Paths of Peace
Combatants for Peace, Stories that Reconnect and... my daughters
I can surely say that the special connection with Combatants for Peace during this last year influenced Stories that Reconnect (StR) roots and potential branches. The roots of StR are in the soil of compassion, courage, and openness that sustains deep listening. The branches of StR are the ones of dialogue, reconciliation, conflict transformation, and peace that can germinate through sharing personal stories and creating collective stories together.
Here is how Combatants for Peace talk about their mission: “Combatants for Peace (CfP) is a joint Palestinian-Israeli community working in solidarity to end the occupation, discrimination, and oppression of all people living on this land. Guided by the values of nonviolent resistance, we are showing the world that there is another way.”
I want to honor this connection with Combatants for Peace and weave together articles, interviews, and reflections that unfolded during this year emerging from my need to go beyond polarization, and sharing that there is another way.
I have known Combatants for Peace since 2012 at least. I had the chance to meet Chen Alon, one of the co-founders, more than 10 years ago in Shufa (near Tulkarem, in the West Bank) during an activity of Combatants for Peace and then in Tel Aviv.
As TheAlbero Artistic Collective, we had the opportunity to organize a residency for a group of Palestinians in Italy through our contact with Nour Shehadeh, a member of CfP in Tulkarem. We worked together, Italians and Palestinians, through theatre, storytelling, and images.
September 2017, Passignano sul Trasimeno (Pg), Italy
On October 7, 2023, I was in Galilee. What follows is an excerpt from my diary during that time.
Perhaps because this time I was there, with my daughters.
Perhaps, because such ferocity by Palestinians had never been seen before.
But this time, it’s truly terrible.
I keep repeating “This time... This time...”
Even Mohammad (a name used to replace the real one) says in his voice message,
“this time...”
What is happening is terrible. Hamas is sowing death and terror.
Saturday, October 7.
Our flight from Tel Aviv to Rome is at 6 PM.
We wait, hoping it won't be canceled.
Meanwhile, the news continues to pour in.
It’s Shabbat. It’s the end of Sukkot week.
“And place over us a sukkah (hut) of peace,” echo the texts of numerous prayers.
“Peace,” this word here has become so hollow that to have any semblance of meaning, it must be accompanied by the adjective “just.”
Thirty years since the Oslo “Peace Accords”... What peace? Agreements that have led to a situation of apartheid, checkpoints, walls, control of space, and, in turn, as Palestinian writer Suad Amiry says, control of the time and lives of Palestinians in the West Bank.
Flight canceled.
We search online for another flight. Booked.
Canceled.
Yes, now I remember, early in the morning, I heard the roar of Israeli military planes departing from the nearby airbase. A part of me was alarmed. But then sleep overcame me.
Here they are, the roars of Israeli military planes flying very close. It’s a roar, as I write in messages to those asking how we are, that tears at the ears and the heart—not so much for the noise but for what it signifies.
Even in May 2019, we were in Galilee when it seemed there might be a new escalation on the border with Gaza. Back then, I wrote:
“Here, it’s quiet. I keep responding to those who ask, worried, how we are.
Here we’re in the north, far from the zone of tensions. I add to those who ask where we are: Far. But how far? At most, a two-hour drive. Are we at war? I no longer know what that means. People around here carry on with their normal lives, go to the bar and say ‘Shalom’ or ‘As-salam alaykum,’ which means peace, stroll among blooming flowers of every color, drink lemonade under the warm sun, eat hummus at wooden tables along the street. We, too, line our stomachs with hummus and wash it down with lemonade. Normal. Quiet. Normalcy as an anesthetic. Here and elsewhere. Here and everywhere. ... I would like to pray that nothing happens to us. That everything calms down. And yet, I can’t. A voice inside me makes me feel that it would be an arrogant prayer: why should we be saved and not others? Is our life worth more? I am not worried for us. Not much. Rather, it is a deep, subtle, and heavy sadness.” (https://imaginaction.org/thealbero-in-viaggio - “Shalom-Salam”)
But this time... This time, no, it’s not “quiet”. This time, the tension is felt even here in the north.
If I have a moment of pause from being with little Thea, I try to read the news myself. I look for articles in English on Haaretz.
Meanwhile, messages begin arriving from the mothers of Noa’s school friends. They are watching Italian news. They are worried for us. These messages will keep me company and give me a sense of being cared for during these few but very long days of waiting to leave.
