously collected

the cyclamen bulbs until the sack was full, for Dani’s heart hurt at the destruction

of nature caused by the explosion. Here, look through the window of our house

and you will see these bulbs growing in our garden – here they are.54

The cyclamen could not be left to lie strewn throughout the field. As the Yizkor book

progresses, additional personal anecdotes reinforce the portrayal of Dani, the sensitive,

reluctant warrior. A picture of a young, smiling Dani next to a black and white puppy

accompanies another story recounted by his mother, explaining Dani’s love for

domesticating and caring for animals. Setting aside the heartbreaking imagery in these

stories, there is a subtle message complementing the commemorative narrative of his

Yizkor book. Behind the man who sacrificed his life attempting to save his comrades is a

compassionate, sensitive person.

The prominent position of physical land in each commemorative narrative is

tightly connected with ideals of heroism. Dani’s Yizkor book may not explicitly heroicize

him on the biographical level yet it is nevertheless implicit. Each contributor to the book

frames Dani as a gentle, sensitive, selfless individual, the culmination of which is his

death in battle. At surface level, these memories are nostalgic reflections by bereaving

parents. When placed within the broader commemorative genre, it is difficult to ignore

the extent to which bereaving friends and family remember their loved ones through a

familiar lexicon. This analysis should not be misconstrued as undermining the

authenticity of the bereaving families. Instead, examining commemoration through the

54 Berenheim, Dani, 2.

39

lens of social change and collective memory sharpens one’s understanding of how even

commemoration can become a venue for the expression of national values.

Yom Kippur War Yizkor literature negotiates between the familiar language of the

halutzim and the social reality of seventies. As other forms of commemoration, namely

personal and group monuments, began to reflect the changing social atmosphere, Yizkor

literature maintained a similar tone to years past.55

Perhaps because of the centrality of

Yizkor literature within the Israeli commemorative tradition and the familiarity of its

language to the Israeli public, deviations from the norm are exceptional and stand out as

such.

Narratives of Military Service and War

The military in Israel represents the meeting point between the individual and the

collective. It is a social mechanism that at once equalizes and discriminates. It is no

secret that Israel’s political and economic elite are drawn largely from military roles

deemed as prestigious or elite. On the other hand, it has often been argued that minority

groups who do not serve in the military are not entitled to equal social capital and are

thus unequal. In this sense, military service is the yardstick by which one’s social value

is measured and deemed part of the collective.

A definitive, perhaps unsurprising, thematic element tying together Yizkor books

in my sampling is the expression of dislike for the military as an institution. It may be

55

Ilana Shamir has explored this topic in detail in her book Commemoration and Memory. Shamir argues that monuments reflected dominant social moods after the Yom Kippur War, Lebanon War, and First Intifada. Applying this approach to Yizkor literature from the Yom Kippur War, however, would be misguided.

40

tempting to interpret these narratives as unpatriotic or deviant however the opposite is in

fact true. Expressions of dislike for the military as an institution are consistently

juxtaposed with the subject’s strong sense of civic responsibility thus lending an element

of credibility to the idea of patriotic sacrifice. The Israeli combat soldier emerges as a

reluctant warrior who, while uneager to fight, is ready to fill his moral responsibility to

the nation.

Nimrod Bin was born in a kibbutz to two Holocaust survivors. When it came

time to enlist, he volunteered for a combat unit, but as his narrative suggests, not out of

love for the military. Unlike the rebellious, warring Nimrod of Genesis, Nimrod Bin

enlisted with the understanding that life in Israel necessitates fighting. There is simply is

no free will in this matter. According to an unidentified contributor:

In the depths of his heart, Nimrod was not a military man and didn’t love this.

However, the responsibility, the obligation, and the recognition made him into an

elite soldier, part of an elite unit – effective, active, and volunteering to the best of

his ability.56

This narrative, at its core, projects the military as an institution that should not

appreciated in and of itself. Instead, the tacit understanding that one must fight to defend

his homeland buttresses the need for the military. When Alon, a family friend, takes this

point further and maintains that Nimrod “hated the army, war and murder” [emphasis

added], his determination to volunteer for an elite unit becomes all the more virtuous and

selfless.

Aviezer (Avi) Yakov, an Ashkenazi kibbutznik who began his service in the

paratroopers, only later serving as an officer in one of Golani’s battalions, disliked the

56 Bin, Nimrod.

41

military inasmuch as he was described as introverted and misanthropic. Contrary to

Nimrod Bin who at times seems like the archetypal Israeli, Avi rejected his structured

kibbutz lifestyle and any attempts by family and friends to dictate his future. Throughout

his Yizkor book, Avi is described as a compassionate yet introverted individual who was

deeply attached to the freedom he found in nature. From an early age “he could not put

up with ‘authority’ and had a difficult time conforming to life in a fixed framework”.

However, when Avi was a student at an agricultural school, his mother noted that he

completed tasks out of a sense of “collective responsibility” rather than obligation. The

tension between Avi’s rebelliousness and his responsibility to the collective is

compounded when he reaches the age of eighteen and must enlist.

Similar to the narratives found in the other Yizkor books, Avi’s dislike of the

military is repeatedly woven into the larger narrative emphasizing his willingness to

fight. At times these assertions even appear as superfluous. Avi is projected as a one

who “never liked the army and hated wars” but then again, who does? Another testimony

from his teacher recalls his reactions to Avi’s enlistment in the army: “When Avi enlisted

in the army, I asked myself more than once: Avi is capable of being a soldier? His

whole being was contrary to that of a soldier. I couldn’t imagine Avi holding a gun!”

The narrator’s incredulity at the idea of Avi becoming a soldier should strike the reader

as unusual. Kibbutzim are well-known producers of combat soldiers so it seems unlikely

that this is incredulousness is genuine. In fact, two lines after his mother acknowledges

his sense of “collective responsibility”, she recounts how Avi, “together with many of his

friends volunteered for the paratroopers [emphasis added]”. In light of traditional Zionist

ideals that place such a strong emphasis on military service, what is the function of this

42

narrative?

Narratives describing a reluctance to fight or disdain for the military define, or

perhaps redefine, the image of heroism in Israel. On the one hand, the hero is

transformed from the superhuman into the human. This definition distracts from

traditional Western images of the hero as an aggressive, macho alpha male and reinforces

the idea that in Israel, heroic deeds are the natural response to conflict. These narratives

suggest that one’s dislike for the military legitimates national sacrifice. Yizkor literature

may portray their subjects as the unlikely soldier who hated the military yet their decision

to volunteer for a combat unit is seen as a natural course of action.

Reflecting the optimistic social environment, commemorative narratives from the

Six-Day War are naturally less likely to express negative feelings toward the military. As

we have seen, this does not necessarily imply complete uniformity however, as one

should expect, Yizkor literature emerging after the Six-Day War seems to accommodate

expressions of love for the military. At times, these expressions are parenthetical,

perhaps a brief mention of the individual’s pride for the military inserted into the general

jubilee following the war. In others, love for the military dominates the biographical and

collective narratives, detracting from the Yizkor book as a private expression of grief and

nostalgia.

Though not emblematic of all Yizkor literature from the Six Day War, many Yizkor

books devote an overwhelming majority of the commemorative space to the valorization

of the military. In the commemoration of Arieh Ambern, his military service is the axis

of his Yizkor book and therefore comes off as the essence of his life. The Yizkor book

43

reveals little information about Arieh’s personal relationships and instead focuses almost

exclusively on his military service, death, and overall appreciation for the military. His

wife recalls a story told to her by Arieh’s mother, in which a five-year-old Arieh observed

soldiers training near their home. Staying on the topic of Arieh’s love for the military, his

wife recalls childhood pictures in which, at the age of fourteen, Arieh stood holding a

machine gun near a Golani military base. Three years later, he even tried to volunteer for

military service before the mandatory age of enlistment. Much to his chagrin, his parents

blocked him. As the Yizkor book continues, Arieh’s love for the military is expressed in

personal quotes rather than personal stories. “He dedicated his entire life to his duty”

writes his wife, “he would always say: ‘Every member of my family is so dear to me

however the army and state always come first.’”57

The centrality of Arieh’s military

service reveals the extent to which the commemorative narratives can become more about

national values than the private pain.

