The welcomed pledge made by the prime minister and Opposition leaders to rise above the political fray during Memorial Day – in response to Israel Hayom's efforts – serves one purpose, which can be described in one word: quiet.
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This sacred day requires calm to set in all around us; it requires the solemn atmosphere of a longing for a loved one; of being in solitude with the memory of those who have left us. A calm that is also a form of sorrow, both for each one of us and as a nation. A quiet that creates an inner prayer.
This quiet is what Israelis need more than ever after months of unprecedented polarization. A quiet that heals, that marks the lull in the storm, and hopefully – its nearing the end. Through this calm, we can look at one another once again as brothers, and give a warm embrace that would replace the nasty rhetoric.
This quiet is also what best connects me to the fallen soldier I had the privilege of knowing: my classmate, Daniel (Danny) Cohen, may his memory be a blessing.
We both studied at the Hebrew Reali School in Haifa. He excelled in hunting and marksmanship, with a masterful skill of knowing how to wait with bated breath before pulling the trigger at the right moment. Among friends, he knew how to resolve debates and strike a compromise, and lift people's spirits through the same confidence and calm that was his hallmark.
I remember how he sat next to me on the way to a preparatory military program our class was going to in a far-flung destination in the south. It was almost impossible to hear each other due to the noise of the engine, but for some reason, I remember it as if we had a conversation that continued nonstop.
After graduation, we parted ways. I served as a research officer in Ness Ziona while Danny became an officer in the Combat Engineering Corps. He served the country with that quiet pride of generations of Israelis who knew what their paramount duty was without thinking twice, until that cursed day in 1970 when he was killed during a Syrian bombardment on the Golan Heights. He left behind a woman and two small children.
In his final photos, Danny looked like a person frozen in time: still that 24-year-old man with the same quiet smile. Like all our fallen – and they number too many – his quiet is now enteral. As we look at this silence, we must also listen to the fallen's request: that we live a good life that has no fear of war, with no pointless spats; that we live in calm and peace.
Let's honor their memory by doing so. This is the very least we can do.
Dr. Miriam Adelson is the publisher of Israel Hayom.
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