Tragedy at Allenby Bridge: Israeli woman loses husband to shooting
Then came the truth: Marcelo was gone. He took three shots to the chest. In less than a minute, those words tore through me, reverberating endlessly in my mind. Time froze. My love vanished, and the world tilted on its axis. My heart pounded so violently I could hardly breathe.
- 1 month ago
December 5, 2024
The view of Allenby Bridge where Marcelo was murdered. | Photo courtesy of Marcela Faierman
ARI’EL, Israel — On September 8, 2024, a friend told me something happened on the Allenby Bridge [at the border crossing between West Bank and Jordan]. Her words left me frozen, and the phone trembled in my hand. I called my husband Marcelo who worked at the bridge, but no one answered. I soon learned Marcelo died from three shots to the chest. In less than a minute, my world shattered, and my life became consumed by unbearable loss.
Read more conflict stories at Orato World Media.
A meaningful bond takes root
Eight years ago, in a small store in Ariel, a voice caught my attention. It sounded strong and full of life, tinged with nostalgia. Marcelo, an Argentinian in Israel like me, stood at the counter, chatting with the salesman in Spanish. His charisma seemed magnetic. A luminous smile lit up the room, filling it with warmth and energy. Drawn to his presence, I struck up a conversation. We talked as though we had known each other for years—not in a romantic way, but with a profound familiarity. As we said goodbye, an odd certainty settled over me: this encounter was not the end of our story.
In my car, with the shopping bags tucked away, I felt a pull I could not ignore. Marcelo’s voice and radiant smile lingered, refusing to let me leave. My heart raced as I decided to go back, unsure of my own boldness but compelled by something greater than reason. Walking back into the store, a mix of excitement and nervousness surged through me, but I trusted the impulse.
There he was, leaning on the counter, still deep in conversation. Summoning my courage, I approached. “In case you ever need help with Hebrew translations or anything,” I said, handing him a piece of paper with my number. Marcelo took it, and as our eyes met, a spark ignited. “What is your name?” he asked. “Marcela,” I replied, steadying my voice. “I am Marcelo,” he said with an even brighter smile. I laughed, feeling something shift within me. The salesman observed us with a knowing smile, as if he understood what I did not. Driving home, I could not stop smiling. Deep down, I knew my leap of faith had not been in vain. Something meaningful started that day.
Attack at Allenby bridge shatters my reality
Two weeks later, Marcelo called, and we began to build a love rooted in trust, laughter, and quiet complicity. Weekends became our sanctuary—cooking together, laughing until tears flowed, and dreaming of a future intertwined in every way. Marcelo loved with a steadfast joy making everything seem possible, and the depth of that love crystallized on the day he proposed. In a bustling shopping mall, amidst the hum of lights and noise, he pulled out a ring, his eyes brimming with emotion.
“Will you marry me?” he asked, his voice trembling. My heart overflowed with joy, and I answered without hesitation: “Of course.” In that moment, I knew Marcelo was my home, refuge, and love of my life. Our wedding was simple, reflecting what mattered most: family, love, and us. In an intimate space adorned with fresh flowers and soft music, we celebrated with those we cherished. As we danced to our song that night, everything felt complete. Marcelo and I were not just a couple in love. We were partners, dreamers, and allies, celebrating all we built and all we had yet to create.
Then, three months ago, a friend contacted me with the news about the attack at the Allenby Bridge. Her words froze me in place. A single sentence, devoid of details, crushed me. Without thinking, I dialed Marcelo—once, twice, three times. Each unanswered ring tightened the grip of dread inside me until the calls cut off, like slamming doors. In desperation, I sent a message: “My love, are you okay?” The seconds after I pressed send on that message felt endless. Nothing happened. The silence was cold and suffocating.