Whereas commemorative narratives from the Yom Kippur War seem more at ease

in their dislike for the military, many of the narratives from the Six-Day War engage the

military establishment in a way that is surprisingly resonant with Yom Kippur War Yizkor

literature. These narratives cast light on the effects of the military on the individual and

the way in which he responds to the challenges of military life. Moshe Pinkas, a

Bulgarian immigrant who made Aliyah at the age of three, may not have loved the

military, however within the scope of his commemoration, this point is irrelevant. What

is relevant, however, is that the Yizkor book conveys the message that upon joining the

army, “Moshe did everything in his power to fill what was incumbent upon him to the

57 L’Zeher Kadishim (Acco Municipality).

44

best of his ability.”58

All of this, of course, was in spite of the overwhelming physical

and mental challenges imposed by the military. One contributor writes:

He was sent to Golani, one of the most difficult units to serve in the Israeli army

and he never complained about it…he left, together with many others, to fight for

the defense of the homeland.59

Military service is presented as a transformative component of the Israeli experience

which presents a challenge that is easily overcome by the love for the homeland.

Though many of the commemorative narratives from the Six-Day War may not be

as forthright as Arieh’s commemoration, there is a discernible optimism that varies in

intensity from narrative to narrative. The commemoration of Dani Vardom, whose

service in Golani’s Special Forces was consistently connected to his love of land, may

never state outright that he loved the military; however this message is delivered through

a multiplicity of personal anecdotes related to his military service. Dani embraced his

military service, acting as “a leader among other new recruits, member of all the military

sports teams, loved by all of the instructors, and leading every sing.”60

The military is

alluded to as an extension of one’s teenage years, described by one comrade-in-arms as a

“continuation our youth movements”. Within this framework, the focus on Dani’s

experience in the military, the ease with which he took each experience and his

excellence projects an image of the military that is radically different than many of the

commemorative narratives from the Yom Kippur War.

Narratives of Death and Personal Sacrifice

Undoubtedly the most central component of Yizkor literature, tying together

58

Katufim b’evam, Pinkas, Moshe, 74. 59 Ibid. 60 Vardom, Dani, 21.

45

commemoration from both the Yom Kippur War and Six Day War, is the focus on

selflessness and personal sacrifice. In some cases, this is stated outright while in other

books it is tightly wrapped in layers of personal anecdotes, poetry, correspondence, and

more. In both cases, however, the individual’s willingness to sacrifice himself for the

collective becomes the axis of the commemorative narrative. Framing death in battle as a

selfless act of personal sacrifice softens the severity of death while placing it within a

broader more coherent framework. While Yom Kippur War Yizkor literature inherited

the commemorative traditions of previous years, one can also detect subtle shifts in the

overarching narrative tone, though these deviations will be the primary focus of chapter

three. The present section will therefore outline how personal sacrifice and selflessness,

two terms that are often interconnected, are framed in Yizkor literature from the Six-Day

War and Yom Kippur War.

Aside from narratives describing war and the military, Yizkor literature commonly

frames selflessness as a natural precursor to patriotic sacrifice, often occurring during

childhood. Stories that may not appear to carry any discernible message reinforce the

high value placed on sacrifice and altruism. Avi’s mother recounts a story of a young

Avi receiving a chocolate bar from his aunt one rainy, winter day. Avi’s aunt and mother

sat immersed in conversation, unaware that Avi had in fact left the house in a seemingly

irrational attempt to share the chocolate bar with an unknown friend name. After

realizing that Avi had disappeared, they eventually found him lying in mud near the local

kindergarten. “ ‘Avi’, we asked him, why did you go by yourself in the rain? ‘I wanted

to give Nitzah chocolate,’ he answered emotionally.”61

Under the circumstances of Avi’s

61 Yaakov, Avi, 2.

46

death, the imagery in this story is especially powerful. Images of soldiers crawling in

mud are often employed in literature, poetry, and vernacular to portray the grit and

struggle of military life. By choosing this story among a perhaps innumerable number of

stories from Avi’s childhood, his mother connects the image of Avi the child and the Avi

hero. The focus of the story shifts away from the bizarre story of a young boy laying the

mud during a winter storm in an attempt to share his chocolate and becomes focused on

this extreme act of altruism. Selflessness and personal sacrifice are values born early on.

In Avi’s case, these values are identified early on and are transferred directly to the final

moments of his life.

Reflecting on the connection between acts of selflessness and personal sacrifice,

Yizkor literature from the Yom Kippur War often places a specific emphasis on the

conduct of soldiers prior to the actual war. The surprise and shock of the Yom Kippur

War meant that in many cases, soldiers were unable to locate their specific unit and were

therefore forced to fight in ad hoc units made up of random soldiers. In the case of Yosef

Abutbul, a relatively short commemorative space within a broader Yizkor book dedicated

to all of the fallen soldiers from Golani’s First Breachers Battalion is used to emphasize

his individual selflessness translating into his heroic death in battle. In a narrative that

resonates with much of the Yizkor literature from the Yom Kippur War, the emphasis is

on Yosef’s decision to volunteer for service with his unit before he received any official

order to join his unit. “He turned to the officer in charge of local recruitment on the

pressing matter of joining his unit but was met by a negative answer. After he found the

location of his unit, he decided to arrive on his own accord to the battlefield.”62

62 Lo Ha’Milim Midabrot al ha’Mavet. Avi Betelheim.

47

Ultimately, this decision cost Yosef his life, however this decision does not factor

negatively into the commemoration. On the contrary, Yosef’s death in battle is

emblematic of his willingness to sacrifice his life. He defied the orders of an officer in

order to find his unit and defend his nation. The significance of this decision is not lost

on the reader.

The varying portrayals of personal sacrifice and selflessness that are presented

during descriptions of pre-army life coalesce into a uniform expression of heroism in

battle. Regardless of how each individual is cast as a child or teenager, death in battle is

cast as the ultimate demonstration of personal sacrifice. Yosef Abutbul, who is projected

as selfless even before his death, becomes the paradigm of personal sacrifice when he

gives his life in order to maintain connection with military headquarters during the final

assault on Mt. Hermon. Similarly, Avi’s selflessness, manifested in assorted stories

scattered throughout his entire Yizkor book, reaches a crescendo when he dies in battle.

In most other Yizkor books, sacrificing oneself in battle oscillates between hyper-

nationalistic expressions and ostensibly scripted expressions of support for the

individual’s decision to sacrifice his life for the nation.

Regardless of the different responses to the Six-Day War, personal sacrifice and

selflessness still receive pride of place in the Yizkor literature from this period. Similar to

Yizkor literature from 1973, embodying the value of personal sacrifice is often traced

back to selflessness as a child. In Moshe’s case, this value is incorporated into his

broader personality. “Moshe was a little shy but was full of love for others and was ready

48

to help at any moment.”63

By June 9, 1967, when Moshe was killed fighting to capture a

hill from the Syrian army, his readiness to sacrifice his own life for a “superior goal”

culminates in his death. In an extraordinary selection of words, a friend writes:

“Moshe’s friends from the battalion told us how he ran forward in the battle on Tel-Faher

without asking questions, knowing that he must do this and beyond.” If this story- and

Yizkor literature as a whole for that matter- is to be interpreted as a subconscious

expression of national values then one should be struck by the emphasis on the

unquestionable readiness to die. Moshe’s courage in battle was not defined by the

ferocity of the fight in him; it was his unquestioning faith in the “supreme goal” and his

willing to die for it. Emphasizing this point, Moshe’s friend writes: “What could Moshe

have been if he wasn’t cut down by an enemy’s bullet? Indeed, the best are always the

first to go against the fire.”64

The ease with which these narratives rationalize Moshe’s

death as a demonstration of his selfless patriotism is startling.

