They visit the graves of loved ones year-round, yet - the ceremony on Memorial Day in the military section of the cemetery, with the family and friends hugging, has already become a stand-alone • Because of the limitations of the Corona virus they will remain at home tomorrow, but they will not give up on the hug and memory - also from afar

See you again when you come to visit me in a dream 

Corporal Omar Bublil, 18, from Ramat Gan, writes about her late brother Rafi

When my brother Rafi was born, my parents were named after my father's brother who was killed in the Yom Kippur War. Almost eight years ago, Rafi was killed in a military car accident, en route to Ashdod base. The first few years after the disaster were erased from my head. Strange to say, but I hardly found it difficult, simply because I didn't really understand that my older brother was killed. In retrospect today I realize that this is how my childhood was saved in a certain way. When I got to high school, I began to let go of the fear of bereavement. I began to write and write, giving myself pain and missing out - for the first time, three years after my brother was killed.  

Rafi, a graduate of a naval course who served as a bee commander, was a man of people. The family was always in first place for him. For example, when he left home on one of the weekends, he planned to go camping with friends from the army. When I found this out, I got disappointed and wanted him to stay home. Still, a little sister who misses her brother. When Rafi got into the car, I came to say goodbye to him in the parking lot, and as if it was obvious he said to me, "Well, you didn't come too?" In five minutes I was already organized in the car and we set off. When one of the friends saw me sitting in the car, he asked Rafi what I was doing here, and my brother said he couldn't leave me at home.  

Six months ago I joined the Infantry Training course, and today I serve as a divisional weapons instructor in the Paratroopers Brigade. I have been thinking a lot about Memorial Day this year, if I feel otherwise standing above your grave in uniform. To myself. 

I didn't imagine that Memorial Day would be so different. For the first time, we will not go up to your grave on this day, and we will not be surrounded by friends and family with us always. But I'll be home with my dad, and the grave will be split up in the days leading up to Memorial Day. I'll make sure to tell your story everywhere.

My brother, I miss you. Forever take part in my life and influence me - even if you do not take a physical part in them. Love you true love, see you again when you come to visit a dream. 

Sorry to be alone, the Corona defeated us all

Ltem Shahar, 20, from Kfar Saba, writes about her brother, the late Captain Omri  

I grew up in a warm, loving family, two parents - Irish and Asher, and two older brothers - Omri and Inbar. Almost eight years ago, when I was only 12 and a half years old, I lost my older brother Omri, a major in the Navy, a distinguished chief of staff and commander of the Border Patrol. 

I remember every minute of the announcement of his fall, but only for the first 24 hours. The first years of my bereaved life were wiped out. At 7:10, after three hours of sleep last night - the night before I was in the 6th grade afterparty - two officers and a doctor in green uniform arrived home. I thought it didn't make sense, my brother Omri, when he goes on vacation, wearing only a navy white uniform. We were all seated in the living room announcing "Omri was killed in a deadly military car accident this morning." And from that moment on, I cling to my memories.   

Omri, the main fear was to try to remember the things I had with you, and just not succeed. At this point you realize that it has been too long since we last met. For a while, and I lived more years without a big brother than I did. Just a little while, and I'm passing you on. Still, we're in the same decade now.   

Eight months before I said goodbye to you last time, we went to a family wedding together, just you and me in the car. We drove on Route 6 South and heard a Bruno March car. It was as if the world stopped for a moment especially for us. We were just there and you, I felt happy, I felt so good about having you, that you were my brother. 

I am sorry that you are not here, sorry you did not reach the age of 26, sorry from the bottom of my heart, from the depth of my soul, from all the scars and all my pain. And I regret that this year will be alone on Memorial Day, that we will not be able to visit you and remember you from afar. The Corona defeated us all. I love you, love of soul, love of brothers, love of family, love of best friends. 

I am here for everything you need, and I am the first address to address when you return. I love you. 

You are in my thoughts, even without the ceremony at the grave

Uriah Cohen, 19.5, from Intelligence, writes about his late brother, Captain Nathan

My brother, Nathan XII, grew up in intelligence and already had his extraordinary strength and maturity since his childhood. In middle age, when not everyone is still thinking about the military, he has already decided to serve in the Armored Corps. 

He enlisted in November 2010, served as a fighter and as a tank commander, commander in combat, and 46th in regiment 46. In a robust cliff operation in the summer of 2014, Natan Rishon's platoon entered the Gaza Strip. He was at the head of the force - in the first tank - indicating that his commanders had his eyes closed. During the fighting Nathan was observed outside his tank, and his commander asked him why he got out of the tank. My brother did not respond, just smiled and returned quickly to the position. Later it became clear that he went to bring food to a soldier running the bulldozer that exposed the tunnels. This way, simply - giving and helping others while To the self-esteem, the educational and commanding message he imparted to his soldiers was expressed in one sentence: "You do not give up, and do not give up on you."   