Our flight is scheduled for Tuesday.
At night, I use my Focusing practice to listen to what I feel in my throat and stomach. Yes, something in my throat feels like a music box winding and winding, not to release a melody but a scream of terror, primal and infinite.
Sunday feels endless. We stay home all day. The roar of planes continues.
This time, a pragmatic and selfish part of me just wants to take the girls home.
As for everything else, my heart is broken. This time, even hope does not console it. It’s as if I feel a line has been crossed. An infinite sadness for these peoples overwhelms me, leaving me drained of any energy.
I write to Mohammad. His family is in Gaza. He sends me a voice message, its first part subdued, but even in this situation, the last part, with his characteristic irony, says: “Sorry you’re stuck there; if you want, I can find you a smuggler to take you by boat...” It makes me smile. And it makes me think. Yes, amidst all this, I am privileged. We are waiting to leave, but for now, we are safe; we have passports, we can return to a country where we will be safe. If my partner had been Palestinian... there would be no chance of escape.
Monday.
In the evening, I had said to Noa: “I don’t want you, for any reason, to start hating Palestinians.”
She rereads the text I wrote for her in 2019, “Don’t Settle for a Single Story, My darling” (https://imaginaction.org/thealbero-in-viaggio).
She also tells me: “You should write again now, Mom.” Only now can I write.
We know that the safe place in the house is the hallway. The “mamad” (safe room), the missile shelter, is close enough to reach by car. The fear is that Hezbollah might start launching missiles from the border in the north with Lebanon. And then, they could reach Haifa and here.
I immediately think: in Gaza, they don’t have “safe rooms”.
In the afternoon, we decide to rush to Tel Aviv airport, hoping to change our Tuesday ticket for the first available flight.
Everything is practically ready, but as I prepare the final things, with an urgent and surreal clarity, I think of all the people who must flee, who are not safe.
During the drive to Tel Aviv, only when Uri gives instructions in case of a siren alarm does Noa fully grasp the situation. She has a moment of dismay but quickly recovers. She will rise to the occasion, and a few hours later, on the plane, I will see her as if she has “suddenly grown up”.
On the highway, we see tanks ready to be transported south. Among the articles I read on Haaretz, I remember one stating that 60% of the army was busy backing Israeli settlers in the West Bank as they humiliated Palestinians. When people say, “it was a surprise... it happened so suddenly...,” I think, “yes, it surprised us, but it didn’t come out of nowhere, there’s a context...”. And I add with all my strength: saying there’s a context doesn’t mean justifying.
(https://www.haaretz.com/ty-WRITER/0000017f-da24-d494-a17f-de27b9aa0000)
And so, we are at Tel Aviv airport. There are many people, a long line, but not the chaos and panic I had feared. Perhaps several hours pass, between the line, the checks, the inquiries... and in the end, yes, there are three seats for us (Thea can sit on a lap, as is routine for small children). We run to the gate; they are already boarding. But they wait for us.
I have time to call my soul-sister friend Silvia in Rome, who doesn’t know we are in Israel-Palestine. I brusquely interrupt the niceties: “Silvia, do you have two minutes? We’re at Tel Aviv airport...”. “Shit...”. “Yes... if we arrive tired, can we stay at your place?”. My eyes well up with tears. Tears of gratitude for the people who care for us. For all the people who, in their messages, write: “We’re waiting for you”.
And how can I not think of all the people arriving in Italy fleeing, who don’t have even one person who can say: “I’m waiting for you.”.
They check our boarding passes. The woman checking them has a moment of confusion, loses my boarding pass, and apologizes. Our eyes meet. I sense such exhaustion. I look at her name tag: Tzippora. I say, “Take care,” and unexpectedly, my eyes fill with tears. She says, “I’ll try,” her eyes glassy, her mouth hinting at a smile. My little Thea waves goodbye.
The flight is delayed. We are buckled in. We wait. At a certain point, I ask Uri in English, who is a bit distant from me: “Why does it take so long?”. Here we go, we’re taking off. Only once we leave Israeli airspace, I can truly feel relieved. Yet, I’m still torn between two emotions: relief for my daughters and heartbreak.
