my dad and I made a visit to Arlington National Cemetery, to the graves of his brothers. Rabin’s death felt, in so many ways, like the deaths of my uncles—not just the murder of an incredible human being but the attempted murder of a cause, uniquely led by this inspiring individual through the power of his own personal narrative. When he was taken, the dream was taken. My father decided it would be appropriate to carry dirt from Arlington to sprinkle on Rabin’s grave.
