My heart is broken, my heart is torn

‘My beautiful boy,” wrote Natan Yonatan to his son Lior, “I fall in love with you again each and every day. The tape reel of your laughter, the light clear pool of your tears, the rustling happiness of your soul. Even if I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, nothing bad will happen. I will only feel longing, as you are with me day and night.”

Last year, as I stood in front of you, dear beloved families, I took a moment and made a wish, told of a dream. I prayed that maybe, from that Memorial Day to this one, I would not have to pay any more visits to families whose entire lives had just been shattered around them. I prayed that maybe this year, we would stand here, finally, with no new pain. But this year too, reality knocked at our door. This year, once again, I met talented, funny, kind boys and girls, filled with loving and promise. Each and every one of them a treasure. And this year too, I got to know them too late — when they were already gone.

Today is a day of mourning — both national and personal — each and every one of us has loved ones that are gone.

Together, a great nation mourns its fallen: Ami, my neighborhood hero, who was only 16-years-old. Freddie, an ember plucked from the fire on Seder night, 1947; he had survived the Holocaust, and yet was killed on the battlefield. Maoz and his son Nir, Eran and his father Dubi, boys who followed the fathers they barely got to know. Hussein Ali, a bride-groom who never made it to his wedding day. Hadar, guardian of the walls of Jerusalem, who died as she protected them, just this year.

The list of our fallen goes on and on. None of them had planned for death. None of us brings children into the world with the thought that one day we will bury them in the soil and say the Mourner’s Prayer, Kaddish, standing over their open graves. Fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, grandparents, I stand in front of you and my heart is broken, my heart is torn. Your children, your loved ones, the fruit of your hopes, the subject of your adoration — there is no limit to the sorrow and suffering, there is no answer for the silent call — only the silence of death.

Last year, we did not have much time to be together. We each burrowed into our own path of righteousness, and we had disagreements — by their very nature, extremely difficult and tough, and speaking to the root of our existence here. However, the IDF is not just the army of all of us; the IDF is all of us. It is the secular and the religious, Jewish and non-Jewish, it is Arab, Bedouin, Druze and Circassian. It is those born in Israel and it is immigrants; it is sons of the city, and of the settlements, members of Moshavim and Kibbutzim; it is the length and breadth of the country, left and right. And the map of grief surrounds us all, on a chilling and equal scale. The same pain of longing and the same fate. The pinpoints on the map all show the same loss, in the Negev and in Tel Aviv, Kiryat Arba and in Moa’ar, in Sderot, Jerusalem, Yeruham and Shlomi. We must remember that the IDF sets the course.

The IDF does its utmost, in the utmost professional manner, to navigate safely and achieve its goals. Our confidence in the IDF and its commanders, and our confidence in its review and control mechanisms is confidence in ourselves. It is confidence in our own strength to stand before those who have sacrificed for us — your sacrifices — and in the justness of our cause.

You, who did not have the chance to finish bestowing love… It is thanks to you that we can love. You, who did not manage to see your children grow up. It is thanks to you that our streets are filled with life, with boys and girls playing. You, who did not manage to fulfill your dreams. It is because of you that we can dream.

For more than 68 years, we have been fighting the same war, the war for our independence — an ongoing campaign that changes its face and form. It is a painful battle that perpetually adds fresh scars to the body and spirit of this ancient and robust people. Inherent in the stones behind me, the stones of the Western Wall, the “wall of tears and hope,” is the testament that we are not people of war. We do not go into battle hungry for war, but with the desire for peace, with a lust for life, and a hatred of death. But we realize the bitter and horrible truth: there is a terrible price — which you have paid — to be a nation determined to protect its citizens and its independence. We will stand strong against anyone who dares to put our resolve to the test in any way.

You, who did not have the chance to finish bestowing love…It is thanks to you that we can love. You, who did not manage to see your children grow up. It is thanks to you that our streets are filled with life, with boys and girls playing. You, who did not manage to fulfill your dreams. It is because of you that we can dream.

Natan Yonatan continued, “Should I become addicted to asking “if and maybe,” which sometimes tug at my heartstrings, or should I go with you, follow you, to all the dirt that gripped at your feet, as the dream of your life covers me.”

On this occasion we remember, and are reminded, of our commitment to our kidnapped children and those missing in action. We remember and are reminded of our responsibility to bring those of our sons whose graves are unknown to Israel for burial.

May the memory of our loved and cherished sons and daughters be engraved on our hearts forever.