January 19th – Delays, leash and dropper

The ceasefire, so desired, so dreamed of, so desperately hoped for, began to falter even before it started. That morning, as I prepared coffee and scanned the news, I realized that the list of names had not yet been delivered. It was the first sign that something was not going as planned. Anxiety crept in, invading every thought.

I would never have wanted to be in the shoes of the parents of the hostages. A mother is always a mother: she waits, she hopes, she prays for her children. Faced with that suffering, everything else loses meaning.

But while the world’s eyes were fixed on this fragile agreement, reality mocked our hopes. Bombings continued in northern Gaza. It felt like a punch to the stomach, a signal that maybe this was all just a bluff. I wondered if there was truly room for peace or if we were witnessing yet another illusion.

Then, the miracle. The list finally arrived, two hours late. A sigh of relief… but incomplete. Something was missing. Someone was missing. The hostages to be released were supposed to be four, not three. What had happened? Why only three?

For the second time in just a few hours, the ceasefire seemed to falter. And with it, our pride. It was clear: we were all at the mercy of a terrorist group. An entire people, proud, hardened by centuries of suffering — ghettos, deportations, pogroms — was now on a leash. I couldn’t believe it.

Of course, I understand the pressure from foreign states. I know. But I couldn’t help but think of a phrase by Golda Meir: “It is not possible to sit at the table with terrorists.” And yet, here we are, at the mercy of those who carried out the October 7th massacre, who took the lives of innocent children, women, and men. Now, they have the audacity to take their time, to review the terms of agreements as they please.

It makes me angry. It makes me angry that an entire people has put on a dog’s collar, pulled by a leash, waiting for the master to grant a few drops of water. And those drops of water, for us, are our children. Those hostages are not just the children of their families: they are the children of all of us.

I couldn’t bear to stay glued to the TV any longer, my heart pounding with anxiety as if it would leap out of my chest. I decided to leave and head to the Hostages’ Square. Walking usually lightens the weight on my soul.

When I arrived, I saw the white tent filled with journalists from all over the world, all waiting to go live. Among them, I recognized an excellent Italian journalist, Giovanbattista Brunori. He has been covering the events since the cursed day of October 7th and has always reported the facts with dignity and rare precision. I approached him, shook his hand, and complimented him. Then, I left him to his work and walked further into the square.

I approached the large screen. I sighed. I waited. I felt a weight on my chest. It was anger, I knew it. This drip-feed release of hostages devastates me. I imagined, even for just a moment, being in the shoes of a mother whose child’s name does not appear on that day’s release list.

What leaves me even more shocked is the exchange: the people in Israeli prisons, while incarcerated, are alive and fed. We don’t even know if our hostages are alive or dead. Not only must a mother wait for the release, but she must also live with the terror of discovering how that release will happen: whether her child will come back alive or as a body. This should be recognized as a form of torture.

Why weren’t these details included in the ceasefire agreement?

I turned away from the screen, which was broadcasting images of the three girls released alive and arriving in Israel. The square erupted in joy, and tears began to flow. Of course, I was happy for them, but I couldn’t stop thinking about those still waiting, living in uncertainty.

The next day, January 20th, I had a severe panic attack. I couldn’t get one question out of my head: Will they ever give us all our hostages back? How many of them will be alive?

I prayed. Please, Lord, let the little Bibas children be alive. Let their mother and father be alive. Please, Lord, protect those girls. Don’t let them be abandoned when they return. Who knows what they’ve endured. As a woman, my mind went to the most obvious horror. And I can’t stop thinking about it.

Since October 7th, I have started counting the months. After the first three months passed, I began praying. And I’ve never been a particularly religious person. What are they doing to us? But more importantly, why are we letting them do it?

I don’t know much about politics, but my mind goes back to the words of my grandmother. She was deported and returned from the concentration camps, an orphan of her mother and father who perished in the crematoriums. She always said: “It wasn’t them who did it to us. It was us who let them do it.”

Is this how history repeats itself?