Last night, I went to the kotel and prayed. I didn’t pray like I normally pray. I imagined I was Shiri Bibas praying for herself and her husband and her children in Hamas captivity. I do not know if she’s allowed to pray out loud where she is. I am sure most of her thoughts are prayers. But I read from the tehilim in front of me, and I tried to transmit those ancient words of supplication from my lips to hers, just in case she doesn’t already know them. I wanted to be at the place where heaven meets earth, where our voices elevate from the depths of this world and all its sorrows to the heights of heaven and all of its clarity. Not for me, but for her and for all of them. And as I prayed, the tears would not stop. And the woman praying next to me handed me a tissue.
Where’s My Mama? Where’s My Daddy?
My name is Yoni, and I am an IDF soldier;I’m to greet the four-year-old old hostage just released;We’re told not