And here we are, in Italy. I catch up belatedly on the details of the massacre in the kibbutzim near the Gaza border. Some headlines read, "We've never seen anything like this before." Unfortunately, we have. My mind immediately recalls descriptions of the Palestinian refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila after the massacre carried out by Christian Phalangists with the support of Israeli soldiers. How is it possible for human beings to become such monsters? The answer that comes to me is: to reach this point, we must become completely disconnected from ourselves.
(https://nena-news.it/sabra-e-shatila-ce-lo-dissero-le-mosche/)
On Wednesday evening, Uri read a message from Mohammad on Facebook. His house had been destroyed by the bombings. Uri, an Israeli, and Mohammad, a Palestinian, met through Luisa Morgantini in Rome in 2012 at an event commemorating the Nakba. If they had met in one of Gaza’s tunnels, they might have killed each other. But that’s a long story... (https://inbodiedmemories.com/home/uri/)
Today is Friday, October 13. I’ve found the energy and time to write. The only thing I had felt the urgency to write before was an email to Chen, an Israeli from Combatants for Peace. I wrote to him: “... this time, I feel an infinite sadness and complete exhaustion. I wonder if any horizons for dialogue still exist after such terrible events. I had a vision—you might call it naive, but... I imagined Gazawi crossing the borders on hang gliders, throwing flowers and paper birds. I imagined IDF soldiers releasing not bombs, but flowers...”.
Yes, I was in conversation, through email, with Chen Alon, and it emerged the possibility of running an interview with him and Sulaiman Khatib, on Pressenza youtube channel and ImaginAction podcast.
24th November 2023
I interviewed Sulaiman Khatib and Chen Alon, co-founders of “Combatants For Peace”, nominated twice for the Nobel Peace prize in 2017 and in 2018. Both times, the nominations were on behalf of “Combatants For Peace”.
I want to highlight the following elements from the interview that most attracted my attention and that obviously anchored to my lived experience, to my premises, to my profession, and no less to my hopes.
The dual and intertwined path of Combatants for Peace.
Chen, in the interview, emphasized more than once that, along with the process of rehumanization, empathy training, and promotion of dialogue, there is the joint, non-violent, and creative struggle against the Israeli military occupation and the oppressive system of apartheid. I feel that without this strong affirmation, the promotion of dialogue between the two peoples could be tainted and accused of ‘normalization’ (tatbya in Arabic), meaning normalizing the relationship as if there is no oppressive and unjust system in place.
Opening the mind and embracing different narratives.
This seems to be a crucial part of Sulaiman’s perspective on breaking the cycle of violence and moving beyond personal-collective trauma. His curiosity about the history of Israelis seems to have played a key role in his personal transformation. And his comment about “living in different movies” is a really striking way to describe the vastly different ways that the ongoing conflict is portrayed in the Israeli and Palestinian media.
Opening the heart. Holding space also for the pain of the other, of the “enemy”.
Sulaiman talks about empathy for the suffering from the holocaust, Chen says that now, after 18 years of training the muscle of empathy, his heart breaks in the same way for Israeli and Palestinian children when they are killed, kidnapped, tortured. In fact, we are trained to feel empathy only for our loved ones, our neighbors, our most like us. “(I want to invite you to) give empathy and humanity a chance…” (Sulaiman).
Opening the will. Imagination as a fundamental ability in conflict transformation.
Chen says: “one of the first manifestations of oppression is that people cannot imagine another reality.” Sulaiman says that the Joint Memorial Ceremony, in which Israelis and Palestinians mourn together, calling for an end to the violence, is somehow unimaginable. Having the ability to imagine the unimaginable truly opens the door to creative conflict resolution.
The role of the international community. Go beyond polarization and hatred.
In this moment of strong polarization, which fuels Islamophobia on the one hand and anti-Semitism on the other, Chen invites us to be spect-actors, but not to support one side or the other, but by asking ourselves “where is the stage where people are co-resisting, co-existing, struggling together, rehumanizing each other.” Sulaiman appreciates the awakening of the international community, but feels he needs to distance himself from slogans that bring hatred and he invites us to tune into the vibration of life.
Later on, I asked to Chen and Sulaiman to have the opportunity to interview some women in CfP. It was great to know that the two new co-directors of CfP were actually two women: Rana Salman and Eszter Koranyi. And they were available for an interview.
Here is the text that emerged from that conversation held on 23rd January 2024.
Palestine-Israel: from one story to more than one story, from us vs them to togetherness, from cycle of violence to nonviolence, towards a Collective Liberation.
