Shabbat Shalom. This column, unlike its predecessors, is not intended for all of you, but only for Ofri Bibbs, the only sister of Jordan Bibbs, the sister-in-law of Shiri Bibbs and the aunt of Kafir and Ariel Bibbs, who have been held captive by Hamas for the ninth month.
I apologize, Ofri, not on behalf of the country, but only on behalf of myself, Marcel Mosari.
Six months ago, a mutual acquaintance wrote to me: “Marcel, when are you available for a conversation? It’s about Ofri Biebs.” My heart once tightened, of course I knew who you were, but I didn’t know what you wanted from me.
On the other hand, what more could you ask of me? I only know how to be a mother and write, I asked him for your number.
I was on my way with Geffen to the show. We sat in the car and sang “Everybody went to Jumbo” by the goddess Tzipi, I told her I needed to stop the music for a few moments and called you.
You answered me immediately, there was no small talk here, because since October there is no time for small talk. In the background I heard your children, they were playing, frolicking and singing. Gefen asked who the children were and if they were coming with us to the show, I looked at her through the mirror and put the agreed sign of silence on my lips.
“What a cutie,” you said to me.
“Sometimes,” I replied.
“Seller”, you answered me and we giggled.
Then you told me that you try in every possible way, that every time you are shown a small window and then immediately it closes, and you (and they too) return to the threatening darkness again. I kept quiet and listened and sympathized, like everyone else. What else can be said?
Then I asked: “How can I help you? Where do you see me in all this?”
“I contacted several writers,” you told me, “I only need one writer who will write in the language of Jordan and one writer who will write in the language of Shiri, we will publish it on our social networks, maybe that will also raise awareness.” Even before she finished speaking I volunteered: “Me, me, choose me”, I said, “I will speak for her best, I also have a little girl”. I wanted to do it so much, after all, our hands are all tied anyway, if I can help through the keyboard, I won’t miss it.
“I need you to write in Shiri’s voice,” she told me, “Really, she has two babies in this hell, what is she going through? What is she thinking about? What are they eating? What is she doing?”.
I continued her when I heard her voice break: “What does she think about Jordan’s fate? About her family, how she copes without a diaper, diapers, medicine for erupting teeth, clothes.” Her children asked for cornflakes or something, and a vine behind me, breaking the silence I asked for, because how much could she hold? And asking, “When are you coming to the show with the turtle?”.
I came to my senses for a moment. Can’t believe this is the conversation we have with children around us, literally – a conversation about how to free other children, their peers, from captivity. We have always been a country that lives on the sword, but we have never had anything like this.
We decided to end the conversation, I promised that I was here for her, she thanked me, I didn’t even ask who the writer would be “my husband”, Jordan, maybe we could adjust things together or memories, but I’ll be fine, I was sure it would come out of me by the evening, the next morning at the latest.
In the evening, when my daughter fell asleep, I took a shower and turned on the computer, it’s rare that I manage to write after an afternoon with her, it’s very intense, and the body automatically gets tired, but I promised Oferi and I wanted to keep it. I don’t remember the exact line that was written on the page of the rose, to the best of my recollection it was something like “Today we finally got some cheese.” It sounded forced to me, even embarrassing, so I erased it and wrote: “There is a guard here staring at me, I wake up With his eyes and you go to sleep with them, how is it that they are always on me? He doesn’t sleep?”. I deleted this one too, I was afraid it would be too triggering. In its place I wrote “This morning Kafir laughed a rollicking laugh, Ariel looked at him and laughed too, for a long time I haven’t heard them laugh like that, a second later they silenced us, but it was a good moment.” I deleted both that and “Where are you? I can’t sleep Without you”, I also deleted “They gave me a fever, both of them together, I put wet cloths on their foreheads”, and also “I wonder if you have already eulogized us or if you are still fighting”. I deleted everything, dammit, shut down the computer and left it at that.
The next day Ofri sent me a message: “Marcel? there is progress?”.
“Sorry”, I answered her, “Give me until tonight”.
“In your time, everything is fine,” she answered me in her nobility.
I’ll keep you short, even in the evening we didn’t send her anything, and the day after and until today, three or four months later, I haven’t been able to write her anything except apologies.
I can’t put myself in Shiri’s situation, either because my imagination is afraid to deal with it because Acros will be in health and mental health again, or because I’m ashamed to speak on her behalf and think it’s presumptuous of me to write about her when I’m sleeping on a double bed after spending time at a show or at the pool with my daughter.
But Ofri stands on the battlefield, next to charred houses and destroyed families, and shouts the name of her brother, beloved of her heart. Someone should approach her with a bottle of water, pull her out of this scorching sun and bring her to the air conditioner, where to tell her that there will be a happy ending and on the next big holiday the children will run together in the fields of one kibbutz that did not burn down.
I apologize, Ofri, you don’t know how much I’ve tried and I’m still trying, and every time only one line comes out and is deleted.
Last week I read that you gave birth to a boy and named him Apik, congratulations! I opened the dictionary to see the exact definition of apek and I didn’t need more.
I wish the next conversation between you and me will be accompanied by a lot of happy children’s noise, I wish Afik and Kafir will enroll in the same kindergarten in the kibbutz and grow up as best friends and from time to time Ariel will tease them and make fun of them.
I apologize, Ofri, for the umpteenth time in this column, I thought I could expand in all directions, choose every possible character and write it, take a goal and glorify the way to it by writing, but maybe I’m not a good enough writer, or this war also hit talent And in my strength, and the blow is strong and merciless, I wish you would forgive me.
Walter wrote “When we have lost everything, when all hope is zero, life is an insult and death is a duty”.
Hold on to hope, Ofri, as Shiri holds on and as we all hold on to her. The gates will still be opened and everyone who has been betrayed by the road will return home to heal in the arms of their loved ones. Hold tight, Ofri, just a little longer.
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