Yom HaShoah: On Heroism and Hod

This week, the Israeli calendar marks Yom HaZikaron laShoah veLaGevurah — Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day. For members of Charedi society, the day presents a complex question. On the one hand, the Holocaust is unquestionably among the most defining foundations of our existence as a people and as a Jewish society. On the other hand, the date designated for its commemoration poses halachic and traditional difficulties: during the month of Nissan, we do not recite Tachanun, nor deliver public eulogies. And this is before engaging the broader question of whether days of public commemoration, fixed by a state whose leadership and founding vision are not universally embraced, carry binding significance. But above all lies a deeper question: the very nature of memory — and what it means to us.

The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising as National Symbol

A brief glance at the history of this date reveals that disagreement over its meaning exists far beyond the Charedi world. In the early years of the State, many Jews living in the Land were deeply ashamed of the Holocaust. My grandmother, of blessed memory, would often recall the scorn that the native-born tzabarim directed toward the she’erit ha-pleitah, the broken and destitute remnants of European Jewry who arrived by impossible means from the burning exile. These survivors were derided, often referred to contemptuously as those who “went like sheep to the slaughter.”

For the rejuvenated Zionist vision, the Holocaust embodied all that exile had come to represent: physical frailty, spiritual weakness, stooped posture, and above all, an utter inability to defend ourselves. Indeed, the same grandmother, who had raised her children in a secular household in the spirit of Hashomer HaTzair, would react with real scorn if she encountered a particularly assertive or muscular grandson, declaring with biting sincerity: “Shaigetz! Strength belongs to the Gentiles — not to us.”

The same grandmother […] would react with real scorn if she encountered a particularly assertive or muscular grandson, declaring with biting sincerity: “Shaigetz! Strength belongs to the Gentiles — not to us.”

With the return to the land and the physicalization of the Jewish spirit, the founders of the State sought to cultivate a new generation — upright in stature, noble in appearance. Their aspiration was to establish a memorial day for fallen soldiers, resistance fighters, and members of the underground militias — those who bore arms and risked all. There was little interest in commemorating those who embodied the exilic archetype that the new Israeli identity sought to transcend.

It was decided to root the day in an episode of Jewish pride and resistance — the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising — and to memorialize Holocaust and Heroism (originally, the name was Holocaust and Ghetto Fighters Memorial Day). The problem, however, was that the uprising began on the eve of Pesach, and so the commemoration was postponed to the 27th of Nissan, six days after the conclusion of the festival and one week before Memorial Day for Israel’s fallen soldiers. Choosing the ghetto revolt as the symbolic anchor for Holocaust memory offered a redemptive emphasis on physical heroism, a balm to the wounded honor of a people who had for too long offered their backs to the lash. It was a perfect fit for the Zionist ethos that the State wished to cultivate.

And yet, truth remains truth: the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, while noble and courageous, was a localized event. Even if it was mirrored by several others, these were but drops in an immense and terrible sea of suffering, in which foreign powers ruled over us, and there was no one to save us from their hands.

Heroism in Weakness

Even in times of darkness, Megillas Esther teaches us that political intrigue, royal edicts, disputes within empires, and strategic calculations — all are tools in the hand of the true Director of the drama, the King of kings, whose is both beginning and end. Onstage, we see actors deliberating whether to establish a memorial day for the Holocaust or not, when to mark it and how to shape it — but behind the curtain, Hashem gathers all moments into His own pattern and casts the lot for the appointed time.

It is well known that the seven weeks of Sefirat HaOmer correspond to the seven lower middot: Chesed, Gevurah, Tiferet, Netzach, Hod, Yesod, and Malchut. Within each week, the days themselves represent the seven middot again, in recursive form. Yom HaShoah — the 27th of Nissan — falls on the fifth day of the second week. The middah for that day is Hod she’beGevurah — glory within might.

These are deeply connected: gratitude is a form of acknowledgment of another who fills one’s lack and entails humility, surrender, and a breaking of the illusion of self-sufficiency

In the Kabbalistic framework of the Sefirot, Hod is the inverse of Netzach. Netzach is about victory, assertiveness, triumph. Hod, by contrast, is the capacity to yield, to acknowledge, to give thanks. The Hebrew word hoda’ah captures both meanings: confession of truth and gratitude. These are deeply connected: gratitude is a form of acknowledgment of another who fills one’s lack and entails humility, surrender, and a breaking of the illusion of self-sufficiency.

On the surface, such a surrender may appear as weakness, despair, or resignation. But it is, in truth, a different form of strength. A striking illustration of this comes from the plague of hail in Egypt: “But the wheat and the spelt were not struck, for they ripen late.” (Shemos 9:32) Rashi comments: “‘For they ripen late’ — they were still soft and could bend before the hail.” The hail shattered the robust trees that stood tall before it. But the wheat and spelt, still soft and supple, bent low — and when the storm passed, they rose again, upright and whole, still connected to their roots.

What appeared to be weakness — even earning contempt and ridicule (as in the biblical scorn for “the broken reed”[1]) — was revealed, once the hail had ceased, to be a form of strength that endures.

What Is Heroism?

Returning to the Holocaust, the heroism lauded by the early builders of the State — a kind one might call Netzach she’beGevurah — did not belong to its victims and survivors. But in them there was an abundance of the opposite movement: Hod she’beGevurah. This is the heroism of surrender, of accepting the decree, of fierce faith through the valley of death, of sacrifice and steadfastness, of devotion to Hashem, loyalty to family, the choosing of life. It is the heroism of sanctity and grace.

Over time, even this heroism has begun to be acknowledged.

Rather than impose artificial ceremonies or culturally distant rituals, rather than endless cycles of anguish and reenactment, this day offers an opportunity: to return to ourselves

Yom HaShoah is here, quietly present, asking for meaning. Hundreds of thousands of Jewish homes sense the smoke and suffocation lingering in the air, watching somber broadcasts and harrowing films, seeking meaning in the darkness. Rather than impose artificial ceremonies or culturally distant rituals, rather than endless cycles of anguish and reenactment, this day offers an opportunity: to return to ourselves, to the middah this day allows us to contemplate and repair, and perhaps to bring its spirit into a broader Israeli search for meaning.

Yom HaShoah invites us to reflect: What is true heroism? How can we walk in the path of those holy martyrs — even here, in the land of the living, in both senses of the phrase? Alongside the physical courage of Israel’s defenders, this day offers us a chance to connect with those who were innocent and pure, and to draw from them the quiet glory, the humility, the burning strength of submission to the will of Hashem.

This is the kind of heroism we encounter in our Torah portion (Shemini) — when Aharon, facing the death of his two sons, responds not with protest, but with silent acceptance: “And Aharon was silent.”[2]

Image credit: bigstouck

[1] On the contrast between the negative biblical image of the reed and the more positive rabbinic approach, see Eliezer Feuchtwanger, “The Cedar and the Reed: On the Symbollic Clash Between Erez Eshen and Rav Dov Landau” Tzarich Iyun (5784).

[2] With thanks to my father and teacher, who lives the days of Sefirat HaOmer deeply and from whom I learned the foundations of this essay.