On the whole, the prominent position of war in Israeli life necessitates a constant

justification. Yizkor literature reiterates the self-perception that Israeli existence is a

protracted struggle for survival. The abundance of literature on Israeli militarism may

disagree about whether or not Israeli society can, in fact, be considered militaristic

however there is little disagreement over the extent to which the military and conflict

have shaped Israeli collective memory. Within the realm of Yizkor literature, this self-

perception is, sometimes, situated within the broader Jewish struggle for existence. In

others, the Israeli collective experience is defined by war. On the whole, war is projected

as an unfortunate prerequisite to life in the Land of Israel. War, heroism, and death are

63 Katufim b’evam, Pinkas, Moshe, 74. 64 Ibid, 76.

49

thus transmitted as unavoidable products of this reality.

As part of the commemorative narrative of Yizkor literature, war is frequently

dislodged from the distinctly Israeli experience and integrated into the broader trajectory

of Jewish history. In the case of Yoram Vasserman, a kibbutznik serving in one of

Golani’s elite reconnaissance units, his death in battle becomes emblematic of the

struggle for Jewish survival. As the son of Holocaust survivors, this perceived struggle

for survival is lent a degree of credibility that is absent in other Yizkor books. In a

selection of prose opening the Yizkor book, a contributor named Abraham A. articulates

the tension between the uncertain, perhaps unsafe, life of Jewish exile and the redemption

of settlement in Israel. “Refugees of the Holocaust, the homes of our forefathers were

destroyed in the lands of exile. We came to build our homes here, in the land of our

forefathers, and our enemies still seek to destroy our homes.”65

At first glance,

Abraham’s commentary undermines the conception of Eretz Yisrael as redemptive. The

persecution and hardships, characteristic of exilic life, are far from alleviated upon

moving to Israel. However, Abraham’s conception of Jewish history as a chain of

struggle and tragedy is followed by a familiar rhetoric of survival necessitating armed

struggle. He continues: “We go out, along with the sons we gave birth to, to meet our

enemy, lest they destroy our home. So simple and sad is this story.”66

The violent reality

of Israeli life is projected as a natural extension of Jewish life. Though I do not sense any

hostility in Abraham’s narrative, his narrative suggests a reluctant acceptance that Yoram

is a casualty in a struggle that preceded his death and will continue long after it. For

Abraham, it seems that this lachrymose conception of history is actually cathartic.

65 Vasserman, Yoram. 66 Ibid.

50

Moreover, Yizkor books place a greater emphasis on the tragedy inherent in

Israel’s violent reality. The commemoration of Nimrod Bin demonstrates the extent to

which war and death are standardized as part of the overall Israeli experience. One

eulogy entitled “To the Memory of Nimrod Who with his Blood Bequeathed Us with

Life” begins with the cynical declaration that “once again the people of Israel fight for

their existence and pay the price in the blood of their sons.”67

A preceding narrative

begins: “It is a terrible disaster that the existence of the Land of Israel depends on the

death of so many of our good young.” Adding an additional layer of tragedy, one

contributor wonders: “Why must war exist in the world? It is difficult to come to terms

with the idea that children are born into this world to be slaughtered in a thousand terrible

ways.” Whereas the commemorative narrative of Yoram’s Yizkor book suggests a certain

glory inherent in the Jewish struggle for freedom, Nimrod’s Yizkor book highlights the

cruelty of war.

Despite the shift in focus, heroism is consistently interpreted as the natural

outcome of Israel’s unfortunate reality. As such, the commemorative narrative

continuously negotiates between the inherent cruelty of war and the individual’s

demonstrated heroism within this reality. One contribution, in the form of a letter to

Nimrod’s mother, proclaims, “It is because of Nimrod and his friends that we live and

exist. Our nation will continue to exist for eternity.” In trying to console her, the same

letter implores Nimrod’s mother to be strong and raise her other children to the glory of

the state of Israel. On the following page, another letter to Nimrod’s mother from a

childhood friend and Yom Kippur War veteran is dramatically different in tone.

67 Bin, Nimrod.

51

The feeling of just how cruel war can be grows inside me. I’m sorry that I had to

write a letter like this but I simply needed to put into writing the feeling I had

toward Nimrod…I hope that there won’t be any more difficult times like this in

the future.68

Indeed, this narrative deviates from the predominantly heroic narratives that characterize

Yizkor literature. This example is particularly conspicuous in light of the narrator’s

apology to Nimrod’s mother, as if his somber tone detracts from the overall

commemoration.

Juxtaposing Yizkor literature from the Yom Kippur War with Yizkor literature

published immediately after the Six-Day War reveals how reactions to war and death

were hardly affected by trauma of 1973. To emphasize the extent of this continuity,

consider the commemoration of a Golani soldier in a Yizkor book published by Kibbutz

HaMeuchad entitled Asher Naflu b’Milhama (Those Who Fell in War). Prior to

commemorating any individual soldier, Those Who Fell in War set the tone of the book

by addressing the heavy price demanded by Israel’s threatened existence. The soldiers

who gave their life in battle, “ceased to exist for the sake of existence and thus existence

became more expensive.” In a narrative vocabulary that resonates with typical Zionist

commemoration, the opening narrative proclaims that in dying, “they command the

Jewish people [Beit Yisrael] to live.” Even in death, they continue to guard the

“threatened existence” of the Jewish people.69

The commemoration of Arieh Ambern, a soldier from Acco, perhaps more than

any other Yizkor book I came across, accepts Israel’s violent reality and projects heroism

as the proper response. During the first years of Arieh’s service, which happened to be at

68 Bin, Nimrod. 69 Asher Naflu b’Milhama (Kibbutz Ha’Meuchad).

52

a time when cross-border raids from Palestinian terrorists were at a peak, his wife notes

that he participated in almost every retaliatory operation. And though his family was

certainly important to him, “the military and the state always came first.” Indeed, it

would be unnatural to expect commemoration to deal with the politics behind death –

after all, the commemoration is often done by loved ones who are first and foremost

mourning – however Arieh’s commemoration gives one the impression that his death is in

fact celebrated, rather than mourned. In the final paragraph of his wife’s eulogy she

writes:

Arieh fell on June 5, 1967 while filling his duty on the Northern border.

Two days before, while visiting, he said to me: ‘You know, you only die

once, and if a man must die, it is better to die for the sake of the

homeland.’ Indeed, his wish was filled and he was successful in

sanctifying the land he loved so much with his blood.

Heroism, more than any other detail concerning Arieh’s life, dominates his

commemoration. In place of recollections that humanize Arieh, one only learns that “he

was never afraid to sacrifice himself if the nation so demanded this of him.”70

Biographical details are totally subservient to the commemorative narrative that must

explain his death in battle through the lens of heroism.

70 All quotations related to Arieh Ambern from Ambern, Arieh.

53

Chapter Two

Tearing the Commemorative Fabric

Despite Yizkor literature’s overwhelming retention of the traditional

commemorative language from 1967 to 1973, that is to say the language of the state,

individual narratives which were seemingly at odds with this tradition rose to the

surface. In a few rare instances, contributors veered off script, expressing their

frustration with the normative politics of commemoration. Deviations are

manifested in disparate narratives that never succeed in dominating the

overarching commemorative narrative. Instead, these rare deviations appear as

conspicuous assertions of private grief within a broader framework of healing.

Deviations in Yizkor literature are typically manifested in narratives which

challenge the position of war and death in the Israeli experience. To be sure, this

does not suggest a direct connection between the hypercritical language of

“demystification” that could be found elsewhere in Israeli society. However, within

the rigid parameters of Yizkor literature, even the most subtle deviations take a

powerful stand against the standardization of death. Moreover, by challenging war

and death as necessary and heroic, these deviant narratives fundamentally

challenge the intricacies of the Zionist ethos.