Meeting “the other” through his-her personal story and shifting the perspective through the others’ collective narrative.
Letting people from the so-called two sides, Israelis and Palestinians, meet is one of the core activities of Combatants for Peace. They can meet through listening to each other’s stories, and work together to embody a future of justice and peace.
Meeting “the other” is not so obvious, because of the facts on the ground (the checkpoints, the wall…) and because of media-driven narratives that perpetuate division.
Both, Rana and Eszter, had the chance to meet “the other and the others’ narrative”, abroad.
As Eszter tells during the interview, she met the Palestinian narrative in Naples, thanks to her flatmate studying at Orientale University and being passionate about the Palestinian cause. The fact that Eszter was immersed in a multicultural experience made her more open to receive a different perspective. Originally from Hungary, with family members who survived the Holocaust, in the narrative she was exposed to, Israel was always “the safe place” to go “if it might happen again” and the occupation was an occupation of territories never of people. What she discovered in Naples was hard to receive and it took years to “really, really see the whole picture”.
Rana was meeting an Israeli in a program with Outward Bound Center Peacebuilding and Search for Common Ground which was a wilderness expedition, where she had a shift in her mindset: from a mindset “us versus them” to a mindset “together in a difficult journey”. She was able to be blind folded with an Israeli leading the way. It was about building trust and opening her mind.
Being women in a land trapped in a cycle of violence and being part of a nonviolent movement.
Rana and Eszter share that Combatants for Peace was more male dominant because it was founded by ex-combatants mostly men. Over the years, within the organization, this is changing, opening to more women and also to people that were not involved in violent actions. Today, two females, Rana and Eszter, are the two co-directors. “I realized that even if I was the only one, even if I was a minority in my own society, even if there was no gender equality, I needed to raise my voice” (Rana). Women can handle things in different ways, and call for reconciliation, containing everybody’s feelings. Research shows that if women are involved in the peace process the peace is more sustainable and lasts for a longer time.
Violence is not the only option. Even now, it is possible to hope and to choose nonviolence.
I invited Eszter and Rana to imagine a conversation with someone who is in fear and rage and can not believe in nonviolence.
Eszter shared a real conversation that happened in her life with one of the men who attended the tour guide course with her. They talked about “safety,” starting from very different ideas. After many one-sided conversations, after the war, they had a real dialogue, at the end, the man said something like this: “The only big difference I see now between you and me is that you are optimistic, and I wish I had your optimism to believe that it can work without the use of violence.”
Rana underlined that this kind of shift, from fear and rage to trust and mind opening, occurs through a personal journey that everybody needs to go through.
They both were steadfast in affirming the power of little steps in everyday life, holding space for encounter and sharing, and the choice of nonviolence for Collective Liberation, Justice, Peace.
On May 12, 2024, the 19th annual Joint Israeli-Palestinian Memorial Day Ceremony was held, organized by Combatants for Peace and the Parents Circle-Families Forum.
“In mourning side by side, we seek not to equate narratives but to transform despair into hope and build bridges of deep compassion that can change reality… now more than ever we need to continue to show up for one another to mourn, remember, and call for an end to the violence
and demand a political solution that brings freedom, justice, and safety for all.
… ANOTHER WAY is not only possible but imperative.” (from the email by CfP)
Here is what I wrote just after the Ceremony.
Broken hearts, open arms.
Every time I read or hear about the war in Gaza, I feel a deep sadness in my chest, an indignation that tightens my throat, and a dull ache in my stomach. Yet what almost completely devastates me is reading comments or statements that celebrate the war, that glorify the elimination of the other. Yes, the most inconsolable pain is seeing the dehumanization of the other, and consequently the dehumanization of oneself and of all of us.
This year, more than ever, it was important to connect to the 19th Joint Israeli-Palestinian Memorial Day Ceremony.
I am deeply moved and profoundly grateful to the Israeli and Palestinian people who, with immense courage, in such a dark moment, chose to mourn together, side by side, embodying a different path and continuing to actively hope for a future of justice, freedom, and security for everyone, from the river to the sea.
Being together, giving space to the other’s narrative and pain, means preserving one’s humanity—and, I dare say, Humanity itself.
The 19th Joint Israeli-Palestinian Memorial Day Ceremony took place on May 12, 2024, under the theme: “Sharing Our Humanity, Honoring Our Children. Stopping the War.”
