A tourist visiting Israel on certain days in May may find themselves surprised. Suddenly, in the middle of a busy street, at a café, or even on a crowded highway, everything comes to a halt. People rise from their seats, stop walking, pull over their cars, and stand still — all while a siren echoes through the air and from car radios.

Looking around in astonishment, they see an entire nation pausing in unison. The sirens of Holocaust Remembrance Day and Memorial Day for Israel’s Fallen Soldiers are among the times that this national mourning happens.

But last Wednesday, we witnessed another such moment — one that lasted an entire day — when the coffins of Shiri Bibas and her children were laid to rest.

Tens of thousands of Israelis accompanied the funeral procession, waving Israeli flags, orange and yellow banners, symbols of the hostages, and posters expressing support for the family. Shiri and her two little boys were buried together in a single coffin, and the funeral was marked by elements in orange — a tribute to the red hair of the Bibas children. Across the country, orange balloons were released into the sky, a heartbreaking symbol of childhood cruelly cut short.

Along the route, thousands of Israelis put their daily routines on hold, silently accompanying the Bibas family on their final journey. Many held signs with the word “Sorry” — a word that expressed pain, frustration, and a deep sense of helplessness. Others sang “Hatikvah” through tear-filled eyes, holding hands, forming circles of remembrance, grief, and unity.

On the day of the funeral, the pain was not just the family’s — it was the pain of an entire nation. And the entire world saw this powerful Israeli phenomenon — this collective mobilization, this national embrace, these tears that belonged to everyone.

At the request of the Bibas family, the funeral ceremony itself was intimate, with no government or Knesset representatives present. But the eulogies were broadcast to the public, and all of Israel heard Yarden Bibas’ farewell words.

After speaking lovingly about his wife, Yarden then spoke about his children: “Chuki,” he addressed Ariel, who would forever remain four years old, “you made me a father. You made us a family. I’m sure you’re making all the angels laugh with your impressions.” Then, he turned to little Kfir: “I miss playing our morning games. Mishmish, who will help me make decisions now? How am I supposed to make decisions without you? Do you remember the last decision we made? In the shelter, I asked you if we should fight or surrender. You said, ‘Fight.’ so I did. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

These are the moments that remind us of our shared existence, of our ability to rise above division and discord. In days of deep disagreements and social tensions, these moments of unity are not to be taken for granted; they serve as a reminder that beneath the turbulent and stormy surface, there is a common ground of values, of humanity, and of shared destiny.

The debates will continue another day. But this moment of unity deserves to be etched into our collective memory as a reminder of what we are capable of being, in the hope that we will find this unity again in brighter days.

Itamar Tzur is the author of The Invention of the Palestinian Narrative and an Israeli scholar specializing in Middle Eastern history. He holds a Bachelor’s degree with honors in Jewish History and a Master’s degree with honors in Middle Eastern studies. As a senior member of the “Forum Kedem for Middle Eastern Studies and Public Diplomacy,” he leverages his academic expertise to deepen understanding of regional dynamics and historical contexts.

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