A mother in mourning sits in front of a camera. Her eyes are glassy, the tears a now permanent fixture on her beautiful face. Like wrinkles and sun spots. So, how are you? She is asked. She thinks about her reply, wanting you to feel her pain.
As you know, we lost our son, she tells you. But, I don’t like that expression. He was never lost. I know exactly where he is. And as she says this, she stares at the ground. Because that’s where he is. Buried just beneath the surface. He died for us, her eyes tell you.
And you think about those who came home. The lucky ones. The one who is missing an arm, or a leg, or both. And you wonder what the future has in store for them. For this new generation of veterans. For this now traumatised nation.
In some ways, we continue on as before. Some go to work. Some get married. Some welcome new life into a scary, fractured world. And we hope that it will be lighter for them. Better. Safer.
Maybe you watch people you love shut down. Grieving in their own ways. Maybe they don’t want to hear about the lifeless or the limbless. Maybe their eyes go blank because it’s just too much to bear.
But YOU. You feel alone. You need to share your pain. To look up at the watery heavens and scream until you know you’ve been heard. But all you do is whisper a silent prayer, a please let them come home safe. Whole.
The world seems dark right now. But as each small footstep crosses from Rafah into Israel, the light begins to burn brighter. Yes, many come home to rubble. But, they are home now. And they are safe. We will keep watching the crossing. To see a family united. A nation united.
Because this world has a beautiful way of repairing itself.
Kintsugi—We fix with gold and the broken are strengthened—תיקון עולם