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

Keep Going.

Only Israel can be attacked by armies and terrorist groups on seven fronts and still be called the aggressor by the world.

It’s strange how a year can pass, how the memory of something so brutal can fade like smoke. It has been a year since Hamas ripped through our lives. A year and the world has already moved on, forgotten. Forgotten that we were provoked, that more than a thousand lives were taken in a single, terrible day. And now they accuse us of genocide: us, the Jews. There’s something bitter in that, something absurdly ironic, but irony seems to roll off the world’s back like rain. History is only remembered when it’s convenient.

I wonder… What would the United States or the UK do if rockets had been falling on New York or London for a year? What would happen if sixty thousand people had to leave their homes in the north, driven out by the constant threat hanging over their heads? Sixty thousand. Here, that number isn’t just a statistic; it’s a pulse, a piece of our soul torn away. And while Hezbollah keeps sending rockets across the border, the world is silent, like a passerby pretending not to see. What would they say if this was happening in their cities? Would they be blamed for defending themselves?

And what about the hostages? One hundred and one people were still held captive, ripped from their lives on that same day of horror. The world talks of negotiations for peace, but they forget that mothers, fathers, and children are still in the dark, waiting. Who remembers them now? As time passes, it feels like they’re becoming shadows, even in our own headlines, forgotten by the same voices that judge us so quickly.

We’re attacked from every direction, and yet it’s always us who carry the blame. We’ve never claimed to be perfect, never pretended we don’t have faults or mistakes. But when rockets fall, when families rush to shelters, when the sirens scream, what does blame even mean? In those moments, survival is all there is. But I wonder: if this were happening in New York or London, would they be judged the same way? Would they, too, be called aggressors for the simple act of staying alive?

Here, survival isn’t an act of defiance; it’s a quiet rhythm we’ve learned to live by. The rockets fall, the alarms wail, and we move. We survive. There’s no space for grand gestures, no time for speeches about morality. Life here is stripped down to its most basic form—continuing. And yet, the world doesn’t want to see that. It’s easier to paint us in broad strokes, to reduce us to a headline: Israel, the aggressor. The accusations start soft, like a drizzle, but soon enough, we’re soaked, drowning in the world’s judgment before we even know it.

And the world? The world watches, distant and comfortable, in well-lit rooms and air-conditioned meetings. I wonder, what would they say if they spent just one day here—if they felt the ground shudder beneath their feet, heard the sirens, saw the fear in the eyes of those running for shelter? Would they still speak the word “aggressor” so quickly? Would they still look at us with the same cold distance? It’s a strange kind of justice to judge without ever feeling the weight of the sky pressing down, threatening to fall at any moment.

And if it were their children hiding in bomb shelters, would they wait? Would they sit patiently, hoping for peace talks while missiles streaked the sky? Or would they, like us, keep going? Not because we’re brave, not because we’re heroes, but because we have no choice. It’s not about strength or courage; it’s about necessity. You keep going because stopping isn’t an option.

Each day we remain is a small victory. Not a triumph anyone will write about, not one that will be celebrated. But a victory nonetheless. A quiet, stubborn kind of victory, the kind that only those living through it can understand. And maybe that’s what frustrates the world the most—that despite everything, despite the rockets, the accusations, the hostages, the seven fronts that surround us, we’re still here. We haven’t disappeared.

They judge us; they condemn us. They call us the aggressors. But we, who live here, know the truth. In the eyes of the world, our greatest crime is that we refuse to disappear. Maybe that’s all we’ve done wrong—kept going.

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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