The past year exposed me to the full spectrum of emotions that exist on the soul's palette.

The morning of Oct. 7 caught me in a shelter in Kibbutz Or HaNer. I had been looking forward to that Saturday – I was supposed to meet my son Yotam at a music festival in Tel Aviv and listen to him perform. I was buzzing with excitement.

It never happened. Instead, Yotam was snatched from his home in Kfar Aza and dragged into the tunnels of Gaza. For the seventy days I waited for him in Israel, and up until the moment of writing this piece, I've been preoccupied with discovery.

Those first weeks of waiting, we stayed in a stranger's spacious, luxurious house with a pool overlooking the Jerusalem hills. This temporary haven allowed our family to be together. For three weeks that felt like an eternity, I discovered depths of inner strength I never knew I had.

I learned that I could hold onto the certainty that my son was alive, even without a shred of information. I trusted my gut, despite every day receiving messages of more bodies being discovered in Yotam's neighborhood. I decided that as long as I had no information about Yotam, the rumors wouldn't confuse me.

I discovered that I can continue to have a consciousness of security toward my country, despite the fact that on Oct. 7, it seemed that everything had fallen apart. I can continue to trust the military and intelligence, knowing deep inside that things will work out one way or another.

A few weeks ago, I was photographed with a bereaved mother, a friend from before Oct. 7, whose son was also killed in this war. We were photographed for a newspaper article in the vineyards near my home. Suddenly, I saw a butterfly and said, "Look, a butterfly, did you see it?" She didn't notice and didn't see it as it fluttered by. She insisted on seeing it and said, "But where is it? I want to see it." It's here; you just can't see it. It's here.

This was my approach during the time we waited for Yotam. The discovery that even when I can't see him, he's here – with certainty.

The moment we left our homes in the south and arrived in the Jerusalem area – first in Neve Ilan and later in Shoeva – I saw and discovered the people of Israel. At first, dimly, hesitantly, the people who would stop me on the street and tell me they were praying for Yotam. Women, usually with head coverings, hugged me with infinite love, cried, and said they wanted my Yotam to return. This surprised and simultaneously delighted me.

At the end of October – in a moving encounter at a girls school in Jerusalem, where I met the Guedalia family, a religious family from Beit Shemesh – I went through an emotional upheaval and a significant change in my entire perception of life. I met a bereaved mother, Dina Guedalia, whose son Yosef Malachi Guedalia was killed in Kfar Aza, close to Yotam's home. The encounter was overwhelming and moving because I realized in an instant that Dina and I – despite thinking we might be different, that there were fundamental differences between us due to her religious lifestyle and my secular one – share the strongest common denominator there is: we are both mothers, we both lost the most precious thing, we are both Jewish, and our sons were taken because of their bravery. One was a combat soldier in a Duvdevan commando unit, and the other a read-headed musician, secular, with mental health challenges, who wanted to be a combat soldier but couldn't.

This understanding stayed with me throughout the waiting period for Yotam. My stigmas about people and sectors broke down. My heart opened to love for all the people of Israel because I saw its beauty everywhere.

There was an infinite generosity from people who helped in every way – cooking, baking, clothing, financial and emotional support –  endlessly. Just giving, hugging, loving, helping, and supporting. A huge window opened in my life to get to know my people, whom I knew less in the past.

Almost a year has passed since Oct. 7, and today I meet with different audiences in Israel and around the world. I speak to soldiers, youth in schools, secular and religious, hi-tech companies, communities in central Israel and the periphery.

I've been to the United States, Brazil, and South Africa, and I convey the same message to everyone: I've shed the burden of stigmas, the burden of categorization, the burden of "them" and "us."

I can love every person, even if they think differently from me, and know that they and I are part of the same people – the strong and existing people of Israel.

The post In the year my son was kidnapped and killed, I discovered my people appeared first on www.israelhayom.com.

Yes. A day for remembrance. To remember. This is not a mistake – a day for remembrance. I will never forget Oct. 7, 2023. I won't ask, "When was it, remind me?" On that day, my life, my family's life, and all of our lives took a sharp, painful, and searing turn.

A day for remembrance is also Dec. 15, 2023, that same day when they informed me, my family, and all of you about the killing of our son, Yotam Haim, who was accidentally shot by our forces when he escaped from Hamas captivity and was mistakenly identified as a terrorist. Even if I want to, I won't be able to not remember those days. I won't be able to erase them from my very existence, my being. They are etched into my flesh from now until forever.

Memory is something that makes me laugh on certain days; those days when I see Yotam in my mind, with all his silly antics, laughing and imitating me speaking English with the most Israeli accent there is. Imitating politicians. He and I watching a stupid TV show, cracking up with laughter.

Memory is also something that makes me cry, a lot. When I hear songs we listened to together, songs that will always be etched as songs of mine and his: "Everyone, sometimes, whistles in the darkness / It's nice, it's innocent, to whistle in the darkness / Even I to myself, even another in my place / Everyone's a little scared alone in the darkness / Everyone's a little lonely in the darkness / Nothing really, just a touch of unrest" ( by Israeli singers Arik Einstein and Yenkeleh Rotblit).

Memory is the little dash between Yotam's birth date, Jan. 2, 1995, and the date of his departure to the world beyond. That dash is the time we spent together, growing up together. So many life events. Some good, some difficult, and sad.

A day for remembrance – to remember the reason we live here. I have a private memory, a memory of me with my son – laughing, crying, working, hugging his mother tightly. This memory is embedded in me. Memories of voices and conversations, Yotam calling me "Mamo", coming home with another new tattoo while holding Bepanthen cream and asking shyly: "Mom, put some on for me." Memories of physical touch that no one can take from me.

And in the same breath, I also have a national memory. The memory of all the beloved people who lost their lives at a young age, while defending our homeland. A memory that we have a homeland, a memory that once we didn't. A memory that once there was no army to protect us, a memory that now there is. A memory to give thanks every day for the right to live here, and also to die here, because we have no other place.

Memory is my ability to connect to the history of my people and to know that this time, in these times, I, my son Yotam, Tuval, Noya, and Raviv, the extended family, people in the Israeli nation – we are all inscribed in the pages of history. Our history is written in blood – in each generation they rise against us and in each generation we persevere and exist.

Memory revives what has ended. Sometimes it is unbearable, sometimes we don't want to remember. Memory has an important role – without it, everything would be immediately erased, just like for dementia patients. We have a collective memory and a private memory, memory books, photo albums, and special days for the Jewish people that are meant to remind us of human frailty, our tenuous existence, and the fact that reality usually does not necessarily depend on our actions.

On this Memorial Day, the first in which I am called a "bereaved mother", I join all those mothers who remember their sons and daughters without the need for a special day. I join the 827 families affected by terrorism from that day we will all remember forever.

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