In the midst of a difficult time, when sirens interrupt the nights and rockets fall near the houses, when the heart beats faster than any alarm — I sit and draw.
This is not an ordinary drawing, but an attempt to breathe. While fear wraps around the house, when Dad is silent and Mom keeps checking the news, when little siblings don’t understand why we can’t leave the house — I draw a flower. Actually, two: one, large, full of petals, almost smiling with kind eyes. The other leans to the side, hovering above it. Between them are colourful lines and small hearts — maybe it’s hope? Longing? Maybe it’s just what came out without thinking.
At the bottom of the drawing, near the roots, there are small figures — a family. Not perfectly drawn, but we’re all holding hands. Maybe that’s what I want most — for us to stay together. Not to be afraid. For Dad not to go to reserve duty. For Mom not to panic at every passing motorcycle. This drawing is like a whisper — not anger, but a request. Not revenge, but an embrace. It doesn’t ignore reality — it tries to speak to it.
Not with a missile — with colours. Not with a shout — with the gentle line of a heart. In a world that shows us only through Iron Dome footage or columns of smoke, I try to draw something else: the child in me. The child who still wants to play, to sleep without fear, to laugh without checking if there’s a shelter nearby. This is a drawing by a child who feels helpless — but draws. Who is afraid — but still believes.
A drawing that whispers: I am still here. And I just want to live.
Yossi Tzabari, a queer Mizrahi artist and actor, one of the leading voices in protest culture and identity in Israel.
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