It featured testimonies as well as moments of music and poetry.
“… being here means recognizing the profound and unbreakable bond between two peoples who live here together… and choosing for that bond to be a blessing…” (Guy Elhanan)
“To our international friends… these past months have shown how easily a simplified vision of the situation can justify the killing of the other… It is presented as a binary choice: you’re either with us or with them. Today, we are all on the same side of Humanity. We value every individual who has chosen to join us today and walk the path of nonviolence and reconciliation.” (Rima Jawabra Khatib)
“… and we will open the doors to what is truly good… from north to south, from west to east, hear the Mothers’ prayers for Peace…” (Yael Deckelbaum)
Promoting awareness of the Ceremony in Italy means going beyond the growing polarizations that fuel antisemitism on one side and islamophobia on the other. It shows that “another way” is possible—the way of nonviolence, reconciliation, and collective liberation.
After the interviews with Chen, Sulaiman, Eszter and Rana, Daniela Bezzi had a dream: to realize the first book in Italian that tells the story of Combatants for Peace.
The book “Combattenti per la pace, Palestinesi e israeliani insieme per la liberazione collettiva” is edited by Daniela Bezzi and includes contributions from Luisa Morgantini, Sergio Sinigaglia, pages from my diary upon returning from Tel Aviv after October 7, full transcripts of my interviews with Sulaiman Khatib, Chen Alon, Rana Salman, and Ezster Korany, excerpts from Combatants for Peace resources, and some of their personal stories of transformation.
The book was presented in several occasions in many Italian cities.
I was very grateful that the little library of the village where my daughter goes to school hosted a presentation of the book.
Fauglia, on 5th July 2024.
Just a few days before there was the event Peace Camp on July 1, 2024, in Tel Aviv.
This is the text that I wrote after joining via zoom the Peace camp.
"Peace is broad; it contains multitudes"
All the words at the Peace Camp on July 1, 2024, in Tel Aviv touched my heart.
Those of Yuval Noah Harari touched both my heart and my mind.
The Times of Israel perceived cynicism in the speech of the renowned historian and philosopher Harari; I perceived great clarity and hope grounded in the awareness of significant choices.
Yuval took us back in time, to when this piece of land was first inhabited by dinosaurs, and then by Homo sapiens, by human groups—neither Israelis nor Palestinians. “Time brought nations,” Yuval said, as if to remind us that nations are not “natural.” They are a human invention, brought by time, and who knows, perhaps time will take them away one day. He acknowledged that debates exist about the past history of these peoples who arrived in this land, but one thing is certain in the present: these two peoples now coexist on the same land.
And then, in a passage I drank in like someone parched with thirst, he led us through his reasoning about the vastness of the world and the smallness of the mind, this mind that, in order to understand, often cuts out complexity. If there is narrowness here, it is not a narrowness of land but a narrowness of mind. A narrow mind cannot comprehend the coexistence of two peoples on the same land and thus feels the need to annihilate one of them. Yes, there is fear on both sides—the fear of being annihilated by the other. Yuval referenced the declarations of principle by Hamas and the Israeli far-right, where there is no room for the other. But, he concluded, we can choose. And “peace is broad and contains multitudes.”
The words and phrases of Harari are recounted from memory, so they may not be exact, and are intertwined with what I felt and processed in my mind and heart; I hope you will forgive me.
Harari was just one of the people who spoke at the Peace Camp at the Menora Mivtachim Arena in Tel Aviv on July 1, 2024.
It was a historic event underscored by the slogan: The time has come: to reach an agreement. To stop the war. To make peace.
Family members of hostages kidnapped by Hamas on October 7, 2023, near the Gaza border also spoke, along with journalists, artists—including Achinoam Nini (known in Italy as Noa)—members of peace organizations, religious leaders from the three monotheistic religions, and members of the Knesset, including Naama Lazimi and Gilad Kariv of the Labor Party, and Ayman Odeh of the Hadash Party.
The event was organized by more than 50 civil society organizations, both Israeli and Arab, and thousands of people attended in person at the Arena, while thousands more watched the event via streaming, with English subtitles.
A key word was undoubtedly peace.
