Drawing a New Life in the New Jewish State

Refugee boats, transit camps and immigrant neighborhoods – Artist David Friedmann arrived in Israel in 1949 from Czechoslovakia after surviving harrowing experiences during the Holocaust. In celebration of Israel’s 75th Birthday, his daughter Miriam, who was born in the Jewish state a year later, shares his stories and artworks documenting those early months in Israel

"A Street in Hadar Yosef", by David Friedmann

My father David Friedman(n) 1893-1980, a prolific artist and Holocaust survivor, recorded his experiences in words, artwork and albums. He is renowned for his most important contribution — an art series depicting scenes he witnessed from deportation with his family from Prague to the Lodz Ghetto, further to Auschwitz-Birkenau, and the death march to liberation at Blechhammer in January 1945. His wife Mathilde and young daughter Mirjam-Helene did not survive. He returned to Prague to begin a new life, one without family. The strongest will of mankind, the will to live, gave him the power to start again from scratch.

He immersed himself in drawing and painting the scenes torn from his memory and held exhibitions to show his art to the world. Then a communist coup was carried out in February 1948, and shortly thereafter Czechoslovakia became a brutal communist dictatorship. The State of Israel was established on May 14, 1948. David Friedmann married fellow survivor Hildegard Taussig two weeks later at the Old-New Synagogue in Prague. Their marriage began at a refugee’s pace as they planned to flee.

Friends and family, mostly survivors of concentration camps, celebrate the Jewish wedding of David and Hildegard Friedmann on May 27, 1948. Karl Taussig, Hilde’s father stands left of the bride. Roman Chudy, who made the wedding rings, is right of the groom. Directly behind them is author František Kraus wearing a white hat, and his wife Alice.

I was born in Israel and named after my half-sister. My father made it his business to ensure his daughter would know her history. Several days after I was born in 1950, he wrote a diary for me, Tagebuch für Mirjam Friedmann (Diary for Miriam Friedmann). One senses his joy when compiling a photo album with handwritten and typed captions about his new life in a new country with Hilde and baby Miriam. The photo album also reflects a significant part of Israel’s founding history — the emigration of survivor immigrants starting over again with nothing but their strong will to survive and build a new life after the Holocaust. The immigrants were brought to an absorption center and crowded into tents without electricity and running water. The sanitary conditions were poor. They were exposed to rain and cold during the winter months and heat in the summer. Nevertheless, the survivors were free and eager to move forward.

Thus, the photo album was no ordinary creation. My father displayed artwork and typed stories of the first year in his new country. The drawings depicted three scenes after arriving in July 1949 in the tent city Shaar Ha’Aliyah by Haifa, and then Raanana. He enjoyed producing portraits and painting throughout Israel from 1950 to 1954, when our family left for America. David Friedmann captured the colorful landscape and experiences from the beginnings of the Jewish state. I hope to preserve my father’s artwork in an Israel museum for future generations to enjoy as much as me.

“After the Hasty Departure From Prague to Israel in July 1949”

(The following text was written by David Friedmann. It has been edited compiled and translated from German by his daughter Miriam Friedman Morris)

I was elated to read in the Prague Jewish newsletter that the State of Israel had been founded and that all Jews were called to immigrate as soon as possible, it was a land of freedom and many possibilities. Indeed, many of our friends and acquaintances immigrated. After experiencing more than our share of aggravation with the communists in every regard, Hilde and I decided to do the same.

The War Museum committee wanted to buy some of my paintings and they offered a good price. I was sitting down with high-ranking military men at the desk, and they told me how proud I could be that my works would be displayed in their museum. But my answer was no, I needed the works to be on exhibit in Israel and as they heard that, they jumped from their chairs so fast I became terrified. I said I am very sorry, but I cannot sell my paintings. A few minutes later they told me it would be all right for me to take my paintings home. However, by the look on their faces I could tell they were very angry.

I got into trouble over the artwork and the Czech government ordered an “export prohibition”. But I found an important official, himself an artist, and for 1000 Kc all the works were marked with a government stamp and this is how I was able to save my paintings for Israel. I arranged for a lift (a large wooden storage container) with a transport agency and the paintings along with furniture and belongings were shipped to Israel. Meanwhile we were registered for emigration.

Although we had prepared for a year, our hasty departure from Prague in July 1949 to Israel felt like fleeing. We had to leave an apartment with three rooms plus kitchen and hall, all with the most modern comfort. The Czech government permitted us to take only the equivalent of 2½ Israeli pounds, so you can imagine how difficult it was to start all over with nothing. However, our strong will to survive gave us enormous strength. After certain difficulties we reached the Czech border. The officers asked me where my paintings were and I told them they were in Prague. They searched all through our luggage, but finally believed me and let us go. We were joyful to have escaped the communists and had to sign that we renounced our Czech citizenship and never would return to this country. We changed to an Austrian train with Russian guards with extended bayonets. When the train passed the border, headed for Vienna, we fell to our knees, we were so happy to be free again, this time from the communists. On the Italian train soldiers bolted the doors. We were not allowed to leave the train for drinking water at the stops. The Italians behaved disgracefully towards us.

Therefore, not until Naples when we boarded the Israeli ship Eilath did we truly feel free.

On board the *Eilath* July 17, 1949, a drawing from the David Friedmann series, *My Journey from Naples to Israel July 12, 1949 (with the ship* Eilath) and my Journey from Israel to New York Oct. 22, 1954 with the SS Jerusalem

On the *Eilath,* on the way to Israel July 12, 1949, a drawing from the David Friedmann series, *My Journey from Naples to Israel July 12, 1949 (with the ship* Eilath) and my Journey from Israel to New York Oct. 22, 1954 with the SS Jerusalem

I earned my first Israeli pounds making some portrait drawings. The ship machines made a deafening noise. At night it was impossible to sleep a wink and our hammocks swung considerably. Most of the people slept on deck. The view of Haifa harbor was fantastic and I only wished I could paint it, regretfully this never came about. Then came the registration formalities. We were asked by an official if we belonged to a political party and we answered, “Zionist” and then he asked my age, and I replied 56 years, at which point he pronounced “not employable”. This astounded me and I said to Hilde in Czech, “How stupid this fellow is, he has no idea of my ability”.

