Israel's 59th

Israeli Independence Day is my most favorite holiday on the Jewish calendar, so I'm always faced with a dilemma about working now. Invariably I find myself out on the road somewhere in Israel with a group, observing the rituals with host communities when I 'd really rather be at home in front of the television, steeping in the ceremonial services that so powerfully represent the reality of the modern Jewish state. This is particularly true for Memorial Day, which proceeds Independence Day. After the ceremony in the evening the tv channels are filled with stories about fallen combat soldiers and their families. While these programs are difficult to watch, they serve to directly connect those of us fortunate enough not to know bereavement with the haunting pain of those in Israel who have lost family members in war. These moments of visceral empathy deeply strengthen our connection to one another and perhaps are most palpable during the sounding of the memorial siren. As a native of a country 300 million strong, I am intrigued anew each year by the idea that an entire nation stops what it's doing to stand together for two minutes of silence in memory of fallen soldiers. Americans could never perform this feat - they're too disunited over too many issues. In fact, the same could be said about Israelis: is there any one thing we can all agree on? Standing in the middle of a busy street and watching everyone suddenly stand at attention when the siren begins to wail at eleven o'clock, I'm reminded that the acknowledgement of the terrible price we pay in order to be here is in fact the single idea that unites all Israelis.

I got a good dose of ceremoniality this year because I accompanied my group to the national service that marks the transition from Memorial Day to Independence Day. Broadcast live from Mount Herzl, only a few thousand guests can actually attend, so it's a treat to be there with the diplomatic invitees, the hot-shot Israeli politicians and all the other well-connected Israelis who wangle tickets. Last night as we were about to leave I discovered we had three extra tickets. I quickly called my husband and two daughters and told them to meet us at the entrance. I had to work hard to convince the girls, as they were still getting over their disappointment over missing a big concert near Tel Aviv . (The bus was meant to get back to Jerusalem at 4:30 am, which I was not happy about. My fellow Americans, Israeli teenagers keep obscenely late hours so we are constantly battling with them about what time to be home when they go. This time my husband convinced me we should give them a little slack and I reluctantly agreed. What a shame the tickets were all sold out!) I finally convinced them to come but they found seats a few rows away from us and pretended they were by themselves.

The ceremony follows the same formula every year and is an unusual bastion of formality in a culture that prides itself on informality. The army standards and the marching color guard, the speech by the speaker of the Knesset and the citizens chosen to light the torches are all beloved and respected symbols of Israel's sovereignty. Watching them each year reassures me that we are a member-in-good-standing of the club of normal, stately nations, although I'm always on the lookout for unique glimmers of Israeli-ness within the ceremoniality. This year I admired the female members of the Knesset Guard, who marched past us in above-the-knee skirts, strappy sandals and uzi submachine guns, and the Israeli war veterans dance troupe, who participated in the over-the-top, musical finale on their wheelchairs.

With all due respect to George Washington and the United State of America, the Fourth of July celebrations never moved me in the way that Israeli Independence Day does. The joy here is so real that I can reach out and touch it - and I do.