©Oded Wagenstein, Mordechai Zilberman, dressed in the jacket of his deceased partner and Holocaust survivor Aryeh, sits for a portrait. March 2023, Jerusalem, Israel. Mordechai and Aryeh, a same-sex couple for sixty years, navigated life’s complexities together, deeply affected by Aryeh’s traumatic Holocaust memories. In his later years, Aryeh struggled with dementia, blurring lines between past and present, fear and reality. Their life, punctuated by hospital visits, grew increasingly fraught with anxiety. On Aryeh’s eighty-eighth birthday, returning from the hospital, his health deteriorated once more. Facing the heartbreaking decision that his partner had “suffered enough,” Mordechai refrained from seeking help. Mordechai told Aryeh that he “could rest,” and on that night, Aryeh passed away at their shared home. Mordechai often wears Aryeh’s clothes to feel closer to him.

Some years ago, a friend’s mother who was in her 80’s decided not to be treated when cancer returned. She was ready to step away from the battle and make medical decisions for herself. She saved up a variety of drugs, invited her family to a goodbye dinner, gave everyone their last hugs, and got into bed, took her pills, and ended her life, on her own terms. Growing old is a difficult journey, through Covid, sickness, loneliness, and a myriad of personal trials. The elderly traverse a world that is filled with the arrogance of youth, poverty and rejection, illness and frailty. They have lost close familial connections as children move far from home. Photographer Oded Wagenstein has been considering the phenomenon of suicide by the elderly in a poignant new series, Silent Farewells: Suicide Among the Elderly. Wagenstein has a legacy of meaningful portraiture and looking hard at a subject.

An interview with the artist folows.

©Oded Wagenstein, Shemuel Hazon’s sweater placed on a rack in the center of his empty apartment. At the age of 86, Shmuel, who lost his son in a terror attack, exited the window visible at the far right of the picture and jumped to his death from the seventh floor. March 2023. Petah Tikva, Israel.

SILENT FAREWELLS
SUICIDE AMONG THE ELDERLY

In many countries, the elderly are the most affected age group by suicide, yet they are often excluded from discussions on mental health and suicide prevention. However, for the families and loved ones left behind, each suicide leaves broken hearts and unanswered questions.

This photography project is a collaboration with family members of older adults who chose to end their lives. Together, we created images that capture intimate moments of loss, portraying participants alongside meaningful objects and in locations connected to their loved ones.

Through this project, we aim to break the silence and stigma surrounding the issue and spark a much-needed conversation about our broader societal responsibility toward the elderly.

©Oded Wagenstein, An organized setting of the covered car of Moshe Etzion, who took his own life at the age of 88. March 2023, Kfar Monash, Israel. The photographer covered the car to symbolize Jewish shrouds, the traditional burial cloth in which a body is wrapped before burial.

Oded Wagenstein (born 1986) is a portrait photographer and educator who uses a collaborative approach to explore social themes such as aging and exclusion. His work has been published, among other platforms, by National Geographic, The Washington Post, The Guardian, The Wall Street Journal, BBC, VOGUE and has been displayed internationally, including exhibitions presented in the National Portrait Gallery (London, UK) and the United Nations (NYC, USA).
Instagram: @oded_wagen

©Oded Wagenstein, Smadar Halperin sits for a portrait in the beloved car of her father, Moshe Etzion. Moshe, who lost his son in the 2014 Israel-Gaza War, shot himself at his son’s grave at the age of 88. March 2023, Kfar Monash, Israel.

Tell us about your growing up and what brought you to photography…

I began photographing at a very young age. To this day, I still reflect on what drew me so strongly to this medium. Perhaps it was the invitation it offered into other worlds—into imagination, escape, and fantasy.

But over the years, photography has become something else for me: a way to look directly at the things that frighten me. Like a war photographer who feels protected by the camera from the horrors they witness, I use the camera as a buffer—a bridge—something that allows me to engage with emotions or questions I might otherwise avoid.

