Can We Honour Every Victim And Still Choose Peace?

I wheeled across Rimini at dusk, tyres whispering on stone, the air tasting like rain. People argue that violence is the only language here. People argue that grief must pick a side. People argue that peace is naïve. I believed none of it the moment I learned a single number that felt like iron on my tongue—1,195 dead, and 251 taken hostage on October 7, 2023.

That morning still sounds like a siren stuck in my ribs, thin and relentless. The attack by Hamas was deliberate and evil, and nothing can excuse it . Two years later, forty‑eight hostages are still held in Gaza, a fact that rubs like grit behind the eyelids . Empty chairs scrape floors in homes that once smelt of cinnamon and laughter.

Since that day, Palestinians have died daily, their names blurred by dust and smoke that sting the nose . Israel’s war stretched beyond Gaza, and Lebanon’s nights cracked like torn metal, with more than 3,100 dead there, including senior Hezbollah figures . The shadow war with Iran burst into open fire, the twelve‑day war that shook windows like distant thunder . The United States then struck Iranian nuclear sites, leaving the air thick with jet fuel and doubt .

Here in Italy, the mood is taut, like paper ready to tear, and you can smell cold wax at vigils. Authorities keep “attention very high,” even without specific alarms, as official Rome waits until after Sukkot to hold the main commemoration . Police vans hum low near synagogues and schools, a sound that feels both steady and sad . Memory must be a candle, not a match.

I’m Gerd Dani, a young man in a wheelchair, and president of Free Astroscience. My palms meet cool rims each morning, and they remind me that force only starts motion. Direction needs care, like hands steadying a telescope in a night breeze. That’s how I try to steer this page, with quiet breath and clear words.

I saw your photo of a square where flags snapped like sails and smoke smelt bitter. I won’t guess who anyone is; faces are stories we don’t own. What I can say is this: scenes like that show how quickly crowds heat up and humanity cools down. When tempers boil, compassion evaporates first.

Let me challenge those three loud claims, right here on the cobblestones. First, violence doesn’t “speak”; it only screams, and the scream always deafens its sender. Second, grief that picks a side stops being grief and starts being a slogan. Third, peace isn’t naïve; it’s skilled, like surgery done with trembling fingers and bright lights.

My refutation is one story that smells of wax and winter oranges. At a Roman vigil last year, an Israeli grandmother traced a name with a shaking pen. Beside her, a Palestinian doctor whispered a psalm that rustled like leaves. They didn’t agree on history; they agreed on tears. That’s the single takeaway—shared mourning softens the ground where peace can take root.

The region’s politics now feel like brittle glass that clinks with every headline. Trump’s twenty‑point plan might deliver a ceasefire, even hostages home, which would matter more than any speech . But the plan dodges a real path to a Palestinian state, swapping in a “Gaza International Transition Authority” that sounds like a century replayed in sepia . Without credible statehood, Saudi normalisation stalls, and anger keeps simmering like a pot left unwatched .

So what do we do, you and I, with hands that smell of ink, not cordite? Start at human scale. Say the number 1,195 out loud, then pause until the room hums . Say “forty‑eight” and feel the smallness of that number and the vastness of each life . Learn one story across the line that makes your throat tighten; let it stay there.

Call for the obvious, even if your voice shakes like a window in wind. I want a ceasefire that outlasts a news cycle, the release of every hostage, and the release of detainees who never saw due process. I want the rebuilding of Gaza with dignity that smells of fresh cement and fresh coffee, not ash. I want a political horizon where Palestinian and Israeli futures feel equally real under the same cold stars.

For those who lean on scripture when the night gets loud, there’s a line that feels both ancient and present. “I am all peace; but when I speak, they are for war,” says Psalm 120, and the words taste like salt on the lips . Read it, then breathe until your heartbeat slows. The point isn’t piety; it’s posture.

For those who lean on analysis, the pattern is clear as a telescope’s click. October 7 shattered assumptions, drew Israel into multiple fronts, and left Gaza crushed, Lebanon bleeding, and the region jittery as a live wire . Any plan that skips Palestinian self‑determination will snap back like elastic, again and again . Patterns don’t care about speeches; they care about structures.

My “aha” lives where science brushes sorrow. In astrophysics, gravity is patient. It doesn’t shout; it gathers. Dust rubs against dust until, one quiet century at a time, a star lights the cold with a soft blue hiss. Peace works the same way. Small mercies accrete—one softened word, one careful headline, one phone call that sounds like a door opening.

I condemn Hamas for the massacre; the sentence tastes like iron and ash . I condemn rocket fire, suicide bombs, and the taking of hostages, which turns breath into currency . I condemn indiscriminate strikes, collective punishment, and the casual dehumanisation that scratches like sand in public speech . I condemn every extremist who cashes rage like a cheque and leaves the smell of smoke for others.

And I honour every life lost, without asterisks, without footnotes. Every parent deserves the weight of a sleeping child, not the weight of a folded flag. Every child deserves the rough warmth of a school desk, not the grit of rubble. Every elder deserves tea that smells of mint, not air that smells of metal.

Some practical things help, even if they feel small as pocket lint. Read names slowly until your voice goes hoarse. Donate to neutral medics who stitch without asking for passports, and keep going when the gloves squeak. Write your representatives and insist on a sustained ceasefire, hostage releases, and a real political horizon that doesn’t turn to dust. Speak less like a flamethrower and more like a fan.

If you need a picture of the road ahead, listen for it rather than look. It sounds like kettles beginning to sing in homes once bomb‑black. It sounds like phones ringing with good news in languages that blend like spices. It sounds like leaders saying fewer adjectives and more verbs.

Two years on, the ground still feels unsteady, like a train rumbling underneath the city. Yet we keep candles lit, even when the wax runs hot over our knuckles. We keep chairs set, even when the plates stay cold. We keep saying the hard line because it’s the true line: peace is the only victory.

To the victims of October 7, may memory be gentle and exacting. To every innocent life taken since, may remembrance be equal and bright. To the living, may we grow quite stubborn about each other’s dignity. And to tomorrow, may we offer clean hands that smell of soap, not smoke.