I weep for you, my brother Ilan.

I never got to meet you. The thick glass of the TV set always separated between us. I saw you there, in the press conferences, in the training sessions, smiling, confident, and with that beautiful, precious, Israeli flag on your astronaut uniform. We all watched you Ilan, all of us in Israel. You made us damn proud.

You were more than 20 years older than I, but I feel that we have so much in common. You are the son of an Auschwitz survivor. My grandmother was there, too, Ilan, at Auschwitz, maybe at the same time as your father. On what happened in that place nothing more needs to be said. You knew the legacy and responsibility that the survivors’ generation left us with. Maybe it is that legacy that made the Israeli flag on your uniform seem so precious to me. It is the flag of the country that gave our families refuge after the mass murder of the Jews in Europe. It is the place you called home.

I weep for you, my brother Ilan.

We were so happy when you blasted off from Florida into space. You were our best and brightest. I wish you could have seen the articles that were written that day in Israel’s newspapers – “Ilan, cross the sky and fly like the wind, we are with you.” I never heard anyone call you by your proper title, Colonel Ilan Ramon. You were simply Ilan. Our Ilan.

I cannot tell you what kind of a relief your trip gave us from the realities of the Middle East. Between Arafat’s suicide bombers, the rifts between the secular and religious in Israel, the inflation, and the crumbling economy, there was you. Anytime you were on television, people cheered. You united us. We were all proud of you, our brightest star.

I weep for you, my brother Ilan.

I wish you could see what the Internet message boards say now. America, as the nation that sponsored you and lost six of its own astronauts in the Columbia disaster, has adopted you as one of its fallen sons. The Americans aren’t the only ones – there are people who love you in Australia, in Canada, in Europe, and elsewhere. You and the astronauts that died on Columbia became everyone’s heroes. But to us, the Israelis, Ilan, the pain is especially sharp. It is us who walk in the place of your birth, of your life. It is us who must bear your absence.

You knew the risks, there’s no question about that. There is also no question that you were willing to take them. You took them for the causes that were dear to you – for science, for humanity, for Israel. This was not the first time you took risks for your country. You were one of the pilots who bombed Iraq’s nuclear reactor in 1981. You flew over hundreds of miles of enemy territory to destroy Saddam’s nuclear weapons program. The world condemned you then, Ilan, but when Saddam launched his missiles at Israel in 1991 with no Israeli provocation, they understood that what you did was right. Saddam probably would have had nuclear weapons by now if it weren’t for you. There are thousands of people alive today because of what you did twenty-two years ago, Ilan. How the mighty heroes have fallen.

I weep for you, my brother Ilan.

I weep for you because I saw the interviews with your family, and they miss you. I weep for you because the emails that you sent them before your descent to Earth were supposed to be read by your whole family. I weep for you because I don’t believe it was your time to go. I weep for you because God extinguished the little flame that gave the people of Israel and the Jewish people so much pride, and so much hope. I weep for you because this is all I can do. My only condolence is that I am glad that you died at the height of your career, doing what you loved, and in the company of people you loved. You were, and are, my hero, Ilan, and we will continue our lives down here, protecting your beloved Israel.

But we now must do it without you.