That’s what has led me, over the past decade, to focus on themes of aging and exclusion. These are subjects that are often overlooked—pushed to the margins of both visual culture and public discourse. And they scare the hell out of me: the thought of becoming irrelevant, of being outside the group, of still having something to give and to say—and no one caring anymore.

In that sense, photography isn’t just about making images; it’s about choosing where to place your attention—and what you choose to look at.

©Oded Wagenstein, Almog, Sapir, and Inbar Paz—float in the waters of their childhood beach in Caesarea, Israel.
A day after visiting this place, their mother, Sara Paz, ended her life at age 59.
The daughter of Holocaust survivors, Sara faced a difficult upbringing and long struggled with depression. Despite her daughters’ support, she chose to end her life.

What started your interest in portraiture, particularly of elderly men?

There are several reasons I was drawn to portraiture—especially portraits of older individuals.

First, I see the camera and the photographic process as an excuse to connect. It gives me a reason to meet people—whether from distant cultures or within my own family. It allows me to form relationships and, more importantly, to ask the questions that trouble me most about the world.

Many times, what the person I photographed shared or taught me during our time together was more meaningful than the final image itself.

Second, I value the unique challenge of portraiture. Beyond the technical aspects—light, composition, timing—there’s a human being in front of you. That requires a different kind of attention: emotional, ethical. It means learning to listen, to read silences, to make space for vulnerability.

Third, I love that it’s a collaborative process. I don’t need to invent the story—I can receive it from the person I photograph. I know it may sound like a cliché, but many of my best photographic ideas came from something they said during our time together.

And finally, I’m fascinated by the process in the viewer’s mind. Annie Leibovitz once said it’s nonsense to claim that a portrait tells someone’s story. People are far too complex—a portrait is only a fraction of that story. And that’s precisely what I love about portraiture—and photography in general: the viewer is given just a fragment, a frozen moment in time. It’s then up to them, through the lens of their own life and imagination, to fill in the rest.

©Oded Wagenstein,The gun of Moshe Etzion. He took his own life at the age of 88 with this gun. It was owed by his son, who got killed in Israel-Gaza War in 2014. Ofakim, Israel.

What brought you to the Silent Farewell work?

Working on a personal photography project is a demanding process for me. It often feels like climbing a mountain—exhausting and a little frightening. Unlike an editorial assignment, where there’s usually an editor to consult and a clear path to publication, personal work means you’re on your own. It takes a huge amount of solitary effort, and you can spend months or years on something only to realize there was a better way to do it.

That’s why it takes me a long time to commit to a project. Once I do, I give it everything. I stay with it—not just until I finish photographing, but until I get it published. I don’t juggle multiple projects at once. I’m not saying that’s the best approach for everyone, but for me, full commitment is the only way I can handle how demanding this process is.

So the idea has to grab me—completely. Usually, that happens when I come across something that genuinely surprises or unsettles me.

With Silent Farewell, it started when I came across a research paper showing that in most countries, the age group with the highest suicide rate is the elderly. I was genuinely shocked. Media coverage had led me to believe it was primarily young people, and I had fully internalized that narrative.

To test whether the subject was right for me, I did what I always do—I started by researching how others had approached it, and I spoke with one or two people connected to the issue. The deeper I went, the more stories I uncovered—stories that moved me, surprised me, and felt urgent to tell.

©Oded Wagenstein, Yael Ben Ari stands for a portrait in her family’s abandoned estate, a place once filled with joy and cherished memories but also marked by the unraveling of her family. Here, her mother, Zipora Ben Ari, took her own life at the age of 63. In this photograph, Yael is wearing her mother’s necklace and scarf. May 2023, Kfar Neter, Israel. Zipporah was once known for her vibrant and active personality. However, her mental health began to deteriorate following the tragic death of her nephew in a military service accident. Yael, her daughter, reflects on the silence surrounding their family’s suffering: “No one dares to ask, and I really wish they would. I want to tell the truth, to talk about the fear.”

