Thirty-five Years of Grief: A Mother Waits For The Hostages To Come Home

It has been 35 years since I became a bereaved mother. Thirty-five long years. Most people who meet me now would never guess that this is a part of my identity. A part of my core. A hat I wear daily, though it is invisible to the world. They don’t know because it’s not something I share anymore. It has been so long that it no longer seems relevant to those who know me now or those I interact with on a daily basis.

Even my children who are alive and thriving – my pride, my joy, my constant blessings – I wonder if they remember or realize that this is still a huge part of who I am. They had to move on, and they did. They had to live their lives, find their paths, and forge their happiness. For this, I am deeply grateful and profoundly satisfied. Watching them grow and flourish has been a balm for the wounds that will never truly heal.

Yet, there are moments when I wonder if they think about it. Do they remember the sibling they never got to truly know? Do they see how I carry that loss, even now? Perhaps they don’t, and that’s okay. I’ve had to move on too, in my own way. Time doesn’t ask for permission to march forward; it just does. Life demands that we adapt, that we put one foot in front of the other, even when it feels like we’re carrying an unbearable weight. Even when this seems like an impossible feat.

Thirty-five years ago, my world changed forever. And while the world moved on, so did I, in ways that only those who know this kind of loss can understand. I’ve learned to carry joy and sorrow in the same hands, to find light even in the shadow of loss. To hold on to the precious special perfect moments that come my way.

To those who see me now, I am many things: a mother, a friend, a professional, a woman who has lived a full life. To myself, I will always be, among other things, a bereaved mother. That will always matter, even if I don’t say it aloud.

October 7th has opened up many of these wounds. Perhaps I can identify, empathize, and understand the mothers whose sons were killed in battle. Perhaps I can understand the mothers whose children were slaughtered on October 7th. But in many ways, I had it easier because death provided closure. An ending. A painful release.

Throughout these endless months, I am pained by the plight of those mothers who don’t have that answer or closure. The mothers who don’t even know if their child is alive. The mothers who are watching helplessly as their child is tortured and held in horrendous and hellish captivity. I can barely begin to fathom what they are going through.

There is a unique agony in the unknown. While grief from loss is profound, there is something uniquely tormenting about the endless waiting, the uncertainty, and the fear that comes with not knowing the fate of a child. My heart aches for those mothers who wake up every day and face that void. How do they cope? How do they carry on when every fiber of their being must yearn for answers, for action, for resolution?

To those mothers, I send all the strength I can muster. To those who still wait, I hold space for your pain, your courage, and your unimaginable endurance. As I reflect on my own loss, I am reminded again of the resilience of the human spirit, and the ways in which we find a way to carry on, even when the weight feels insurmountable.

Now we wait. We wait because there is a hope that finally some of these children will come home. Finally, some of those answers and closures will be possible. Many of my friends say that we are paying too high a price to bring them home, that it is too great a sacrifice. My answer is this: there is no such thing as too high a price. There is no more worthy sacrifice. We must bring them home. We must let them join our nation again. We must provide answers, closure, and respite to these mothers. We must bring them home.

We must bring them home because they are our children. We must bring them home because it is right and just. We must bring them home because this has been our promise throughout the generations – that we bring our children home. We must bring them home so that finally our nation can begin to heal.

I am waiting. I am waiting to see that child step out of captivity. I am waiting with feelings of fear and anguish. Waiting – nonetheless. I am waiting to see that child step forward out of torturous internment and into freedom. Welcome home, dear child. We are here. We are waiting for you. We will all heal together.