Iran and the Freedom of Passover
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A mother's letter to her orphaned child.
Dafnie Beck was a flight attendant for El Al. That's where she met Itay, an air marshal who loved his job, loved protecting people, and loved Israel with every fiber of his being.
They met during a layover in New York. Two days later, they happened to be on the same flight home. That flight was the beginning of everything.
Three years later they married. A year after that, their daughter Hailey was born.
Itay adored being a father. Loving Israel was his mission. Loving Hailey was his joy.
On October 7th, sirens jolted Dafnie and Itay awake in their home in Ra’anana. The three of them ran to the shelter together. Even though Dafnie was frightened, she remembers feeling safe. "That was Itay's gift," she said. "The ability to stay calm in the most terrifying moments."
While they sat in the shelter, Itay was already texting his friends, piecing together what was happening. From the pictures and messages coming in, he got a clear picture fast.
Dafnie had work that morning. She's a makeup artist, and a client's son was getting married. She asked if they still wanted her to come. The answer was yes.
She kissed Itay and Hailey goodbye. She was sure she'd be back soon.
Two hours later, she called her mother to check in — and heard Hailey's voice in the background. They weren't supposed to be together.
Her mother was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully: "Itay made me promise not to tell you. He was drafted. I came to stay with Hailey."
"At first I wasn't worried. But after we hung up, it hit me — this wasn't a regular assignment. This was an emergency, and he was probably doing something very dangerous. I started getting nervous."
Shortly after, the wedding was canceled. The groom had also been drafted.
Dafnie called Itay on the way home. He reassured her: "Don't worry. Everything is fine. I'm heading south and everything is going to be okay."
Throughout the day, he texted whenever he could, keeping her calm.
At 8:46 p.m., she received his last message:
"We are going to be okay. I'll tell you everything when I get home."
He never did.
For two days she texted him. One checkmark on WhatsApp. No reply. She told herself his battery had died. That he was busy. That everything was fine.
"At first I tried to stay calm for my daughter. But then I started calling everyone I knew, asking if anyone had seen him or knew where he'd gone. No one had answers."
On Tuesday, there was a knock at the door.
Hailey was watching television. Two officers stood outside.
"I didn't want to open the door because I was scared. I knew what was happening but I said, 'Show me your IDs, or I'm not opening up.'"
Then one of them said, "Yaniv is here" — a close family friend.
She opened the door and she already knew.
Yaniv took Hailey next door.
The officer sat her down. "The information I'm about to give you is certain. One hundred percent confirmed. Itay was killed."
The first words she managed to get out were: "What do I tell Hailey?"
Hailey was not yet three years old.
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The hardest moment of Dafnie's life was sitting on her bed and telling her daughter that Abba wasn't coming back.
Hailey listened. Then she asked for ice cream.
"I didn't know what to do. I had just told her that her father was dead, and she asked me for ice cream. It didn't make sense to me but I didn't want to push it."
The next day, Dafnie told the social worker what happened. The social worker smiled gently. "That's great — she understands."
Dafnie was stunned. That means she understands?
But that night, lying in bed scrolling through pictures of Itay, Hailey looked over her shoulder at the screen.
"How is Abba here now?" she asked.
Dafnie's first instinct was to hide the phone. To protect her.
But Hailey asked again. "How is he on your phone?"
Dafnie said softly, "We can always look at his pictures. We will always have his memories. But he's not coming back."
That was when she realized her daughter had understood from the very beginning.
It took time before Dafnie found the courage to leave the house. When daycare reopened, she dropped Hailey off, and a friend suggested coffee.
"Wonderful, let's do that!" she said.
Dafnie arrived early. Standing in line, she noticed a father walk in with his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. "They were laughing, leaning into each other — it was the sweetest sight."
Then Dafnie started crying uncontrollably. Because she knew her daughter would never have that again.
People stared. "I felt like a crazy person. But they don't know what I've been through. They don't know my story."
It made her think of the old tradition of widows wearing black, an outward signal to the world that something has happened.
"I felt like I needed a sign for all widows," she said. "Something that tells the world: I'm not crazy. Something has happened here."
With time, Dafnie made a decision. "I realized eventually that I have no control over what happened. I can't change the past. But I absolutely control my future, with my actions and my thoughts."
That became her anchor.
I can't change the past. But I absolutely control my future, with my actions and my thoughts.
Every day she asks herself: I may have no control over the tragedy but what can I control today? Can I choose positivity? Can I choose to get out of bed? Can I choose to be the best mother I can be?
"I have a daughter," she says. "I need to show up for her."
She also found that self-care makes a real difference. Working out, giving herself space, strengthening her body and mind — these aren't luxuries. They're what keeps her standing. "If I take care of myself, I can take care of her."
She holds onto something deeper too: the belief that Itay is still with her, still guiding her.
And she made a quiet but firm commitment: "I am going to build a happy and full life, regardless of what happened."
Dafnie is also grateful for the organization Widows of Warriors, which has supported her financially, physically and emotionally. "I don't know where I would be without them." But as much as that support has meant, it is Dafnie's own decision, made every single morning, that carries her forward.
When Hailey was three and a half, Dafnie wrote her a letter.
Hailey, my love,
Who would have imagined that one day it would be just you and me against the world?
On that Shabbat morning, when the sirens sounded, Abba woke us up. The three of us ran to the shelter together. Even though I was afraid, I felt safe — that was Abba's gift. He knew how to project confidence even in the scariest moments.
A few hours later, Abba fell in battle. It took three days before they told us he would not be coming home. The first thing I asked was, "What do I tell Hailey?"
Abba lived for you. He loved every second by your side. He used to joke that even though he had no sense of smell, he could "smell you" from the day you were born.
He traveled often, and everywhere he went, he bought you presents — because everything reminded him of you.
At night, when he put you to sleep, you would both stay up far past your bedtime — dancing, singing, telling stories. Even then we knew those moments were precious. Now we know how priceless they were.
Abba was not perfect. None of us are. But his imperfections are what made him perfect for us.
They say time heals. But sometimes, as time passes, the absence feels stronger.
I miss him, and I wish for us to live full, happy, and safe lives — because that is what Abba would want for us.
Dafnie's grief has not disappeared. But she has built the strength to keep going. Every day she reminds herself:
"I can't control what happened. But I can control my thoughts. I can choose not to stay in bed. I can choose to move forward."
And with that choice, made again and again, she honors both her husband's life and her daughter's future.
Widows of Warriors, a project of the Israel Alliance, provides personalized support to widows of IDF soldiers and other heroes of Israel who lost their lives on October 7th or during the war that followed. Donations can be made here:Â https://www.widowsofwarriors.org/widows-of-warriors
