Why this Yom Hazikaron feels different 

You never think it's going to be someone you know. Never. It's always going to be someone else. And although I'm both a journalist and a soldier's mother, and I have been reporting on the war since June 2024, I never thought I would have to report the death of someone I knew.

November 30th, 2024

I was working one Motzaei Shabbat, reporting the news, when I got a Whatsapp message with a picture.

At that time, we were in more of an active phase of the war than we are in now, and soldiers were tragically falling all the time. One of the journalists, who has his own Whatsapp group, would post a picture of a soldier who had just fallen, with his name.

To my sheer horror, a picture popped up with the name Zamir. It's not a common name.

It took me only a second to register: My son's good friend, Staff Sgt. Zamir Burke, had just been killed in Gaza.

For me, that's when the war became real, which sounds like a weird thing to say. I had been immersed in the news since October 7th, and I even landed a job in journalism as a result. You would think it was real enough. It wasn't.

It was far away, somewhere in Gaza, which may as well have been Alaska or Mars.

The soldiers who fell were someone else's family, from other towns, far, far away.

Zamir was only 20. He was a proud and dedicated Combat Engineering squad commander serving in Gaza, when evil Hamas animals fired an RPG at the armored D9 he was in. The other soldier in the D9 was seriously wounded. Tragically, Zamir died approximately 30 minutes after the attack.

In a way, he was too good to be true: good-looking, brilliant, gifted in Maths and Physics, very close to his family, beloved by everyone in his life. And if that wasn't enough, he also spent a lot of time volunteering with special needs children and teens in his hometown, Ramat Beit Shemesh.

I went to the flag march, where Israelis come out with flags to accompany the family of a fallen soldier on their way to the cemetery. It was devastating.

I watched the funeral online. I went to his Shiva.

I remember when the new IDF Chief of Staff Eyal Zamir was sworn in, and someone quoted the Pasuk from Shiur Hashirim (2:12) 'Eit HaZamir Higia' (The Time of the Songbird has arrived)'. I cried and cried.

I talk about Zamir often. I didn't even know him. It's not even my tragedy after all. But I feel like it is, in a way, because we are all so connected, and because I live a short two minute drive away from where he lived, until recently. I feel like talking about him keeps his memory alive.

People don't like it though, obviously. It's a conversation killer. They get these sad faces and they just don't know what to say. The truth is there's nothing you can say. Nothing will make it better, nothing will bring him back, so silence really is the only appropriate response.

The truth is that he lives on in the memories of those who knew and loved, and there are many of them, not in macabre conversations.

He lives on in the hearts of his parents, grandmother, teachers and friends, fellow soldiers and his commanders.

He lives on in the hearts of the special needs kids he volunteered with and loved, and in the profound gratitude of their parents.

I didn't know him, but I wish I had. I know without a shred of doubt that he is up high, near G-d.

I don't think he would want us to be sad though. I think he would want us to live, really live. It's the least we can do considering what he sacrificed.

Rest in peace, dear Zamir.

May your soul be bound up in the bundle of eternal life, and may your memory be a blessing.