Secrets

There is no such thing as a secret between two people. We learn this early on, but we pretend to forget, maybe because we believe some mystery remains. A real secret is like a stubborn weed we try to bury deep, but it always finds a way to surface, crack the ground, and sprout where you least expect it. There are secrets we don’t even know we carry; they stay there, quiet, dwelling in the shadows of the soul, waiting for the right moment to show themselves. And when a secret reveals itself, it is no longer a secret. It’s just an inconvenient truth that no one wants to see.

Here in Israel, where every stone seems to hold a story we don’t tell, there’s been another one of those secrets that isn’t a secret. It happened far from here, but everyone saw it. It is a film, a story everyone knows, but no one wants to admit they know it. It doesn’t matter what the film is called or who is in it. What matters is what it shows us: we don’t want to know. We don’t want to see it. Here, in the depths of every home, conversation, and silence, there is a quiet choice for ignorance. Because knowing brings discomfort.

And here on this side, I feel like the man who finds out too late what was already on everyone’s lips in the streets and the bakeries. We prefer to pretend we didn’t see or hear or that the conversation in the market was about something else. Because, deep down, no one is naive. We know the truth is there, but we choose darkness. Or did you think it was a secret? No, it never was. But pretending it’s a secret gives us some comfort, a small piece, like someone who thinks they still control their destiny. It’s an illusion but a comfortable one.

Some prefer a sweet lie to the bitterness of truth. Some embrace denial like someone clinging to a broken life raft in a stormy sea. “No, it can’t be true,” they say. And they go on with their eyes tightly shut, hands over their ears, because hearing the truth makes too much noise. It’s unsettling. And I understand. Denial is a choice. It is the last refuge for those who fear the storm.

There’s a stale peace in ignorance—a stillness of someone who has grown used to living without opening the windows. “I don’t need to see; I already know everything,” they say. And so, they keep the world small within a familiar darkness. Because truth demands courage, and courage is for the few. It’s easier to curl up in denial, that old, worn-out blanket that still gives some warmth.

Deep down, what we fear is not the film, not what will be shown. It’s what we will have to face in the mirror. We fear memory. Memory is a tricky thing. It’s like a root under the asphalt, like a weed that sprouts in cement. You can pull it out, cut it down, or burn it, but it always returns. And when memory becomes an image, it enters our homes, trickles into conversations, and seeps into silences. It does what it needs to do: remember.

What we see in that cracked mirror is a distorted reflection of ourselves. A country that has grown used to sweeping its dirt under the rug until the rug can’t hide anything anymore. And what do we see? A people who prefer not to know too much, who pretend everything is a mystery, but who know very well where the truth lives.

The secret, which was never a secret, is that everyone already knew. But it’s easier to pretend we didn’t. And life goes on, with those who don’t want to see living in their pretend peace. Because looking truth in the eye opens a wound that doesn’t heal quickly. And maybe the biggest secret of all is this: we get used to it. We get used to what should be unbearable, and it stays, and stays, until it becomes part of the scenery.

And so we go on, stumbling in the dark, bumping into secrets that no longer exist, silences that no longer bring comfort. Perhaps what is sadder is realizing that we are no longer outraged. Memory, that tricky thing, will follow its path. And one day, it will remind us of what we have always known but never dared to say.