One critical approach adopts the traditional Zionist language to challenge

ideals of self-sacrifice. The insatiability of The Land in early Zionist discourse is

54

appropriated and subverted in order to articulate a voice that is weary of war

and desires an end to violence. Whereas traditional Zionist language frames death--

and in particular violent death-- as part of The Land’s insatiable bloodlust, Yom

Kippur War Yizkor literature inspires a shift in the discourse on the of this perceived

brutal blood sacrifice. The same contributor who struggled to imagine Avi Yaakov

as a soldier taps into this language:

Oh precious land! Haven’t you had enough of our dear, beloved men? Is there a way to atone for the spilling of this pure, precious blood? Are there condolences for the family?71

Another narrative, harkening back to Avi’s love for the desert and Sinai, creates an

inseparable connection between the unbearable grief of a mother and Avi’s nearly

existential connection to the physical landscape:

In his last postcard on October 24, 1973 – the day Avi fell during the Suez Battle – he wrote: ‘I’m leaving to broaden my knowledge of geography’… Here it is the glorious Sinai, from the days of Dahab and Nubia, clear and blue, raise up my silent screams.72

The silent screams of Avi’s mother reach a deafening peak, becoming nearly

uncontainable as she concludes her narrative. Integrating biblical Hebrew into her

narrative, she exclaims: “The city of Jerusalem and the Judean Desert; every place,

every quiet corner, and every site where Avi’s food stepped – Raise up my sorrows,

my love, and my happiness that I was privileged to be his mother. “73 Indeed, Avi’s

Yizkor book contains some of the strongest expressions of grief among any Yizkor

book I have come across.

71

Yaakov, Aviezer. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid.

55

The application of a familiar Zionist lexicon to critical expressions at once

problematizes the critique and makes it more understandable to the collective. In

one sense, the inability, or perhaps unwillingness, on the part of the contributors to

shake off the language of the halutzim, even when criticizing the very ethos itself

reveals the inextricable link between ethos and commemoration. Nevertheless, it is

precisely this framework that allows for the successful transmission of deviant

narratives. In the case of Yoram Vasserman, his mother seems to find her voice in

the metaphorical language of the tree.

I observe what is cast off from the hazelnut tree which my son and his father planted together. The leaves have fallen and so the tree stands nakedly in all its sadness. But I know that by spring, the tree will sprout new leaves, young and invigorated. But my son, who blossomed and developed just like this tree, will never be restored; he has no continuity.74

The image of penetrating the soil in order to give life to it establishes an

unbreakable bond with the land.75 Vasserman’s mother moved to the Land of Israel

to escape the pains of exile. She planted her family, raising a son like she raised the

walnut tree. But while the tree must lose its leaves, she refuses to accept that her

own son must be a part of this cycle. The image of a soldier as a fallen leaf from a

tree which must continuously shed its leaves infuses the traditional Zionist

conception of land with an unprecedented morbidity. Throughout her narrative, the

ecstatic, transcendental relationship between the individual and the physical land is

twisted to reflect changing emotions. The flooding of emotions associated with the

74 Vasserman, Yoram. 75 Neumann, Land and Desire in Early Zionism. 92-93.

56

grief consistently returns to the image of the tree: “And outside—behold the tree

that was planted and the tree that was trimmed.”76

A second approach to expressing private grief that is perhaps more subtle

and accessible is adopted through casting a more doubtful or suspicious light on the

national ethos. Much like the range of traditional narratives examined in the

previous chapter, expressions of doubt range from the assertive to the questioning.

Shai Plati’s Yizkor book, oscillating between critical and conformist narratives,

begins with a quoted selection of commemorative writing by renowned Israeli

writer and poet, Yoram Kaniuk.77 Despite being included in Shai’s Yizkor book, the

included selection was actually written and published less than a month after the

war’s conclusion for a soldier related to Kaniuk. The narrative, written in beautiful

prose which nearly defies translation, begins with the image of a smiling child who

sees things that are inconceivable to those around him. “[The child] fights like a

wounded animal for the world though he never bothers describing this to others.

What did he see there among the terror?”78 The image of the Israeli soldier fighting

desperately, like a wounded animal, for something that others do not understand

stretches the notion of heroism to its limits.

As Kaniuk’s narrative progresses, ideals of personal sacrifice are further

problematized. Shrouding his critical voice in layers of complex metaphors, Kaniuk

recounts a Japanese allegory about a boy’s love for “the apple”. Though this love is

indeed great, the boy doesn’t understand that in order to love the apple he must first

76

Vasserman, Yoram. 77

Aside from being a renowned writer, Kaniuk fought with the Palmach during Israel’s 1948 war and is politically active. 78 Kaniuk, Yoram. “Keta’im” of Plati, Shai.

57

cut at its heart. Following the allegory, Kaniuk asks rhetoically: “how can these

young men become so saturated with love and devotion without the knife, during

such bitter fighting.”79 Does the story of the young man and the apple suggest that

each young man must be ready to kill in order to full love the land? Is it their

readiness to kill that makes them heroes? Kaniuk’s answer is a resolute no.

Are the identities of these soldiers born in battle? It is hard for me to believe. We simple do not know them. When we were young and went to die in battle, we didn’t even know ourselves, let alone our parents. Those, those young men, paid the price for us with the same language, with the same coin. They went to die without even being totally understood. This is consolation- this is revenge- for any interpretation that we give to their heroism will just be a self-justification.80

Kaniuk casts the Israeli soldier as one who, in the final moments of his life,

understands something about the nature of war, death, and sacrifice that others do

not. In no way is he denying that the fallen are heroes. On the contrary, he is

forthright in declaring that “they gave their lives so that we may continue to live”.

Nevertheless, he demands that the collective national narrative stop twisting the

memory of individual into some nondescript, indistinguishable ideal of heroism.

Kaniuk implores the nation to remember the fallen as individuals. This command,

while perhaps not unprecedented, contradicts the expressed aims of official, state

commemoration which states that Yizkor books “for the sake of maintaining and

preserving as a historical and educational model of excellence for our People and

the coming generations”, as was the official policy of the Department for the

79 Ibid. 80 Ibid.

58

Commemoration of the Fallen.81 Perhaps unable, unwilling, or uncomfortable

expressing their dissatisfaction with traditional Yizkor commemoration, Yoram

Kaniuk gave Shai’s parents a voice.

When commemorative narratives are primarily focused on the soldier as a

hero, it is not uncommon for deviant narratives to appear apologetic and timid. As

we saw in the previous chapter, Nimrod Bin’s Yizkor book follows a strictly

traditional approach to commemoration. Thus the overwhelming majority of

contributors portray Nimrod as the prototypical Israeli hero, who loved nature,

disliked war and militarism, and died for the land, however even in this case deviant

narratives are permitted. Fifteen days after Nimrod’s death, his brother Yehuda

suggests that upon finding out about Nimrod’s death, he admits that he was unable

to write to write a letter of condolence. “The news about Nimrod’s death hit me

hard”, Yehuda writes, “the feeling grew inside me just how cruel war can be.”82

Surely acknowledging the cruelty of war should not be considered deviant though

Yehuda feels differently.

I am sorry that I needed to write a letter like this but I simply needed to put in writing what I felt toward Nimrod. That’s all for now, I hope that there will be no more sad times like these in the future.83

The relative lack of critical tone in this letter problematizes Yehuda’s apology. Is

hoping for an end of war so radical? Is a personal letter focusing on one’s grief

toward losing his brother so subversive? Yehuda’s apology suggests that in fact it is.

81

Shamir, Ilanah. Le-val Yiheyu Ke-lo Hayu: Ha-yeḥidah Le-hantsaḥat Ha-ḥayal Be-Miśrad Ha-biṭaḥon U-misud Defuse Ha-zikaron Ha-mamlakhtiyim (Tel Aviv: Miśrad ha-biṭaḥon, 2003), 97. 82 Nimrod, Bin. 83 Ibid.

59

Retaining a relatively passive voice, many other narratives approach their

deviations with a discernible uncertainty. Joshua (Yehoshua) Viater’s Yizkor book--

which will be explored in much greater detail later in the chapter-- presents a

fascinating tension between deviant narratives that are assertive and those that are

passive. From the start, it bears mentioning that this commemoration appears

within a battalion Yizkor book rather than one dedicated solely to him. Aside from a

brief two paragraph biography of Joshua a majority of his commemorative space is

occupied by dated diary entries written by Joshua’s mother (Shoshana). In an entry

dated July 4, 1965, Shoshana relates Joshua leaving home in order to join a military

academy prior to his mandatory enlistment. “Stranger they are to one another, not

knowing exactly what waits for them” Shoshana notes ominously.

