The author and journalist Talma Admon, a long-time activist with "Looking the Occupation in the Eye," passed away on Thursday, August 28, 2025, after a long illness. For decades, Talma was involved in creating works for children, youth, and adults, alongside journalistic endeavors that left a significant mark. Talma published seven books and, at the same time, served as the editor of the literature section of Ma'ariv newspaper from 1995 to 2005. In recent years, she was active in "Looking the Occupation in the Eye" and wrote the Observer (Mistakelet) column on this website. Her funeral was held on Friday, attended by many friends, at the cemetery of the G’derot Regional Council.

Her books were:  “A hut is blowing in the wind”  (Keter Publishing, 1989), "Lakes" (Kinneret Zmora-Bitan, 2005), "Letters to Amos: A Novel in Letters for Youth" (Kinneret Zmora-Bitan Dvir, 2006), "Sheli is Choosing a Gift" (Kinneret Zmora-Bitan Dvir, 2008), "Ella of the Cats" (Kinneret Zmora-Bitan Dvir, 2011);"First Morning in Europe: A Comment on a Different Place" (Kinneret Zmora-Bitan Dvir, 2014), "Balagur, the Donkey that Came to Stay" (Asia Publishing, 2024)

We are publishing here a column that Talma posted on Facebook (under the pen name Anat Gonen) on June 23, 2023, months before the outbreak of the October 7th war. She saw and she foresaw the present:

I am learning the map of Palestine as I memorize the names of the attacked settlements: Ein Samia, Turmus Ayya, Jaloud, Lubban a-Sharqiya, Qabun. The people that live there are becoming closer to me as the fire engulfs their homes. I hear the screams of the children trapped in a room. At first, they screamed when the window was smashed by a stone, and later they choked as a tear gas grenade was thrown in through it.

I am the camera that sees the swarms of settlers rushing through an alley I’ve just become familiar with. They run in a frenzy from house to house, holding axes and torches, smashing windows and doors, and setting cars on fire. They are on a divine mission, consumed by violent madness, completely free of all human prohibition.

I now know the house on the right. A beautiful iron gate in front of it, and a wisteria branch, blooming in a delicate purple, briefly hides the hand that holds the axe. The hand of a boy in dark clothing, his face veiled, only his sidelocks and tziziot fringes visible, fluttering in rhythm with the flames shooting from the car he just set on fire.

I am the operator calling the police: Help, help! Settlers are attacking!

“Where did you say?! What is the name of the place?!  Are you there?  Who are you?!  Where is the place you mentioned?  Who is attacking?  Attacking who? Spell the name of the place for me."

I spell it out. Here, it’s Qabun.  A tiny place in the heart of a big desert. Settlers got there this morning, stole a mobile phone, and ordered the Palestinian who has lived there for generations to leave by the afternoon. If he doesn’t comply, they will come and evict him violently. Help! Help!

I am there in spirit, in Qabun, under the harsh sun. Two weeks ago, settlers settled on the hill overlooking the small community.  Yesterday they brought gravel, and a bulldozer leveled the area. And I’m not there. Not really. In the afternoon, a pogrom will take place in Qabun, and I won’t be there.

I am the helplessness. I am the Dutch boy who failed in his mission. The dam has broken. The power of the water overcame the dam and the boy, and it drowns him and all far away beautiful Holland, with its picturesque windmills. But I’m not in Holland, and this is not a children’s story.

I am here, in Israel with the scorching sun, and I am learning the map of Palestine by the pace of the spreading fire. I am here, at the Kaplan-DaVinci intersection, and I am the helplessness. I bang my head against the wall of the mainstream protest, and I know with terrible pain that the bustling crowd that is heading toward the Begin Junction, carrying the Israeli flags, refuses to connect the people of Eli and Turmus Ayya to the Kaplan celebration.

I am the helplessness.

A young man who joined the struggle against the occupation this week tells me: I am astonished that my friends, who are academics in the fields of art and philosophy, go to the demonstrations in Kaplan and do not see the connection between the occupation and desire for Democracy.

Yes, that is it. Exactly that. They rush past us in blindness, waving blue and white, hurrying to their friends and the joy of meeting each other, and the feeling of “Here! we’re doing this, and we are so together and so wonderful”, and they don’t understand that their carnival is happening in parallel to the real events.

I am the helplessness.

The violent settlers and their evil representatives in the government and Knesset will not stop at Turmus Ayya. There will be no democracy here while Hawara is burning. Everything will be consumed by the messianic rapacious fire. All systems will collapse, and there will be no one left to turn to for salvation. He who does not save the Palestinian will fail to save himself and his own flesh.

I am the operator alerting the security forces, who will always arrive after the Palestinian town has burned down and the wounded have been taken to the hospitals. I am shouting now to anyone who can still hear amidst the terrible noise coming from the protest main stages: Save them! Save us! The real war for the homeland is taking place in Palestine, not at Kaplan-Begin. And now it may already be too late. And so, I begin to shout across the sea: Help!