JERUSALEM – An honor guard lined one side of the plaza, the bereaved of war dead the other.

The plaza is big, a cold expanse of new stone gouged into the heart of the city. At one end, the Wailing Wall, remnant of the ancient temple, the holiest place of Judaism, stood blank and unattended, lit to a death pallor by kleiglights and cameramen's spots.

At the other end, the public had gathered, separated from the soldiers and the soldiers' bereaved by a line of police barriers. Behind the spectators stood the buildings of the old Jewish quarter, now dominated by construction cranes that dwarfed the modest rooftops.

At 8 p.m. sharp, the sirens sounded a long wail, then died with a last complaint. Israel's 30th anniversary celebration was underway.

In the silence that followed, the chant of Arab muezzins, calling the faithful to evening prayer, drifted in from beyond the floodlights - a grim reminder that East Jersualem remains "hostile."

The ceremony went like an army drill. President Ephraim Katzir lighted the ceremonial torch. The chief of staff, Rafael Eitan, made a tense speech attributing Israel's 30 years of independence to the spirit of sacrifice among its citizens.

The ancient kaddish prayer for the dead followed. Then Katzir's escorts fired up their new motorcycles and the crowd broke for the exits.

Absent was the joy of some ceremonies, in years past, that ended with dancing in the streets. But also absent were the sorrow and pain of loss that followed the October War of 1973.

Absent was the dream that created this state against impossible odds. And absent too was a new dream to infuse the next 30 years.

Where are the dreams that Israelis made of, now that she is 30 years old?  Not in he clockwork spectacles, not in the F-15 flyby. Perhaps in the few in the crowd who wait patiently to get to the Wailing Wall, perhaps in the thousands who traipse from the square back to kibbutzim or development towns, to Jerusalem apartments or West Bank hilltops. Perhaps somewhere waiting to be formed.

Where, where are the dreams?

In the late sunlight streaming across the balcony that overlooks the Jerusalem hills, amid the curios collected at his diplomatic posts, among the framed and autographed pictures - Ben-Gurion, Sharet, Meir, Dayan – with all that is familiarly his, Shaul Ramati is at home.

Ramati, mustachioed and urbane, is a foreign ministry man, a good talker. In these long afternoon chats, he is also at home. His left hand settles, now and then, on a bottle of bourbon at his side, as a good driver's hand will sometimes play, unconsciously and lightly, on the gearshift.

Ramati is ambassador to the Jews outside Israel – an official keeper of dreams.

He has a speech for honorific occasions, a speech designed to rekindle the dream. He has just refurbished it for this occasion.

"Israel is my mother," says a portion of the speech. "She bore me in terrible labor, unbelievable suffering. Her birth pangs seemed never ending – Pharoah, Amalek, Sargon, Nebuchadnezzar, Haman, Antiochus, Titus, the massacring crusader, Torquemada, Chmielnicki and then the crowning agony of Hitler the beast. Yet she survived all her tortures and gave me the priceless gift of being born a Jew. With her milk, I imbibed my Jewish sense of right and wrong, the dream of a world of brotherhood at peace. How puny any effort or sacrifice I can make to help her sons and daughters live after the agony of fire, sword, Auschwitz, which she went through that they might be born."

Lately the job has presented problems. Some Jews in America are upset with Menachem Begin – does he really want peace?  they ask – and Ramati must deal with the doubt. This too is familiar. Ramati speaks with confident grace:

The armistice lines, Resolution 242, the Allon plan – all slide by like expressway signs. Ramati negotiates the curves.

But what of the dreams?  Where is Israel going?  This is an unfamiliar turn.