A swift split from their parents. Yet who is the split more difficult for, the youth (Na’arim) or the parents? In the hearts of the parents there are doubt and fears. Is this really the best way for a child to grow up?84

Shoshana chooses to highlight an event that is familiar to every Israeli parent. This

choice establishes an intimate bond between her and the rest of the broader

community of bereaving and non-bereaving parents. In a sense, it is precisely this

intimate, unbreakable connection that makes her final question so understandable

and legitimate to the collective.

The chronological structure of Shoshana’s narrative lends the reader a

window into her changing relationship with the state. Though it may be tempting to

trust that each diary entry was indeed written on their marked dates, she seems to

intentionally include hints that her narrative has been carefully crafted to make a

84 Lo Ha’Milim Midabrot al ha’Mavet ed. Avi Betelheim. Viater, Joshua.

60

statement. In the entry dated 1965, Shoshana notes that each child leaving the

home at the time of enlistment would go on to become “pilots, company

commanders, or other command positions during the Yom Kippur War.”85 It is

obvious that this entry was not written in 1965. Instead, Shoshana seems to be

constructing a narrative about her changing perception of the state. The Yom

Kippur War divides her reality into life before the war and life after. Following the

Six-Day War, Shoshana mocks the jubilee of the war and the reactions by Israelis

who were too young to fight; youth who were “angry that they were born two years

too late, that they ‘missed’ the war.”86 Before the war, her suspicions and doubts life

in Israel, the military, and war were merely suspicions. After the war, these

suspicions turn into convictions. Her question: “is this really the best way for a child

to grow up” receives a resounding no in the remaining pages of Joshua’s Yizkor

book.87

In cases where normative heroic narratives are unable to acquiesce feelings

of disillusionment and grief, deviant narratives appear at their most assertive and

angry. Indeed these narratives are as fascinating as they are rare. The first

manifestation of this disillusionment is found in narratives expressing anger toward

the Zionist ethos. Ironically, it is within this collective Yizkor book that some of the

most radically deviant narratives are put forth. From the beginning one senses a

tension -- rather, a precise and sharp anger-- that surpasses any Yizkor book that

85

Ibid. 86 Ibid. 87 Ibid.

61

has hitherto been examined. His mother describes Joshua’s funeral almost one year

later:

Officers at a meeting of grief- honor guards- on the back of the command car. Bereaving parents. Brother. Family. Friends. Commanders. Subordinates and Comrades-in-arms. One big grieving family. The funeral procession beyond the burial plot. The honor guard. Memorial prayer. Kaddish. Eulogy. Wreath laying88

Her staccato sentences simultaneously filter out any emotion while also filling her

description with a seething anger. She then directs her anger at Natan Alterman’s

poem The Silver Platter:

They are the silver platter on which the Jewish state was given” wrote Alterman in ’48. “Was given?” asks Moshe Shamir in ’73. “Is given. Repeating itself, it is given again and again, year after year. Generation after generation. Fathers and sons and their sons and their sons.89

His mother’s anger is both absolute and unrelenting. When describing the funeral

procession, she chooses to repeat honor guard as if asking: what honor? Her

narrative demands the collective reshaping of the Zionist lexicon. Alterman is

irrelevant, she suggests, for look how our boys keep dying.

Moving past her critique of Zionist ideology, Joshua’s mother directs her

anger toward God in a way that resonates with other deviant narratives seen in

Yizkor literature. In the final diary entry, written on the anniversary of Joshua’s

death, his mother ties together all of grief and anger. First, she explains how Joshua

never lived to see the Golani flag waving on Mt. Hermon as so many newspapers

glorified in the days following its conquest. Instead, Joshua’s mother reminds us

that after the war had ended, Joshua continued his war in the hospital.

88 Ibid. 89 Ibid.

62

For days he struggled for his life but was unsuccessful. The minister of death subdued him. God is full of compassion…and like this Amichai wrote in one of his songs:

‘If not for God being full of compassion There would be compassion in the entire world and not just in him I, who gathered flowers on the mountain and gazed upon all the valleys, I, who brought all the corpses from the hills know that the world is empty of compassion.90 With this poem, her narrative ends. Her anger at God, perhaps even her disbelief, is

inseparable from her anger toward the Israeli establishment. For Joshua’s mother,

there are no angels of death, only ministers. Deferring her final feelings of anger to

famous Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai, she ends her narrative by declaring that there

is no compassion, only God.

Expressions of anger toward God range in their forthrightness but are

typically delivered with a discernible ferocity. In most other Yizkor books, where

the tone of the commemorative narrative is predominantly heroic and traditional,

disillusionment finds expression in subtle, sparse anger toward God. These range

from uncertain expressions of anger such as, “if there is a God in the sky, he certainly

takes the best men away from us” to forthright declarations which tear down the

image of portrayal of death as salvation.91 Whereas Joshua’s mother combined her

anger at the political establishment with her anger toward God, Yoram Vasserman’s

mother experiences grief as a continuation of her nightmarish experiences in the

Holocaust. “There is nothing after this grave, no world-to-come, like that which

sustained me in my childhood. There isn’t even any logic in this idea!”92 On one

90

Ibid. 91Bin, Nimrod. 92 Vasserman, Yoram.

63

hand, her narrative disentangles of the image of God and the Land of Israel. The

land doesn’t give as much as it takes. “This is the land that swallows our children”

she declares.93 “I passed through the hell of Hitler and was left alone – and I didn’t

respond, I was apathetic to everything around me. And now, in the taking of my

dear son from me…I have no words.”94 The anger in this narrative is tired yet

focused. Yoram’s mother is angrier with God then with man for in her eyes, God

seems to be the only culprit for what in her eyes is a chain of unrelenting tragedy.

A final thematic shift in Yom Kippur War Yizkor literature stems from Israel’s

unpreparedness and perceived failure during the first days of the war. In many

instances, this frustration is articulated through expressions of exhaustion with

Israel’s violent reality or through an undermining of national rhetoric, among

others. While this may seem like a logical reaction, we have already seen how the

acceptance of this reality takes pride of place among many commemorative

narratives. Nevertheless, some commemorative narratives following the Yom

Kippur War seem content with questioning war. Noting this thematic change,

Emmanuel Sivan argues that before 1973, descriptions of battle tended to be

“matter of fact” and “laconic.”95 On the other hand, Yom Kippur War Yizkor

literature does not shy away from recounting battles in every gory detail. Indeed

Sivan is correct in pointing out the magnitude of this shift, though there are Yizkor

books from the Six-Day War which also emphasize the gore and harsh reality of war.

Nevertheless, the disregard toward sugarcoating battle narratives creates a

93

Ibid. 94 Vasserman, Yoram. 95 Sivan, Emmanuel. Private Pain and Public Remembrance in Israel. 196-197.

64

discernible distance between ideas of heroism and warfare that is complemented by

other deviations.

One of the more salient examples of this phenomenon was expressed in Avi’s

Yizkor book. One will remember that Avi is portrayed as a misanthropic nature

lover who nevertheless filled his duty toward the collective by fighting in the Six-

Day War and Yom Kippur War. Avi’s individuality outside of battle was actually

used to reinforce the narrative that heroism and individualism are not in conflict.

And while the commemorative narrative does not deviate from this message,

individual narratives that are seemingly at odds with this message are still given

freedom of expression. Relating to Avi’s service in the Six-Day War and Yom Kippur

War nearly one year after his death, two family friends suggest that during both

wars, Avi only reluctantly went to fight. He did not seek glory in battle and was

tortured by the obligation to defend his homeland and his self-identified pacifism.

Under the heading, “In the Memory of Avi- Friend and Warrior”, expressions

of grief that are visible in other Yizkor books gives way to an unprecedented

criticism of the Israeli army’s management during the war. The narrative keeps to

the traditional description of the Israeli hero as one who is an excellent soldier

despite his disdain for the military. The narrator reveals that Avi had little regard

for ranks and uniforms and even rejected a promotion. When confronting Avi’s

experience during the war, the narrator draws attention to the shortcomings of the

military during the war.