I clung to hope: “He is okay”
Another call shattered the last fragments of hope I clung to. “Marcelo is wounded,” they told me. I latched onto that single word, wounded, as though I could soften its edges and reshape it into something less catastrophic. Wounded, I whispered, as if naming it differently could grant me some control. My hands trembled as I jumped into the car and gripped the steering wheel. Tears blurred the road ahead, reducing the world to shifting light and shadow that mirrored the storm inside me.
Each kilometer to Jerusalem felt like an eternity, each passing car a cruel reminder of how far I still had to go. The highway stretched endlessly, a tunnel of darkness reflecting my rising fear. I repeated the words, “He is okay,” as if sheer repetition could transform them into truth. Yet, no mantra could slow the pounding in my chest or dispel the icy dread wrapping around me. The phone rang again. “Go home,” they urged, their voices heavy with insistence.
Stopping felt unimaginable. My heart and my entire being pulled me toward Marcelo. I kept driving, clinging to every memory of his laughter, the silly songs he sang just for me, and the whispered promises of forever. “He is alive”, I told myself, wielding those words like a fragile shield against what waited ahead. The car seemed to guide itself, as if the road knew where I needed to be. When I finally reached the hospital in Jerusalem, I stumbled out, breathless and unsteady. Marcelo’s sister and ex-wife stood waiting, their faces worn with exhaustion and grief. “He is here,” they said, and for one fleeting, fragile moment, hope flickered inside me.
Marcelo, my love, had vanished: three shots to the chest
Then came the truth: Marcelo was gone. He took three shots to the chest. In less than a minute, those words tore through me, reverberating endlessly in my mind. Time froze. My love vanished, and the world tilted on its axis. My heart pounded so violently I could hardly breathe. His face and his smile—always capable of brightening even the darkest day—flashed in my mind. That light was now extinguished, replaced by an emptiness threatening to swallow me whole. I stood motionless, unable to process the news. Tears refused to fall, leaving me suspended in a nightmare.
I left the hospital in a haze, stumbling through a fog of memories. My throat tightened, I could not scream. “Three shots to the chest.” The words repeated like a relentless drumbeat, drowning out everything else. In my mind, Marcelo still smiled, still radiated life, but reality stole him from me. I reached the car and rested my forehead against the steering wheel before turning the key. “My love, tell me you are okay,” I whispered, though I already knew the answer.
As I drove, the tears came, silent and unrelenting. The lights of the road blurred, their cold indifference mocking my grief. The world continued, oblivious to the void his absence created. Marcelo’s strong hands, his laughter, the warmth he carried into every space—all of it became a memory in an instant. The hour-long drive from Jerusalem to Ariel stretched into an eternity. My trembling hands gripped the wheel, but my mind wandered to the life we shared: his improvised songs, his infectious joy, his unwavering love. Reality, merciless and unyielding, crushed me with every breath.
His memory would live on through me
A darker thought gripped me: “What is the point of going on?” For one fleeting, dangerous moment, I considered surrendering. I thought about stopping the car and letting the pain consume me. I imagined somewhere Marcelo remained, where loss and loneliness could not touch me. Just as despair began to take hold, the faces of my children and grandchildren broke through the darkness. Their smiles, their laughter, and the thought of their hugs pulled me back.
“They need me”, I told myself, clinging to that thought as a lifeline in the storm. Marcelo’s voice echoed in my mind, and I thought of his faith in me. “He would not want this,” I whispered, my tears blurring the road ahead. I knew he would want me to live, to care for our family, and to honor his memory. With trembling breath, I steadied myself and kept driving. Each mile weighed heavier than the last, but I pressed on, carrying Marcelo’s love like a compass guiding me through the darkness.
Stepping into our house without Marcelo felt like entering a void. His shirts still hung in the closet, and books rested on the desk. His presence lingered in every corner. I stopped in front of a photo from our wedding day, the joy frozen in time. A cry erupted from the depths of my soul like a raw expression of love, loss, and anger at the injustice of it all.
Though Marcelo was gone, every inch of our home and my heart remained filled with him. In that moment, I made a vow. His memory would live on through me, in every story I shared, and in every step I took. For my children, my grandchildren, and for Marcelo, I promised to carry on because our love deserved to outshine the pain of losing him.