The word peace in Israel-Palestine has never been a trivial one, especially after the failure of the Oslo Accords. Indeed, as was emphasized by many voices at the Arena, there are generations that have grown up with no prospect of peace. During my various trips to Galilee, I sensed this unease when talking about peace, as entire generations have learned not to trust peace, not to believe in peace, not to desire peace anymore. It is seen as a cruel joke in the worst cases (as with the Oslo Accords, which turned into a grid of fragmented territories split by checkpoints, exclusionary roads, and walls) or naïve at best.
If heartfelt testimonies weren’t enough, short films were shown, demonstrating how impossible peace became possible: in South Africa, Northern Ireland, Rwanda.
From the heart, I felt another keyword: space and, even more so, land. These words were repeated like a refrain, lifting the veil on a stark reality: two peoples live on the same land, and their lives are interconnected, interdependent, intertwined.
The phrase from the river to the sea, pulled from one side to the other in exclusive ways, was often revisited as an expression denoting a shared land where people can live together in safety, justice, and freedom.
Life is another significant word I want to highlight from the speeches of leaders, girls, youth, the elderly, religious figures, and political representatives—a call to love life, to desire life.
And the last word I want to mention is undoubtedly hope, as understood by my beloved Joanna Macy as “active hope,” and echoed, perhaps unknowingly, by Maoz Inon, an Israeli who has also become known in Italy for meeting the Pope at the Arena for Peace in Verona on May 18, together with Palestinian Aziz Abu Sarah.
Aziz participated via a video message, as did many Palestinian peace activists from the West Bank, who could not attend in Tel Aviv due to the disparities in rights that affect freedom of movement.
Maoz Inon, whose parents were killed on October 7 in Netiv Ha’asara, wore a T-shirt with the words Imagine Peace and transformed the phrase having hope into making hope, as he had done in a beautiful TED Talk with Aziz Abu Sarah. He said: “To save myself, I began a journey on the path of peace and reconciliation. We create hope together, by imagining a shared future and working to make it a reality.”
And then, I joined the event online “Every Life, a Universe” in which Combatants for Peace were involved.
I wrote about it in one of my previous substack A candle in the dark
The whole ceremony was like a dance between grief and hope, courageously witnessing the unbearable present and courageously imagining & embodying the most beautiful future.
“Our tears are abundant enough, and our hearts are big enough, to grieve for every life taken – every universe destroyed – whether Israeli or Palestinian. It is not either, or. We need one another: Jews cannot be safe if Palestinians are not safe and free.”
I resonate with the reflections of Naomi Klein "How Israel has made trauma a weapon of war" which gives some context and makes clearer why this kind of joint ceremony is so important.
"What does it mean to perform collective grief when the collective is not universal, but rather tightly bound by ethnicity?
Is there an accompanying process for reparation and healing? Relatedly, how do you avoid evoking dangerous emotions, like hate and revenge, which can only lead to more tragedy and more trauma?”(https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/ng-interactive/2024/oct/05/israel-gaza-october-7-memorials)
In last November 2024, Rana Salman and Eszter Korany were in Italy bringing their testimony. I interviewed them for the second time just a few days before they arrived.
I want to share here their messages to the international community:
“Our message is this: to stay on the side of humanity… with care towards everyone … regardless to their national belonging, their religion, their color of skin… in our reality, when nearly everyone feels somehow constrained to choose one side or the other… it takes a lot of inner work and a lot of actions… from also the International Community… and we want to let you know that we are there embodying this message, working together, co-resisting the occupation…” (Eszter)
“… After 7th October … we needed a safe space to come together to share feelings as fears and hopes… we organized International zoom meeting … to also include International community in the process that we had as a joint movement… it is necessary to continue this kind of talks and connections…” (Rana)
I met Rana and Eszter at Florence station. It arrived to me all their strength and courage and steadiness. A kind of delicate strength, the one you need as a mother to give birth to a new life, a kind of courage that can cross fear, that comes maybe exactly from acknowledging fear. A kind of steadiness that maybe comes from a constant inner work of feeling not only the possibility but the imperative of the path of peace, even when everything around is vomiting the language of violence, separation, and despair.
And here it is a picture of us together. I usually do not share pictures of my daughters, but this one holds deep meaning for me.
May my two daughters, who carry a Jewish surname, always be aware of injustice and oppression.
May they have the courage to say, “Not in my name” whenever violence is justified by past trauma.
May they walk steadfastly on paths of peace.
Mitakuye Oyasin,
Ilaria