Today, on Yom Kippur, I stand before God, before humanity, and before the souls of those we have harmed. I acknowledge every action I have supported, every death I have witnessed or enabled, and every moment of suffering I have ignored. I confess not in vague terms, but with the weight of every life lost, every child buried, every dream shattered, and every cry that echoed unanswered.
Yom Kippur, Forgiveness, and a Country That Never Stops Killing
I am not just asking for forgiveness for what has been done—I am confessing every moment of complicity and every justification given to perpetuate this pain. These are my confessions:
- I confess to the airstrikes that hit refugee camps, hospitals, and schools. I have seen the smoke rise from buildings filled with families, with mothers shielding their children, hoping to survive. I confess to every time we bombed places where people sought safety, and I justified it in the name of defense.
- I confess to the children we killed, who were no more than seven or eight years old. They were playing in the streets or sleeping in their homes when bombs fell. I remember the cries of mothers cradling lifeless bodies in their arms, rocking them back and forth, as if holding them tighter could breathe life back into them.
- I confess to the fathers, who dug graves with bare hands to bury their children, crying out to God. I have heard their screams of anguish, and I confess that I closed my ears to their pain, calling it collateral damage.
- I confess to the blockades we enforced, starving entire communities of food, medicine, and water. I remember the children with sunken eyes and swollen bellies, suffering not from bombs but from hunger. And I still supported it because I believed our security mattered more than their survival.
- I confess to the families we displaced from their homes. We bulldozed houses where generations lived and replaced them with settlements. I confess to every family forced to live in tents, denied the chance to rebuild, and to every dream crushed beneath the rubble of their homes.
- I confess to the olive groves we burned and the livelihoods we destroyed. I have seen farmers watch helplessly as soldiers uprooted the trees their grandfathers planted. I have seen tears of despair on their faces, and I turned away, justifying it as necessary for security.
- I confess to the checkpoints where we humiliated men and women for hours. I remember their tired faces and frustrated sighs as they were denied access to hospitals, schools, and jobs. I confess to every birth that took place at a checkpoint because we wouldn’t let mothers through.
- I confess to the people shot at protests, armed with nothing more than flags or stones. I remember the faces of teenagers lying in the street, bleeding, and I said they were threats, even though they were just kids with no future left to hope for.
- I confess to the weddings that turned into funerals. I remember the sounds of celebrations turned to screams, as airstrikes shattered joy in an instant. I confess to watching happiness drown in grief, and still calling it necessary.
- I confess to every lie told to justify war. I know the politicians we trusted play games with our lives and the lives of others. They hide behind fear, security, and religion, convincing us that there is no other way. I confess to believing those lies.
- I confess to supporting a system that treats an entire people as enemies. We have made children grow up under drones and gunfire, with fear and hatred filling their hearts. I confess to every soul we turned against us, fueling the cycle of violence.
- I confess to the deaths we will cause tomorrow. I know that our policies will continue to kill—more children, more mothers, more fathers—and I confess that I feel powerless to stop it.
- I confess to the future dreams we will shatter. I know that as long as we continue on this path, we will destroy more lives and more hopes, all in the name of politics and land.
- I confess that I hid behind religion to justify actions I knew were wrong. I used God as a shield for policies built on power and expansion, not faith. I confess to betraying the true essence of what it means to be a Jew—to protect life, to seek justice, and to love peace.
- I confess to every time I stayed silent when I should have spoken. I confess to the times I knew what we were doing was wrong, but I stayed quiet out of fear, comfort, or complacency. Silence, too, is complicity.
A Plea for Forgiveness and Change
Today, I lay bare every sin, every failure, and every moment of blindness. I ask for forgiveness—not just from God, but from the mothers and fathers, the children and grandparents, the neighbors and friends whose lives we have destroyed.
Praying for Forgiveness While Expanding Borders – A True Israeli Tradition
I know that my words cannot bring back the dead. I know that my apology will not rebuild homes or undo trauma. But I offer it with the deepest sincerity, knowing that repentance is not just about words—it is about change.
They Cried, We Called It Justified – Now I Beg for Forgiveness
On this Yom Kippur, I ask for the courage to demand better from my leaders. I ask for the strength to stand against policies that perpetuate violence. And I ask for the wisdom to see the humanity in those we have labeled as enemies.
From Gaza to the Grave: How Every Israeli Citizen Carries a Share of the Kill Count
May my confession be the first step toward a future where we no longer have to apologize for the innocent lives we’ve taken. May it be the beginning of a world where we choose peace over power, love over fear, and humanity over hatred.
And may God, in His infinite mercy, forgive me for every life lost in the name of my security, my nation, and my silence.
This is my confession. This is my plea. I hope that one day, the confessions will no longer be needed, and we can all live in a world where forgiveness is not necessary—because no harm will have been done.
