You know who my daughter is because on 7 October last year she became a symbol to the world of the Hamas massacre. My 19-year-old, kind-hearted daughter Naama was savagely kidnapped and taken into Gaza, and the world watched in horror as she was dragged by her hair out of the back of a Jeep at gunpoint, handcuffed, bleeding and petrified. Four months into her living nightmare, every moment for me is filled with anguish; there is no difference between day and night.
I am often asked how I am coping. Truthfully, simply holding myself up can feel impossible at times. Agonising. And yet, I must. I must hold myself up for all of my children; not only for Naama and the urgent need to bring her home, but for her three siblings. The most mundane of tasks can sometimes feel unbearable, but I push forward. I spend a few days each week seeing patients in my work as a physician, and their warm words of support and my ability to still treat people offers some remedy. But it’s harrowing to know that I cannot help the one person I want to more than anything: my daughter.
I sometimes shop for Naama. I recently bought her a new sheet set and some clothes for when she comes home, and laughed with a friend as I thought optimistically about what her reaction would be: teen girls don’t usually let their mothers buy them clothes, after all. I listen to her favourite music. I have learned all of the lyrics. I sing to her. I cuddle her dog, Baffy, who sometimes sleeps on her bed, waiting for her too.
How can these negotiations drag on for so long? How can I have been promised time and again by so many world leaders that everything is being done to bring her back? Is it because no one in the room has their daughter being held captive? No one in those meeting rooms in Doha, Paris or Cairo has their child locked in the depths of hell and they cannot fully understand the reprehensible reality that we are in. I often wish I was there. I would look into the eyes of those discussing the fate of my child, and so many other beloved hostages, and remind them of what they are debating. My daughter’s life is not up for debate. She is not a bargaining chip. She is my child, she is my world. She, and all of the hostages, must be brought home now.
As I walked through the halls of the UN in December and met leaders of women’s rights organisations, Naama’s dream of becoming a diplomat was constantly on my mind. She was meant to be there, not me. She is meant to be there, leading the charge for change in the world that she so earnestly hopes for. And yet there I was, pleading with these organisations to stand up for Naama and demand she be brought back home. As these groups debated the careful wording of how to make statements on the horrific assaults on women and the brutal kidnapping of my innocent daughter, I looked into the eyes of each of these women and asked if they would be complacent in letting evil win.
Imagine not knowing if your child is eating. If they are sleeping. If they are cold. If someone is hurting them. I have had to comprehend the reality of what she is facing; what she has been facing for more than four months. It is torture. We have all heard from courageous survivors about the horrors they experienced as hostages and the misery these young, vulnerable girls continue to endure. We understand the increased and imminent danger that they face, especially the risk of violence, particularly sexual violence. I know that many people across the globe shared in my terror watching the video of what happened to Naama. That terror must not be forgotten. It is still happening. I have uttered words that no mother should have to, and have had to face a reality too painful to bear.
The first round of hostages released in late November brought so much hope. I prayed each day to receive the call that my daughter was coming home. After all, she is a teenage girl. But that call did not come. I found myself pleading with the universe: what about my Naama? Of the 134 hostages still being held captive, 16 are women and children, five of whom are teenage girls, including Naama.
Naama is the epitome of her name, which means pleasant. She is gentle and optimistic and believes in the good of all people. She enjoys athletics, dreams of a career in diplomacy, and her greatest passion is helping those in need. One of my favourite images of her is with a group of children she spent time volunteering with during her year of community service while we were living in India. Her smile and the smiles of those sweet children are so pure. My Naama embodies all that is good in the world; she embodies everything that those evil enough to hold her hostage and commit such heinous crimes do not.
Since that darkest of mornings on 7 October, when the last message I received from Naama was her describing the unbearable sound of rocket fire overhead, it has felt like an eternity. Naama believes in the good of people. I, too, want to hold on to that belief. Even as she is living through this unbearable nightmare, I want to believe that humanity is still good. I must believe that. If not for myself, then for my Naama.
Ayelet Levy is a doctor and the mother of Naama Levy, who is being held hostage in Gaza
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