The Saddest Day of the Year in Israel—It's personal
- Ron Cantor
- 2 hours ago
- 4 min read
There is no day in Israel quite like Yom HaZikaron—Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terror. When the siren sounds at 8 p.m., the entire country comes to a halt. Cars stop in the middle of highways, drivers step out, and a hush falls over the land. The next morning, another siren sounds—this time for two minutes—and once again, everything stops. It is not merely ceremonial. It is deeply personal. In Israel, remembrance is not abstract. Almost everyone knows someone.
In America, Memorial Day is meaningful, but often distant. The wars are fought far away, and while the losses are real, they are not always close to home. Israel is different. It is a small nation where military service is nearly universal, and where terrorism has touched nearly every family in some way. The fallen are not unknown heroes—they are sons, daughters, neighbors, and friends. Since the founding of the state, more than 24,000 Israeli soldiers have died defending the nation, and when you include victims of terror, the number rises above 30,000. In a country the size of New Jersey, that reality is staggering.
The Day My Cousin was Attacked
For me, Yom HaZikaron is not about numbers. It is about Daniel.
On Passover night in 2006, Elana and I were driving home from Ashkelon when my father called. There had been a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv, and my cousin had been critically wounded. I barely knew Daniel Cantor Wultz. I had only met him when he was a baby. He lived in Florida, but his Israeli father had brought the family to Israel for the holiday. Like many Israelis, Daniel wanted one last meal of bread before Passover began—a simple tradition before a week without leaven. They went to a well-known falafel and shawarma shop, Rosh Ha’ir (The Mayor) at the old central bus station in Tel Aviv. It was just a father and son enjoying a meal together in the Land, preparing to celebrate the holiday.
Then a terrorist walked in with a backpack. In those days, during the early 2000s, suicide bombings were not rare—they were frequent, sometimes weekly. People were alert. Suspicious. The attacker had food in his mouth so he would not have to speak and reveal his accent. When the security guard asked him what was in his bag, he detonated it. Daniel was sitting with his back to the restaurant, while his father faced him. In that moment, Daniel took the full force of the blast through his back, shielding his father and saving his life.
There were 10 other casualties, and around 70 injuries.
Miraculously, Daniel survived for 27 days. During that time, Elana was at the hospital every day, and I was there almost daily. It was a sacred and unexpected season. I had always felt like something of a black sheep in my family because of my faith, but in those days, something changed. Walls came down. Trust grew. We came to love one another in a deeper way. And then, after a brave battle, on Mother’s Day, May 14, Daniel died from his wounds.
Yom HaZikaron is Daniel.
He would have been a General, but also a 5-Star Chef
After October 7, the reality of sacrifice once again became overwhelming. Elana and I began raising funds to help Israeli soldiers. What they needed was surprisingly basic—winter clothing, helmets, bulletproof vests. It was shocking to discover how many soldiers lacked proper protective gear. These were not career soldiers in the way many imagine. Most Israelis are reservists. In civilian life, they are teachers, students, business owners—and yes, even chefs—called up suddenly to defend their nation.
Through this work, we met many soldiers, including a commander, Lt. Col. Netanel Yaacov Elkouby, who clearly had a promising future in high leadership. He was courageous, thoughtful, and deeply committed. And in his everyday life, he was a chef at a 5-star hotel on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. We had even eaten at his restaurant without realizing it. We became friends, and he invited us to come back after the war so he could cook for us. His unit completed their mission in Gaza and came out alive, and we began planning a celebration together for the whole unit.
One Final Mission Turned Deadly
Then, they were called back in for one final mission. The house they entered was booby-trapped. Three soldiers were killed, including him, and several others were seriously wounded. When the unit finally gathered again, it was not the celebration we had envisioned. It was quieter, heavier, marked by loss and pain.
Yom HaZikaron is not just about the past. It is about the present.
This is something difficult to fully grasp if you have not lived it. In Israel, war is not a distant reality. For us, it was ten minutes away in Gaza. The cost is not something you read about in headlines—it is something you feel in your bones. It is the empty chair at a holiday table, the father who lives because his son took the blast, the friend you expected to see again but never will.
Elana and I drove up north to visit Netanel’s widow a few months after his death. We wanted to bring her a financial gift from our donors. We could not help but notice children without a father. The young boy just wanted to play with me—too young to fully understand that he missed his father.
Saddest Day of the Year
Yom HaZikaron is the saddest day of the year in Israel. And yet, it is also one of the most unifying. Because grief is shared. Memory is shared. There is a deep, collective understanding that the survival of this nation has come at an extraordinary cost.
I share these stories not to make a political point, but to help you understand—to feel, even in some small way, what Israelis live with. Behind every number is a name. Behind every name is a story. And behind every story is a family that will never be the same.
