There has been no proof of life.
If before I thought, give the army 48 hours and these boys will be home, now I think just show us a proof of life. Show us something, anything that can give us the smallest amount of hope. Because we are holding out for that reunion. We are dreaming of mothers and fathers and sons embracing.
For the past two days my whatsapp has been working overtime. I’ve almost grown immune to the pinging because it happens every few minutes. My fairly chilled out group of friends, the ladies I grab coffee with have decided to use their considerable talents and their feelings of helplessness to organize a spectacular moment.
The plan is beautiful in its simplicity. We’re going to take a picture. We’ll find moms everywhere, hand out a bunch of signs that beg to #bringbackourboys and send the message out to the world. We’ll join the other 90,000 people on Facebook who are supporting the cause.
But we’re going to stand in the very place the boys were taken from.
There are hundreds of women filling the bus stop. And the mood is somber. There are some hugs. There is some subdued singing. The media is there. But really for that moment I just want to be a mom standing there. Cars drive by and honk in solidarity.
And then a busload of chayalim drive by.
And they hang out the windows and wave at us, smiling.
And we know where they’re going.
And it isn’t a good place or a happy place.
We are sending our sons to find our sons.
So we all hold our signs, and we wear sunglasses to hide our tears.
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