My son, Torah Ahad Bachrach, was a soldier, in the first week of his military service, when he was murdered by terrorists, on the waterfall in Wadi Kelt. He was 18 years old. 25 years have passed since then.

One's grandfather, Yosef Aryeh, the father of my husband, died in the War of Independence. 72 years have passed since then. 

This year's Memorial Day is not "like yesterday." The day we mention the fallen in Israeli wars meets us this year in the midst of another war - the war for life. "Living in the Shadow of the Corona." Abandoned streets. Empty swing. A table in the doorway of a closed cafe with a last spot of coffee. And quiet. Lots of quiet. 

I will ask for this peace. 

This year "Memorial Day" is another. The military cemeteries will remain empty. Rows of silent gravestones. No parents and families at the graveside of the son, father, brother, boyfriend. Not a hand caressing a cold stone. Not "a god full of mercy." Quiet. I will ask for this peace. 

Quiet without anything of material to grit. Clean, innocent quiet. Quiet to be filled with all love, compassion, pain and empathy. Quiet to speak all that is impossible to say in words. A quiet of thin, thin, strong bond that connects the hearts. 

I will ask for this pure silence.

This year, Remembrance Day will be full of "No". The Kotel plaza will be empty at the opening of Memorial Day and the ceremonial plaza on Mount Herzl will be empty at the ceremony between commemoration and independence. The flag will be hoisted, the trumpet will sound and in front of it will bleed long rows of empty benches. In this rare moment, in this crying silence, for one brief moment we can touch the boundless "nothingness", the death of the fallen, the "absence of their lives".

I will ask for this quiet of "nothingness". This year's Remembrance Day is another, a quiet day. 

In this silence there will be endless space for pain, tears, longing. In this quiet the candles will be lit.