Achí (אחי)

I was not born in Israel. I came from afar, from a land where the sun burns as fiercely as it does here but where the sea is sweet and sensual, and the wind sings different songs. I come from Brazil and will always be a foreigner to many. Yet this land, Israel, which did not witness my birth, has seen me grow differently. Here, I became a brother to those who, unlike me, were born with desert dust in their lungs and the scent of war in their memories. I am a child of the diaspora, but the dust on the road and the anguish of the Promised Land are the same. This is what makes me a part of this place.

 I may never grasp the exact pain of those who lost their innocence in the trenches of Gaza or the streets of Jerusalem. I will never have the proper accent or the precise gaze, but anger is universal, and mine is no different. I see; I feel. I feel on my skin the despair of knowing we have failed, that this land of milk and honey has turned into a barren field of cynicism and pettiness. Shame knows no borders.

 The dreams we carried in our luggage when we landed at Ben Gurion Airport were trampled upon by those who were meant to guide us. The corruption of what should have been sacred is the same, whether in Brazil, Israel, or any other corner of the world. The shallow nationalism that venerates flags instead of people is the same. The voracious elite, blinded by their greed, exists here and on every corner of the planet. Israel did not birth me, but I know the pain of a frustrated homeland. I know what it is to look upon your land and see the distorted reflection of what could have been and never will be.

 When I speak of failure, I speak of a visceral failure, a failure that aches deep within the bowels. We failed because we believed that power would bring justice and that brute force would be enough to uphold a nation’s moral fabric. But what have we built? A circus, a theater where clowns and tyrants switch masks with every election. We lost the thread, the delicate stitching that should weave together every piece of this patchwork quilt called Israel. The stitching that should bind us as one people, whether born in Tel Aviv or Rio de Janeiro. We are all Israelis in failure, in struggle, in stubborn hope.

 I feel the pain of my brothers born here. This arid land, full of unfulfilled promises, is also mine. I know what it is to choose between two bad options and pretend there is still dignity. I know what it is to watch peace retreat like a mirage in the desert while war drums grow louder. And what do we do? We keep fighting among ourselves, labeling and dividing, while the real enemy is our blindness.

 The economic elite here is a caricature of the elite I knew in Brazil, only more aggressive, more greedy, more desperate in their hollow hedonism. Those who should be shepherds of a new tomorrow choose to be the wolves of a present that devours everything steals the future from our children and drains the blood of those who have nothing left to give. The moral poverty of this elite is an echo, a reflection of that internal colonialism I saw corroding my country of birth. Here, the hunger for power and status is a disease that spreads like wildfire, destroying everything in its path.

 And what about the schools? They should be places where dreams are nurtured but have become invisible trenches where distrust is taught. A Jewish child here grows up knowing who the enemy is, even if they have never seen his face. An Arab child learns that, despite being born on this land, they may never indeed be part of it. The walls are not just at the borders; they are built early, in the mind, in the classrooms, where history is taught with more hate than truth. We are creating our divisions from an early age, fabricating a future generation that doesn’t know empathy but only knows which side they are on.

 We are surrounded on all sides by ignorance, greed, hatred, and mediocrity. Politics, which should be the space for debate and collective construction, has become a quagmire where those who dare to believe in something greater than themselves sink. Today, everything boils down to being for or against Netanyahu, as if salvation lay in a man, a face, a name. This is our tragedy: we mistake the symptom for the disease.

 The cost of living rises. Social inequality increases. Life, which should be our most precious asset, is thrown into the gutter like recyclable trash. And us? We keep shouting at each other as if the force of a yell could impose truth.

 The reality is that Israel is at a dead end. Trapped in a self-destructive cycle, every decision is a step toward the abyss. And what remains for me is anger. I will shout through this blog, expecting to get your attention and hoping this thought will be heard around the world. I am just a voice lost in the wind, but the echo must resonate. I will shout because it still hurts and because that is all left for those who refuse to accept silence.

 And deep within my chest, the fear is not that history will repeat itself. We will not be able to reinvent ourselves, not even in 400 years. We no longer have the luxury of walking in circles, pretending that the desert is a destiny, not a choice. The desert is among us in our excuses and insistence on burying mistakes under new layers of sand. And I wonder: how many more years will we wander until we understand that the way out of the desert is not a matter of time but courage? How many more must succumb to the hunger for power to finally see that it is not the desert that holds us back but our stubbornness?

 I do not want to wait another generation or decades to see what should be obvious. I do not want our children to carry this baggage of despair and resignation. The desert, this natural desert, is a test that was not designed to last forever. It should have been the interval between a past of pain and a future of redemption. But we extended it because we are afraid to face what comes after. Because it is easier to live in familiar scarcity than to risk a territory where we will finally be responsible for our choices.

 I do not want another 40 years or another 40 days of illusion. I do not want the bitter repetition of our mistakes. I want to feel solid ground beneath my feet, no longer this quicksand of unfulfilled promises. I want to believe that we can still be better, not because time will change us but because we decided to change before time runs out.

 I do not know if anyone will hear this cry or if it will be lost like so many others in the desert wind. But as long as there is breath, as long as there is anger, I will continue because the cry is the last resistance of those who still believe that the impossible can, indeed, happen.