This week we crossed the terrible number of 500 soldiers who fell in this war, the one that still has no name. 500 families drinking tears, gathering strength to pick up the pieces. 500 fresh graves. And not only the families themselves – the Israeli mourning has ripples: our 500 martyrs have thousands of family members, tens of thousands of friends, hundreds of thousands of acquaintances. We are a bereaved people.
Golani fighters destroyed "Palestine Square" - where Hamas erected a statue glorifying the APC disaster from Protective Edge // Report
It's not for nothing that this war doesn't have a name. This is a symbolic and essential matter, because its name will be derived from its end. In the Bible we see it again and again: wars in which it is written how many fell from Israel are wars in which we were defeated. In describing the wars we won, the number of fallen is not mentioned. But not only in the Bible, even today we remember how many heroes fell on Yom Kippur, and less remember how many in the six days. I want us not to remember how many fell in this war of ours. I want the enemy's defeat to be absolute, for the cheers of victory to prevail over the sounds of crying.
A knock on the door, in Tel Aviv and Yitzhar
There is an equator that divides between those murdered on the first day and those who fell since we came to our senses and fought back deep in enemy territory. Between those who were murdered because we fell asleep on guard, and those who fell in a war designed to wipe out the danger and disgrace and take revenge. True, it is politically incorrect and not at all enlightened to talk about revenge, but most of the heroic saints who fell - fell in battle. And the voices from the battlefield say revenge, they say abductees, they say wipe out Gaza. On the battlefield there is no political correctness - there is an absolute, final truth.
Minister of Promise visiting soldiers and officers in the north, photo: None
I was attending a meeting this week, when suddenly two more names of brave fallen soldiers were allowed to be published, one from Yitzhar and one from Tel Aviv. And I heard in my imagination the knock on the door, in Tel Aviv and Yitzhar, in a heart-wrenching terrible stereo. And everyone present fell silent and looked down, looked at the cell phone, but gathered to the heart and tried hard not to cry. And everyone took a deep breath into this unrelenting pain, which has been coming in waves, like contractions, for almost three months now. And after we breathed, we tried to return to the argument that a moment ago had heated the debate, but now no one cared anymore to insist on his opinion, we just wanted to agree.
Blood Brothers
These blood brothers, these 500 saints, heroes, wonderful young people, who have blood ties because blood has touched, have proven that all differences are lies, and that all gaps are lies, and that all arguments are a shell, under which in essence we are one. And with every death, our human tissue is lined up, stronger than any tactical helmet or ballistic vest. So yes, we are a bereaved people, but our tears infect us, strengthen our bones. Nothing will break us.
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