They were married on the same day.


They buried their husbands just weeks apart.


Now, they carry not only memories, but the mission of two men who gave their lives al kiddush Hashem, defending Am Yisrael.

On Wednesday, July 30, Congregation Beth Sholom in Lawrence hosted a powerful installment of its Lunch & Learn series: “Bound by Loss: Stories of Love, Loss, and Strength.” Two young widows, Miriam Dikshtein and Zahava Diener, stood before the community and shared their personal journeys with raw honesty and unimaginable courage.

“I’m 22 years old,” Miriam began quietly. “I live in Yerushalayim. I made aliyah from France when I was five. I have three brothers. I was married to Ivri.”

Her husband, Ivri Dikshtein, served as a combat officer in the elite Golani Brigade’s 51st unit. Nine months ago, he was killed in battle in southern Lebanon.

“One week before he died,” she recalled, “Ivri called me and said, ‘Let’s stay close to base this Shabbos; I think I’ll be recalled.’ So we stayed near Teveryah.”

That Shabbos, Miriam broke down. “I told him, ‘I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.’” Ivri gently took her outside and pointed to the horizon.

“He said, ‘Miriam, look to the right—Syria and Lebanon. Look to the left—our land, Eretz Yisrael. Do you want them to be here? Do you want to lose our country?’”

That was their last Shabbos together.

At his levayah, held just before candle-lighting, a soldier boarded the family’s bus with a package: a bouquet, chocolate, and a letter Ivri had mailed from the battlefield.

“Ishti ahuvah, my beloved wife… I’m doing something meaningful for Am Yisrael. Smile. Keep your head up. I’m okay. Enjoy the chocolate. Enjoy the flower. Yours forever, Ivri.”

Zahava Diener, also 22, was born in Highland Park, New Jersey, and made aliyah at age four. She lives in Chashmonaim and served in the Israeli Air Force. Her husband, Hillel Diener, was killed in Gaza in December 2024 during a heroic mission to rescue hostages.

“We both dreamed of becoming officers,” Zahava said. “Hillel began his officer’s course in the fall. Then came October 7.”

On December 23, Zahava was on her base when her commander called her into his office. He said there had been an incident in Hillel’s unit, and she was being sent home.

Hours later, senior officers arrived to confirm what she already feared.

“They said Hillel was killed in action, chasing terrorists who were holding hostages.”

She described Hillel’s deep connection to Eretz Yisrael, his leadership, and his chesed. One story from basic training captured it best.

During a brutal 20-mile uphill hike, Hillel noticed a friend struggling. To distract him, he started a game: name five things starting with A… then B… then C. At F, the friend turned to speak—but Hillel was gone. He’d moved on to help the next struggling soldier. And then another. And another. That was Hillel: always lifting others.

Ultimately, an everlasting friendship was formed at the edge of two graves.

They didn’t know each other.
But at Hillel’s funeral, someone pointed to the grave just behind Zahava: Ivri’s.

From that moment, Miriam and Zahava became inseparable.

Today, they are building a future together—for themselves, and for others like them.

They’ve launched a support network for young widows. They’re organizing a retreat where women like them—most under 25, many without children—can laugh, cry, and be understood. No judgment. No explanations needed.

They’re also building something lasting: a Sefer Torah in memory of Hillel and Ivri, and a Leadership Park in the Jordan Valley. It will be a place of inspiration, outdoor training, and storytelling for the next generation—teaching the values their husbands lived and died for.

“We didn’t choose to be heroes’ widows,” Miriam said. “But we choose what to do with that pain.”

At the close of the event, Miriam read a message Ivri wrote shortly before the war. His words—originally addressed to fellow Israelis—now echo across continents.

“Hey brother, hey sister… We don’t know each other, but we are siblings. I’m a soldier. My name doesn’t matter. I’ll give my life without reservation. And I ask you: live in peace. Love each other. We are all siblings. I have no other country, even if my land is burning.”

They stood side by side—Zahava and Miriam—two widows, two warriors, carrying the light of their husbands through unbearable darkness.

Their message to us was simple: The fight is not over. But neither is the hope.