At Madame Tussauds in London, my son Nimrod posed beside Donald Trump's wax figure years ago – a carefree moment from a family vacation that held no hint of what was to come. No one could have imagined then that the real person behind that wax figure would become the most influential force in securing Nimrod's release from Gaza. The actual man, the president of the United States, would hold the power to save my son's life.
500 days have passed since Nimrod was last home. 500 days during which my life has ceased to be a life. Each morning, I wake to the same ongoing nightmare. Every evening, I drift into whatever sleep comes, my mind crowded with countless questions that no one bothers to answer. Is he receiving food? Is he sick? Does he know we haven't stopped fighting for him?
This Saturday, three hostages returned home. I watched them on television – thin, bruised, pale, mere shadows of themselves. The joy at their release was immense, but alongside it, I experienced an internal collapse. Because my Nimrod wasn't among them. Because if this is how they look, how does he appear?
All of Israel was shocked by their appearance. So many words and descriptions were poured out about their gaunt faces and lifeless eyes. Well, take the shock you felt and multiply it by a million – that's what I experienced. Because my son is still there, held by Hamas terrorists. I'm a mother. My role is to care for my son, to protect him, to shield him. But how do you protect someone when you have no way to reach them? How do you maintain sanity when you know he's there, in darkness, and you can't do anything to get him out?
I ache. I ache from the fact that the Israeli government isn't doing everything – absolutely everything – to bring our sons home. I ache from the passing time, from the delays, from promises that shatter against reality. I can't stop thinking about what will happen if the remaining stages of the deal don't materialize, what will become of those left behind? Everything is so fragile, so unstable, so uncertain – just yesterday, Hamas announced the deal's suspension.
Each such event shakes me and our family. We've been oscillating between hope and despair, between anxiety and anticipation, for almost 500 days.
Above all, I miss him. I miss Nimrod's laughter, his voice, his embrace. I don't want to wait another 500 days – my Nimrod cannot and should not wait even one more day. None of us can.
I look again and again at that picture of the Trump wax figure with my son beside it. I wonder if Nimrod sensed something in his subconscious, if he had some gut feeling. Then I dismiss the feeling – after all, who could have possibly imagined Oct. 7? And who would have believed that Nimrod would still be captive in Gaza until now?
Bring Nimrod back to me. Bring them all back now!
