Almost three years of silence
On October 7th, I hid the truth from Noémie, because it was Shabbat.
On the 8th, I was empty.
On the 9th, Anaëlle threw up on her mother; the dog threw up on my sandals.
On the 10th…
On the 11th…
On the 12th, Léa tries to talk to me.
I saw my despair, my pain, in her eyes. Me, sitting there, staring into space. Léa shakes me with her words. I was nothing but a fountain of grief.
The names, the faces spun in my head: children, young women, families, soldiers, hostages… I was sinking into pain, into an abyss.
The reservists leaving, the mothers left alone, the meals, the care… The sirens of October, then those of July, November, June and, again, October.
Then Maur died of a sudden cancer, leaving five young children orphaned and a whole town in mourning.
Then came the day when no Jewish hostage remained in Gaza. Then Purim, and Pesach.
And I saw the miracles. So many, so many.
The love of my people grew harder. Not our hearts: our strength. My strength grew, multiplied; the will to live grew bigger.
Walking through the valley of death made me understand that I was nothing without Hashem. That I was incomplete without my people.
Together, we are stronger! Together, we are one! Together, we build!
We will be there to help you with your Aliyah, but your own feet will have to do the walking. We only show you the way, with our experience, our many mistakes, and our love for our people and our land.
Welcome home.