In the past, when I watched Memorial Day programs, I would look at bereaved parents and fail to understand how they survived.
When they chose life, when they traveled, laughed, and kept going, I told myself they must be pretending.
It hurt me so much. I cried with them.
And I would say to God: do everything, just protect my children.
I never believed, not even in my wildest imagination, that it would come knocking on my door.
I was sure it would never happen to me.
People say that God does not give a person a challenge they cannot bear. I knew I would not be able to bear this. So I was certain it would never reach me.
But it did.
I am Shirit Yerushalmi, the mother of Eden Yerushalmi, of blessed memory.
My daughter was abducted on October 7. She was murdered in captivity in Gaza, alongside Eden Zacharia, the daughter of Orin Gantz.
Since then, Memorial Day has not been what it once was.
In the past, I could not disconnect from the television, the songs, and the programs. Today, I cannot go near them. They pull me into such a difficult emotional place that it feels like being thrown into a cage full of lions and being told: cope.
Memorial Day is just another day
The truth is that Memorial Day, for me, is just another day of the year.
Because every day is longing.
Every day is pain.
Every day is a feeling of something lost forever.
Every day I am a bereaved mother.
And every day I get up again.
Every day I choose life again. I choose to breathe. I choose to continue.
Sometimes I even pat myself on the back for managing to get out of bed, smile, feel joy, laugh, put on makeup, exercise, cook, and live well.
That is an achievement now.
The only difference on this day is the atmosphere around me: more messages, more interest, more media attention.
Inside, it is the same.
There are two things that define bereaved parents.
The first is that they are always waiting for their child.
It does not matter how much time passes. A parent cannot contain the death of a child. So I wait for Eden, and I will wait for her all my life.
The second is the need to commemorate, to do something so that the death will not have been in vain.
When I wrote the book Flying with Broken Wings in Eden’s memory, I felt, when it was finally published, that my Eden had been born again.
I wanted the book to come out quickly, but the printing process kept being delayed. Again and again, it was postponed.
Then I understood that a book is born like a baby. You cannot decide exactly when it will be born. It comes into the world when its time arrives.
And it was published on October 7.
There is something chilling in that paradox.
This is how I commemorate my Eden, every day, all day.
And there is one more thing people need to understand: there is no day when you think less about your child.
It is 24/7.
It is like a convenience store that never closes.
There is not a moment when I do not think about Eden. Even when I do not say it. Even when I do not show it. Even at night.
Eden is with me, always.