I Keep Asking Why This Had to Happen????

These headlines have been bothering me for days. Reading them over and over again isn’t something I want to do, but I feel like I owe it to the people whose names are now part of these stories. There have been many stories in the news about the bodies of two hostages, Amiram Cooper and Sahar Baruch, being sent back to Israel. One was 84. The other one was 25. One lived a very long time. The other one was becoming an adult. They were both taken. They are both gone now. It makes me wonder why this had to happen. 

The world can feel too big at times. The politics. The history. The walls. The arguments. There were promises, and then those promises were broken. I get lost in the details that seem to go on and on whenever I try to understand them. But when I saw pictures of the coffins coming back to Israel, it was the silence around them that struck me. The silence said more than any politician or critic ever could. It had something to do with being final. About sadness that can’t be fixed. About lives that were lived and then cut short.

What breaks me is that I did not know these people. I never met their families. I did not live in their neighborhoods. I do not know the sound of their laughter or the way they liked to spend their mornings. Still, when I read their names, I felt heavy in my chest. It felt personal, even though it wasn’t. Or maybe it is, in the sense that we all live in this world, and the pain that happens anywhere doesn’t stay contained. Pain travels. 

People have long known that Amiram lived on a farm. People said he was kind and thoughtful. Someone who lived a simple life and quietly made the place where he lived better. That alone makes him feel like I know him. A lot of us know someone like that. A teacher. A neighbour. Great-grandfather. Someone whose only wish was to live out his life in peace. 

Sahar was not old. 25. That keeps going through my mind. There are still things you don’t know about yourself at age 25, but the world has become more open, so you can see where you might go. As of now, you are still gathering adventures. Still getting better. When someone that young dies, it always feels wrong in a way that the heart can’t explain. It’s hard not to think about all the things he will never see. Love, work, and birthdays. Mistake. Growth. Every morning. Every day events that make up a life. 

The reports said their remains were handed over during a tense and fragile moment in a ceasefire. I read about negotiating, mediating, and making sure people are who they say they are. These things are essential, but they feel so cold when set against the truth of death. It’s strange how conflicts turn people into things that can be talked about in terms of strategy. Like they’re parts of a story that someone else wrote. 

Attacks were still going on in Gaza while the bodies were being returned. The news said one side affirmed its commitment to the ceasefire while preparing for the possibility of new fighting. Trouble doesn’t stop, even when people are sad. It keeps going like a machine that won’t turn off. And I believe that’s what makes me feel hollow. It looks like everyone forgot to bow their heads. 

I can’t stop picturing the families. Having to wait. Having hope. The fear. Prayers for a safe return were quickly changed to prayers for a body to come home. I can’t imagine what it’s like to hold on to a dream so tight it hurts, only to have to let it go. That sadness has a bravery that most of us will never understand. 

This makes me wonder why it had to happen. I’m sure some people will try to answer. Some will talk about politics. Some people will talk about having power. Some people will talk about history, land, war, revenge, and how to stay alive. Those things are all true. All of those things are hard to understand. But none of them talk about how to deal with the death of a loved one. 

Maybe there is no answer. Perhaps the question itself is the reminder. To see the human before the headline. To remember that every number reported in the news was a voice. A breath. A pair of hands. Someone who cared for someone and was cared for in return.

I think we forget that too easily.

I do not know what happens next in this conflict. I do not see how peace is found or held. I do not know if the world will ever stop treating lives as bargaining chips. But I do know that grief like this deserves to be seen. Not as part of a headline. Not as part of a political argument. Just seen. Acknowledged. Held in the space between us.

So today, even from far away, I am holding space for two lives I never knew. I am acknowledging the families who are living through the kind of pain that has no language. And I am allowing myself to feel the weight of it, even if I do not know what to do with that feeling.

There is a tradition in many places of lighting candles in memory of the dead. Not because a flame can change what happened, but because it allows them to stay, stay in our minds. These rituals came to mind when I read about families receiving the bodies of their loved ones. A small way to remember someone is to light a candle. In a world that can sometimes feel cruel, it can be an act of kindness. If someone wants to place their lost lives or be alone with their feelings, something as simple as a candle can be a part of that moment. Guess what? They can serve as a small light to acknowledge the loss, a loss that words cannot fully bear.

I keep asking why this had to happen.

And maybe the only honest answer is that it should not have.