The hardest task bestowed upon the president of the state, is to be in the presence of bereaved families in times of grief and tragedy; to see them, as they agonize, in mourning and grief. Last summer, I traveled far and wide across this country. I visited the homes of beloved and wonderful boys who fell defending the country during Operation Protective Edge. The geography of pain, as I learned, stretched the length and breadth of the country, yet it did not divide it. Death struck at the door of many, regardless of their religious beliefs. No camp was left untouched by death. I saw the sons of the kibbutzim, of the settlements, of the villages, towns and cities, Jews and non-Jews, lone soldiers and new immigrants.

I got to them, though, too late. I got to know them, when they were already gone. I watched them laughing in home movies, I saw them smiling in photographs, hugging their brothers, holding the hands of their girlfriends, who are left bereft, ‘agunot’ of love. With some of them, I believe I would have argued and debated. With others I would have enjoyed listening to music, debating leadership or soccer. I remember painfully how one grieving father told me that when he heard the footsteps at the door, he waited to call to his wife, to give her just one moment more, before she would become a ‘bereaved mother.’ This same father tearfully questioned how from then on, should he answer when asked how many children he had. This summer I learned how palpable is emptiness, which no amount of longing can fill.

Dear families. Not long ago I met a father whose son fell in battle in the Gaza Strip nearly two decades ago. He shared with me his feelings about this day, Memorial Day. He said, “I do not dread this day. On this day, I consider the significance.” He went on, “Each year, they speak to us, the bereaved families, about loss and sadness. But, for us, there is no need to be reminded of these painful notions. We carry them with us each day and each night. On this day, we must turn to Israeli society in its entirety, and talk about self-reflection for the future, about building, about hope. This way, their sacrifice will not be in vain.”

Dear friends, citizens of Israel. It is the request of this father that I ask you, all of us, to honor today. The bereaved family is intertwined, with a shared fate, a fate that was forced upon them. Israeli society, with all its camps, is connected not just in terms of shared destiny, but in terms of purpose and meaning. Memorial Day is a day upon which we, all of us, gather together in the national mourning tent. On this day, we open the tabernacles of terrible grief; we release the pent-up longing. How can we come to terms within ourselves, and with the memory of our loved ones, if there were just one day on which we focused on the pain and sorrow? We mourn tonight for the fate of our sons and daughters. And yet, at the same time, how can we stand at their graves, how can we think of the children that they will never have, or of the children left orphaned, if we do not consider the meaning, the purpose of their sacrifice?

Read President Rivlin’s speech in full at Times of Israel.