He would pick up the preschoolers, smile and ask us how we were doing every time he saw us on the paths of Kibbutz Yotvata. He was a prominent figure in the kibbutz: in the cowshed, the dining hall, and the administrative offices.
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He enlisted to the Nahal infantry brigade but fell as a reservist paratrooper in the Yom Kippur War. His name was David Etiel, forever remaining 42 years old, and he is my first memory of Israel's Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terrorism Remembrance Day.
Memories stay with us. They flood the mother celebrating the birthday of a son who never knew his father; they appear suddenly in the mind of a student walking past the spot where his brother was killed. They revisit us the night before the memorial service, and sometimes they take us by surprise – without apparent reason or intent – and fill us with longing.
Memory is personal, private, sacred. It accompanies us and evolves with us. Sometimes it deceives and sometimes it's as clear as day.
On this day, we as a society make this memory collective. We all remember through the photographs of those who stayed forever young, stories of comrades that fell in battle, songs by soldiers who will never smile again – we remember, together with the families who paid the heaviest of prices.
Over time, David's photograph was joined by photographs of my own comrades, soldiers from my unit who never saw the day of their release from the army – Nir Poraz, Erez Burko and Emmanuel Moreno – I served with them all through thick and thin, I have memories of all of them, full of life, morning runs, nighttime heart-to-heart chats, missions shrouded in secrecy, arguments and conversations, both esoteric and profound – memories of friends.
As commander throughout the years of Sayeret Matkal, the Nahal Brigade, the 55th Paratrooper Brigade, this day takes on extra meaning – at the center of which are the soldiers and officers who served under me, those who I sent on missions and commanded in battle; those who embarked on their missions, never to return. I knew them less intimately the farther I moved up the chain of command, and have had the privilege of getting to know them deeply only through the eyes of their families.
I got to know Tamir, Eitan, Oded, Avi and Roi through the tear-filled eyes of their parents, whose world was destroyed; through the eyes of their siblings, who came to the realization that their own children would never get to know their uncle; through their friends, who miss the sounds of their voices, their special walks, the small quirks and gestures – all ingrained in their hearts forever.
The children now standing at attention during the siren at Yotvata – the kibbutz that isn't very young anymore and has accumulated more gravestones along the way – have good memories. Memories of a soldier saluting the flag, of tranquil summer days, of security. They know that those in uniform, who by falling left behind a giant vacuum, did so with endless devotion. They are the ones who teach us, on a daily basis, about strength, solidarity and fortitude.
The fallen are brothers to us all, and in the words of Rachel the Poet:
"A true pact is ours, a tie time cannot dissever; Only what I have lost is what I possess forever."
And these brothers fill my eyes with tears, they are the missing parts of my heart, and they also show me the path forward, urging me to continue.
The Etiel, Poraz, Burko, Moreno, Najiani, Barak, Ben-Sira, Greenzweig, and Peles families, along with many others sadly, are all my families as well – their siblings are my siblings, their parents are my parents, their friends are my friends, they are all the nation of Israel.
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