Tears of Soldiers, Cries for Justice

It was a horrible week here in the Netherlands.

Last weekend, during a joyful event for the Jewish community, a Dutch singer decided to become infamous, not for his music, but for his disgrace. In front of innocent Jewish children, he made a political statement. He claimed he had seen “Zionist posters”,  flyers simply promoting Jewish and Zionist youth foundations. And so, rather than sing or stand tall with the young people who welcomed him, he turned his back. Not just on the event, but on the very identity of those children.

It didn’t stop there. Days later, the mayor of Amsterdam disgracefully suggested that the anti-Jewish violence after the Ajax-Maccabi Tel Aviv football match last November, a pogrom in every sense, was somehow provoked by “aggressive, morally corrupted, genocide-committing Israelis.” Read: Jews.

Once again, the blood libels are back, repackaged under the mask of “Israel criticism.” And people dare ask me, “Why do you love Israel so much?”

“Don’t you see the children Israel kills?” “Don’t you know they’re evil?” “How can you defend such a country?”

And then I remember that day.
It was May 1983. A few months after the horrific Sabra and Shatila massacre. The Netherlands, like always, had turned its back on Israel. We were in our beloved Israel, visiting friends during Shabbat. Around 4 p.m., the son of the family came home with a friend, both in full IDF combat gear.

They were beautiful boys , strong, muscular, brave. But also smart, kind, and deeply sensitive. We started talking about the Lebanon War, about Sabra and Shatila. Perhaps we should have avoided it. But what they shared,  their pain, their honesty,  I will never forget.

They told us how their unit approached an apartment building. Inside, they heard children crying, screaming. As they advanced, they saw them,  terrified, clutching their fists. Israeli soldiers will never harm children. Never. But then masked gunmen appeared from behind the children,  using them as shields and opened fire. A few of their friends were killed. The soldiers pulled back, then were ordered to return fire.

The children had been deliberately placed there. Used as tools of war. Human shields.

At that moment, these tough young men, so strong in appearance, broke down. They cried,  not from fear, but from grief. Their souls had been wounded. Their tears were real.

That night, I wrote a poem. It included these words:

“As long as you haven’t seen
the tears in a soldier’s eyes,
and haven’t felt his silent scream,
you’ll never know the price.
You’ll judge from far, from your clean screen,
with words so sharp, so cold, so mean.
But if you’d felt his aching pain,
you’d know his heart just seeks no gain.”

And here we are again.
Israeli soldiers, often just boys and girls, bright and full of dreams, are blamed, cursed, and threatened for crimes they didn’t commit.

Yes, wars are tragic. Yes, lives are lost. But never forget: Israel does not celebrate death, it mourns every innocent life, even of its enemies. Israel does not raise children to hate , it sends its sons to defend, not to destroy.

As an individual, I feel powerless.
But we, together, must rise.
We must defend Israel.
Even if it’s the last thing we do in this life.
Because truth still matters.
Because tears of justice must one day wash away the lies.