There are moments in history that demand to be remembered—not selectively, not conveniently, and not only when they fit into the headlines of the day—but constantly. Moments that are not simply events, but ruptures. October 7, 2023, was such a moment.

On that day, over 1,200 people were murdered and more than 250 taken hostage in what has been described as the worst massacre of Jews since the Holocaust. () Entire communities were overrun. Families were burned, mutilated, hunted. Young people dancing at a music festival were massacred—364 of them in a matter of hours. () It was not war in the conventional sense. It was not a battlefield. It was a deliberate, systematic assault on civilians—planned, executed, and celebrated by those who carried it out. ()

And yet, as the world moves on—as new wars erupt, as new fires burn across the Middle East, as attention shifts to Iran, to Hezbollah, to the Houthis—we are already confronting a dangerous question:

Will this memory fade?

The Fire on the Altar

Parashat Tzav gives us an answer—not in the language of politics, but in the language of eternity:

“A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar; it shall not go out.” (Leviticus 6:6)

“A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar; it shall not go out.” (Leviticus 6:6)

The Torah does not simply command that there be fire. It commands that it remain. That it be tended. That it never be allowed to fade into ash.

The medieval commentator Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki) explains:

“תמיד — אף בשבת, אף בטומאה” “Perpetual—even on Shabbat, even in impurity.”

“תמיד — אף בשבת, אף בטומאה” “Perpetual—even on Shabbat, even in........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)