This week has broken me. I can’t stop thinking about them—the Bibas family, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir—stolen from us in a way that rips open wounds we’ve carried for generations. The tears won’t stop today, and I don’t know if they ever will. A mother and her two tiny children, defenseless and beautiful, faced an unspeakable evil that murdered them with bare hands. Yarden, their husband and father, left to endure a pain no one should ever know. This wasn’t just a crime; it was a deliberate echo of the horrors of 80 years ago, when 6 million Jews were slaughtered in the Holocaust. That same evil wears a different mask now, but its intent is unchanged: to erase us, to break us, to make us disappear.
Today, we mourn. Today, we say goodbye to Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir. And today, we whisper, “I’m sorry.” We’re sorry we couldn’t protect them from this darkness. We’re sorry the world stood by, as it so often does, while this tragedy unfolded. Nothing can undo this loss or bring them back—not words, not tears, not rage. All I can hope is that their memory will be honored with a solemn vow: to neither forgive nor forget. Their lives deserved better than this, and we owe them the resolve to ensure this evil doesn’t win.
But this week has shown us something else, something we can’t keep ignoring. For too long, we’ve been trapped in a fantasy spun by progressive voices—a dream of peace that’s become a suffocating hegemony. It’s a narrative that demands we pretend the Palestinian movement wants coexistence, when all we’ve seen, again and again, is terror. This isn’t a “cycle of violence” or a “conflict with two sides.” It’s a war waged against us—against Jews, against Israel, against our very existence—while the world clings to platitudes and tells us to keep sacrificing for a peace that never comes.
Look at what happened this week. The Bibas family wasn’t a military target or a political statement—they were a family, a symbol of everything innocent and good, torn apart by bare hands. And yet, the progressive chorus will still sing its tired song: “If only Israel gave more, if only Israel tried harder, peace would bloom.” We’ve heard it for decades. We left Gaza in 2005, uprooting our own people in the name of that dream. We offered parts of Judea and Samaria—our ancestral heartland—time and time again. Each gesture, each concession, was met with the same response: more rockets, more tunnels, more blood. This week, it was the Bibas family. Next week, it’ll be someone else’s children, someone else’s parents, unless we wake up.
The Palestinian movement doesn’t want peace—it wants us gone. That’s not hyperbole; it’s what their actions scream, from the streets of Gaza to the halls of the UN. Their leaders glorify “martyrs” who kill our babies. Their schools teach children to hate us. Their vision of a future is one where we don’t exist. And yet, the world demands we keep playing along, keep bleeding, keep apologizing for our survival. Enough is enough.
This cannot be our reality anymore. We can’t accept this as some inevitable cycle we’re doomed to repeat. Jews yearn for peace—God knows we do. We’ve prayed for it, fought for it, died for it. But too often, we pay for that dream with our lives while our enemies wage war without end. I’m done pretending that a two-state solution is the answer. No Palestinian state. No Gaza or West Bank handed over to a society that refuses to renounce terror. If Palestinians want a future, let them build it themselves—let them transform their culture from within, root out the hatred, and prove they can live beside us without a knife at our throats. It’s not our burden to fix what they refuse to change.
We’ve tried everything. We’ve given land, we’ve negotiated, we’ve restrained ourselves even as the rockets fell. Nothing is ever enough for them, because their goal isn’t peace—it’s victory. This week, the Bibas family paid the price for that truth. How many more must we lose before we stop letting the world guilt us into this madness? Peace at any price isn’t peace—it’s surrender. I’ll believe in peace when my enemies do, when their actions match their words, when they stop celebrating our dead and start building something worth believing in.
I’m finished with the fantasy. I hope you are too.
This week has shown us what’s at stake—not just our lives, but our dignity, our right to exist without apology. We can’t keep bleeding, generation after generation, just because the progressive hegemony demands it. We want to live in peace, but look at what we receive in return: a mother and her children, murdered in cold blood. It’s time to say no more—not out of vengeance, but out of survival.
For Shiri, for Ariel, for Kfir, for all of us. No more.
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