As of this writing, only the first stage of the hostage deal has been completed – Romi, Emily, and Doron have been reunited with their mothers. The reunion left scarcely a dry eye across Israel. As a mother, I was deeply moved and continue to be so with every new detail I learn about this powerful moment.
The physical survival and indomitable spiritual resilience of these three remarkable women will undoubtedly be etched in the annals of history. Yet, the cost cannot be ignored.
Let me start by saying this: I am not here to take a political stance – neither Left nor Right. That is not the point. I want to speak about the fear that consumes me as a mother, a fear that clashes emotionally and morally with my identity as an Israeli and a Jew – someone who cherishes life and deeply believes in mutual responsibility.
On the Saturday night before the girls were freed, I had a nightmare. In it, terrorists stormed my home. I was there with my two young children. Desperately, we baked cakes and cookies for the terrorists – an activity that, in real life, brings us joy and togetherness, but in the dream became an act of survival. The references were painfully clear: Rachel’s harrowing story from Sderot interwoven with the haunting images from Nahal Oz and Kfar Aza.
Ironically, the release of these brave women – a necessary and just act, as is the release of all the hostages – highlighted a grim reality: This ordeal is far from over. Perhaps it never truly will be.
The price paid is not only the release of cruel murderers but also a significant blow to our deterrence. This is the nature of a true dilemma: on one side, enormous risk; on the other, the obligation to uphold the core values that define us as a nation, a society, and as human beings.
There are no easy answers here – perhaps not even the right questions. But maybe the heart of the matter lies in balancing two profound fears: the fear of losing who we are, as a people and a nation, against the fear of losing our future – our children, our safety, and our sense of security. At its core, the deeper question is this: Is Israeli society moving toward a place where we can reunite and heal?
Resonating with our motherhood
As a mother, this question resonates deeply. When the time comes, will I be able to trust this country with my children? And I know that time will come – there is no doubt (in my mind, at least) that I will send them to the army. But will this nation care for them? Will their commanders – shaped by a society that feels fractured and divided – live by the principle that “no one is left behind”? The answer, I suppose, depends on whom you ask.
The larger question is where we are headed as a nation. The answer depends not only on whom we ask but also on what we tell ourselves and the choices we make. If I speak to a friend who has decided she can’t take it anymore – who is considering leaving this country because she no longer believes in its future – her answer might be to leave, and quickly. After all, who will guarantee our children’s safety tomorrow?
But then there are others – friends who volunteer tirelessly and refuse to give up. Some serve in the reserves, day after day, alongside countless others who still believe in this home we share. They remind me that resilience is in our DNA and that, somehow, we will find a way to grow stronger.
I imagine every parent is grappling with questions like these. In truth, none of us can predict the future. Time will reveal the answers we seek. But perhaps, part of the answer lies within us – in how we confront and adapt to this new reality, which began for all of us on October 7, 2023.
The author works in the media sector and is a writer and blogger.