Then we were loaded with our baggage on trucks and brought to the reception camp for newcomers “Shaar Ha’Aliyah” (The Gate of Immigration), a few kilometers from Haifa. Guards opened the gates and closed them behind us. Astonished, we saw we were surrounded by high barbed wire fences. Nobody was allowed to leave the camp without permission. We were strongly reminded of the Nazi concentration camps.

*Two Inmates of the Lodz Ghetto Walking by the German Fence,* charcoal, 1947. From the David Friedmann art series, *Because They Were Jews!* Copyright © 1989 Miriam Friedman Morris

*Feeding Time in Auschwitz,* charcoal 1964. From the David Friedmann art series, *Because They Were Jews!* Copyright © 1989 Miriam Friedman Morris

However, we were happy to no longer be exposed to communist antisemitism. As in the First World War and the Hitler years, I knew in advance I would survive. Each time I started over with nothing and now in Israel, I was sure I could succeed again with Hilde’s help. I still had ample reserves of energy at that time, as well as the necessary knowledge and ability in my profession as artist, painter and craftsman.

*Shaar Ha’Aliyah by Haifa*, charcoal, July 1949, drawing placed in a family album

In Shaar Ha’Aliyah we were registered again, then examined for lice, powdered with DDT. Furthermore, we had to go barefoot through a milky liquid, probably also this DDT substance. I was very angry about all of this, however, we had to hold out. In the camp we searched for a free tent and there were plenty. The camp was dirty, stinking, and the food was terrible. We got food out of giant pails, standing in long rows, like with the Nazis. But the State of Israel was hardly one year old, and we knew over the years all would become better. We persevered with the help of Hilde’s sister (Else Taussig Löwy) and after one week we were transferred to the Beth Olim camp near Ranaana, where we also obtained a free tent. We received two iron bedsteads and straw sacks, which had been urinated on, one linen sheet for each, as well as an old gray blanket. We brought our baggage into the tent – and so began our new life.

The second day after our arrival in Shaar Ha’Aliyah, I found an opening in the barbed wire fence. Cautiously, I crawled my way out to freedom, having arranged with Hilde that I would be back some days later. In Haifa it was imperative I look up an old friend I knew from Berlin. I climbed on the bus to Haifa and looking at the advertising signs there, found his name written underneath. I went into the shop and the owner gave me the home address. I found him and he was very surprised and I became his guest. He gave me work and paid for sketches and portrait drawings. Wiser and with more money, I returned to my beloved Hilde, who was quite worried about me.

*Out of the Transit Camp, Shaar Ha’Aliyah by Haifa,* drawing placed in a family album

Now, Hilde could not stand it any longer. After ten years she finally wanted to see her sister who was living in Tel Aviv. Hilde knew where Else worked and the next day she took the bus there and immediately found Café Katz, on Ben Yehuda Street, known across Tel Aviv. Hilde sat herself down by a table. As Else began to pass her by carrying a tray of cups full of coffee, she recognized Hilde and let the whole tray drop to the floor, making a mighty crash. As the sisters kissed and held each other, the guests all clapped.

The Beth Olim tent camp. The town of Raanana is concealed behind the hills in the background. August 1949, drawing placed in a family album

Beth Olim was a lively place full of screaming children. New immigrants from all over the world streamed into Israel, for example from Czechoslovakia alone there were 15,000. Everyone was crowded together because space was lacking and so a Belgian couple joined us in our tent, though they were pleasant people. Our new camp also had a fence because of the many children; however, it was without barbed wire and everyone could go in and out. For this reason, we often went to the city of Ranaana and met very nice people who ordered portraits or posters from me. We also went to the café where we could dance and have a wonderful time. After weeks of living in tight quarters a tzrif (wooden shack) became available. The tzrif was lightly constructed of crude planks. We were ordered by the administration to move in and we were very happy and finally, we also became Israeli citizens.

Hilde’s father Karl Taussig and second wife Elza, and child Judita immigrated to Israel before us — but only because of my urging did they register, otherwise they would still be in Prague today. Through an agency, his daughter Else found him a position in his vocation as chemist at the well-known company “Mekorot” where he worked as a water specialist until he retired. For all of us a very good beginning.

Karl Taussig, Hilde and Miriam Friedmann, Judita and Elza Taussig, Ramat Amidar, March 1952

Karl Taussig, Miriam and Hilde Friedmann and Judita Taussig, Ramat Amidar, March 1952

I can no longer recall all we experienced in Raanana, yet I would like to mention one occurrence that happened during a terrible rainstorm. The storm surprised us in the night, it poured in buckets, something like this we had never experienced. The rain washed under the barracks, the water flowed inside, and we all sprang up, because it reached the rim of the bed. However, this was not the end of it, as in charged a new heavy gale and the barracks tipped over on the side of another barracks. Now we ran out in our nightclothes and got soaking wet of course, before waiting out the rest of the storm with one of our neighbors. After a few hours we were able to return to our wet home. It was no longer possible to think of sleep, everything was drenched. In the early morning we carried our things to dry out in the sun.

For the long run, we did not want to live in a tent or shack. We looked at various possible apartments, but none pleased us. Then we were told in a short time a new village near Tel Aviv was planned and we could register if we had the 250 pounds down payment and the monthly rent of 6 pounds. However, we needed to hurry because a great number had already been sold. We were shown the building plans and the name of the place: Hadar Yosef, only 20 minutes from Tel Aviv.

