Somewhere between heaven and earth, between dreams and reality, there exists a pain I do not know. A pain reserved for those who have seen their children leave too soon, on the tragic wings of war. My daughter, an ocean away in Brazil, remains oblivious to this storm, a reminder of the fortune that accompanies me. Yet, my heart leans in solidarity with the Israeli families torn apart by this unspeakable loss.
These families’ homes are now museums of memories, where each object is a sanctum of remembrances. Martin Buber, with his wisdom of connections, would speak of the severing of the most sacred relationship, of the interrupted conversation echoing off the silent walls of these homes. A void that refuses to be filled, where every unspoken word weighs heavy as lead.
Emmanuel Levinas might say that the absent child’s face becomes a mirror to the parents’ souls. A mirror that reflects not just love, but a profound questioning, a search for meaning in a world where logic seems to have unraveled. The responsibility for a child, a flame that never goes out, even when the winds of war blow cruel and relentless.
And in a dark corner, Kafka would whisper about the absurdity of loss, about the labyrinth of pain these parents now wander. A labyrinth without a Minotaur, where every corridor leads only to more longing, more unanswered questions.
These families, with their broken hearts, now walk a road of mourning and resilience. A road I pray to never encounter, as I embrace the distance that separates my daughter and me. A distance that, paradoxically, fills me with both gratitude and sorrow.
In this sorrow, there is a lesson about the fragility of life, about the value of every shared moment, every laugh, every word of love. It’s a reminder that, while some face the storm of loss, others must seek to shelter and protect the flame of hope.
These families, now shrouded in the shadow of absence, remind us of the urgent need for peace, of a world where children can grow up far from the roar of cannons, where parents can grow old watching their children thrive.
And as I think of my daughter, I feel a mix of joy and sadness. Joy for her safety, and sadness for those facing the void. In every video call, in every smile of hers, I find the strength to dream of a day when all families can share the same peace, the same joy, free from the fear of loss.
Lastly, with deep respect and love, I dedicate this text to the bereaved parents of Israel. May it serve as a humble tribute to you and your beloved sons and daughters. Your stories, your losses, will not be forgotten, and the echo of your lives will continue to resonate in our hearts. May you find comfort and strength, and may your memories be a blessing and a reminder of the peace we all seek.