Have you seen what has blackened there?
It is a field of thorns, my boy,
That was abandoned in summer
And now it is a plowed field.
Have you seen what is white?
My boy, it is a field of weepers,
Its tears turned to stone
Its stones cried flowers.
Natan Yonatan, "Yesh Prachim (There are flowers)" / 1971
Today, these lines echo across a nation transformed by tragedy. We mourn Staff Sergeant Roy Bareket, who fell in the heroic battle of Nahal Oz. We grieve for Carmel Gat, murdered in Hamas tunnels, and her mother, Kinneret Gat, who faced evil with defiance moments before her death in Be'eri. We remember Noy Aviv, killed at the festival in Re'im; Lieutenant Colonel Tomer Grinberg, who fell fighting in Gaza; and Master Sergeant Meir Abargil, an investigator at the Sderot police station, killed defending his city. We honor Shahar Aviani, security coordinator of Kfar Aza, and Alon Shamriz, tragically killed by friendly fire after escaping captivity – freedom was cruelly snatched away at the last moment.
For 1,689 fallen, casualties, and murdered, the field of weepers never ends. It stretches on, its furrows deepening within us, refusing to fade. Every Israeli now carries a daily burden, an anguish that has lingered since October 7, 2023. It weighs on our souls, refusing to let go or disappear, even if the routines of daily life occasionally push it aside. None of us remains the same person since that fateful Saturday; our collective soul has darkened. The wound bleeds, and even when it scars, true healing eludes us.
Yet, amid this pervasive grief, we all seek solace – a glimmer of hope to cling to, a light that might penetrate the dark tunnel in which our lives are now shrouded. That bright light will shine when the 101 hostages return to us – to the embrace of Merav, Einav, Eli, Shelly, Ayelet, Ditsa, Shai, and the other parents whose hearts are captive in Gaza, and with them, an entire nation held hostage. There can be no hope, no healing for our society and our life-seeking nation if we do not exhaust every possibility to bring our daughters and sons home. We think of those taken from beds where they once felt safe, their sanctuaries violated. We remember those who danced carefree at a festival and the soldiers who stood nearly alone against a barbaric onslaught – the very nightmare they had long warned about, their calls unheeded until that terrible morning.
Achievements in Lebanon or strategic gains against Iran cannot for a moment divert our attention from this primary goal. The return of the hostages remains the war's supreme objective – the vital breath our nation needs to draw again.
This is how we can rebuild the trust between citizen and state. It's not just the government, which breached its social contract, that must make amends at any cost – no price is too high for the pain of these families, for the suffering of a nation. The military and security establishment must ensure that commanders at every level keep decision-makers focused on this paramount goal. And we, the citizens, bear responsibility too. Even as we seek refuge in the distractions of reality TV, cultural events, or weekend getaways, we must ask ourselves: If we fully embraced the suspended animation of the hostages' families by being like them and being laser-focused on having their loved ones returned, would it have spurred greater action? Would it have rekindled the spirit of mutual responsibility that has seen our nation through past ordeals?
As a country living under a cloud of pain and suffering for what feels like an interminable year, we cling to the hope that it is indeed darkest before dawn.