At last, after a seven-month waiting period, we received news from the building administration we could claim our home. This was again a wonderful moment as we were loaded on the truck together with our luggage and we began the trip to Hadar Yosef.

Hadar Yosef. 1950 Pen-and-ink drawing. From 1950 to 1954, the Friedmann family lived in this residential neighborhood of Tel Aviv, in the northeastern part of the city. The artist produced drawings and painted landscapes in and around Hadar Yosef and the nearby Yarkon River

View from the Friedmann family one-room apartment at Amidar 1, Hadar Yosef. Oil.

I telephoned Haifa and authorized the movers to transport our lift from storage in Tel Aviv to Hadar Yosef. In the meantime, we had to sleep on the bare floor, but this did not bother us at all. In the container was furniture for a one-room apartment with kitchen appliances and dishes, my pictures painted after liberation in 1945, including a large amount of (artist’s) material and my violin. After unpacking, we moved forward to the next phase of our life in Israel.

A street in Hadar Yosef, survivors from Europe and those who spent the war years in Shanghai lived in Hadar Yosef. Oil.

*Jaffa Beach*. Oil. In the background is Tel Aviv, 1952.

I had spoken with Hilde about having a child even back in Prague. This wish was not fulfilled until a year later in Israel. This completed our happiness because a child was yet missing.

Our wish became reality, for our beloved Miriam was born!!! Then together with our Miriam, life truly began in our new home, giving a new meaning to our life cycle, and this experience seems to have no end! These baby and childhood years were the most beautiful of our lives!!!

Miriam with her father David Friedmann, Hadar Yosef, 1952

Miriam with her mother Hildegard Taussig Friedmann, Hadar Yosef, 1952

Recognize the girl portrayed by David Friedmann in 1954? This is among numerous portraits he painted and sketched in Israel

David Friedmann in a commercial art studio in Tel Aviv, 1951. He contributed to the founding of Israel’s advertising industry. Every spare moment he painted for himself producing a large collection of paintings, drawings and portraits in Israel.

The Nazi regime nearly eradicated every trace of David Friedmann, but they did not succeed. Searching for lost art is gratifying and a priceless view into his life. I carry-on with my father’s mission to show his Holocaust art to the world. My goal is to continue to publicize his work through exhibitions, books and film to preserve his legacy for future generations. A new Holocaust documentary by Emmy Award Winner John Rokosny is currently in production with the working title, The Art and Survival of David Friedmann.

Photographs and artwork: The Miriam Friedman Morris Collection, New York

For more about David Friedmann and to provide information you may have about existing works, please visit: www.davidfriedmann.org or the “David Friedmann—Artist As Witness” Facebook page.

Yom HaZikaron: A Light in the Darkness

Memorial candles are woven into all aspects of Yom HaZikaron: lit during public ceremonies, by bereaved families at gravesides on Har Hertzl, and of course in homes up and down the country. But why do we use a candle to commemorate the fallen heroes of Israel? What inspires us to shed light in a day full of darkness?

Mia Amran | 20.04.23

IDF Israel's Wars Israeli Culture Israeli Memorial Day

These memorial candles are some of the hundreds lit at the site on which 22 Israeli citizens were murdered on the Number 5 bus on Dizengoff Street, 1994, Photographer: Gideon Markowiz, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

As evening closes in on the night of April 24, we walk soberly to the ceremony. We bow our heads and take our places. The Israeli flag is lowered to half mast, the Memorial Prayer is said, and the candle is lit.

*Memorial ceremony at Mt. Herzl military cemetery*, 1971, photographer: IPPA Staff, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Maybe one candle is lit. Maybe 19 candles are lit to represent the 19 Israeli victims of terror since the start of 2023. Maybe 8 candles are lit to represent the 8 wars Israel has fought in. But you can be sure that at least one flame will cast light across the downturned faces of those at the podium.

*A Yom HaZikaron ceremony at the Knesset*, 1988. Photographer: IPPA Staff, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

We go home and light a candle. Maybe it’s for someone we knew and lost, maybe we have signed up to one of the many schemes to honor forgotten Israeli soldiers, or maybe we light a symbolic candle and keep it aflame for 24 hours to commemorate the collective tragedy of the Israeli people.

*Memorial Yorzait candle cover*, 1964. Photographer: Avi Biran. Center for Jewish Art Collection. CJA Sacred and Ritual Objects. Center for Jewish Art at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, National Library of Israel

The next morning we walk to Har Herzl, and amidst the tears and the families desperately holding each other for strength, we see candles. Some are on top of graves, some sit in little boxes for protection against the wind. Some are held by friends and loved ones as they recite the Mourner’s Kaddish Prayer.

The symbolism of these candles, woven into all aspects of Yom HaZikaron, may seem clear – a light in the darkness. But this doesn’t fit with Israel or Judaism’s cultural use of candles in other areas of popular custom. Candles are lit to celebrate incoming sabbaths and festivals. Candles are held while walking a bride down the aisle to her groom. Candles are lit on Hannukah to celebrate ancient miracles.

So why do we also use a candle to commemorate the fallen heroes of Israel?

Thousands of Tel Aviv residents come to pay their respects to the 22 citizens murdered on the Number 5 bus on Dizengoff Street. These memorial candles are some of the hundreds lit at the site of the tragedy, 1994. Photographer: Gideon Markowiz, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Despite the many differences that persist between different world cultures, one seeming constant is the mourner’s candle. In Catholicism, lighting a candle is a way to strengthen the bereaved. Lighting a candle to remember the dead is a Catholic custom that dates back centuries, allegedly to Jesus himself, who used candle light to guide his followers, hence the belief that lighting a candle guides the dead closer to Christ. For Buddhists, candles are used in meditation services after death. It is said to focus the meditations on the memories of loved ones and reflect inner thoughts and feelings towards them as the bereaved reminisce and mourn. Dating back even further, Pagans would place white candles on memorial altars to harness their natural energy and send it to the dead, and to aid with channeling the memory of past spirits and family members.

