The Gift of Golden Light

This morning, we woke up to news that’s as dark as it gets. News so dark it took away my ability to stand without getting dizzy. News that was the domino that finally knocked all the other dominos down in a wave of heartbreak. News that fueled our already fiery rage and added an entire new level to our grief.

Shlomo Mansour, z”l. The eighty-six year old “golden hearted” grandfather with the contagious smile and the trademark mustache. Lover of pistachio ice-cream.

Survivor of the Farhoud.

Kidnapped from his home. Put in handcuffs. Murdered.

It’s unimaginable. Unfathomable. Dare I say… unprecedented.

Yet, we’re living it.

I could write a post about 494 days worth of unanswered prayers. A rant about how we live in a world that failed a Holocaust survivor. A wake up call and a desperately needed reality check.

But I’ve decided all that can wait.

What Shlomo deserves today is to be honored by a loving tribute. I don’t know if I’m worthy or capable of writing one. Especially today. But I’ll do my best.

This morning, after a teary phone call to my mother, I went out to walk the dogs and came face to face with the overachieving daffodil I keep talking about. One of many I planted on October 7th, 2024.

I’ll never understand how or why this daffodil suddenly started towering over the rest, or its rush to bloom.

You may have seen the photos. I’ve been keeping track of it for days.

And there it was this morning, standing proud and fully open for the first time and waiting to greet me with the same type of light Shlomo put into the world.

Of course I know nothing can replace that smile. But to my teary eyes and my daffodil-loving, shattered heart, the light had a similar effect.

A few minutes into our walk, I checked my phone and learned that Shlomo had “a special love for the garden.” In fact, he had a manicured garden, full of art that he, as a carpenter and artist, created from scraps and his “golden hands.” A garden visited and loved by the children on his kibbutz.

When I read all of that, something in the midst of all this chaos started to make sense.

As a child, Shlomo lived through the Farhoud, a pogrom in Iraq that I can only describe as an extension of the Holocaust in Europe.

He was thirteen when he fled from darkness to build a life in Israel.

Look at the photos of him with his family, happily living on his kibbutz.

Look at his smile.

I don’t think I have ever seen photos radiate so much light.

Just about every morning for over a year, I’ve walked by posters with Shlomo’s face.

Even from a poster with the word “missing” spelled out in bright red letters across the top, even in a photo I’ve seen hundreds of times, his face has never once, even today, failed to bring a smile to my face.

I don’t know the science behind bulbs, and I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation as to why this one daffodil is so far ahead of the rest.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it feels like I now understand why that one daffodil decided to pick this dark, cold morning to make its glorious, golden, debut.

Shlomo may be gone, but the golden light he brought into this world will never fade. It lives on through his grandchildren, and everyone whose lives he touched. And his community. And maybe even a single overachieving daffodil.

This is not over.

Our moral obligation to do everything in our power to finally bring Shlomo home so he can finally rest in peace leaves us with no choice but to keep fighting.

Though we don’t have a choice, and though today’s news has put an immeasurable dent in our hope, we do have the light Shlomo left behind to give us the energy we need to keep going.

Technically, I should end this with the words “May his memory be for a blessing.”

But I don’t want to. Because I know his memory is a blessing already.

#UntilTheLastHostage