Love is the answer

Early this morning, I woke up. It’s October seventh.

Two years ago, the brutal attack by Hamas took place. I tried, in vain, to close my eyes again, but the images of that day can never be unseen. They are engraved upon my heart.

And I know: nothing I do or say can undo what happened that day — or what still continues. Yet I long to do something. In my heart lives a deep compassion for the victims of that violent attack, and for all who have suffered since. I think of the hostages, their families and friends, and of all the sorrow born from this act of terror.

I didn’t quite know how to let my Jewish brothers and sisters know that I grieve with them, that I remember with them. But over the past few days, a quiet idea slowly began to take shape.

And so, during our holiday, this October seventh began with a search for a florist. In our best Spanish we explained that we wanted seven white roses. The kind-hearted lady disappeared into her storeroom and returned with a large box, from which she gently chose seven beautiful blooms and tied them into a simple bouquet.

My husband and I, each wrapped in our own thoughts, continued our way to Palma. He had already found where the synagogue was located, and soon we were standing before it — or rather, before a heavy wrought-iron gate. Behind it stood an equally solid wooden door, slightly ajar. Unsure whether to simply leave the flowers, we decided to ring the bell. A rabbi appeared in the doorway and greeted us with a gentle Shalom.

He looked at us with curiosity, visibly moved when I handed him the white roses through the bars and told him that we hold his people in our hearts, that we share their sorrow and pray for peace. His initial reserve softened, and a warm smile spread across his face — grateful, almost amazed by this small gesture of human kindness. He told us he was touched, that they have few friends, and that it meant a lot to know there are still people who care for them. He accepted the flowers with gratitude, on behalf of the community that would gather later that day.

The moment lasted no more than two minutes. Few words were spoken, yet the exchange through the bars was tender and sincere. The rabbi straightened to his full height and blessed us — our family, our children. With quiet love he voiced his hope for peace among all people. For a moment, the noise of Palma faded away, as if we were the only three souls in the whole city. Tears welled up behind my eyes. With a silent nod, we said goodbye.

At the corner of the street, barely two meters away, I could no longer hold back my tears. A wave of helplessness and deep sorrow washed over me - sorrow for the immense pain people inflict upon one another, and for our inability to learn from the past. Sobbing, I sought comfort against my husband’s steady heart.

For me, this small gesture felt like a prayer in silence -
a way to bring, in the midst of a divided world, a little touch of connection.

Sometimes the world feels so torn apart that words fall short.
And yet I believe that it is precisely the smallest acts -
a flower, a greeting, a smile, or a silent prayer -
that can strengthen the fragile thread of our shared humanity.

Today, my candle burns for all victims,
on whichever side of the bars they may stand.

May love one day teach us what conflict never can: peace.