*Star of David electric memorial (Yortzeit) lamp,* the Josef and Margit Hoffman Judaica Postcard Collection, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, the Folklore Research Center, via the National Library of Israel Digital Collection

Interestingly, in both China and the Philippines, mourners mark death with candles too, and similar to the practice in Israel, once a year a candle is lit to remember the loved ones that they have lost. But their candles actually mark a visual representation, with different colors indicating different relatives. For Filipinos, pink candles are lit for girls, blue candles for boys, and red candles for those whom one loved most. Meanwhile, in Chinese tradition, there are generally three colors used for memorial candles: white is used during the first year, yellow is used for the first anniversary of the death, and red is used every subsequent year after that on the anniversary of the death.

*President Yitzhak Ben-Zvi and his wife, Rahel Yanait, with a memorial candle for their son Eli, who fell in the war of 1948.* 1958, Photographer: Ilani REI-YBZ. This item is part of the Israel Archive Network project (IAN) and has been made accessible thanks to the collaborative efforts of the Yad Ben Zvi Archive, the Ministry of Jerusalem and Heritage and the National Library of Israel

In Judaism there is also a strong historic precedent to light candles for the deceased.

There is evidence of Jews lighting candles to honor the deceased as far back as the Mishnaic period, approximately 2,000 years ago: the Mishnah states that one cannot use the “fire of the dead” for the Havdalah blessing on Saturday night because candles symbolize the dead not the living. Additionally, we find that Rabbi Judah the Prince, who was the compiler of the Mishnah, requested that his family “leave a lamp lit in its place” after he passed away. In the 1870s, the Chaffetz Haim adjudicated that all Jews should light a candle on the anniversary of a death as lighting a candle “constitutes atonement for the departed soul.”

The Yahrzeit, 1898, Moritz Oppenheim, Germany, the Josef and Margit Hofmann Judaica Postcard Collection, the Mendel Institute of Jewish Studies, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, the Folklore Research Center, via the National Library of Israel Digital Collection

During the Middle Ages, another aspect was added to this bereavement ceremony – the Mourner’s Prayer. Each year on Yom HaZikaron the Mourner’s Prayer is recited across the country. The President and Prime Minister recite it at state ceremonies, individual families recite it at gravesides, and usually a family member of a fallen soldier or terror victim will also publicly recite this prayer to a large and televised audience. In 2015 Racheli Frenkel made history by being the first woman to publicly recite this prayer in the state service, after her son was amongst the three boys kidnapped at the start of Operation Protective Edge. The country watched on as her emotional prayer pierced every heart up and down the country. Everyone, including the most religious of rabbis at the ceremony, responded “Amen.”

The origin of the Mourner’s Kaddish Prayer was compiled by rabbis as a means to memorialize the dead. Its recitation is neither a biblical nor a rabbinic commandment, but a long-held tradition which, like the candle, brings comfort and peace to mourners.

Use of the memorial candle, which is usually lit just before the Mourner’s Prayer, is often dated back to the Book of Proverbs. In Chapter 20, Verse 27 it is said that “the human soul is the candle of God” – lighting candles is a powerful and evocative ritual, as the candle is believed in the Bible to be a tangible symbol of the soul.

President Herzog lighting the Flame of Remembrance, 1992. Photographer: Yolene Haik, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Tel Aviv Chief Rabbi Yitzhak Yedidia Frenkel in front of the Yom HaZikaron memorial torches, 1970. Photographer: IPPA Staff, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Lighting a candle on Yom HaZikaron in Israel is both political and personal. Political figures from Shimon Perez to President Herzog have been invited to light memorial candles as the world watched on. And for individuals who either light candles for their own loved ones, or volunteer to light a candle for those who have no family to mourn them, it is a deeply meaningful part of the Yom HaZikaron proceedings:

Nehemia Sharabi, a kibbutznik and zoologist, was shot while guarding his post during his service as an army reservist, leaving behind a wife and three children. His commander called him “an exemplary soldier, a friend to everyone, a modest person who knows his own way.”

Eliezer Kolberg, devoted only child to his Holocaust survivor parents, worked as a laborer to support his family. During the War of Independence, he was a member of the brigade who first attempted to break through into besieged Jerusalem, where he fell in battle.

Yigal Ezra, Tel Avivian from birth, served on the southern front during the Yom Kippur War. After he fell in battle, his family set up a scholarship fund in his name and wrote of him: “That smile … modest. You want to know what he thinks? Just look into his wise eyes. You want to know what Yigal thinks? Just turn to him and ask him. He will not erupt. Yigal will not scream. Great nobility was inherent in him. I loved to look at his black, laughing, intelligent eyes, his face – the face of a child.”

Memorial for the fallen soldiers who fought for the reunification of Jerusalem during the Six-Day War, 1987. Photographer: IPPA Staff, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Maybe this year we can keep these courageous young men, and the so many others whose stories are not known, in our thoughts as we light the Yom HaZikaron memorial candles. When a soul departs from the world, it leaves behind a dark void, which the memorial candle serves to replenish. Rabbi Bechayei ben Asher explained, over 800 years ago, that a departed soul will also derive joy from the candle’s light because the Bible states that “the light of the righteous will rejoice.”

