The Photographer

I sat on the thin mattress stretched over the metal frame in my cell, staring at nothing, asking the only question that mattered:

Why me?

Why did I take that photograph?

Why did I take it?

The questions circled, relentless.

I’m such an idiot. A complete schmuck who never thinks—just follows orders, presses buttons, does what he’s told. I didn’t think. I never do.

And I never imagined the photo would go viral.

But the moment I heard the click of the camera, it was like a nail had been driven straight through my skull. A sharp, splitting pain. That alone should have been enough. I should have deleted it right then.

But I didn’t.

Now they’re going to dismiss me from the IDF. Thirty days in this cell—thirty days to replay that moment over and over again.

Will they make me glue the shattered pieces of Jesus’s face back together? Will I have to look into those broken eyes and imagine tears running down his cheeks?

And then I’ll go home.

My parents will find out. They’ll look at me like I’ve destroyed something sacred. Like I’ve ruined not just my life, but theirs too. They’ll make sure I feel it for the next thirty years.

They’ll crucify me.

And they’ll ask their own question:

Why us?

Why do we have to suffer for our son’s stupidity? What a shanda.

And I’ll stand there, saying nothing, watching the tears run down their faces.