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

Doron, Emily, and Romi

Today, an anonymous voice broke through the radio. It was like a brief rain after months of drought. It spoke of Doron, Emily, and Romi. For more than a year, these names wandered through us like echoes without a body. Now they return, carrying entire deserts with them. Because the deserts that hurt the most don’t have sand, only the emptiness of days that refuse to pass.

An embrace carries the weight of an entire language. How do you translate “welcome home” after so much time? Perhaps with hands that do not let go, perhaps with tears apologizing for not arriving sooner. But relief is never complete. Some silences weigh more than the missing words, as though the language of captivity still lingers in their gestures.

We know this: no one returns ultimately. Freedom is a door that closes slowly, and those who cross it feel the cold on one side and the warmth on the other. Their children, parents, and friends gaze at these women, mixing relief with guilt and love with questions. Will the scent of home still feel like an old friend? Or a stranger waiting at the threshold?

The time in captivity must have been a rope on the verge of snapping. And now, what do we do with the days that have returned? Perhaps they will find answers in the bread rising in the oven, a whispered prayer to the hunger for lost time. Or perhaps in the rhythm of a broom sweeping the yard, trying to reorder the shards of a broken world.

And here, on this side of the desert, we who celebrate their return—can we free the prisons we have created? Not those of concrete and bars, but the ones we carry in our minds, where the other is always an enemy, and we lock ourselves in from within?

The sun sets behind the mountains, painting the horizon with dried blood. But today, at least today, these women have brought back more than just themselves. They carry questions tattooed onto their skin that crawl like shadows at dusk: can we learn to walk side by side, or will we keep stumbling under the weight of the same bars dividing us?

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.
Related Topics
Related Posts