Gil Mildar
As the song says, a Latin American with no money in his pocket.

Another Shabbat without them with us

As the night falls, bringing with it a shroud of deepening shadows, the persistent tapping of the rain against the windowpanes echoes the tumult in my heart. It tells tales of isolation, not only of those trapped within Gaza’s confines but also of a more profound solitude wrought by the indifference of a world that has relegated us to the periphery. At this moment, I feel the weight of a resurgent anti-Semitism, a cold shadow that has become the new chasm separating us.

This chill, sharper than the biting winds of winter, lays bare the bitter truth: we are not led by a compassionate shepherd but by one whose thirst for power has shrouded any trace of humanity. The pain of this realization mingles with the rain, each drop reflecting the apathy of a world that leaves the vulnerable adrift, forgotten, and alone.

Here, in this silent sanctuary where only Caju, my faithful companion, breaks the quiet, the absence of her—Abigail, the end of all my escape attempts—magnifies the emptiness that resounds in my soul. And the battle of my daughter, living in a country that should be hers, Brazil, is not safe in her home. As Naguib Mahfouz, the Egyptian Nobel Prize-winning author of 1988, said, “Home is not where you are born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease.” And for us Jews, this only occurs when we return to Israel, making Aliyah.

The cold that sneaks through every crack is a constant reminder of the isolation imposed by the resurgence of an ancient hatred. This social distancing, shaped by prejudice and intolerance, leaves us searching for warmth in a world that appears to have grown cold, a world that has forgotten the bonds that unite us.

As the storm intensifies, becoming a metaphor for the unrest stirring within me, the struggle against the apathy of a world that has averted its gaze from its soul becomes a loneliness that devours the spirit. The understanding that we traverse this tempest without proper leadership, without the support of a world united against hatred, is a void that consumes me.

Here, amidst the storm’s fury, I find a determination born from anguish and resistance. At the heart of this kibbutz, while the wind howls and the rain lashes, I nurture the dream of a tomorrow where the barriers of hatred dissolve, where the ice of indifference melts under the warmth of love and understanding. It is in this resistance, this refusal to be diminished by the coldness of the world, that I discover the true essence of our human connection, a beacon of hope in the deepest darkness.

In this weaving of light and shadow, in the delicate interplay between despair and hope, the poetry of our existence unfolds, a testament to the indomitable spirit that dares to dream of warmth in the coldest night, of unity in the most significant divisions. It is a reminder that, even on the darkest nights, there is always the promise of a new dawn.

About the Author
As a Brazilian, Jewish, and humanist writer, I embody a rich cultural blend that influences my worldview and actions. Six years ago, I made the significant decision to move to Israel, a journey that not only connects me to my ancestral roots but also positions me as an active participant in an ongoing dialogue between the past, present, and future. My Latin American heritage and life in Israel have instilled a deep commitment to diversity, inclusion, and justice. Through my writing, I delve into themes of authoritarianism, memory, and resistance, aiming not just to reflect on history but to actively contribute to the shaping of a more just and equitable future. My work is an invitation for reflection and action, aspiring to advance human dignity above all.
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