The Iron Lions

My grandmother is the light of my life. 

My grandmother, a resident of Kibbutz Nir Oz all her life, was murdered yesterday in a brutal killing by a terrorist in her home. 

At 7:00 AM, I witnessed the worst nightmare of my life. 

The terrorist took my grandmother’s phone, filmed the horror, and posted it on her Facebook wall. That’s how we discovered she died. 

I was not able to comprehend what happened. 

My grandmother, the brightest light in my life, my whole world. 

I didn't get your message: "Mori, my love, are you up?" as you sent me every morning, not a minute after seven. Those who know me know what she meant to me, what kind of connection we had, what kind of person she was, pure and good, who loves her kibbutz and her garden. My flower. She rode her bicycle every morning to the communal laundry to wash and fold everyone's clothes, and returned in the afternoon to work in the garden. 

What will we do without my grandmother? Who am I without you? Talking about you in the past tense is my nightmare, and I'm not ready to eulogize you. I love you in every corner of my heart, every fiber of my body. My grandmother, my flower, the light in my life, the light in my whole world.