As the war on Gaza enters its second month, in Tel Aviv it has become routine to hear the sirens every other day and to run for shelter as Hamas rockets target the city. I do so with my two small daughters: it is always a terrible experience for them, and so for me also. As a parent, I do my best to shield them from the reality of the war and maintain normality.
But it isn’t always possible. This week I took them to the public library to return their books, and in the square outside there was a vigil by the families of those Israelis kidnapped and taken to Gaza on 7 October, calling on the government to negotiate for their return. As we passed through, my youngest daughter, aged seven, looked curiously at the pictures of the child hostages and asked me who they were. I never want to be untruthful to them, and I try to to explain the world to my daughters in an honest way. Yet the dreadful reality of small children being taken from their parents and being held captive – and who, in fact, may no longer be alive – is so appalling that I struggled for the right words.
