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

Moral bankruptcy

The ceremony hasn’t even happened yet, and already we’re choking on the stench of hypocrisy clinging to every rehearsed word. Miri Regev, always her, like a shadow thriving on tragedy, steps in not to alleviate pain but to amplify it for her gain. She doesn’t see the shattered families, the hollowed-out communities, the relentless anxiety of those still waiting for loved ones to return. What she sees is a stage. What she craves is applause. Every tragedy, every tear becomes another opportunity for her to bask in the spotlight, wrapping herself in the flag like a costume, hiding the rot underneath.

The script is predictable: fiery speeches, flags waving in choreographed synchronicity, a performance of patriotism so shallow that it insults the notion of memory. Netanyahu and his gang don’t just fail to protect; they exploit the pain they’ve caused, twisting it into a tool for political gain. In their world, empathy is dead—replaced by cold calculation by the ruthless drive to stay in power no matter the cost. How can they stand there and turn a tragedy of their own making into a banner, something to be celebrated while the wound is still fresh and bleeding?

The insanity lies in the fact that this ceremony is even happening while hostages remain in captivity, while entire communities are displaced, and families are stuck in limbo. To commemorate an event without first resolving the human suffering it left behind is not just indecent—it’s inhumane. Miri Regev and her government are parading their failure as if it were a victory, as if the rubble of destroyed lives could be swept under the rug with a few patriotic slogans and empty gestures.

Communities like Kibbutz Nirim, Kibbutz Be’eri, Kibbutz Kfar Azza, Kibbutz Nir Oz, Kibbutz Yad Mordechai and Kibbutz Nahal Oz announced they will boycott the ceremony and refuse to participate in this grotesque spectacle because they understand the absurdity of commemorating something that isn’t over. How can they mourn properly when the people they love are still being held captive when the wounds are still raw, when the future is uncertain? For them, mourning isn’t a public event; it’s a daily reality, a silent scream that no ceremony can drown out.

The true madness is how this government, rather than focusing every resource on bringing back the hostages, chooses instead to orchestrate a ceremony that serves only to gloss over their failure. And who else but Miri Regev would lead such a charade? She doesn’t miss an opportunity to turn someone else’s grief into her stage. Her presence alone is a mockery of genuine empathy, a cruel reminder that for her and those like her, human suffering is just another prop.

This isn’t about politics; it’s about decency. It’s about the moral obscenity of using a tragedy that you allowed to happen as a vehicle for self-promotion. It’s the equivalent of the arsonist throwing a party in the ashes, bragging about the flames they pretended to put out. The ceremony itself is an insult, a cynical display that spits in the face of every family waiting for answers, still waiting for their loved ones to come home.

Miri Regev and her extremist allies reflect a government that has lost its humanity. They don’t feel the pain; they manipulate it. They don’t seek justice; they seek control. They call memory a hollow shell, an attempt to bury the truth: they failed. They abandoned those they swore to protect. And instead of facing this failure with humility, they double down, building a spectacle on the ruins.

When history looks back, it won’t be kind to Netanyahu and his gang. They won’t be remembered as leaders but as those who turned a nation’s grief into cheap currency. And Miri Regev? She will be the face of this disgrace—a woman who, in the face of unimaginable loss, didn’t see people but props, didn’t feel pain but opportunity. This ceremony, even before it happens, already exposes the moral bankruptcy of a government that, incapable of empathy, prefers to twist suffering into a performance.

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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