Bereaved mother Lea Epstein lights a memorial torch at Ammunition Hill, 1980. Her 26-year-old son Shlomo, a paratrooper, fell in the Six-Day War. On her left is Uri Navon of the Defense Ministry. Photographer: IPPA Staff, the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Those who are partial to the symbolism of Kabbalah hold by the idea that a candle is a physical representation of a human, the wick and flame representing the body and soul. When a candle is lit, both the wick and flame burn upwards, representing the fact that the body is subsumed by the soul and is at its essence energy whose goal is to return to the world around it.

*“Memorial Day in Israel”*, designers: Gabriel and Maxim Shamir, Shamir Brothers Studio, Shamir Brothers Collection, the National Library of Israel

A flame has three components: The inner blue flame, which surrounds the wick and burns the fuel, the bright body of the flame, which provides the light, and lastly, the glow that surrounds the flame. In Kabbalah it is believed that these three parts correspond to the three components of the soul that are most closely associated with the physical body: nefesh – the burning spirit, ruach – the energy which illuminates a person’s spirit, and neshamah – the aura of a soul. The revered Kabbalist, Rabbi Bahya, wrote that “it is known that the soul enjoys the lighting of the candles and it walks with grace and happiness, spreads and expands due to the enjoyment of the light.” The Kabbalists say that fire is the most refined matter in our material reality, thus approaching the spiritual, and by lighting a candle they believed themselves to be bringing delight and benefit to the souls of the departed.

*Memorial candle*, 1997, Tunisia. Photographer: Zev Radovan. Center for Jewish Art Collection, CJA Sacred and Ritual Objects. Center for Jewish Art at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, via the National Library of Israel Digital Collection

The National Library of Israel collections include images of Jewish memorial candles from all over the world: Tunisia, England, Germany, but most of all Israel. From mourning the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, to the victims of the most recent operation in Gaza, candles are lit for each Israeli who has died at the hands of terror and war.

The day following *Rabin’s assassination*, 1995. Photographer: Gideon Markowiz. the Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, watched by Chief Rabbi Israel Lau, lighting the central memorial torch for Yom HaZikaron, 1993. Photographer: Zeev Ackerman. The Dan Hadani Collection, the Pritzker Family National Photography Collection, the National Library of Israel

This year, Yom HaZikaron falls in the midst of turmoil. Just earlier this month a new bout of terrorism spiked after clashes on Temple Mount, and rockets from Lebanon and Gaza placed the lives of Israeli citizens in danger, as the country prepared to add yet more names to the ever-growing list of victims.

For each of these names a candle is added too. Candles are unique because they do the opposite of hate. Terrorism and war put out the lights, extinguish happiness and indiscriminately snuff out hope, serving as an ending. A light, however, can give and give without loosing any of its own power. One candle can light up a whole room, and can be used to light many more candles without any expense to its own brightness.

Collection of Yahrzeit Plaques, 1894-1910. Israel/Germany, owned by: William L.Gross, House of Gross, via the National Library of Israel Digital Collection

On April 7, Molotov cocktails were thrown into Israeli homes, terrifying and harming innocent families. On April 8, rockets were launched at Israel with burning bright orange paths trailing behind them. On April 9^,fires were started in fields in Northern Israel, destroying crops and even killing a few poor chickens resting in their coop. Fire can be used to hate and kill. But less than a month later, one by one, candles will be lit in homes, schools, and cemeteries across Israel, bringing together families and friends to unite in their collective pain and channel their loss into a meaningful ritual.

Yom HaZikaron is about so much more than the struggles of Israel’s past, and the struggles it still contends with. It’s about hope for a brighter future, that peace can and will finally arrive. That there is always a light at the end of the darkness. And that is why we light a candle.

Hannah Senesh Bids Farewell to Her Brother Giora

Hannah Senesh did not believe she would meet her brother Giora before leaving on a mission from which she thought she might not return. When her brother arrived in Mandatory Palestine a few days before she was to depart for Egypt, Senesh gave him a letter. He could not have understood its full meaning at the time…

Chen Malul | 20.04.23

Hannah Senesh History of Israel Land of Israel World War II

Hannah Senesh. Yad Vashem Photo Archive 3213/2

My dear Giora,

Some letters are written without the intention of sending them. Letters that must be written, without asking whether they fulfill their purpose or not.

The day after tomorrow I start something new. Perhaps foolish, perhaps imaginary, perhaps dangerous; perhaps one in a hundred, perhaps one in a thousand will pay with their life; perhaps with less than life, perhaps more. Do not ask what; a time will come when you will know what it is all about.

My dear Giora, I must explain something to you, to justify myself. I have to prepare for that moment when you stand here, within the borders of the country, looking forward to the moment when we are to meet after six years and when you will ask: Where is she? – They will answer you in short: She is not here. She is gone!

With these poignant words, Hannah Senesh (Szenes) began a letter to her older brother Giora (George), from whom she had parted years earlier when she immigrated to the Land of Israel. Giora was expected to arrive in the country imminently and Senesh wanted the letter to be delivered to him when he came. Not knowing exactly when he would arrive, she was surprised to discover that she could deliver the letter to him in person, about a month before she was scheduled to leave for a parachuting course in Egypt before setting out on the mission from which she believed she would never return.

Hannah’s Mission

First, a brief reminder of Hannah’s life story. Hannah Senesh was born in Budapest to a middle-class Jewish family. Her father Bela, who was a well-known journalist, writer and playwright, died when Hannah was six years old, leaving her mother Kathrine to raise Hannah and her older brother Giora alone. She studied at a public high school (gymnasium), where she encountered antisemitism, which turned her into an ardent Zionist.

At the age of 18, she immigrated on her own to Mandatory Palestine and began attending the Nahalal Agricultural School. After completing her studies there, she moved to Kibbutz Sdot-Yam near Caesarea, where she composed her best-known poem, “A Walk to Caesarea.” When she was 13, Hannah Senesh began keeping a diary documenting the life of a Jewish girl in Hungary. Up until the point she immigrated to the Land of Israel, she wrote exclusively in Hungarian. Hannah began learning Hebrew upon her arrival in Palestine. The outbreak of World War II and the early reports regarding the fate of the Jews who remained in Europe convinced Senesh to switch to writing exclusively in Hebrew.

