The five threads that spooled through my mind as Emily, Doron, and Romi came home
Since October 7, the entire Jewish nation has been concerned for the hostages. But to different degrees.
No one feels the horror like their own families. But many, many Jews — of all backgrounds and affiliations — have lived lives shaped and colored by those vibrant faces. They’re the simple wives and mothers who infuse the names and faces of our captive brothers and sisters in every challah baking and every licht bentshing. The college students newly committed to exploring and embracing their Jewish identities.
They’re the people who’ve sworn off social drinking, home renovations, or new clothing until every hostage returns. The yeshivah bochurim who turbocharge their every supplication to the Matir Asurim. That family in Bnei Brak that hung the face of their “chosen hostage” in their kitchen, so every brachah recited around the family supper table takes on extra intensity.
And they’re even those who, during the 471 long days of waiting, expressed their pain through anger, blaming, and shaming. Yes, their weekly protests involved ugly slogans and finger-pointing — but bottom line: They didn’t, couldn’t, live life as usual knowing their fellow Jews were in peril.
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