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.