The relationship I had with my older brother was like father and son. He was a role model for me. I loved him, he always cared for me, would help me with homework and buy me presents. In his first salary, for example, he bought me electric bikes, took me on field trips, and water springs in the springs. When he got home on Saturdays, I would love to hear his stories about the Army at a Friday night dinner. Whenever I had a dilemma, I would consult with him. 

I am the son of my parents. I have two sisters and a brother. After Nathan was killed, my family chose life alongside the pain and continues to commemorate his memory as part of the "Or Nathan" association she founded.  

This year my family and I did not go to the cemetery to visit Nathan's grave because of the restrictions. Every Memorial Day all the soldiers and friends of Nathan and our extended family come to the cemetery, and I will be greatly missed. The feeling that this year will not happen is very difficult. Even so, I always remind myself that giving constantly lies in my heart and thoughts, and I don't have to go to his grave to remember him. 

The feeling is terrible, but I feel you are with me

Private columnist Michal Yaskov writes to her father the late Major Avner Yaskov

Dear father. There are so many things I would like to tell you, congratulate you and tell you about, but I don't know where to start because I didn't even know you. Your shortcomings are felt at many moments in my life. Sometimes there is a feeling that you are, right here with us, but after a few seconds I realize you are gone.

I've always wanted to know - what's dad? I try to imagine a lot and not so successful. Most people ask me what's more painful - that you know Dad or you don't know. I answer to them that the pain is different for each and every one, as is the way in which it is received. 

I lost my father when I was just four months old, and today, when I'm 18 and a half, the difficulty just keeps getting bigger.  

You didn't hear me say "dad" for the first time. You haven't seen me go to kindergarten or school, and unfortunately you haven't seen me enlist in the military either. I have been in the IDF for a month now, going to be a warrior like you, continuing your tradition. It is very sad to me that you will not be part of such great things in my life, but I will always remember that you are inside with me and that I can share everything with you and consult with you.

I hope you're up there guarding me and our family, also hoping you take pride in how I grow up and are Valeria. You know, as time goes on, the more people say I look like you. And another thing, Dad - the world is going through a terrible crisis now, with the spread of the corona virus, and I just enlisted in this period, which is terribly difficult but also a failure.  

On this Memorial Day, I will proudly wear the IDF uniform, serve as a fighter in the Border Protection system and proudly salute you for the hero you were and still are. But I know and feel that you hear me, even if I do not visit the cemetery once a year, but I experience it every day, and one last thing I will finish by saying: I believe in destiny, and believe that destiny determined that my father was supposed to fall as a hero.   

At the siren, I will stand tense at home

Rabbi Benjamin Benzur, 47, of Tel Mond, writes about his brother Major Menachem (Manny)

The team of precursors wearing uniforms came to us on the street to announce the worst of all. "Say, boy, where does the Benzur family live?", They asked, and I replied, wanting to assist them: "I am a Benzur family." Their eyes were etched in my eyes. 

"Go to school," I was told, "but before that, direct us, where are your parents?" "Dad is in the neighborhood grocery store, a few meters from here," I said. They called the dear saint, who has since been called abode, and brought him to the family home to announce the worst of all.  

His cry of rebellion echoes to this day: "The Lord gave and the Lord took, may the name of the Lord be blessed." Later, I saw Mother, who was alive, looking up and shouting "Why ???". And here we have officially joined the bereaved family. And not until long ago did I see you, my big brother, dressed in uniform, arranging the ranks, polished and sweet as ever. Elite with your unit, the glorious Armored 500 Brigade, Lebanon, for the mission of protecting the dear Northern residents. Encountering an ambush with a hostile force left you no chance.

Over the years I joined the Army, nearly three decades of service in the field units. Destiny and I wanted to serve in a sector where you spent much of your time, the valley and the valleys. The IDF letters on my olive uniform give me the strength to continue to give my heart and soul the protection of the residents of the region and our beloved state of Israel in general.  

This year we cannot place a wreath on your grave and attend the memorial ceremonies for our sons and daughters. When the sirens arrive, I will stand on a tense pedestal in my house, instead of in front of the grave. And you know, we are a strong people and we will also come out of this difficult period. But in the distance, I tell you - rest on your bed in peace, hero, along with all the spaces of Israel's systems and hostilities.

My brother, Major Menachem (Manny) Benzur, left behind him a wife, two daughters, ten tearful brothers and painful parents. The 29-year-old was in Fallen. A Torah scroll was placed in the "Maayan Ganim" synagogue in Tel Mond, where he used to pray as a child. , Chief Rabbi Benjamin Benzur.   

"My whole world, remember that"

Nava Ovadia, 68, Givatayim, writes about her late father Avraham Ofri 

On the morning of June 5, 1967, my father, Abraham, came to the high school where I attended. I was in ninth grade. He called me out of the classroom and said, "Nava, we're at war, it's order 8." He hugged me and kissed me and said to me, "I don't know if I will come back, take care of Mom and your brother. I love you, my whole world, always remember that." I'll never forget that moment.

My father, the late Abraham Ofri, was killed at the age of 41. He was hit by shell shrapnel in the first day of the Six Day War in the heavy shelling in Sinai. Unfortunately, he did not know that after six days of fighting we won, and big time.  