This private and minor step—the transition from her native language to the revivified Hebrew language, the language of the Jewish people—signified a greater change, which would later make Senesh a recognized Israeli symbol. In late 1943, she joined the Yishuv’s paratrooper training course, and in mid-March 1944 she parachuted (along with several other members of the group) into Yugoslavia. For about three months, she roamed the forests of Croatia waiting for an opportunity to cross the border to Hungary, which was her destination. In Croatia, she wrote the poem Blessed Is the Match, and gave the note on which she wrote it to her comrade, the paratrooper Reuven Dafni.

The poem “Blessed Is the Match,” in Hannah Senesh’s handwriting (preserved in the Ghetto Fighters’ House Museum)

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart.

Blessed is the heart with strength to stop its beating for honor’s sake.

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

On June 7, 1944, she managed to cross the border into Hungary only to be captured by the Hungarians that same day. She was transferred to a prison in Budapest, where she remained for about five months, until her execution on November 7, 1944. Her mother, Katherine, was the one who brought her writings, letters and diaries to Israel, where they are now preserved at the National Library.

Some may ask why Hannah Senesh is the most well-known member of the group of Hebrew paratroopers who risked their lives trying to save the Jews of Europe. In fact, for many, hers is the only recognizable name among these 37 heroic soldiers. An answer can be found in the introduction to the printed edition of Hannah Senesh’s collected writings. Thanks to her diaries, poems and letters, we have a clear, true and definitive testimony about her life. All the details of her life, her mission and her death add up to a singular figure, “adorned with the splendor of supreme Hebrew heroism”. Her natural gift for writing certainly helped to solidify her place in the pantheon of Jewish national heroes.

Giora, who was a year older than Hannah, had not seen her since she left Hungary. They reunited for a very short time, on the eve of Hannah’s departure for Egypt, when she let him read the farewell letter she had written for him. In her diary, Senesh added what she could not say to her brother Giora in the letter itself, nor in their meeting. This is because the mission she embarked on was secret. She wrote:

I wrote this letter before the parachuting course. When I let you read it, you could not understand what it was about.

Forgive me, Giori, that I was forced to lie to you even in the happy moments of our meeting. You were so new in our lives that I couldn’t tell you the truth. I’m sure that now you’ll understand me.”

Senesh wrote this final entry in her diary less than a month after her letter to Giora and their reunion: “This week I will go to Egypt. I am an enlisted-soldier. As for the terms of my enlistment, my feelings about it, the most recent news—and what lies ahead for me – I do not wish to write about all that. I want to believe that what I have done and will do is right. Only time will tell.

The final entry in Hannah Senesh’s diary, the Senesh Family Archive, courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen

You can read Hannah Senesh’s original diaries on the National Library of Israel website. Click here for her fourth and last diary, which she wrote from 1941 until she left for the mission in early 1944.

The Senesh Family Archive at the National Library of Israel has been made accessible courtesy of Ori and Mirit Eisen.

Below is the complete text of the letter Hannah Senesh wrote to her brother:

Haifa, December 25, 1943:

My dear Giora,

Some letters are written without the intention of sending them. Letters that must be written, without asking whether they fulfill their purpose or not.

The day after tomorrow I start something new. Perhaps foolish, perhaps imaginary, perhaps dangerous; perhaps one in a hundred, perhaps one in a thousand will pay with their life; perhaps with less than life, perhaps more. Do not ask what; there will come a time when you will know what it was all about.

My dear Giora, I must explain something to you, to justify myself. I have to prepare for that moment when you stand here, within the borders of the country, looking forward to the moment when we will meet again after six years and when you will ask: Where is she? – They will answer you in short: She is not here. She is gone!

Will you understand? Will you believe that more than the desire for adventure, more than childish romance has brought me this far? Will you understand, feel, that I could not do otherwise, that I had to do this?

There are events, in the light of which human life loses its meaning; man becomes a worthless toy, or the demand is raised: something must be done, even at the cost of life.

I fear that the feelings burning inside me become empty sentences when they are cloaked in words. I don’t know if you will sense behind them the struggles, the doubts and after every crisis—the renewed decision.

It’s difficult for me because I’m lonely. If only I had someone I could talk to openly and simply, if only the whole burden wasn’t on me alone, if only I could talk to you… If there is someone who is able to understand me—it’s you. Although, who knows… six years—such a long time. But enough about myself—maybe too much. I want to tell you some things about the new homeland, about the new life—as I see it. I have no intention of influencing you. You will see what the land is with your own eyes. I want to describe how I see it.

From the first—I love it. I love it. I love its many landscapes, the diverse climate, the many colors of its life; I love the new and the old in it, love it, because it is ours! No, not ours yet. But for ourselves and in the depths of our being we are determined that it is ours.

Second—I cherish it. Not all of it. But I respect and cherish the people who believe in something, who are willing to fight in this day-to-day reality in the name of what is dear to them; I respect those who live their lives not only for one moment, for one lira. And here there are more of them than anywhere else.

And finally, I believe that this is the only solution for us, therefore I do not doubt for a moment its future, despite the awaiting difficulties and obstacles in our path.

And as for the kibbutz—I don’t think it is perfect. Surely, there will still be many stages of development; but there is no doubt that in the current conditions, this is the most appropriate form for the fulfillment of our ambitions, the most suitable for our ideas.

