For me, Memorial Day for fallen IDF soldiers is the holiest day of the year — that’s what I told my children this past Saturday.
They looked at me and asked innocently: “Dad, isn’t Yom Kippur holier? What about Passover?” I answered simply, from the heart: “No, because on this day we stand before the sanctity of human beings — not angels, but flesh-and-blood people who chose to serve their nation, chose to fight, chose to defend the State of Israel, and chose to lay down their lives for us.”
“Holiness is not only prayer or fasting,” I explained to them. “Holiness is also action. Holiness is also self-sacrifice.”
It does not matter whether it is a soldier who threw himself on a grenade to save his comrades, a commander who led his troops forward under fire, or a young soldier in the Ordnance Corps who delivered ammunition to the front lines. It does not matter whether it is a bulldozer driver who hit an explosive device or an anonymous soldier whose name was never etched into public memory — all are equal in their sanctity, all are part of the same chain of heroism.
After 2,000 years of exile, we returned to this land. But our ability to live here, to build here, and to raise children here rests on the shoulders of those who did not return.
For me, Memorial Day is not just one day on the calendar — it accompanies me throughout the year. For nearly 20 years, I have traveled annually to the cemetery in Kiryat Tivon, to the grave of the late Ilan Gabay, my platoon commander, who fell in the Second Lebanon War in the village of Ayta al-Shaab. The years pass, but the memory does not fade. Ilan was, for me, a symbol of dedication and humility — a principled and modest commander, like the home in which he was raised.
Even today, IDF soldiers are fighting in Lebanon. Even today, the same courage is required, the same willingness to take risks, the same devotion that has no substitute. Generations come and go, but the mission remains.
On the way back home, heading south along the coastal highway, the sun slowly sets over the sea. On the radio, the songs change — at first, the quiet, mournful songs of Memorial Day, piercing the heart. Gradually they shift, the sounds rise, the rhythm changes, and the songs of Independence Day begin to play. And once again I understand how deep the connection is — how the joy that will come in just a few hours, with fireworks and celebrations, is not self-evident. It is born from the price the people of Israel have paid over the years.
And the reality? It has changed shape and color, but the need to fight for our lives is still here. Even today, IDF soldiers are fighting in Lebanon. Even today, the same courage is required, the same willingness to take risks, the same devotion that has no substitute. Generations come and go, but the mission remains.
This story has accompanied me since childhood. My father, Shimon, was severely wounded and burned inside a tank in Marjayoun in southern Lebanon during the First Lebanon War. My late mother, Shifra, was widowed from her first husband, a Golani officer who was killed in Lebanon just a month after their wedding. I myself have lost friends, commanders and soldiers in the Second Lebanon War and in the current war.
Three generations, the same front, the same remarkable people, and the same rare spirit found nowhere else in the world.
On Memorial Day, we pause not only to grieve, but to remember what underpins our very existence here — to face the price and understand the weight of responsibility. Because remembrance is not only about the past; it is the path to the future.
They gave their lives once. We are required, every day, to prove that we are worthy of the lives they left us.