This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
Sunday was an extended limbo. The last day of before. “The next few weeks are going to be really difficult,” my husband warned me in the morning. “We just have to take a deep breath, and try to come out the other side.”
My kids were my shield. So easy to dive deep into their incessant needs, and not check the news till night. Pickup time, get the baby, drop off at flute practice, pick up the other two, and onwards to soccer. So easy to block out thoughts of what might occur. So easy to ignore the dread, the buildup, the questions. To almost forget.
My son rushes to soccer. To escape the biting cold, I cross the street with the double stroller and enter the store. All eyes are trained at the TV. I look up at the screen, and emerge abruptly to the world.
“Doron appears to be in good health,” the newscaster says. “The hostages are standing on their feet.”
“Oh thank God,” I whisper. A rush of relief and the threat of tears as the scene flashes to the euphoric crowd in Hostages Square. Then it switches back to the wall of screaming, masked men, a flash of pink passing between them. I herd the kids out before they see too much, while murmuring, “Thank God thank God thank God.” Noticing: No Shiri. No babies.
They said three hostages, I remind myself. No one said which.
Each is infinitely precious.
But I had fantasized of a rewind: the agony ironing out of Shiri’s face, the blanket unwrapping, the children’s flaming hair emerging, her hands opening.
Those clenching, carrying, embracing hands. Squeezing mothers everywhere.
Evening, and I rush my kids to bed. When at last they are asleep, I huddle on the couch, nursing my phone.
By now, the hostages have been reunited with their mothers. Pictures of ecstasy. Of etched pain. “I survived Dad, I survived.” I gulp down the news like whiskey shots, shedding drunken tears. And then I begin scanning the list of the released. Does it include Avi’s murderer? Ori’s rapist-mutilator? I know the mastermind puppeteers are more dangerous than the oft-broken perpetrators. But after the raw violence of October 7th, I am fixated by the knife. By the actual bloody hands.
I pass over the PFLP leader who orchestrated the bombing that killed Rina Snerb. The name isn’t familiar. What does orchestrate mean? I allow myself to be happy. To drown for hours in photos and memes. Emily Damaris’s victorious mutilated hand.
Euphoria leaves no room for doubt. And if any niggles, the shouting and accusations drown it out. Protests trample it, make it a powder finer than dust, to blow away in the winter wind.
Still, it finds me. In the quiet dark of bed, after I close the phone to stop the mindless Instagram scrolling, and the streetlights bleed through the window along with the scent of rain.
Doubt rising in the trees. Cackling underfoot. Blowing the sun damaged banner with the smiling pictures of those killed in the war. How many more will it be now?
A week of doubt and silenced doubt.
The second round of releases. All day Friday I check my phone. Between cooking. After pickup. Right before lighting the candles. Maybe now Shiri? Ariel and Kfir?
I turn off the phone. Light a ner neshama for remembrance, and the extra two candles I have lit for the hostages since this nightmare began.
And wait. All night. All day.
When my husband comes back from shul, I ask if there was any news. “Does anyone know who was slated for release? If the exchange has gone through?”
He shakes his head.
At last, Shabbat is done. The kids are asleep.
The hostages: four soldiers. Karina, whose face hangs in the children’s clinic I take my daughter to each Monday, where Karina’s mother works.
The released: mass murderers.
These I do remember. The dead from the Hebrew University bombing. The Hillel bombing. Nava Appelbaum, murdered the night before her wedding. The Moment bombing.
Flashbacks to the darkest times of my teenage years.
More than 1,200 dead for Gilad Shalit.
How many for Karina, Liri, Daniella, and Naama?
“My son is stationed in Shechem,” says the woman who runs the daycare when I collect my baby. “What’s going to happen now, with all these releases?”
“But we can’t leave them there,” another mother says.
We will know how to deal with it, assures the editorial I read for comfort.
But we didn’t.
Watch them embrace their families again and again. Look at that happiness. Focus on that happiness.
Do you sacrifice the present for the future, the named for the as-yet nameless?
“The nation will punish all those who opposed the deal,” Liri’s father declares.
“Nobody is talking about the Bibases,” I say.
“The rumors have been going on for awhile,” my husband answers. “I think it’s pretty clear what happened.”
I look away.
“They’re insisting on releasing Arbel Yehud,” I say. “But not fighting for Shiri. Not for the kids.”
My husband just nods.
Israel blocks the passage to north Gaza, and Hamas publicizes a sign of life from Arbel.
The official number is released: eight hostages dead, no details. Scour the faces on the news page.
“There is grave concern for the fate of the Bibases,” announces the army spokesman.
“Don’t speculate,” the Bibas family begs in an officially released statement. “We have not given up hope.”
I tell myself: The redheaded babies have become such a powerful symbol. Hamas might be doing this just to torture us.
Another exchange approaches.
One headline reads: “Israel said to demand Hamas clarify status of hostages Shiri Bibas and her two kids.”
I cling to doubt. To lack of clarity. Please, let’s doubt with all our might.
We wear orange, and close our eyes. Doubt and doubt and doubt.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Batnadiv HaKarmi is a writer, visual artist and editor. She is the author of the chapbook, The Love of Mortal Beings (Kelsay Books, 2023), and her work has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Poet Lore, Poetry International, Ilanot Review and Arc Poetry Magazine.
Batnadiv studied painting at the New York Studio School, and holds an MA in Creative Writing from Bar Ilan University. She is the recipient of the Andrea Moriah Poetry Prize, and was shortlisted for the Brideport Prize for flash fiction, and Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Poetry Prize. Born in California, she currently resides in Jerusalem with her husband and four young children.