Why Is It Called Memory Foam? Yom Hazikaron reflections on ritual, grief, and what remains

Yom Hazikaron, Israel's Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism, is a day devoted not only to loss, but to memory.

That may sound obvious. Memorial days are, by definition, about remembering. But in Judaism, memory is never simply the act of looking backward. While history preserves facts, dates, and sequences, memory does something else. It allows us to keep events, both distant and recent, alive with meaning. It asks not only what happened, but how that event continues to live inside us and shape us. That is part of what makes Yom Hazikaron so meaningful.

The day is not primarily organized around military history, strategic analysis, or even the broader political context of each loss. Those things matter, but they are not the center of the day. The focus is on the life that was interrupted, the person who is no longer here, and the absence that remains. Yom Hazikaron draws our attention to the hole left behind in families, in friendships, and in the life of the collective.

This is why mourning, like most things in Judaism, comes with rituals. We light candles, stand in silence, sing, pray, and gather. We do not leave memory as a private feeling and hope it will survive on its own. In Jewish life, memory takes shape through action. We return to the same gestures, words, and melodies so that as time passes and the first impact becomes less pronounced, we do not lose the meaning of what has been lost.

And yet, memory itself is fragile. Over time, even the deepest impressions begin to change shape. The initial blow of grief is one thing. The life that follows, now marked by absence, is another. The loss does not dissipate, but its outline softens. What once felt inescapable no longer presses on the heart in quite the same way. This does not mean we have forgotten. However, moving forward, healing is part of being human.

Maybe that is why I think of memory foam. When something is initially pressed into its surface, memory foam holds the imprint of that shape. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it rises again. The visible trace softens. What was once unmistakable becomes harder to recognize. 

Memory, the kind we feel, often works this way, too. The first impact leaves a deep impression, but over time, life gradually resumes its shape. We return to our children, our work, our ordinary days. That is precisely why ritual matters. We ritualize memory because we know the imprint will not stay on its own.

This is part of what Yom Hazikaron is about, why it matters, and perhaps why it is commemorated on the day before Yom Ha’atzmaut. It understands that, realistically, memory cannot ask us to remain endlessly frozen in grief. Nonetheless, it does not let us move on as though nothing happened. It creates a space in which memory can become vivid again. It reminds us not only of those who were lost, but of the cost at which life here is lived.

One of the recurring lines of the day is bemotam tzivu lanu chayim, “through their death they commanded us to live.” It is a difficult sentence, and perhaps it should be. It does not remove the tragedy of loss, nor explain it away. But it does insist that memory is not only about what we have lost. It is also about what the living must now carry.

We remember because grief does not stay present on its own, and ritual is what keeps memory from quietly slipping away.

This post is in memory of friends who lost their lives in terror attacks and during their army service.