I once had a friend on Kibbutz Kissufim. His name was Yehuda Paz, and he lived at the edge of the kibbutz, with a direct view of the Gaza Strip, a mere ten minute walk from the border. Years earlier he had stopped counting the different types of rockets being fired into his kibbutz from Gaza. But you could always count on him, with his mesmerizing charisma and passion, to both explain and convince one how now was the precisely correct time to break the cycle of bloodshed. This, for the benefit of the millions of men, women, and children, on both sides of the border, who have been wasting their lives in this ongoing conflict—all hostages of the terrible border.  

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Yehuda passed away in 2013, taking his plans and ideas with him. But I was lucky enough to hear about some of them, and I'm sure he would want us to talk about them all, especially now when hope is so elusive and peace feels more distant than ever. So distant, that the very word, Shalom (peace), is almost unpleasant to utter. 

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Yehuda was a man of peace, through and through. He was not merely a dreamer of peace. Yehuda made peace. And what he achieved in the past is as present and viable as ever, because peace is stronger than everything. 

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Dr. Yehuda Paz was a development expert, a funny and brilliant man. For many years he managed  the Histadrut's Afro-Asian Institute, and devoted his life to international development and aid. He welcomed and trained thousands of participants from Africa, Asia, Latin America in programs on development, agriculture, water, settlement... He was a global expert on cooperation, one of the founders of the Van Leer Institute and chairman of the Negev Institute for Strategies of Peace and Development, and well as one of the founders of Kissufim. It is difficult to describe the expanse of his work and the amazing achievements of this smiling and humble man. 

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And here, in front of his house, on his beloved kibbutz—not in some distant country in Africa—but right here, in our country, in our beautiful Negev, at the edge of the field that begins in his yard—one witnesses such distress and poverty, terror, blood and fire. And Yehuda, with all the expertise and experience and talent, who had literally helped the whole world, stood helpless before the violent border, looking wide-eyed at the loss and destruction, both here and there. So pointless, so unnecessary.

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But someone like Yehuda would not despair. Every IED fired into his kibbutz and every shell he saw exploding into Gaza strengthened his realization that the solution here will not be one provided by force. Because ultimately we are all human, and life will win. 

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He never stopped promoting his plans, not even for one moment. There was one that I particularly liked, put forth in the midst of Operation Cast Lead. I visited him at Kissufim in his small house filled with books and souvenirs. Everything around him was in turmoil, but Yehuda kept his wits about him.

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Against the backdrop of the explosions, he pulled out blueprints of his flagship project: A Palestinian-Israeli maternity hospital between Gaza and Kissufim, constructed at the highest level, with state-of-the-art equipment. And, as always, he infused me with his enthusiasm: "There is nothing that gives more hope than a maternity hospital, where life bursts forth! Israeli and Palestinian women, side by side, bringing life into the world. And when they do so at the same time, from the very first moment of life, the babies that come out of there will be people of peace." 

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Dreamer? Of course. Naive? Definitely not. Yehuda himself witnessed some of the most horrific atrocities around the world, compared to which the Israeli-Palestinian conflict pales in comparison. He saw blood and hatred in quantities that would consume your mind and crush your hopes. He was the least naive individual around, and also the most clearheaded. And he did what he did—precisely because he viewed reality with his eyes wide open.  

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Itai Engel, a man of the world and a friend of mine who, like me, had pilgrimaged to Yehuda for years, wrote the following about him: "Yehuda did not run away from hardship or horror. Unlike the majority of people who at most lament the misfortunes and tragedies of others, Yehuda was always practical. What is it that we can do? he would ask. Because there must be something that can be done." 

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And Yehuda did, because Yehuda believed in humans, and in their spirit—a valiant spirit. He saw how out of blood and tears new life bursts forth: small farms with vegetables and milk for large communities, water pipes and clinics and hospitals and schools and newspapers and books... He tended to this all with his own two hands, nurturing and building—and it worked. And, it continues to work, to this day, against all the extremists, and far better than all the bombs and missiles—and in places far more difficult and dangerous than the Gaza Strip that borders his house. 

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Yehuda knew with keen precision "where we live," and because he was in love with this country to which he came as a teenager, he did everything possible to fix it, to solve its problems, so that it would be possible to live here. 

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May your memory be blessed, Yehuda Paz. We remember you and miss you, and may peace come to Kissufim.