There is a need for courageous people, free of preconceived notions. People who can and want to think for themselves—who are not mechanical slaves to thoughts set in stone. And this is the most difficult part, it is easy to carve out a law for a person: live according to this. It is more difficult to live according to these carved molds. But the most difficult [is] to cut a path of life for ourselves, while being constantly self-critical. It seems to me that this is the only moral way to establish a law for a person. And only in this way is it possible to build a new life, a complete life.

Sometimes I ask myself: What will the future of the kibbutz be like when the magic of building is over, when the deliberations and struggles over creating a new life are finished, when life is peaceful, organized, planned? What will motivate the person and what content will fill their life? I have no answer. But this vision is still so far away—and we should think of things which are more current.

Don’t think I see everything as rosy. My faith stems from internal conditions, and is not the result of an existing reality. I am well aware of both internal and external difficulties. But I also see the positive sides —and as I said: this is the way and there is no other.

I didn’t write to you about what most occupies my thoughts: Mother! I can’t write about her.

Enough of this letter. I hope that it will not reach you; and if it does, then only after we meet.

And if it be otherwise—with boundless love,

Your sister

Are you in possession of a diary from 1948? We have begun collecting personal diaries written by the men and women of Israel’s founding generation, in order to preserve these accounts in the collective memory of the Jewish people. Find more information here!

Desert Temples, Ancient Tombs & Tank Battles: Scenes From the Life of a Photographer

Zev Radovan has been taking photos since 1965, in Israel and around the world. He and his camera were given the kind of access that few people receive. As a result, Radovan was able to document some incredible locations and moments in history. His archive of photographs can now be found at the National Library of Israel…

Shai Ben-Ari | 04.04.23

History of Israel Israel's Wars Photographs Six-Day War ירושלים

The monument known as Absalom's Tomb, the Kidron Valley, outside the Old City walls in Jerusalem, late 1960s, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

A temple in the desert.

Strange standing stones, arranged in a peculiar fashion, and covered in intricate, beautiful markings – human figures, animals and symbols decipherable only to a select few. The stones stand at the summit of a remote hilltop in the inhospitable wilderness of Sinai. The markings are ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, identifying the site as a temple dedicated to Hathor, goddess of the sky, fertility, women and love.

The Temple of Hathor at Serabit al-Khadem, Sinai, Egypt, late 1960s, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

This is Serabit al-Khadem, a location that has been studied by archaeologists for well over a century. This was where the ancient Egyptians mined turquoise, a semi-precious stone that was in great demand at the time.

Serabit al-Khadem, Sinai, Egypt, late 1960s, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Serabit al-Khadem was where a link was first established between ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs and early Proto-Sinaitic script. It was from this script that Hebrew, Arabic and Greek would eventually develop. Proto-Sinaitic characters were found scribbled on rocks not far from the temple. It is believed they were made by Canaanite prisoners who labored in the mines. These people lived, worked and worshipped here. In their writings they referred to the goddess as “the lady of the turquoise”.

Ancient writing scribbled on rocks at Serabit al-Khadem, Sinai, Egypt, late 1960s, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

These photographs were taken in the late 1960s by Zev Radovan, a veteran Israeli photographer who throughout his career often focused on documenting archaeological and heritage sites around the world. Radovan has now deposited his vast archive in the National Library of Israel.

Radovan came to Sinai shortly after it was captured by Israel in the Six-Day War of 1967. He would frequently work in collaboration with university professors, accompanying their digs and research trips. “They were all incredible professionals,” he says of the Hebrew University archaeologists who travelled with him to Serabit al-Khadem and Sinai, as well as the rest of Egypt later on. “They were reading those hieroglyphs like I read the newspaper.”

A New Frontier

The new territories that became accessible to Israeli photographers following the war were the focus of much interest in those years. “The war was over, it was – ‘Let’s go to Jericho! Yalla!’ – and you’d get in the car and drive to Jericho,” says Radovan. “On the way you’d still see burnt-out vehicles here and there on the side of the road. Then it was ‘Let’s go to Hebron’ – and we’d drive to Hebron. It was all very innocent and nothing bad happened.” He adds that Israelis were often greeted warmly by Arabs in these storied locations, places that held a near-mystical allure and that had for years been so near, and yet so far.

The Dothan Valley in Samaria, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Sebastia, Arab village in Samaria, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Remains of the ‘frigidarium’ (cold room) of the royal baths enclosed in King Herod’s palace, Jericho, late 1960s, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Herodium, Judea, 1973, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Bedouin children, the Northern Negev Desert, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

These areas could also now be reached by Israeli archaeologists, scholars and experts. Radovan worked particularly closely with geographer Zev Vilnay, archaeologist Yigal Yadin, and art historian Bezalel Narkiss. These professors opened doors for him, took him on research trips and excavations, and taught him much about their respective fields.

Archaeological excavations at Hatzor, Prof. Yigael Yadin, 1969. Yadin was a former IDF Chief of Staff and a future Deputy Prime Minister at the time. The Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Digging in the Gaza Strip

Radovan recalls that one of his most interesting shoots took place in Deir al-Balah, located in the central Gaza Strip, another area conquered by Israel in 1967.

Moshe Dayan, who as Defense Minister had been one of the masterminds behind Israel’s victory in the Six-Day War, also had a deep passion for archaeology. According to Radovan, Dayan became acquainted with a Bedouin who owned a plot of land near Deir al-Balah on which he had found the remains of an ancient cemetery.

Hidden beneath the large sand dunes which covered the area were a series of anthropoid sarcophagi – ancient clay coffins carved to resemble human features.

An anthropoid sarcophagus uncovered at Deir al-Balah in the Gaza Strip. These coffins date to the late Canaanite period (13th-14th centuries BC). The Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Zev Radovan accompanied the archaeological team that was sent to excavate the site, under the guidance of Professor Trude Dotan, but they would have been helpless if not for the Bedouin land owner, the only person who knew where the coffins were.

