Farewell

Accepting the end of a relationship is like burying a dream in broad daylight. There’s no ceremony, no formal goodbye. Just the rough silence of realizing that the future, once planned and detailed so carefully, has crumbled like sand slipping through your fingers.

Israel is living something similar—a bitter farewell to what it imagined it could be, clinging desperately to portraits that no longer fit within the frame of the present. Clinging to the past is comforting; it offers the illusion that everything can be fixed with more persistence and strength. But reality is a broken mirror: no matter how we try to piece it back together, the reflection will never be the same.

The cycle of disillusionment running through Israel’s history is like sleepless nights, waiting for answers that never come. We expect the other—whether the government, the neighbor, or destiny—to offer what we need to hear as if that would be enough to mend the growing gap between what we are and what we wish to be. Just like in a worn-out relationship, the habit remains the automatic routine that no longer sustains the promise of happiness. It takes courage to admit that the insistence on keeping the “us” is betraying us, chaining us to a narrative that should have been left behind.

Freedom, however, is a dangerous word. It sounds beautiful when spoken, but its weight is cruel when it demands renunciation. Freeing oneself isn’t just about letting go of the other; it’s about letting go of the idealized version of yourself that you projected into that relationship. It’s accepting that what we were—as a nation, as a people—no longer fits into the present and that trying to revive old glories only prolongs the suffering for everyone involved.

When memory becomes a prison, it’s a sign that it’s time to turn our backs and walk in another direction, even if that is the most painful of choices.

In Israel, resistance to accepting the end of cycles ties us to a past that betrays us. As long as we insist on preserving an identity that no longer aligns with reality, we remain trapped in internal disputes, blind to the need for renewal. Renewal isn’t about discarding history but recognizing that it needs new chapters, written with the ink of truth, not the blood of old grudges.

Liberation, like any farewell, won’t come without pain. We’ll need to let go of fossilized ideals and, even more so, of the fears that prevent us from looking beyond the narrow horizon we’ve built. But happiness—that overused, almost naïve word—will only be possible if we, as individuals and as a nation, accept that the past, no matter how heroic it might have been, cannot be the foundation for a future that still needs to be invented.

Loving who we are is essential, but loving what we can become is what will truly set us free. Those who once voted for Benjamin Netanyahu, believing in the promise of security and continuity, are stuck in this worn-out narrative.

There comes a time when we must let go of the pain of that mistake, face reality, and admit that clinging to the past will not lead to a better future. Israel deserves more than being tied to a leader without answers for today’s dilemmas.

It’s time to recognize that the cycle with Netanyahu has ended, with his empty promises and endless polarizations. Now, a new story requires another politician, another vision that can offer something beyond fear and division. For many, this recognition is painful, but it’s also liberating.  Israel’s future can only flourish once we shed the weight of misguided choices.

And for those who once believed in Netanyahu, it’s time to let regret ripen into wisdom. It’s not about carrying the burden of guilt but about understanding that the pain of that mistake needs to be transformed into a renewed determination to write a different story—with another leader, new perspectives, and the courage to start again.

Because the future is not an automatic continuation of the past but a continuous reinvention shaped by the awareness of who we were and the hope of who we can become.