A handsome man was a father, a cluster man. It had so much depth to it, an intelligent and individual person, always with a smile and a sense of humor. It was all giving and loving to others. Everyone who knew him fell in love with him immediately. As a public businessman, Father gave of himself and helped many people. He worked in the Sanitation Department in the Tel Aviv municipality and served as an activist and member of the labor movement, during which he attended many conferences with David Ben-Gurion and Golda Meir. He was a member of Mapai's management and even a member of the Hapoel Tel Aviv Football Association.

But he was also an artist. Dad was an actor and singer in the Israeli Opera, including in the operas "Carmen", "Aida", "La Boheme" and "La Traviata". In addition to all his pursuits, my father had a hobby - photography. Thanks to this hobby, I was left with the most precious souvenir of all, more than a thousand pictures he took during his lifetime. 

My father was able to speak eight languages ​​about Burein. As one would expect from a cluster man with knowledge in so many areas, even in relation to us, his children, he was a perfectionist. At home, we had a huge library of books on every subject imaginable, books that dealt with politics, prose, poetry, biographies and more. I also got infected with a bacterium, and to this day it is my great love. Until the age of 15 my life was characterized by many pastimes with him, especially on Saturdays and holidays. He allowed me to accompany him to the Tel Aviv Tel Aviv games and the opera he attended. On Fridays, as in every home in Israel, we would sit together to watch the Arab film, with actor and singer Fried Al-Atrash. To this day, when I hear his songs, I cry.   

Dad was very fond of the army, and when he wore the uniform and went into reserve, it seemed to me, in the eyes of a girl, just as perfect. He went through two wars, but the third overwhelmed him. That morning at school I hugged and kissed him. I didn't know it would be the last time, and it was actually our breakup. Whenever I remember this moment, I think "why is he?", But it's probably his many years of contribution to the country he loved so much. 

To this day, it's hard for me to accept Dad's loss, and I've always said to my three sons: "It's a shame you didn't get to know your grandfather." Their acquaintance with him is just from my stories and the many pictures he left. My oldest son is named after him, Abraham (my father). Everything I am and who I am, my character lines, my determination - have been shaped by the education I received from my father, a rigorous and love-filled education that I also conveyed to my children. The work ethic he had, perfectionism, love for others and his family - these are the values ​​that I have nourished ever since. 

At that moment, my childhood was over

Autumn Harari, 24, from Netanya, writes about his father, Lt. Col. Dov Barry Harari 

In the summer of 2010, I was a junior high school student on vacation, and as such, I spent most of my time mostly in front of the computer. At the time, my father, Lt. Col. Dov Berry Harari, left his job as a carpenter in the family carpentry and left for reserve duty. It was not unusual. As a reserve commander son, I was used to Dad not being home for quite a while.

I never thought that such a thing would happen to my dad, and even where he felt most secure. But I will never forget Tuesday August 5 of that year. On the same day of summer, the Dad Battalion was in operational activity on the fence on the Lebanese border, a simple, coordinated tree pruning operation that interfered operationally with the protection of Israeli residents.  

It was about 12:30 when I heard a knock on the door. We were then home with myself and Shir, one of my sisters. Mother went shopping and forgot the cellphone at home. My older sister Moore served as an officer in Intelligence Southern Command, and Noy, Shir's twin sister, was at work.

I went to the door and saw soldiers in unusual uniforms. I didn't quite understand what it was about, I was less than 15 anyway, so I woke my sister up for a rest. She was in the process of recruiting and a little more understood, and immediately asked if it was Dad or Moore. After a few minutes we got the bitter news. At that moment, my worldly sword, my thoughts mingled in my head: what would I tell my mother, how to say, what should I do at all?

Again a knock on the door, this time it's a mom who came home from shopping after hearing on the radio about an incident on the northern border and felt something had happened. I open half a door with teary eyes, and behind me the city officer who opened it wide. From here, no longer needed to talk, Mother understood.    

For me, my childhood was over at that moment. I realized I had to get into huge shoes and try to fill in the blanks. From the smallest boy in the house, I became the man in the house. It was about sanctifying, fixing things at home and not breaking down and being strong for my mother and sisters. Dad and I were in very good contact as the only men in the house. I took every opportunity I had to be with him - whether it was helping him at work or going with him to the sea, playing ball and even just a good ref. I learned a lot from him, and unfortunately that's still not enough. My father also built a thatch manufacturing machine, which stopped working the day he was killed because he only knew how to operate and maintain it, and after I was killed, I took on the job of building the city's awnings, and did so successfully until I was drafted.

On 7/19/2015 joined the IDF Golani Brigade as a father, he taught us to love the people and the homeland. He walked me to my thoughts and actions, but unfortunately I never got to see me enlist, was sworn into the army, getting the cap wall, that he himself wore.

This year marks Ten years to his death, but before that there is the Memorial Day that will mark us so differently than usual. I believe that as a people we will pass it, but that does not mean it will not be difficult. There is no day that I do not think of my father and wonder: Coming back? ”

In the meantime, what is left is just the memories.