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

Truth vs. Reality.

Truth doesn’t make a fuss. It arrives quietly, like a distracted bird landing on the porch at the end of the afternoon, and before we even notice, it’s already there, perched, watching us. Time is much the same. It sneaks in softly, settles in the cracks, unhurried. The window is open now, but, as always, not for long. And then comes the choice, which weighs on your shoulders and keeps you up at night. It isn’t decided with shouting. Time drips away slowly, like the light fading over the horizon, while we pretend we have more control than we actually do.

The world, meanwhile, is out there, waiting. Like someone waiting for an elevator that never comes. There’s a shadow over all of this, big, heavy, and very real. And it doesn’t care about elections, campaign promises, or backroom deals. Iran, this shadow, won’t stop just because someone, somewhere, decided it’s not a convenient time. The risk is right here, burning in front of us, with no excuses. It’s the kind of danger that doesn’t ask for permission.

 So, do we wait? Do we wait for the sun to set and let the shadow grow until it covers everything? Or do we do what needs to be done, knowing that by acting, we might lose more than we’d like? Attacking is always a risk. It doesn’t mean losing allies right away, but it opens the door to that possibility. And when truth settles in, sometimes solitude tags along. It wasn’t just support we received until now—it was more than that, it was the cane that helped us move forward, to walk this tortuous path. Without it, we might stumble in the dark.

 But, as Bialik wrote, we must be like the lions. Roar. And roaring doesn’t mean hitting hard. It means not accepting silence as an answer, it means making the world hear that we’re still here. That we haven’t sold out, and that the time we have won’t be borrowed again. It won’t be easy, it never is, but who said it would be?

 Menachem Begin was right when he said that no nation can live on borrowed time. And maybe, every now and then, it’s necessary to give that time back and keep what’s ours. The truth is here, in front of us, making no noise, waiting for us to make the next move.

 And if we do nothing? Well, what will remain is the echo of what was never said, the silence of a window that closed forever and will never open again. And the question — the one that keeps beating in our chest like a broken clock: why didn’t we act when we could?

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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