The saddest morning arrived.
It’s very cold and snow still covers all things with white. Peaceful cold… Coffee.
I didn’t want to post anything about the Bibas family before we are 100% certain the bodies returned today are those of Shiri and her babies, Ariel and Kfir. It is my helpless wish for a miracle still holding by a thread. But here we are, waiting for the forensic reports we dread.
Together with the babies and their mother, Oded Lifschitz finally went home as well. Through the immense tragedy that Israel lives in since October 7, 2023, these four hostages shed the brightest light on that day’s infamy. Shiri, Ariel and Kfir: a mother and her babies, innocent souls taken from us by monsters; the images of their abduction becoming the most poignant illustration of the atrocity, the deep horror 10/7 represents: a mother in fear for her children.
And Oded, a retired journalist and an advocate for the rights of the very people that killed him. One of the founders of Kibbutz Nir Oz, from where he was taken, he was not just an advocate for the people of Gaza: he actively helped many of them, as a volunteer for Road to Recovery, an organization that transports Palestinian children who are ill from Gaza to hospitals in Israel. He was an 84 year old man helping the children of the monsters who used his kindness against him.
Oded Lifschitz represents most of the population in the kibbutzim attacked on October 7, often called bastions of Israel’s progressive left, many actively advocating for and helping the Palestinians in Gaza, offering them work and friendship, trying to build a future together. So many of those people were betrayed by those who pretended to be their friends for years. So many of us still don’t realize this and its horrendous perfidy.
These four souls we lost, as they feel like family to those of us who shared this pain for the past 503 days, represent the best and the kindest of all that was destroyed: the unimaginable pain their families are feeling is also the sad loss of hope for a peaceful future and coexistence. I feel the rage trying to come to the surface and I am trying not to allow it to take over. It’s really hard.
I will not share any images of the macabre spectacle Hamas created for the transfer of the four bodies over to the Red Cross. But I have seen them. What shocked me the most was the many Palestinian babies present, the same age as Ariel or Kfir. And then it hit me. Those babies are hostages too. Not because they were kidnapped from their homes but because their homes were turned into dens of horror they are forced to live in. And die in.
Those Palestinian babies that in a better world could be playing with Ariel and Kfir were brought in to be displayed as horror trophies, too young to understand it could be them in those coffins; too innocent to realize their parents murdered those babies that they could be playing with. Instead they will be brought up to hate them and one day they will display the images of this morning with pride and proclaim they were there. If they live that long.
This is the horror. The promise of a better world laid down to rest in those coffins. The innocence stolen from children before they can even understand it, as they are held in hatred’s arms or carried lifeless by them. The horror of one people celebrating this very hateful spectacle and another people in despair for it. There will be no forgiveness for this horror. There can’t be any.
Perhaps one day those innocent Palestinian babies held in hatred’s arms this morning will look back at it and ask their parents how they could do this. I know they would if they were allowed to grow up like ordinary children. But they won’t. They will be taught to glorify the horror of mornings such as this and their mothers will proudly send them to their death. In the name of the horror they grew up with.
This is what is keeping my rage in check: the immense pain for a mother and her two babies slain by the horror that turns other mothers into monsters who hold their babies up for sacrifice. The babies are keeping my rage in check. Today I cry for Israel and for peace. I cry in despair and anger. I cry with Yarden Bibas. My tears are of despair for the innocent and anger against the monsters who killed them. And those who celebrate this horror.
In this sad morning, saddest of all mornings, I remember those close to me, living in this country, who gleefully destroyed the photos of Ariel and Kfir on the posters that reminded us of them. Those who hysterically call for a thousand October 7’s and more babies taken from their homes and killed. This morning these despicable, hateful people look more disgusting than ever before. Their hands are covered in blood and I will never forgive them.
As the hours go by I look for images of Ariel and Kfir from before. I need to see their happy faces as they play. The love surrounding them. I hold on to this helpless wish that for some miracle they may live still. I fear they will only live in our hearts from now on. So I look for images of their happy lives from before, in the hope their love can help me drown the rage deep inside and keep hate at bay. May their sweet memory be a blessing.
Never forget. Never forgive.