Our second anniversary: a heartbreaking symbol of loss and love
Marcelo filled our lives with joy. He danced in the kitchen to Diego Torres at full volume on Saturday mornings and dedicating songs to me with a grin that lit up every moment. September 9, 2024, should have marked our second wedding anniversary. Instead of celebrating, I stood before our wedding photo that morning and lit a candle.
Memories of Marcelo crashed in. He once told me not to mourn him but to throw a party in his memory. Yet, mourning felt inevitable. Our home brims with reminders of him: snapshots from our honeymoon in Argentina, hiking at Iguazú Falls, laughing together in Bariloche. Each photo now feels like a fragment of a world I cannot return to.
The anniversary became a symbol of his absence. I gazed at our wedding photo, where Marcelo looked radiant in his suit, his smile lighting up my world. The silence of the house pressed heavily around me, a stark contrast to the laughter and music that once filled it. I yearned to hear his voice again, to feel his steady hands guiding me through life’s storms. I miss everything about him—his off-key humming while making onion pizza, the silly songs he created, and his presence.
That evening, I opened a box of keepsakes: his letters, old movie tickets, and little mementos of our life together. Each item brought tears not just for what I lost but for what we built. Marcelo taught me to live and love fearlessly. Every day would stand as a tribute to the man who filled my life with boundless love and light.
Two of my sons face the relentless grip of war
Each day tests my strength in ways I never imagined, as two of my sons face the relentless grip of war. One, a soldier, endured the horrors of the Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, 2023. Over that weekend, while at home, my son received the call to go to the front and my heart shattered. I repeated endless prayers. I could not stop thinking of what he had already faced, the friends he lost, the terror he endured, and what might await him.
My other son, recently summoned to the reserves, left behind his pregnant wife to fulfill his duty. The image of their farewell remains vivid in my mind. He embraced her as tears fell from her eyes. The silent heartbreak in his eyes shone, as he prepared to leave those he loved most. That night, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all, I locked myself in my room to stifle my sobs, not wanting to alarm my grandchildren. The grief consumed me, filling every corner of my being.
Every air raid siren became a jolt of terror, a constant reminder of how fragile life became. Each wail echoed like a harbinger of possible loss. I swung between obsessively watching the news, terrified of hearing their names, and turning it off, clinging desperately to the fragile hope they remained safe. War invaded every aspect of our lives, its shadow growing heavier with each passing day. In those moments, I leaned on the memory of Marcelo, drawing strength from the love we shared and the resilience he always believed I had.
Our wedding song keeps Marcelo close to my heart
Marcelo’s words played in my mind: “Be strong, you will always find a way.” I clung to them like a lifeline, imagining how he would face this storm, and letting his courage guide me. Calling my sons is my solace. Even the briefest moment hearing their voices gives me the strength to continue. Marcelo would have been proud of their bravery and resolve.
The song Gracias a Ti by Álex Ubago still brings tears to my eyes. Marcelo and I chose it as the melody for our wedding, our hymn to love. That night, as we danced in each other’s arms to its heartfelt notes, everything felt perfect. I can still see his eyes filled with tenderness as he whispered the lyrics to me.
That song was our love story—an expression of our gratitude and the pure, unshakable bond we shared. When I hear it now, I close my eyes and feel him again, his hands gently holding me, as though we are dancing once more. The melody carries a bittersweet weight, blending sorrow with solace. It reminds me that we will never share another dance, but it also comforts me, making him present in every note. The song has become my sanctuary, a space where Marcelo lives on, vibrant and full of love, just as he was.
In my mind, I see his radiant smile, the one that lit up every room and now lights my path even in the darkest moments. Marcelo is not truly gone. He remains alive in my memories, in the stories I share, in the laughter of our children and grandchildren, in the air I breathe, in the sky I gaze at, and in every chord of our melody.
