The only family that Israelis don't want to see grow -- the family of the bereaved -- has added over 116 names since last Independence Day: 67 who fell in Operation Protective Edge and the rest killed in terrorist attacks or accidents. Israel had hoped to get through the summer in peace, but it didn't work out. Hamas initiated a war in the south, causing great disaster to itself and deep sorrow among us, and intentionally tried to portray Israel as having committed suspected war crimes. How? Israel wanted to prevent bloodshed. Some mean or insensitive people want to lessen the sense of mourning, particularly the shared, national aspect of it. Other well-meaning people are proposing different ways of commemorating the fallen. But they are wrong, too. The ways in which we remember those dearest to us, those killed in Israel's wars since the first Jews was murdered in the 19th century (most likely in Nahalat Reuven, what is today Ness Ziona, or possibly in Jerusalem) were decided and imprinted on our national consciousness after the War of Independence in 1948. They must remain that way -- even if they aren't modern, even if they employ old-fashioned equipment. Adhering to them has a power that approaches myth: the IDF chief of staff's speech at the Western Wall on the eve of Remembrance Day for Fallen Soldiers; the reading of Nathan Alterman's "Silver Tray" in schools throughout the country; the meetings with victims of terrorism at the Knesset. Tradition and continuation have their own force. This doesn't come from conservatism, but from the facts that year after year teach us that the chain remains unbroken from generation to generation. From the musician Zvi Ben Yosef, who was killed in Gush Etzion and whose last words were "Don't weep, we've carried on" -- determination so different from the serenity of his song "Yesh Li Kinneret" ("My Sea of Galilee") to paratrooper Nadav Raymond, who 10 days before he was killed in Operation Protective Edge wrote out a dark prophecy he carried in his pocket: "My life might have been shorter than usual, but I enjoyed every minute, and I want everyone who knows me to go on enjoying it." Prose that is more than poetry, sublime simplicity. Gathering behind those who went first and never came back is not a desire for victimization, but rather willingness to identify with the apex of commitment to society, the renunciation of selfishness and self-realization for a loftier purpose, because there is no other choice. Those in whose name we recite: "We are the silver tray on which you were given a Jewish state."
