I Have no Privilege to GIve Up Hope

01/01/2007 Roni Hirshinzon


I was born in Jerusalem in 1942, married Miri and had five kids, Tami, Hadas, Liat, Amir and Elad.

On the 22nd of January 1995, at 09:05 AM, a suicide bomber, a member of the Islamic Jihad, dressed in an IDF uniform, blew himself up in a bus station among Israeli soldiers, at the Beit-Lid junction.

Amir, my son, who was a recruit in the parachutist unit and had not been in the army for even three months, was sent with his friends to secure the junction. Amir went and helped the wounded. A few minutes went by and another suicide bomber blew himself up. Our child, Amir, got killed together with twenty one soldiers and one citizen. 

I got the bitter message on the same day in the afternoon. My youngest son, Elad, who wasn’t even fourteen years old, told me on the phone in a shaken voice: “Dad come home, people came from the army.”

Since that moment my family and I got transferred to another world, a world, in which we, who are in it, don’t need to describe it, and the ones who aren’t there can’t understand it.

The days were the days of the internal conflict in the Israeli political arena. Prime Minister Rabin and his government were attacked by people from the Israeli right wing which stirred up and inflamed the Israeli street after the government signed the Oslo agreements.

One day, while walking in the street I saw an advertisement which belonged to one of the extreme right wing campaign headquarters. My son’s name was there together with pictures of all the victims since the signing of the Oslo agreements. The headline of the add was “The Bloody Agreement” and in the middle was a photo of Rabin and Arafat shaking hands. Rage surrounded me, my son died because there isn’t peace. How does anyone allow himself to take my own private pain and use it to stop the peace process?

Bereavement strikes me again.

On the 28th of September 2000, Arik Sharon went up the Temple Mount, as if he had been authorized by destiny itself to open the gates to hell. The El Aktza Intifada started.

The first soldier who got killed on this cursed, bloody and reckless day was David Biri who secured a settlers’ convoy in Gaza, (Karin Neared axis). David got shot and injured in his head from a Hamas ambush which fired at him. He died in hospital.

David Biri was my son’s Elad best friend, just like a brother. Elad, who served in the army in ‘Galei Zahal’ (the IDF. radio station), committed suicide three weeks later on the 18th of October 2000, leaving a letter which said that he couldn’t take another loss and that there wasn’t any comfort.

After experiencing our second loss we moved next to our daughters in the center of Israel. We left everything behind us, it was as though we needed to shut a door. I left my private occupation to work in the Parents Circle. For me, this organization does its best to help bring about the end of the conflict and prevent any further bereavements.

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