The Fire on Yom HaZikaron
Tragedy on tragedy
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
The fire that licks the mountains of Jerusalem has layers and bite.
I think back to the fires across California not so long ago, the devastation that engulfed houses and neighborhoods. My cousins lost their homes. Homes built with years of hard work and dreams, filled with memories. Gone.
For those who live near the forests of the Jerusalem area, these fires may carry the same toll. But there’s even more to it. These flames burn on Yom Hazikaron—a day meant for mourning and honoring the heroes who died defending our country. Either directly through military action, or indirectly as victims of terror, we pay the ultimate price for having a Jewish state. While the families of the fallen live with a hole in their hearts all the time, this is the one day that the nation joins them with total focus.
But on this Yom Hazikaron, instead of reflective video portraits, the news channels carry footage of swirling flames and people abandoning their cars on the road.
The resemblance to October 7 is eerie. Hundreds, if not thousands, of Israelis call the authorities, desperate for help, and are turned away. The fire department, police, and ambulance services are all overwhelmed. Of course, the magnitude of the fires does not compare to the brutality of the Hamas infiltration, but echoes the failure to respond in a moment of despair. Faith in our security apparatus has deteriorated since October 7, and though it has been slowly, shakily returning, our confidence is rocked again. We question whether our national systems are capable of responding to emergencies, or only of planning sophisticated missions months or years in advance.
It’s on days like this that I remember just how small this country is. I live in Raanana, a town about an hour northwest of Jerusalem. Today, we are considered “far” from the fire, just as Raanana was considered “far” from the Gaza envelope on October 7. Here, a 40-minute drive can feel like a protective buffer, enough to convince us we’re out of harm’s way. But I grew up in Australia; I know what real space and distance look like. In Israel, everything is close to home, both physically and emotionally.
Before the flames are out, whispers are already circulating, formal and informal speculation: Were the fires intentional? Time will tell. But Israel lives in a complex reality, where a devastating fire inevitably raises these questions—further inflaming the discourse with each other and with our neighbors.
For now, our hearts are with those living near the fire zone, those caught in its path, and the firefighters doing all they can to contain the flames.
May there be no more loss today.
Rachel Caplin, originally from Australia, has called Israel home since 2015. Married to Eitan, she is the proud mother of three girls—Leora, Eliana and Gabriella. A tech executive with a chronic writing habit, her debut novel The Spoon and the Sea was a finalist for the Vogel Literary Award and is set for release in June 2025.
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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