In the next few weeks, we will mark two very different Yamei Zikaron, Days of Remembrance. The first, coming upon us next week, is familiar: Rosh Hashana, also called Yom Hazikaron. The second, just a short time later, is the first anniversary of October 7, 2023. I am thinking about the practices of Jewish memory and remembrance.  

Perhaps the most famous biblical directive for the people of Israel to “remember” is found in Moshe’s last speech in the book of Deuteronomy. After forty years in the desert, and right before they enter the land, amidst rules regarding their future lives in the land, the people of Israel are directed to remember what Amalek did to them decades earlier. This is a repetitive directive: they are told to remember what Amalek did, but also to blot out the memory of Amalek, and then reminded again not to forget (Deuteronomy 25): 

(יז) זָכ֕וֹר אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־עָשָׂ֥ה לְךָ֖ עֲמָלֵ֑ק בַּדֶּ֖רֶךְ בְּצֵאתְכֶ֥ם מִמִּצְרָֽיִם׃ (יח) אֲשֶׁ֨ר קָֽרְךָ֜ בַּדֶּ֗רֶךְ וַיְזַנֵּ֤ב בְּךָ֙ כָּל־הַנֶּחֱשָׁלִ֣ים אַֽחַרֶ֔יךָ וְאַתָּ֖ה עָיֵ֣ף וְיָגֵ֑עַ וְלֹ֥א יָרֵ֖א אֱלֹקִֽים׃ (יט) וְהָיָ֡ה בְּהָנִ֣יחַ ה’ אֱלֹקֶ֣יךָ ׀ לְ֠ךָ מִכָּל־אֹ֨יְבֶ֜יךָ מִסָּבִ֗יב בָּאָ֙רֶץ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר יְהוָֽה־אֱ֠לֹקֶיךָ נֹתֵ֨ן לְךָ֤ נַחֲלָה֙ לְרִשְׁתָּ֔הּ תִּמְחֶה֙ אֶת־זֵ֣כֶר עֲמָלֵ֔ק מִתַּ֖חַת הַשָּׁמָ֑יִם לֹ֖א תִּשְׁכָּֽח׃  

(17) Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt— (18) how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers at your rear. (19) Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! 

With the command of zakhor, we are directed simultaneously to remember and forget Amalek, which seems impossible: how can one both remember and forget the same story? How can we blot out the memory of Amalek and fulfill the command not to forget it? It feels like an oxymoron, but I believe this contradiction reflects the nature of Jewish memory in a deep way.  

In his book Zakhor, the historian Yosef Haim Yerushalmi emphasizes that Jewish memory is not history. It’s not an accurate telling of what happened in the past. It does not treat the past as remote, as something that happened long ago, in a different place, to a different people. Rather, Jewish memory is alive in our present. It is selective and constructed by us as active participants. Yerushalmi points out that only for Jews is the commandment to remember a religious commandment, a mitzvah, for the entire people.  

Every year during the Passover Seder, Jews remember the exodus from Egypt, not as a distant historic event, but as a contemporary reality. We are obligated to see ourselves as if we and our children personally left Egypt. The Jewish calendar, argues Yerushalmi, is not a means to remember history, but a way to reproduce and relive it every single day. Yehuda Kurtzer, in his book about Jewish memory and identity, Shuva, adds that Jewish memory is that sense of belonging to a story that precedes us and that will also outlast us. In this story, a people can simultaneously remember and forget, as these directives guide its identity and consciousness.  

Indeed, Jewish memory is timeless in the sense that it is, simultaneously, what happened in the past, what happens now that will be remembered and interpreted according to the past, and what will happen in the future.  

Even before we knew what happened on October 7, we remembered it as a people. We knew this story. It was the story of Amalek, it was the story of the pogroms and the Farhud, it was the story of the Shoah. The Israeli sketch show, The Jews Are Coming, released a sketch in May of this year titled, “Never again all over again.” In the sketch, a single monologue of a Jewish survivor telling the story of their family’s cruel persecution is performed by characters representing different times in Jewish history: Jerusalem in 70 CE, Cologne in 1096, Kishinev in 1903, Hebron in 1929, Berlin in 1938, Bagdad in 1943, and Kfar Aza in 2023.
 

But there’s another aspect to zikaron, memory, revealed every year at Rosh Hashana, or Yom Hazikaron. On Rosh Hashana, the remembering is done not by the people but by God, and God’s remembrance is attached to a decision and followed by an action.  