[Avi] arrived to the war desperate, claiming that he came without equipment though when he speaks like this we understand that he arrived without his “pekel”, i.e. his books and coffee. I was with Avi during the first days of fighting. He wore sandals and wasn’t happy when he heard that logistics did

65

not have boots for him. He was always anxious that the war was continuing for too long.96

It is difficult to interpret this narrative as resentful or angry at the military. The

narrator jokingly refers to Avi’s distress about arriving to the front without his

books or coffee yet complaints about military unpreparedness dominated post-war

criticism. Unwilling to fully exploit the creative space in the Yizkor book to criticize

the military, the contributor understands that this narrative cannot be contained

within the domain of Yizkor literature and therefore backs off.

In approaching this phenomenon, Sivan argues that public criticism of the

military created a “feedback loop” which affected commemorative literature.97 Until

the Yom Kippur War, Yizkor literature’s historical trajectory never reflected

institutional criticism that may have existed in the ‘Israeli street.’ As Sivan notes,

complaints were sent through their proper channels and were respectful. When the

government and military’s handling of the war became an object of intense public

criticism, Sivan claims that Yizkor literature shifted to mirror this criticism. Despite

exaggerating the extent to which Yizkor literature reflected these complaints, he is

indeed correct in arguing that “the very fact that these themes were now expressed

through a genre the aim of which had been to cope with loss shows how profound

was the ‘October Earthquake’, privately and collectively.”

96 Yaakov, Aviezer. 97 Sivan, Emmanuel. Private Pain and Public Remembrance in Israel, 199.

66

Chapter Three

The Commemorative Bilingualism of Yizkor Literature

Examining Yom Kippur War Yizkor literature with an eye for common tropes and

deviations has exposed a thematic and structural uniformity that is paradoxical. On the

one hand, remaining ostensibly outside the state’s sphere of influence while on the other

hand, riding the line between the ideologically fueled language of state commemoration

and that of private mourning. Until now, I have presented a close reading of Yizkor

literature following a watershed event in Israeli history. By looking at these Yizkor books

through the prism of a microhistory, one gains a far deeper understanding of the

commemorative genre as a whole. Furthermore, in light of Yizkor literature’s salience as

a distinctly private mode of commemoration, a microhistory reveals an explanation as to

how Yizkor literature remained at worst, apathetic, and at best, neglectful of changing

social discourse.

While social changes were perhaps most visible in the post-war protest

movements they naturally affected literature, poetry, art, and other expressive mediums.

While each of these topics deserves additional in depth scholarship, a cursory

examination of the war’s manifestation in various other modes of expression will inform

the broader discussion about Yizkor literature’s insulation against social change.

The effects of the Yom Kippur War created an indelible impression on Israel’s

physical landscape. Relating to this phenomenon, Ilana Shamir argues that monuments

67

following the Yom Kippur War reflected the social mood by deviating from the

normative Zionist ethos.98

These monuments, established largely by family, friends, and

comrades in a spontaneous fashion, attempted to separate their private pain from the

collective narrative. Of the 2,679 soldiers to fall during the war, 71 monuments emerged,

carrying on the tradition of erecting a monument at the site of death. Shamir

characterizes these monuments as breaking away from the typical heroic intonation.

Instead, the monuments are elegiac, bringing out the tragedy of war and death. Hence, a

monument erected in 1970 presents a fighter jet ascending to the sky, leaving behind a jet

stream, the message reading: “And he left like a lightning arrow.” A monument erected

in 1973 portrays the actual damaged tail of a fighter jet, elevated off the ground. There

are no words engraved in the face of this monument.99

In addition to focusing on the physical portrayals of grief and memory of Yom

Kippur War monuments, Shamir argues that much of the text accompanying the

monuments revealed a shift in popular attitudes to war and patriotic sacrifice. Private

grief typically found expression in assertions of primordial or personal bonds with the

fallen. One is therefore more likely to stumble across accompanying plaques that

declare: “to the memory of our son who fell”, “to the memory of our son, our brother, and

friend who we will painfully remember forever”, or “to the memory of our admired

friend and commander”. Going beyond this, Shamir notes that the traditional statement

“in death he commands us to live” – which appears numerous times in Yizkor literature –

doesn’t appear at all in the monuments. And while Shamir also begins her analysis with

the assertion that changes were most noticeable in post-war texts, it is clear that

98 Shamir. Hantsaḥah ṿe-zikaron: Darkhah Shel Ha-ḥevrah Ha-Yiśra;elit Be-ʻitsuv Nofe Ha-zikaron, 19. 99 Both of these monuments can be found in Pilot’s Forest at the entrance to Jerusalem.

68

monuments were much more successful in reflecting the social atmosphere than Yizkor

literature.

Within the domain of Israeli literature and art, the Yom Kippur War also

contributed to the fragmentation of many of the strongpoints of the Israeli national ethos.

Portrayals of the Sabra as a prototype of personal demeanor began to diminish in the

seventies. Distinctly Sabra literature and poetry received unprecedented negative

attention by way of satire and criticism. Focusing on portrayals of Israeliness and

Sabraness in the Israeli novel, Yosef Oren demonstrates how during the forties and

fifties, images of the paradigmatic sabra were revered. During the sixties and seventies,

this was replaced by ironic, mocking depictions of the sabra. Beginning with the Yom

Kippur War but reaching a crescendo during the eighties, depictions of the sabra were

accompanied by an “elegiac and tragic tone” which ushered in an end to their era.100

Cutting across artistic boundaries, the Yom Kippur War galvanized the political

trend in Israeli visual art that had already begun at the conclusion of the Six-Day War.101

Yigal Tumarkin’s provocative sculpture Hu Halach b’Sadot (He Walked in the Fields)

(1967), on the one hand expresses a defamiliarization of the collective language by

touching on the classic literary work of the same name by Moshe Shamir. On the other

hand, Tumarkin asserts the brutality and ugliness of war despite the prevailing

triumphalism of the post-Six Day War period. The sense of betrayal and disillusionment

from the Yom Kippur War pushed many politicized art exhibits into the limelight. Uri

Lifschitz, Aviva Uri, Yigal Tumarkin, Michal Neeman and the Bezalel artist collective

known as “The Rebellion” led this wave. Summarizing the general atmosphere of

100

Oren, Yosef. Zionism and Sabraism in the Israeli Novel (Rishon Le-Tsiyon: "Yaḥad", 1990), 93. 101 Ginton, Ellen, and Muzeʾon Tel Aviv le-omanut. Ha-ʻEnayim Shel Ha-medinah: Omanut ḥazutit Bi-medinah Le-lo Gevulot (Tel Aviv: Muzeʾon Tel-Aviv le-omanut, 1998).

69

1970s Israeli art - which one can argue began after the Six-Day War and extended until at

least the first Lebanon War – Ariela Azulai argues that “the seventies were characterized

by extensive activity that dealt specifically with the connection between the artist and his

society in a way that was innovative in its adaptation to Israeli art.”102

Unsurprisingly,

many of these artists were actively involved in the post-war protests movements

including “The Rebellion,” who were forced to give up their teaching positions as a result

of their political involvement.

The trauma of the Yom Kippur War also became the focus of public discourse

concerning the state and its institutions. Beginning in the first months of 1974, Israelis

took to the streets in an unprecedented expression of disillusionment with the

government’s management of the war, becoming known as the mehdal. The protests

were first centered on security issues, though soon broadened to include calls for political

resignations and greater parliamentary plurality.103

Almost two decades later, renowned

Israeli musician Haim Hefer related to the war as a humiliation, shock, and

disappointment in Israel’s leading newspaper.104

Reactions to the war seemed to oscillate

between expressions of outrage and grief or disillusionment and disappointment.

