By Ghadir Hani, Peace Activist from Akko

On the dreadful morning of October 7th, I immediately thought of you, Vivian. Have they gotten into Kibbutz Be'eri? After all, your house was always open wide. You always said, “I don't lock the door, so that everyone can come in.”

I texted you that I hoped the main door was locked. I was sorry I couldn't help. I invited you to Acre, to my house, as soon as there was a lull. You told me that you were alright but could hear noise outside the safe room window. You promised me that if needed, you would come.

The minutes went by, and the next messages I sent no longer received a response. I pictured you hunkered down in the safe room, in the house where I slept so many times. I trusted you, because we all trusted you, because we could always be certain that you would be alright. Because that’s what you gave us — faith and hope in the idea that it was up to us, that we choose our own reality.

For thirty-eight days, we clung to the hope that you’re over there in Gaza, not far from us. We knew you would survive the inferno. We knew you would tell us about how, even in the dark tunnels, you continued to smile and support those who were with you.

“You cannot drive out evil with darkness,” you always said. “Evil is driven out with more and more light.”

The tears flow and do not stop. I wish you were here to comfort us, to give us light and hope, as you always knew how to do. All of us here are hurting.

Vivian, I met you more than twenty years ago. I considered you a mother and a sister. Your Canadian accent, your beautiful and kind eyes, your commitment to social action, the spirituality that surrounded you, and above all — your faith in humankind.

Vivian, you were a beacon of light for us all.

I loved you as if I had known you since childhood, despite our age difference. You taught us the most important lesson of all: How to be human, how to see the other, the disenfranchised, those whose voices are not heard.

Vivian, I'm standing here, and I have no words. In our worst nightmares, we never thought we would see such a day — that you would be taken from us with such cruelty. We are all so shocked. We are all speechless at the face of the massacre and terrible disaster. What would you have told us to do now? How do we continue on from here? I’m remembering more and more moments with you — in the unrecognized villages; how you sat with the children & laughed; with women in employment centers; with volunteers; and with all of the friends in “Ajeec-Nisped,” “Women Wage Peace,” “The Road to Recovery,” “Other Voice,” and “Lighthouse.” You always knew how to say the right thing, to hug, to hold the space, and smile — all in a way that bridged every gap and idea. In times of despair, you breathed hope and optimism into us.

You, who were there under every rocket, who knew the rounds of wars better than any of us, continued to believe, to know that there is no other way, that we cannot accept operations and war, which only bring killing, as routine.

You knew that it doesn’t matter whether we speak Hebrew or Arabic, or whether we were born on the Gaza border or in the Gaza Strip. You knew that our future and the fate of the residents of Gaza are tied together; that the people who live mere kilometers from you deserve to live a better life, too.

My dear Vivian, if you could hear me, I would want you to know that Hamas has not murdered your vision. You cannot kill compassion, humanity, solidarity, and yearning for a safe life. We must continue your journey — the journey toward a good and safe life in our homeland, to ensure that October 7 disaster does not repeat itself.

Everything you did, you did for peace. When we realize your dream, know that you set the ground for us. We will carry your legacy, do everything to place a political solution on the agenda, we will prove that the course of our lives has not been decided by the sword, we will dismantle the notion that there is no solution.

The best answer to your murder is to work for peace.

Rest in peace, great woman that you are. My sister, my close friend. We will carry your legacy, your will.

My Friend, you will be missed.

Translated by: Revital Ray-v Elkayam