A Story of Two Candles

 In my dining room, two candles burn. One was lit by my youngest daughter - a candle she's been lighting and a prayer she's been saying each day for the soldiers of Israel and for her brother. A prayer for their safety, a prayer that they will come home soon.

The next cancel was lit by my husband in memory of his father, who died on this day 29 years ago. A year and a week after his death, our son David was born and given his grandfather's name. 

Today, on David Levi's yartzheit (the anniversary of his death), our David comes out of Gaza, hopefully for the last time.

In Israel, we are torn between wanting this war to end, and knowing that if we allow it to end before we destroy Hamas, we will, in another 3 or 4 years, follow the established pattern we have etched through for more than 15 years. 

In August, 2005, we pulled out of Gaza, stupidly believing (not really) that this would lead to some kind of peace, some kind of quiet. At least, perhaps, a respite from the rockets. In truth, what we managed to do was send a huge message - we are weak, we are desperate.

Less than a year later, in July 2006, the Lebanese were the first to try to capitalize on our perceived weakness. They attacked and killed 8 Israeli soldiers and "kidnapped" two others. In truth, ghouls that they are, they actually murdered 10 Israeli soldiers and grabbed 2 bodies and later traded those bodies for hundreds of terrorists. Again, in their eyes, we are weak, we are desperate.

On October 7, in their warped eyes, we displayed the ultimate weakness, allowing them to invade our country, murder, rape, torture, mutilate and kidnap our people - women, children, infants, elderly, and even soldiers.

When will this end? How far do we have to go to teach them once and for all that being humane does not equal weakness?