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It's as if the rain knew when to come to postpone the rally. Are the olive-tree uprooters deterred by stormy weather? Now we have time to reconsider how to return to the square those who stood there 14 years ago.

It is no longer possible to enlist a despondent public, to breathe life into the dry bones with just any call. Who is not "for peace"; who is not "against violence"? When Yitzhak Rabin himself coined that phrase at that rally, it was said at a particularly terrible time and in a clear political context, not as a non-commital wish.

And it is no longer possible to give the rally the demure character of a protest against road accidents. Some people among us would like to believe, would like us to believe, that the murder was nothing more than a road accident, that the road itself was the accident.

We can no longer call people together just to warn against "the next political murder." They murdered Rabin because they knew he meant what he said and could do it. Who, and for what, would it be so urgent to murder today?

Three years ago, David Grossman gave the last speech at the commemoration rally, and filled the square with meaning. He spoke about "hollow leadership." Since then, the national chorus has returned to the stage.

From the day Rabin was murdered for his beliefs, people have insisted on turning the rally into "everyone's rally." But not everyone wants to come. They did not love Rabin in his life, and they will not love him after his death. They despised his Olso Accords, and will continue to do so. He was not Bibi, not Ehud, he was Yitzhak, who knew there was "a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing."

If this keeps up, the rally for everyone will become a rally for no one. His memory is not the doleful longing of a Hebrew song set to a selective biography. His memory is his last will and testament, which he bequeathed to us on his last road.

The rain came right on time.