Remembering in Two Languages

On the whole, Yizkor literature is reserved as a closed mode of commemoration,

so to speak, in which families can assert ostensibly private memories, grief, and

102 Azulai, Ariela. “Makoma shel Omanut.” Studio 40 (January 1993), 9. 103 Bar-On, Mordechai. In Pursuit of Peace: A History of the Israeli Peace Movement. (Washington, D.C.: United States Institute of Peace Press, 1996), 69-91. 104 Hefer, Haim. ‎”Yom Kippur War Section.” Yediot Aharonot, 28 Sept. 1990. from Liebman, Charles. The Myth of Defeat: The Memory of the Yom Kippur War in Israeli Society. Middle Eastern Studies 29(3), 399-418. 1993.

70

emotions. However, embedded in the commemorative fabric of Yizkor literature is a

narrative bilingualism. In Lacanian terms, the first is the paternal language of the

national ethos, which shapes conceptions of war and death. It serves as a “normalizing”

mechanism that conceals the cruelty and tragedy of war in the name of patriotic sacrifice,

justifying future wars and losses. The second is the maternal language, which attempts to

break free of the first by allowing expressions of grief, trauma, and personal

loss. However, there are limits to the use of this latter language in the restricted space, a

sanctified community of the fallen. Although not completely suppressed, the maternal

language cannot overtly challenge the normative national narrative. When these

deviations directly threaten one of the pillars of Zionism—namely patriotic sacrifice--the

Yizkor book becomes obsolete. That may explain why the prevalence of Yizkor literature

as a prevailing mode of commemoration began to wane after the war.

Conceptualizing Yizkor literature as an expression of memory through two

different commemorative languages builds on the scholarship of James Scott and Hannah

Naveh. In relating to the relationship between the powerful and powerless, James Scott,

identifies the existence of public transcripts and hidden transcripts their encounters.

Public transcripts represent the exchange that takes place when the powerless are in the

presence of the powerful. The hidden transcript indicates “the discourse that takes place

‘offstage,’ beyond direct observation of powerholders” and is intended for a different

audience.105

To illustrate this concept, one is reminded of the Ethiopian proverb: When

the great lord passes, the wise peasant bows deeply and silently farts”. The peasant is

outwardly obedient but subtly deviant.

105 Scott, James C. Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 5.

71

Separate but connected, Hannah Naveh demonstrates the duality of

commemorative narratives within the framework of military cemeteries. Beginning with

the assumption that military cemeteries are the site “where the institutionalized language

of representation crystallizes,”106

Naveh differentiates between the language of the

mother and the language of the father. Within this binary, the language of the mother

undermines the clichés of collective grief and emphasizes distinctly personal loss while

the language of the father places the loss in the context of the national order. By

appropriating the body into an avowedly national space (which is also impersonal) she

argues that the families are forced to articulate their grief in a way that resonates with the

nation. However, the distinction between the two is problematic as private memories

strengthen the national narrative while the national language itself is reproduced in the

private expressions of grief.

Of the two commemorative languages embedded in Yizkor literature, the first

articulates grief through the normative language of the Zionist national ethos. While

other historians, namely Emmanuel Sivan, have asserted that Yizkor is a spontaneous,

private mode of commemoration, differing from institutional commemoration, this

language nevertheless dominates a vast majority of the memorial literature. The

collective national narrative tying together a great majority of the Yizkor books

challenges this claim with its recurring focus on the physical landscape of Israel, often

manifested in a love of hiking; dislike for the military establishment and militarism as a

whole, coupled with a profound sense of moral responsibility and volunteerism; and a

tacit acceptance of war and death as central components of the Israeli experience all

106 Naveh, Hannah. “On Loss, Bereavement, and Mourning in the Israeli Experience.” Thousands, 18 (1998). 85-118.

72

receive pride of place. What emerges is a kind of “ideological chorus,” to borrow a term

from Oz Almog.107

Almog applies this terminology to the writings of the halutzim and

other prominent figures in early Zionist and Israeli history however this same ideological

chorus dominates the commemorative literature from 1967 and 1973.

One of the main successes of the paternal language is in creating a powerful link

between past and present. As Almog demonstrates “the similarity among Sabra writings

extends to what is left out -- criticism, sarcasm, despair, and doubt.”108

Though criticism

of the hegemonic institutions was not unheard of during the first decades of statehood,

the cult of the fallen soldier occupies a holy space that rebukes criticism.109

When

buttressed by the language and imagery of mainstream Zionist culture, the language of

commemoration “became something like an oral law or an idealistic colloquy that again

and again defined and reinforced a common identity.”110

One is reminded of the Yizkor

book of 1911 whose major focus is on the primordial, existential connection between the

Zionist, the New Jew, and the physical land of Israel. Over sixty years later, Yizkor

literature’s preoccupation with Israel’s physical landscape emerges nearly unchallenged.

In much the same way that Shamir relates to post-war monuments, this commemorative

language is fueled by the fear of denying one’s loved one -- whether it be a comrade,

friend, son, or brother -- their rightful place within the national memory.

By creating a bridge between the past and present, the paternal language assists in

the normalization of conflict and patriotic sacrifice. In interviews with Yom Kippur War

107 Almog, Oz. The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 56. 108 Ibid. 109

For scholarship on the relationship between the individual and the state in 1950’s Israel see Rozin, Orit. The Rise of the Individual in 1950s Israel: A Challenge to Collectivism / Orit Rozin; Translated By Haim Watzman. Waltham, Mass.: Brandeis University Press, 2011. 110 Almog, Oz. The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew, 57.

73

veterans, Edna Lomsky-Feder discovered that the majority reaction to the traumas of war

in Israeli society is in fact a denial that any trauma took place. Veterans describing their

experience rarely describe the war as a disruptive element in their life trajectories. On the

contrary, the war is perceived as a normal life event of little bearing on one’s worldview

or behavior. The paternal language of Yizkor literature reinforces and reflects this

interpretation by repeatedly confirming the normalcy of war and sacrifice in the Israeli

context. This is not confined to any war in particular and emerges as a dominant feature

of Yizkor literature spanning from 1911 onward. The Yom Kippur War tested the

durability of this interpretation by adding an element of military failure and government

betrayal which had previously been absent from any discourse concerning war and the

military.

The maternal language of Yizkor literature often appears as antithetical to the first

language, challenging its clichés, even though within the framework of Yizkor literature,

both are deeply symbiotic (this will be discussed later). To be sure, the maternal

language does not necessarily emanate from the subject’s mother. Rather, the maternal

language of Yizkor literature denotes narratives which internalize the grief and trauma

that the nation successfully stymies in favor of nationalistic or militaristic rhetoric. As

philosopher Sara Ruddick asserts, the language of the mother stubbornly refuses to

“subordinate pain to tales of victory and defeat.” 111

Prior to the Yom Kippur War, Yizkor

literature was almost completely devoid of these narratives, focusing instead on the glory

of war and virtues of patriotic death. While deviant narratives appear as a minority

within the commemorative genre, they are nevertheless significant in their innovation.

111 Ruddick, Sara. “Mothers and Men’s War”. Rocking the Ship of State: Toward a Feminist Peace Politics. ed. Harris, Adrienne, and Ynestra King. (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1989).

74

The language of the mother, which encapsulates the individual narratives

discussed in chapter three, is in fact incorporated into the fabric of Yizkor literature. Just

as Naveh argues that the ‘private’ language of the mother is appropriated by the state, so

too is the maternal language reliant on the language of the state for its ‘private’

expressions. It is for this reason that commemorative deviations never reach the same

level of ferocity as seen elsewhere. Rather, the maternal narrative contents itself with

feelings of frustration, grief, or disillusionment aimed at everything except the state. As a

result, one observes infrequent outbursts rather than an occupation of Yizkor literature’s

commemorative space.

The scarcity of truly deviant narratives in a majority of the Yizkor books presents

a curious irony. On the one hand, this language is given room to maneuver, albeit in a

restricted way. The subject is described according to his personal interests, habits, and

relationships which is itself a separation from the national commemorative style. Yizkor

literature therefore fills its role as an outlet for the private performance of memory in the

most literal sense. Commemoration is withdrawn from the domain of the state and

reclaimed by the individual’s inner circle. Standardized grave stones, memorial

ceremonies, and defense ministry publications persist while families grasp at the

opportunity to present their loved ones in a personal fashion. As the content of Yizkor

books suggests, going beyond personal descriptions and mourning is clearly viewed as

too taboo for the commemoration of fallen soldiers. Public transcripts continue to reflect

the paternal language of commemoration while in actuality the hidden transcript can only

be inferred by the social context of 1973-1974. In appropriating the bereavement,

memory, and grief of Yizkor literature into commemorative canon, Yizkor literature

75

becomes more reflective of the institutional commemoration than one may suspect.