Hebrew University students working at Deir al-Balah in the Gaza Strip, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

“He would say: ‘Dig here’, and there would indeed by a coffin there. How he knew I have no idea,” Radovan recalls. “You remove layer after layer of sand. Suddenly you reach the ground, you see some markings, you’re digging, and all of sudden a face appears. It was amazing”.

Excavations at Deir al-Balah in the Gaza Strip, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

But the team of archaeologists only excavated four or five of these sarcophagi. Interestingly, around fifteen additional coffins had already been found and removed beforehand by Dayan, the amateur archaeologist/Defense Minister, and his Bedouin acquaintance.

Radovan explains that when a sarcophagus was uncovered and opened, “There would be a skeleton or sometimes two skeletons inside, as well as all sorts of personal belongings of the deceased, including jewelry.”

Anthropoid coffins from Deir al-Balah at the Israel museum, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

For years these anthropoid sarcophagi were kept in Dayan’s backyard, which was something of a museum in its own right. The politician told Radovan: “When I’m here among the anthropoids, I feel like I’m in the Knesset. I see them and I see the faces of the Knesset members.” Dayan left the sarcophagi to the Israel Museum after his passing. They can be seen there today.

The Many Faces of The Holy City

Though born in Croatia in 1938, Zev Radovan has been living in Jerusalem since 1950, when he arrived in Israel as a child. Naturally the city is featured prominently in his photographs.

A market in the Bukharan Quarter, Jerusalem, 1973, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Yemin Moshe, Jerusalem 1970, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Jerusalem’s Mamilla neighborhood, a former “No Man’s Land”, 1967, immediately after the Six-Day War, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

The Bukharan Quarter, Jerusalem, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Jerusalem’s Nahlaot neighborhood, 1968, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Jerusalem’s Mea Shearim neighborhood, ca. 1975, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Buses bringing people to the Mimouna celebrations in Sacher Park (“Gan Sakker”), Jerusalem, 1974, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Jerusalem was itself a photographic frontier following 1967, with the city’s eastern neighborhoods now open to Israelis and easily accessible to tourists.

The Notre Dame de Jerusalem building was severely damaged during the battles of the War of Independence in 1948, though this photo is from 1967, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

The border between east and west Jerusalem ran through the Mamilla neighborhood before the Six-Day War, ca. 1965, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

One of the Muslim tombstones in the cemetery outside the Old City’s Golden Gate, Jerusalem, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

The monument known as Absalom’s Tomb, the Kidron Valley, outside the Old City walls in Jerusalem, late 1960s, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

The Old City’s Jewish quarter, which had been under Jordanian control since 1948, still lay in ruins. “For the older people, it was wonderful to return to all these places,” Radovan explains, “[For the newer arrivals like myself] it was fascinating, to see the gates of the Old City… Today it seems completely banal, back then it was extremely interesting and completely new”.

The ruins of the Jewish Quarter of the Old City after the Six-Day War in 1967, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Radovan’s camera also captured the beginning of archaeological excavations at the Western Wall and in the Jewish Quarter. “These were the days of the flower children, with lots of volunteers… Everywhere there was a spirit of volunteering and happiness.”

The beginning of archeological excavations at the Western Wall in 1973, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

The Other Side

But there were other sides to the post-1967 reality, and Radovan documented those aspects as well. “I travelled to all sorts of refugee camps, ‘like an idiot’ you could say, I took their picture, they smiled at me, and I smiled back. These were places that you couldn’t dream of entering today.”

A Gaza refugee camp, 1968, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

Radovan’s archive includes photographs showing Palestinians refugees crossing the Allenby Bridge into Jordan, shortly after the war’s conclusion. “It was all done calmly, though for them it was a terrible disaster,” he says.

Palestinian refugees crossing into Jordan via the ruined Allenby Bridge shortly after the Six-Day War, 1967, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel,

A Photographer at War

In 1973, during the Yom Kippur War, Radovan found himself in the Golan Heights, as the IDF struggled desperately to halt the advance of hundreds of Syrian tanks. He had been called up as a reservist and sent to the front lines by the army newspaper, BaMahaneh, to photograph the battles as they unfolded.

Israeli soldiers on the Golan Heights during the Yom Kippur War, 1973, the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel

“I was attached to an armored corps unit…If I saw they weren’t advancing enough and another unit was, I could join the others. I wasn’t under anyone’s command… That gives you options, including the ability to escape. I was a bit naïve. The battles I was in…it’s foolish [to put yourself in such a situation] for the sake of a picture… I was in some difficult situations. But there were those who were much worse off. People right by me were hit.”

Disappearing Communities

In the 1980s, Radovan began a partnership with Professor Bezalel Narkiss, founder of the Center for Jewish Art. During his work with the Center over the next few decades, he made 35 separate trips to locations across the globe, with Narkiss and other researchers. They travelled to dozens of Jewish communities in remote corners of the world – “From Morocco, to India, Tunisia to Poland… documenting Jewish heritage, synagogues, Judaica, Torah scrolls, whatever was left in these places”

Zavulunov House in Samarkand, Uzbekistan, 1992, photo by Zev Radovan, the Center for Jewish Art Collection

A Torah case made in Tunisia, photographed in 1997 by Zev Radovan, the Center for Jewish Art Collection

A synagogue in Fălticeni, Romania, built in 1868 and photographed in 2010 by Zev Radovan, the Center for Jewish Art Collection

These trips targeted locations where there was real concern for the preservation of Jewish relics. The goal was to ensure that this heritage would at the very least be documented for future generations.

Zev Radovan’s vast archive has now been deposited at the National Library of Israel. It is currently in the midst of a process of digitization, and will soon be fully accessible on the Library website.

The deposit of the Zev Radovan Archive at the National Library of Israel was made possible thanks to the generosity of Steve Delamater of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania.