This is the second Yom Kippur that my son is in hell, held hostage by Hamas. Now, as the silence of the day settles over everything, I am left alone with my thoughts.
I withdraw inward, but with a broken heart I cannot truly disconnect. It's hard to find peace when I am never at peace inside. How does one even ask you for forgiveness?
A mother, no matter what, always thinks of her child.
And I? I ask myself constantly – is there anything more I can do for my Aloni? How can I be more for you?
In the end, Alon is not at home, and I feel guilty.
Guilty for what I didn't do.
Is he cold? Is he hot?
Has he been in a constant fast for almost two years?
Is anyone there giving him even a pre-fast meal amid the horrific routine of captivity?
And when, when will he hear the sound of the shofar announcing the end of the fast, the gates of heaven open before him – gates of hope, of freedom, of life?
And in all this, my thoughts also turn to my role as a citizen of this country.
What place do I have here?
How is it possible that in a state supposedly governed by the will of the people, I – an ordinary citizen – cry out my pain and am pushed aside?
The cabinet continues making decisions. Do they see Alon?
Do they see me?
Do they see the other hostages?
How did I, how did we, go from being the families of hostages to a political symbol? A symbol of division and incitement?
I am not political.
I am a mother.
I only want my son home.
And then, from within this brokenness, in the quiet of Yom Kippur, something inside me calms.
I realize I cannot fight everything.
I cannot keep carrying endless guilt.
Perhaps on this day, when everything stops, I have a chance to truly look inward.
This realiztion does not come easily. I am asked to forgive, when the pain is so great.
I am asked to find compassion, even though there is rage all around me.
On this day I choose to forgive for everything beyond my control but which exists around me.
To forgive the divisive words in our society.
To forgive myself for not being able to turn back time, for not being able to do everything to pull you out of hell.
For you still not being home.
Today I understand that Yom Kippur is not only a time for remorse; it is a time for correction.
A day that is an opportunity to let go, to focus, to clear away the noise, to send quiet messages of strength and hope.
I believe Alon hears. I feel he feels.
Whether it is understandable or not, I know this:
Forgiveness is not just correction. It is a path.
It is my path to healing.
It is the path to taking responsibility.
It is the path home.
All I can hope for is that everyone touched by October 7 – and I am sure it touched every one of us, citizens and leaders alike – will pause, look inward, and ask themselves: What can I do to correct? What can she do to help us reach a better place?
And when that happens – I am sure my Aloni will be returned to me.
