On Friday, June 8, I received a call from Viktoria Gutman, the sister of Ilya Gutman and a friend of Roman. She asked me to come to a gathering in the Gan Ha'ir park in Bat Yam. The young people had gathered there to remember their friends and relatives who were killed in the June 1 terrorist attack at the "Dolphi" disco.
Vika wants to preserve the memory of the victims in people's hearts and minds.
Here is what she says: "We want to preserve their memory in our family. Two people from our family are gone, and two children should be born. Two friends, whose funerals people did not want to leave.
They were always together — Roman and Ilya. They went to the disco together, died together, and were buried side by side. Now they will be together forever.
The boys loved playing football, and I was always busy with kittens. When our families lived in the same apartment, we had one kitten, and Ilya and I couldn't share it, so they bought another one. When we moved apart, Ilya took his cat, but now his cat Filka is with me again.
I could talk to Ilya about anything — he always understood me. We were very close.
That day, going to the disco, he didn't wear his ring, which he usually never left the house without. We bought a bottle of Coca-Cola, and the number on the cap was one. He died on the first day of the month. When he left home that evening, he told his mother: 'I'm not taking the keys, I'll be back soon.' That night, he left forever.
When we learned what had happened, we hoped he would be on the list of the injured — that he had lost his memory, that he was in shock, unconscious — anything but dead. When I was called for identification, I couldn't go — I fainted.
I kept a silver chain in memory of Ilya. When I have a son, I will name him after my brother — Ilya. I hope his fate will be different.
He took great care of himself, always left the house 'dressed like a London dandy.'
We grew up together.
He was like a father to me.
And Roma — Roma never argued with anyone. He was very friendly, everyone loved him, and he loved everyone.
I knew him for three years. We often met, traveled together to Tiberias, to the Kinneret. We had a cheerful group. We were like a family to each other.
Recently, I had a quarrel with Ilya, and I didn't have time to ask for forgiveness. I regret it so much. Ilya, if you can hear me, please forgive me for everything!
On the one hand, when you think about all this, you realize how hard it is to leave, leaving the graves of your loved ones behind. But on the other hand, I am not going to raise my children here.
Personally, I see no future for myself in this country. You can come here to study, to visit, but living here is impossible. You can't live in a country where you send your child to a disco on a Friday night and don't know if they will come back. You can't live in constant fear for your loved ones — or for yourself.
If there is a war, then we must fight. Soldiers die in war — they know what they are dying for. But children… children are just children. They must not die in so-called peacetime. We are children — we are the future of this country, its hope.
I'm afraid to ride buses. Today marks one week since my brother died. I wanted to go to 'Dolphi,' but my friends talked me out of it. They said it could happen again this week.
I think if things continue the way they are now, everyone who can will leave, or there will be a war — crowd against crowd.
I don't believe there will ever be peace here.
For a long time, I tried to understand Arabs — they are people like us, with the same blood in their veins. Now I understand they are not human. A normal person would not send their child to die. They live by the laws of the jungle.
I saw the father of the terrorist — he said he had ten more children and raised them the same way. That means ten potential terrorists in just one family. And how many such families are there in Palestine, in Lebanon, and elsewhere?
How can this be stopped?
I think today there is not a single family in Israel that has not been affected by terrorism.
On Sunday, we decided to visit the families who lost their children and express our condolences — just to sit silently with them. Words are inappropriate in such a situation.
I am supposed to go into the army soon, and now I don't know if I should. To sit in the army, in uniform, with a weapon, knowing that civilians are dying and you are powerless to help — it can drive you insane.
If a war starts, yes, I will go. I want to know I can help my country somehow. But just going into the army knowing you cannot protect the people waiting for you at home — that feels like a waste of time and effort."
This is Viktoria's story. Agree that a seventeen-year-old girl should be thinking about completely different things — the sea, summer, dates, young love. It seems she will not return to those thoughts anytime soon.
After saying goodbye to Vika, I decided to go to "Dolphi." It felt that lighting a candle in memory of the victims was the least I could do.
The first thing I saw there was light. A sea of candles and torches. A crowd of people who came to pay their last respects to children who will never grow up. The girls will never marry, and the boys will never marry their girlfriends. Their lives were taken by a mad fanatic who wanted to reach paradise. I believe that is the last place he will ever reach.
Sitting among photographs, flowers, and candles were relatives of two girls — Anna and Marianna. Two friends united by death.
Anya had an eleven-year-old brother named Sasha. Marianna also had an eleven-year-old brother named Sasha.
Long before this, their families had wanted to leave Israel. Now they will not. The graves have bound them to this land.
The girls were always together. They didn't like discos — they preferred staying home and playing on the computer. That day, a friend invited them to a birthday, and they couldn't refuse. They went — and the result was two graves.
Anya had four budgerigars in a cage in her room. That night, one escaped and flew away. No one understands how — the cage was closed.
Marianna was supposed to celebrate her birthday on the tenth.
The girls were about to finish school. They planned to join the army.
When the boys came to the Abu Kabir morgue for identification, they hoped that Anya and Marianna had changed their minds at the last moment and gone somewhere else.
"I cried for the first time in my life," one of the boys says. "I didn't even realize I was crying."
"The five hours I spent that night in the morgue — I will never forget."
"I've aged lately. When I look in the mirror, I don't recognize myself," says another.
"At the end of June, it would have been two years since they arrived in Israel. Sadly, they didn't live to see it."
For us, the living, it is easier.
I passed by "Russian" discos — life goes on. People who had just come from memorial gatherings were grilling meat, drinking, dancing as if nothing had happened. God will judge them. Life continues. One cannot mourn forever, but remembering and honoring the victims is necessary.
At the entrance to the “Dolphi” disco hang posters:
“Children are our hope — they must not be killed.”
I also read these words there:
“We will not forget and we will not forgive.”
I believe the best way to honor those who died would be to recognize June 1 as a day of mourning for children who gave their lives in the service of dirty political games of a ruthless leadership.
Let me remind you: June 1 is International Children’s Day.
We failed to protect them.