During the musaf service of Rosh Hashana, as we recite the Zichronot prayer, we say:  

.אַתָּה זוֹכֵר מַעֲשֵׂה עוֹלָם וּפוֹקֵד כָּל־יְצֽוּרֵי קֶֽדֶם 

You remember the dealings of [men in] today’s world, and You consider the behavior of all those who lived in earlier times. 

In the context of Rosh Hashana, God’s remembrance is connected to and part of the act of an annual judgement of the world and all its beings. This model of divine remembrance leading to action is not reserved only for Rosh Hashana; it can be found in multiple places in the Torah. For example, in the story of Noah, after the Torah tells us about the flood and how all existence on earth was blotted out, and only Noah and those on the ark with him remained:  

וַיִּזְכֹּ֤ר אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־נֹ֔חַ וְאֵ֤ת כׇּל־הַֽחַיָּה֙ וְאֶת־כׇּל־הַבְּהֵמָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֥ר אִתּ֖וֹ בַּתֵּבָ֑ה וַיַּעֲבֵ֨ר אֱלֹהִ֥ים ר֙וּחַ֙ עַל־הָאָ֔רֶץ וַיָּשֹׁ֖כּוּ הַמָּֽיִם׃  

God remembered Noah and all the beasts and all the cattle that were with him in the ark, and God caused a wind to blow across the earth, and the waters subsided. (Genesis 8:1) 

God remembers, decides, and ends the flood.  

Later in Genesis, we read the story of Rachel who is longing for a child. More and more children are born into her family while she remains barren and heartbroken. And then something happens:  

וַיִּזְכֹּ֥ר אֱלֹהִ֖ים אֶת־רָחֵ֑ל וַיִּשְׁמַ֤ע אֵלֶ֙יהָ֙ אֱלֹהִ֔ים וַיִּפְתַּ֖ח אֶת־רַחְמָֽהּ׃  

Now God remembered Rachel; God heeded her and opened her womb. (Genesis 30:22) 

God remembers, decides, and opens Rachel’s womb.  

When God remembers, He decides and acts. I can’t help but think that God’s way of remembering is a model for us, allowing us to combine memory as an ongoing Jewish story in which the past and the present are one, with memory that leads to decision and action, much as we’re directed to act with the commandment zakhor.  

Chen Artzi Sror, an Israeli journalist, wrote the following text just weeks after October 7, 2023:  

חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ  

כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִבְּאֵרִי. מִכְּפַר עַזָּה. מִשְּׂדֵרוֹת. מֵאֳפָקִים  

.לִזְכֹּר וְלֹא לִשְׁכֹּחַ עַד לַיּוֹם אַחֲרוֹן  

.לֹא כְּדֵי לְהֵזִין אֶת הַפַּחַד – לְהֶפֶךְ, כְּדֵי לְכוֹנֵן אֶת הַתִּקְוָה  

עֹד יֵשְׁבוּ זְקֵנִים וּזְקֵנוֹת בְּמִשְׁדָּאוֹת בְּאֵרִי, וּרְחוֹבוֹת הָעִיר  

.שְׂדֵרוֹת יִמָּלְאוּ יְלָדִים וִילָדוֹת מְשַׂחֲקִים  

.הַבָּתִּים הַשְּׂרוּפִים יִצְבְּעוּ מֵחָדָשׁ, הַנִּירִים יֵחָרְשׁוּ וְהָעַגָּבְנִיּוֹת יִקָּטְפוּ  

.הָאִיּוּם הַקִּיּוּמִי יוּסַר  

.זוֹהִי לֹא נְבוּאַת נֶחָמָה, זוֹהִי תָּכְנִית עֲבוֹדָה  

Every person is obligated to see themselves
as if they came out of Be’eri, out of Kfar Aza, out of Sderot, out of Ofakim.
They are obligated to remember and never forget until the last day.
This is not meant to cultivate fear—on the contrary, it is meant to create hope.
Once again, the elderly will sit in the fields of Be’eri, and the streets of the city of
Sderot will be filled with children playing.
The burnt houses will be repainted, the fields will be plowed, and the tomatoes will be harvested.
The existential threat will be removed.
This is not a prophecy of consolation; this is a plan of action.

According to Artzi Sror, the memory of October 7 must be etched into our story as a people, as though each of us experienced it, just like the story of Exodus. But remembrance doesn’t end with constructing our story, it leads to action—to hope and life and rebuilding.  

We remember, we relive it every day, and we act.