Yizkor literature is, in its very essence, unable to contain the emotions that could be found

elsewhere.

A significant side effect of Yizkor literature’s inability of Yizkor literature to

contain truly subversive expressions of disillusionment is manifested in its increasing

irrelevance after the Yom Kippur War. The increasing presence of other commemorative

means, such as Torah scrolls and scholarships indicates a growing trend that would reach

a pinnacle with the first Lebanon War (1982). After the first Lebanon War, when

feelings of disillusionment far surpassed those of the Yom Kippur War, the Yizkor book

became largely irrelevant. In this sense, the Yizkor book is very much the preferred

commemorative mode of the ‘old-guard’. When the Yizkor book becomes obsolete, truly

deviant narratives must find expression elsewhere.

76

Bibliography

Almog, Oz. The Sabra: The Creation of the New Jew. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000.

Antze, Paul, and Michael Lambek. Tense Past: Cultural Essays in Trauma and Memory. New York: Routledge, 1996.

Assmann, Jan., and Rodney Livingstone. Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. 2006.

Azaryahu, Maoz. Pulḥane Medinah: ḥagigot Ha-ʻatsmaʾut ṿe-hantsaḥat Ha-noflim, 1948-1956. Sde Boker (Beersheva, Ben Gurion Research Center. 1995

Beit Hashitta. Pene ḥaverai. Bet-Hashiṭah: Ḳibuts ha-me’uḥad, 1974. Ben-Amos, Avner and Bet-El, Ilana. Holocaust Day and Memorial Day in Israeli

Schools: Ceremonies, Education, and History. Israel Studies 4(1), 258-284. 1999.

Beṭelhaim, Avi. Golani: Mishpaḥat Loḥamim. Mifḳedet Ḥativat Golani, Ḥinukh be-siyuʻa Ḳetsin ḥinukh rashi, ʻAnaf hasbarah be-emtsaʻut Misrad ha-biṭaḥon, 1980.

Bilu, Yoram and Witztum, Elizer. War-related Loss and Suffering in Israeli Society: A Historical Perspective. Israel Studies, 5(2), 1-32. 2000.

Burla, Yaʾir, and Israel. Maḥlaḳah le-hantsaḥat ha-ḥayal. Yizkor--: Parashiyot ḥayehem U-motam Shel Ha-noflim Be-maʻarkhot Tsahal : Mi-yom Perots Milḥemet Yom Ha-Kipurim, 10 Be-Tishre 734-6.10.1973 ṿe-ʻad Yom ḥatimat Heskem Hafradat Ha-koḥot Ba-ḥazit Suryah, 2 Be-Iyar 734-24.4.1974. [Tel Aviv?]: State of Israel, Ministry of Defence, 1981.

Connerton, Paul. How Societies Remember. Cambridge [England] ; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989.

Frankel, Jonathan. The “Yizkor” Book of 1911: A Note on National Myths in the Second Aliya. In Religion, Ideology, and Nationalism in Europe and America, 355-384. Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History. 1986.

Gal, Reuven. A Portrait of the Israeli Soldier. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1986.

Halbwachs, Maurice, and Lewis A. Coser. On Collective Memory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.

Higate, Paul. Military Masculinities: Identity and the State. Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2003.

Liebman, Charles. The Myth of Defeat: The Memory of the Yom Kippur War in Israeli Society. Middle Eastern Studies 29(3), 399-418. 1993.

Lomsky-Feder, Edna. The Memorial Ceremony in Israeli schools: Between State and Civil Society. British Journal of Sociology of Education. 25(3), 291-305. 2004

Lomsky-Feder, Edna. Ke-ilu Lo Hayetah Milḥamah: Tefisat Ha-milḥamah Be-sipure ḥayim Shel Gevarim Yiśreʾelim. Yerushalayim: Hotsaʾat sefarim ʻa. sh. Y.L. Magnes, ha-Universiṭah ha-ʻIvrit, 1998.

Lomsky-Feder, Edna, and Eyal Ben-Ari. The Military and Militarism in Israeli Society. Albany: State University of New York Press. 1999.

77

Malkinson, Ruth, Simon Rubin, and Eliezer Witztum. Ovdan U-shekhol Ba-ḥevrah Ha-Yiśreʾelit. Yerushalayim:[Tel Aviv]: Kanah, 1993.

Mosse, George L.. Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars. New York: Oxford University Press, 1991.

Naveh, Hannah. “On Loss, Bereavement, and Mourning in the Israeli Experience.” Thousands, 18 (1998). 85-118.

Neumann, Boaz. Land and Desire in Early Zionism (Waltham, Mass.: Brandeis University Press, 2011.

Nora, Pierre. Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire. Representations 26, 7-24. 1989.

Rabinovitz, Alexander Siskind. Yizkor: Matsevat Zikaron Le-ḥalale Ha-poʻalim Ha-ʻIvrim Be-Erets Yiśraʾel. Yafo: Defus A. Atin, 1911.

Rozin, Orit. The Rise of the Individual in 1950s Israel: A Challenge to Collectivism / Orit Rozin; Translated By Haim Watzman. Waltham, Mass.: Brandeis University Press, 2011. This book details assertions of individuality in 1950’s Israel.

Ruddick, Sara. “Mothers and Men’s War”. Rocking the Ship of State: Toward a Feminist Peace Politics. ed. Harris, Adrienne, and Ynestra King. Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1989.

Schwartz, Barry. The Social Context of Commemoration: A Study in Collective Memory. Social Forces, 61(2), 374-402. 1982.

Scott, James C. Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990.

Shamgar-Handelman, Lea. Israeli War Widows: Beyond the Glory of Heroism. South Hadley, Mass.: Bergin & Garvey, 1986.

Shamir, Ilanah. Hantsaḥah ṿe-zikaron: Darkhah Shel Ha-ḥevrah Ha-Yiśra;elit Be-ʻitsuv Nofe Ha-zikaron Tel Aviv: ʻAm ʻoved, 1996.

Shamir, Ilanah. Le-val Yiheyu Ke-lo Hayu: Ha-yeḥidah Le-hantsaḥat Ha-ḥayal Be-Miśrad Ha-biṭaḥon U-misud Defuse Ha-zikaron Ha-mamlakhtiyim, Tel Aviv: Miśrad ha-biṭaḥon, 2003.

Sivan, Emmanuel. Dor Tasha"ḥ: Mitos, Dyoḳan ṿe-ziḳaron. Tel-Aviv: Hotsaʾat

maʻarkhot, 1991. Sivan, Emmanuel. Private Pain and Public Remembrance in Israel. In Winter and

Sivan, War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century. Cambridge, U.K. ; New York: Cambridge University Press, 177-205. 1999.

Weiss, Meira. Bereavement, Commemoration, and Collective Identity, in Contemporary Israeli Society. Anthropological Quarterly, 70(2), 91-100. 1997.

Zerubavel, Yael. Recovered Roots: Collective Memory and the Making of Israeli National Tradition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995. d

---. Patriotic Sacrifice and the Burden of Memory in Israeli Secular National Culture. In Memory and Violence in the Middle East and North Africa, edited by Ussama Makdisi and Paul A. Silverstein. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 77-100. 2006.

78

Appendix

Fig. 1 Cover page of Moshe Timsit’s Yizkor book. A photograph of Moshe

Timsit is situated above his name, date of birth, and date of death. Beneath

his date of death is the sentence “Brother of a bank worker Nissim Timsit.”

On the following page, the heading “The Soldier who Wanted to Wave the

Flag on the Hermon,” towers above an eleven line biography.

79

Fig. 2 The second page of Moshe Timsit’s Yizkor book begins with a

recollection of his death in battle. A photograph of Moshe and a friend in an

military jeep complements the story.