Opinion: It’s over 100 days since you were taken hostage. Our baby girl is crawling now

Opinion by Lishay Lavi

(CNN) — Dear Omri, my Omri,

Alma began crawling soon after you were taken from us. She now sits and stands as well and tries to eat on her own. She smiles and reaches for the space you once occupied as if trying to grasp a memory that slips through her tiny fingers.

I wonder, will you be free to see her walk for the first time?

I have been writing daily to you, myself and the world. Writing about our pain, our agony, our despair. I hope that you’ll return to Roni, Alma and me.

We heard that one of the released hostages told you we survived October 7 against all odds; we were rescued from the house of horrors that saw the death of loved ones, our hours-long abuse and your violent abduction.

We hope that news is true. We hope that the knowledge we are here waiting for you helps you persevere through your captivity, just as the hope of your return is what helps me persevere.

I think of Penelope’s words about Odysseus: “How I long for my husband – alive in memory, always.”

Roni has been both a beacon of light and a mirror reflecting the pain in my heart. She speaks so much now, my love, with a wisdom that transcends her years.

Her words are bittersweet, a constant reminder of your absence. She asks every night where you are, why you are still lost. She speaks of the bad people who took you away in front of our eyes. She draws you every day. And her smile reminds me of you.

Her eyes search mine for reassurance, and I try to give her the certainty she craves. But real comfort can only come when you are returned to us.

Roni’s resilience is both inspiring and heartbreaking. She found hope when Mojo, your dog, returned injured but wagging his tail. He too longs to see you!

Alma is too young to understand what is happening; her laughter echoes through the hall of our temporary housing in Kibbutz Kramim. It’s a haunting reminder of the joy that once permeated our home.

Yes, I forgot to say. We are no longer in Nahal Oz. There’s no more Nahal Oz, at least not in the way we remember it, and at least not until this painful war ends.

The Nahal Oz community and spirit, however, live on through us, the survivors who are rallying in support of each other and fighting for your and (fellow hostage) Tsaci Idan’s release.

We also found a community and support system in Kramim, people who care and love us and give us the strength to wake up every morning and work for your release.

Your friends visit, supporting and loving us more than I could have wished.

The last time we saw each other, I told you that I love you, that I’ll care for the girls, and that you should not try to be a hero. You told me that you love me, and then Roni tried to run to you. Thankfully, I managed to stop her in time.

Your captivity, with all its unknowns, has been all-encompassing. Are you injured? Do you eat? Do you need any medication? Are you being tortured or abused?

The not-knowing is a torment that wraps around my heart and squeezes it.

Some of those who returned from captivity shared their horrifying stories; others might share more in the coming days and weeks.

But for now, parts of the world seem to have turned their backs on us – and most of all, on you – in our most difficult time. The United Nations, the International Committee of the Red Cross, some of those we viewed as friends and allies.

The international community’s corridors of power and palaces of justice resonate with a silence that is deafening. Meanwhile streets and public spaces around the world have become places of hateful discourse; extending the violence of October 7 with people ripping down posters bearing your name, your photo, your story. Leaving me with a sense of abandonment that cuts deep.

How did we arrive at a place where the humanitarian pleas of families are met with indifference and mockery, where the principles that should guide us are overshadowed by political posturing?

There are times we feel that our government, too, has forsaken us. Though I truly believe it is committed to bringing about your, and all the hostages, release.

But do know that while some are silent, and some are hateful, many others are loud and full of love.

You are not alone; we are not alone.

Omri, in the face of despair, I choose hope. I believe in the power of love and the resilience of the human spirit to win the fight for your freedom.

Our families tirelessly advocate for you in Israel and worldwide. Your face and name appear everywhere – and we demand others to say your name, share your story and call for your release.

There are moments when I imagine crossing into Gaza, holding Roni and Alma close, marching in and looking into the eyes of your captors as we did in Nahal Oz.

In that daydream, I bring you home with us.

But the reality is darker, more complex. Love and humanity, as much as they define us, do not always triumph.

I remain hopeful that we will get to hug you again; that Roni will run to you just as she tried to run to you that day, and this time I will not hold her back. Alma will be crawling behind her. And those first steps will come before we know it.

Omri, my love, know that you are missed and fiercely fought for.

Until that day we bring you home, I will continue to write, speak and fight for the life we built together for our daughters.

I will continue to love you like Penelope loved Odysseus during his 20 years of absence.

I refuse to believe you will not return to me.

Lishay

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