Dror stared at him and then asked me innocently, "Dad, who is that?"

A personal column by Noam Horev in N12 magazine, describing how his two-year-old daughter, Dror, repeatedly asks him "Dad, who is that?" whenever she encounters a new person. An encounter with a sticker of a smiling soldier on a café counter leads the writer to reflect on the informal memorial practices that emerged after October 7—stickers appearing in everyday places, without ceremonies or permission, reshaping collective memory.

A personal column by Noam Horev in N12 magazine, describing how his two-year-old daughter, Dror, repeatedly asks him "Dad, who is that?" whenever she encounters a new person—on a phone call, at the door, in the elevator. An encounter with a sticker of a smiling soldier on a café counter leads the writer to reflect on the informal memorial practices that emerged after October 7. The stickers have become an alternative way of remembrance—small, everyday, pasted almost hastily, without ceremonies or permission. They appear in unexpected places: bus stops, bumpers, café counters. Memory is no longer institutional and fixed, but seeping, present, messy. The stickers fade in the sun and tear in the rain—the opposite of stone, just like memory itself. The writer describes how memory paints a new emotional map of the country, not of roads and borders but of faces and names. At the end of the column, the waitress at the café tells Dror that the soldier is Asaf, who once worked there and made good coffee—and so, thanks to the sticker, another little girl knows who he was.