Suicide rates have skyrocketed in the last decades, particularly among adolescents, but suicide in someone’s last years seems unreported. Do you think that is another way the elderly are dismissed?

100%. The statistics are overwhelming. Yet still, most of us—including myself—tend to associate suicide primarily with young people. So the answer to your question is: yes.

Like in many other areas, the media often focuses on those who are “young and beautiful.” Of course, suicide at a young age is a tragedy—but so is suicide at any age. The silence around suicide in later life is just one more way in which older people are overlooked or dismissed.

©Oded Wagenstein, Sara (Sari) Paz’s shoes placed in an organized setting on her sofa. Sara took her own life at the age of 59 in the bathtub. December 2023, Pardes Hanna, Israel.

What inspires your work?

First: Other people’s photography.
I’m a big collector—and an unashamed thief. There are few things I enjoy more than discovering a compelling body of work, storing it in my mind, and letting it influence me. I didn’t invent anything. Everything I do is a layered mix of things others have done that left a mark on me.

I just try to make sure that the mix is rich and diverse enough for something personal to emerge from it.

Second: The person I’m photographing.
I often ask them: Is there a place or object that’s important to you, that you’d like us to include? Is there an image you’d like me to create for you?

For example, the first person I worked with on this project—a daughter whose father died by suicide—asked me to photograph the last thing her father saw before he took his life. So I stood in that exact spot where it happened, seeing the same view, looking through his eyes.

That image didn’t make it into the final edit, but I know it was an important step—for both of us.

©Oded Wagenstein, Michal and Yosef Shatsky, both 88, pose in their home at Kibbutz Magen, Israel. Inspired by her parents’ decision to end their lives together at old age—driven by their fear of decline—Michal now finds herself at the same age they were. Sharing that same fear, she plans to end her life in Switzerland. Her husband, Yosef, supports her decision out of love and respect, but fears the pain of being left alone.

What are you hoping that viewers take away from the work?

This is a difficult question—and one that demands painful honesty.

I began this project with what felt like an obvious intention: to raise awareness about elderly suicide. About warning signs, social isolation, and the factors that can lead to such a decision. And that’s still part of the work.

As I listened to the families and learned their stories, I noticed something that kept repeating: someone had lost their sense of purpose. One loved driving, but after surgery was no longer allowed to. Another had to stop a long-standing volunteer role during the COVID lockdowns. In each case, something essential to their identity had been taken away.

But as the project evolved, I had to face a harder truth—one I didn’t expect, and one I can’t ignore: not all suicides are preventable. Of course, loneliness and ageism are issues we must fight as a society. But when it comes to suicide, depression, and trauma, I’ve come to understand that in some cases, if a person is determined to take their own life—they will find a way.

So what remains for us, as a society, is to care for those left behind. The families. The ones who are often not only grieving, but also carrying a heavy sense of shame. That’s where our responsibility begins.

©Oded Wagenstein, (L) Shmuel Hazon with his daughter Michal. Unknown photographer. (R) Michal Shmueli Hazon stands for a portrait in front of the window where her 86-year-old father, Shmuel Hazon, exited and jumped to his death. Petah Tikva, Israel. Shmuel, bereaved by the loss of his son in a terror attack, found solace in entrepreneurship and volunteering, especially with parents who suffered a similar loss. However, the isolation brought on by COVID-19 quarantines deeply affected him, eroding his sense of purpose and connection to society. Struggling with profound grief, Shmuel took his own life

©Oded Wagenstein, Moshe Etzion’s suicide note. ⁠⁠Nirim, Israel.⁠ Moshe took his own life at the age of 88. In his note, he wrote:⁠ ‘…I say goodbye to all of you with love. ⁠ Death does not scare me. ⁠ I always wanted to die when my legs still carried me, and my head was clear.’

©Oded Wagenstein, Shemuel and Rina Hazon’s empty bedroom. March 2023, Petah Tikva. Israel. New tenants will soon fill this space, starting their own story.