There is a minute in Israel's calendar when everything stops. We were walking along the beach the first time it happened. The sirens started, every car on the road pulled over, people got out and stood beside them, everyone walking or running stopped where they were, and a city built on noise went completely silent.
My dad explained it that evening better than I could. The luck of being there came with sacrifice, and that is the part you do not get to forget.
At sundown the same day the country turns over. Yom HaZikaron becomes Yom Ha'atzmaut and the mourning becomes one of the largest street celebrations anywhere. We played spike ball for a couple of hours in the afternoon and then slept for two, because everyone knew what the night was going to be.
It was also my birthday. Somewhere in the middle of it we ran into my parents out on the beach path on their bikes, which nobody had planned, and someone raised a glass – to the people who served, to the country, and then to me.