Amir was twelve years old and lived in Jerusalem, in a light-colored building with no views, only a wall: the one that divided. His life was outwardly peaceful; he went to school and sometimes helped his mother prepare that delicious bread. But there was a great silence in his house when the past was spoken of.
His grandmother, Sarit, was still alive. She had tired little eyes, with a sweet and tender look. She spoke little. Sometimes she mentioned her childhood, especially on quiet nights when the television roared with the news. Then she would tell him things: the dark trains, the cold in the countryside. She always wore long sleeves to hide the tattooed numbers on the inside of her arm, typical Nazi identification.
—She told me: "My son, don't hate anyone, ever. Hate did this" —and she showed him her bare arm—. We were not treated as humans. We promised: 'Never again'. But that promise is for all peoples, not just us.
Amir was stunned. He didn't quite understand.
Hundreds of kilometers away, in Gaza, another boy of the same age, named Sami, lived in a basement: a building without windows. He slept next to his mother and his little brother. Every night, his mother prayed softly before going to sleep. She didn't ask for meat or toys, but for something simpler: "Please, let no bombs fall tonight."
Sami had learned to distinguish sounds: the hum of a drone, the distant roar of an F-16, the roar of a missile. His cousin Rami, while playing ball, was killed by an explosion.
One afternoon, Sami attended a special gathering organized by an NGO that connected children from different places via video call to talk about their lives. This time, on the other side of the screen, was Amir. They were two different worlds, but they had something to tell.
At first, they both looked at each other with distrust. Amir saw a child in old, dirty clothes, with lifeless eyes. Sami saw a well-groomed one, with books behind him and a nice, sunny class.
—Hello —said Amir.
—Hello —replied Sami.
The moderator asked them to talk about their families. Amir hesitated; then he began:
—My grandmother lived through the Holocaust. She was in Auschwitz and, luckily, she survived. But she lost almost her entire family. She told me that the worst part was not the hunger... but that silence took over the world.
Sami was silent for a moment. Then he said:
—Here there is also silence. When a child dies in Gaza, few people find out or they don't communicate it well. How sad it is to feel that we don't exist. The news is not accurate.
—But that's not right —said Amir, surprised and angry—. My people suffered so much... and, if others are suffering now, we should be the first to say: ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!
—That's what my grandfather said —replied Sami—. Pain is useful for learning, but not if we use it to do harm.
They spoke for almost an hour. About their schools. About what they wanted to be. Sami wanted to be a teacher; Amir, an architect. One dreamed of bridges, the other of stories to tell.
—Are you afraid? —asked Sami.
—Yes —replied Amir—. Sometimes it scares me that someone thinks I hate people just for being who I am. And you? What do you feel?
—I'm afraid of falling asleep and not waking up. But I'm more afraid that the world will become deaf and mute.
Before disconnecting, they decided to write a letter to the world together. They didn't know who they would send it to, but they wrote it anyway:
> Our names are Amir and Sami.
We live in different places, but we both want to live without fear, it is not too much to ask, a life with a normal childhood.
The past of our families is full of sorrow and pain. It cannot be repeated. We don't want to be soldiers. We DO NOT want to see our people die. We DO NOT want to die, nor see death. We just want to grow up.
Whoever reads this, please share it. Because silence... also kills, and without bullets.
Amir (looking at Sami):
—I hope one day you can come to my house, without permits, without fear. To have a snack. To play. That we can talk without the world silencing us.
Sami (looking at Amir):
—I hope our stories don't start with bombs.
—I hope our children don't inherit panic and live terrified.
Both, together, in unison, said:
—Help us!
Listen to our voices before they are lost in the smoke.
Because, if the world is silent... the horror is repeated, and we don't want to.
On the other hand, if the world listens, history will change.
Amir:
—I hear you, Sami.
Sami:
—And I hear you, Amir.
> To Benjamin Netanyahu and Mahmoud Abbas, to the governments of Israel and Palestine, and to all the leaders with the power to decide:
Children do not vote, but they are the ones who suffer the most from their decisions. Neither Amir nor Sami chose to be born in war.
Your duty is to defend life, not to defend political decisions that destroy us. Every school destroyed, every hospital bombed, every child buried is a moral failure.
It doesn't matter what flag is waving: it's a genocide. Stop negotiating with blood, and justifying horror and death with history.
It is better to choose peace, because if you don't... history will do it, without you.
And together, with tears in their eyes, they said:
It is not repeated.
History must be closed like a book; where secrets sleep forever, and are not repeated anymore. Good is done in silence, the rest is theater.
