Son of Yehezkel and Hadassah. He was born on Wednesday, 13.11.1950, in Kibbutz Eilat Hashachar and studied at the kibbutz elementary school, where he studied in Hadera and completed his studies there. From childhood he liked to sing, especially emotionally spooky songs. At its initiative the class set up an animal corner and he urged the children to take walks in nature to bring more animals to the corner. Yaron loved to participate in the plays and enriched them with his warm, ringing voice. Even though they predicted a future in the music field, he preferred to devote himself to sport. When he was a child, he loved to listen to stories of heroism and was proud of his father (who was a prisoner of the Hagana in the Acre prison) and of his uncle (who was one of the defenders of Tel Hai in 1921). When he approached the kibbutz’s Jubilee holiday, the tractor he was driving on hit a mine and he was seriously wounded, but he did not take care of himself except for his friends and was afraid that the holiday would be canceled because of him. Shtifel said that after the surgery he visited him and Yaron asked if he could be a combat soldier after he recovered, and that was what preoccupied him in his difficult situation. Yaron was drafted into the IDF in November 1968 and volunteered to serve in the Paratroopers Brigade. He was a model soldier, loved by his commanders and friends. On the 11th of Kislev, 5769 (11.6.1969), he fell in the Jordan Valley in pursuit of a terrorist cell and was brought to eternal rest in the cemetery in Eilat. The booklet Yaron, which was published in his memory after he fell, ends with the words of his commander, “On your grave.” The moment you exposed your body to the doctor, so that he would give you permission to join the paratroopers, you knew that the struggle had started, a tedious and uncompromising struggle and without I felt that you were a generation that did not make up, fell and stood up, overcoming every difficulty, every constraint, a generation that is not easily spoken. Three months ago we went down to the Jordan Valley, to sit there and defend it, the Jordan Valley, the land of pursuit and bereavement, the burning desolation – A land in which every green bush sparks fire and every rock crevice gives shelter and shelter – – The Jordan Valley has brought you into daily combat, you have been in pursuit, ambushes and night search, Without talking, without theories – but always faithful, taking on responsible tasks, holding the most responsible weapon – and yesterday your way through a thick and rocky area between olive and carob trees – I found you close to the machine gun with the finger on the trigger and three terrorists – – You, who were born in this Galilee, to plow and reap, to build a house in the calm atmosphere of the village, is called to pay blood money, the blood of youth – slain in the fields of fire and smoke. In our hearts is the burning question: When will the days of evil and killing end? When can we return to our house and grow flowers? But until these days come – on your grave, Yaron, we swear to continue. How can we console and console ourselves? How can we explain your actions? Perhaps with the feeling of security that thanks to boys like you, the people of Israel are guaranteed to dwell in their land for ever. In spite of the sorrow and sadness that descended on our homes, they will continue to work and create, plow, and reap, build houses and raise children, in the Galilee and in the valley and in every corner of the country. This is perhaps the only consolation we have left in your journey. “
