As I step off the train and into the bustling streets of Tel Aviv, the soft February sun casts its golden glow over the city skyline. I can’t help but notice a shift in the landscape, and no, I’m not referring to the perpetual construction of skyscrapers that have reigned supreme over the Mediterranean metropolis.
At first, it was a subtle occurrence; you would see one or two at the bus stop, perhaps a few more at Rabin Square or plastered on the bustling bars that straddle Dizengoff. But as the months of war continue, the few rapidly multiply, and all of a sudden, you’re surrounded.
It matters little which city or town you live in, for every in public space in Israel, every train station, traffic light, shopping center, cafe, and bar, everywhere you look – you see them, engulfing you from every angle.
Stickers, too many to count. Solemn and striking in their numbers, they bear the names and faces of young men and women. Some are depicted in free-flowing clothes, similar to the ones they were murdered in, as they danced through the night of October 7, 2023.
Most of the faces are adorned with colorful berets representing their military units. Many of them perished defending the Gaza envelope on that godforsaken day, with the rest sacrificing their lives attempting to free their brothers and sisters held hostage by the very same monsters.
The walls of Israel are now covered with the many faces that represent the price of living as a free people in our land.
From the vibrant avenues of Tel Aviv to the cobbled alleys of Jerusalem, these stickers have become an indelible part of the national fabric. In a country where conflict and resilience are interwoven, this grassroots movement has emerged as a way for young Israelis to keep their friends-turned-heroes close, ensuring that the memories of those who gave their lives for the protection of Israel remain ever-present, eternalizing the dead.
These stickers have evolved into modern graveyards of remembrance, a perpetual public vigil scattered across the nation. They lie silently in plain sight for anyone and everyone to visit, reflect, and internalize the messages of hope, love, peace, and unity from those who paid the ultimate price.
Israel is a country that remembers.
Memorialization is deeply ingrained in the national consciousness, from Yad Vashem to the sirens that bring the nation to a standstill on Remembrance Day. Yet, the rise of stickers as a mode of commemoration is a phenomenon that feels particularly raw and personal.
Unlike statues or plaques, which are often official and institutionalized, these stickers are direct, personal, and unavoidable. They are the intimate cry of the Israeli people, a cry to acknowledge and remember their friends and family members who died by the hands of our enemies.
On my return to Jerusalem, I walk through the bustling Mahaneh Yehuda market, where the scent of fresh spices mingles with the calls of vendors. Among the lively chaos, a small sticker catches my eye on a stall selling pomegranates. It features the face of a handsome young soldier, his name and age inscribed beneath it. A few words in Hebrew read: “You’re unbeatable when you smile.”
The pomegranate vendor, noticing my interest, recounts how this sticker had been placed by a bereaved mother who lost her son in the Oct. 7 attacks. She explains that for the mother, this sticker is a tangible reminder of her son’s sacrifice and the enduring spirit of his memory, for he was always so positive.
It’s a sentiment I encounter repeatedly as I journey through our pain-ridden country. In a small Jaffa café, a local artist has incorporated these stickers into a mural, blending remembrance with creativity. In Haifa, the bustling downtown is plastered with faces of fallen soldiers, many who used to spend their weekends there, drinking and rejoicing with friends after long weeks of difficult service. Now, their eternal smiles attempt to fill the void they left behind.
The stickers vary in style and message. Some are simple, displaying only a name and date. Others include powerful images, beautiful landscapes, IDF units, and striking portraits. Many of them carry a message: an inspirational quote, a catchphrase, an inside joke, a beloved nickname, or some famous last words. Thousands of little graves follow us all as we attempt to carry on, as we attempt to find some sense of normalcy in all the madness.
More than remembrance: A symbol of unity
While these stickers primarily serve as a tribute to the fallen, they also carry a broader message of unity, resilience, and, above all, hope.
The war has left Israeli society deeply shaken; we all feel it. Our heads simply aren’t held as high as they once were. Yet these stickers, tiny as they may be, have become an expression of solidarity. Whether in a Tel Aviv coffee shop or outside a yeshiva in Bnei Brak, whether depicting a Jew or an Arab, Left wing or Right wing, the grief is shared.
It is a stark reminder that loss in Israel knows no color or creed. Our bitter enemies care not what we wear or how we think; the people on these stickers were brutally murdered or killed in action, regardless of what kind of Israeli they were.
We must not forget that; and if we do, we should go outside and find the nearest bench or bus stop and just look at a few of these stickers. These are stickers of much-needed perspective.
In Sderot, a town that has borne a severe brunt of conflict, I meet a shopkeeper who has dedicated part of his storefront to displaying these stickers. “It’s not just about remembering,” he tells me. “It’s about showing that we are still here, that we stand together.”
That message of endurance is echoed in the way that these stickers transcend personal grief and become collective symbols. At a bus station in Beersheba, I see a group of teenagers adding a new sticker to a growing wall of tributes, already three meters high. One of them, a young woman in her IDF uniform, tells me: “Every time I see them, I feel like they’re watching over us. They remind us why we serve.”
The ephemeral and the eternal
What strikes me most about these stickers is their impermanence.
Unlike stone memorials, they peel, fade, and are sometimes removed. And yet, this transience seems fitting. It reflects the ongoing nature of remembrance in Israel, for grief does not remain static; it evolves. New stickers appear, old ones are replaced, and the cycle continues, for better or for worse.
Now, as these fragile ceasefires provide some much-needed respite, I find myself scanning not just walls and lampposts but every public space, from the vibrant corners of the urban cafés of Tel Aviv to the immense gates of Jerusalem’s Old City, all in the hope of seeing more of these stickers proliferate and remind us of the price and bravery this country requires in order to survive and ultimately thrive.
Some might see these stickers as a modest gesture, but as I walk the streets of Israel, I’ve realized their profound impact. They are not just adhesives on a wall; they are whispers of history, fragments of lives, a nation’s promise to its fallen that they will never be forgotten.
Their omnipresence transforms the everyday landscape into a living, breathing memorial, an open invitation to all who pass by to pause, reflect, and honor the sacrifices that have shaped our nation and will continue to shape its future, a future that many of our fallen believed would be bright, and I for one carry that belief onward.
And though these stickers may one day fade from our lives, their message will endure: We will not let your sacrifice be in vain.