I hadn’t intended to volunteer at the rally. The last time I went to one of these, it was a largescale federation that put it together. And the time before that. “The last time I went to one of these,” my friend says to me, “Amalie was pregnant.” Amalie’s baby has wide eyes and her mother’s smile, and that timeline makes more sense than October 7 or 150 fifty days.
So I find myself at a Target downtown with two strangers, buying as much water as we can carry back. “We didn’t know this was here,” one says into her phone. “We’ll be a bit late.” It was Israeli women who put this one together. Who arranged the line of a hundred humans encircling the park. Who arranged the yellow tulips. The signs, with photos of every captive. “We have three more cases,” she says to the cashier. (We had, at that point, all the cases. We carried back everything.) “Thanks.”
I walk up and down that line, welcoming the newcomers, thanking the volunteers and the police and the camera crew gathering on the sidewalk. Distributing the bottles.
“I can take a sign,” I offer, returning to the front. There are dozens of unclaimed signs. “And hand out the others. People will take them.”
One of the coordinators smiles. "I remember you. We met at the fall festival just after this all happened. I'm glad you're here. Go choose one."
I am looking at their faces, photos watching the blue sky. Strange, that I can choose. That feels wrong somehow. I pick up the sign closest to me, an older man with a denim jacket draped casually around his shoulders. A grandfather, by his eyes. A soldier, by his smile. His name is Gadi Moses. His caption: Bring Him Home.
It is so easy to cry, looking at Gadi. He has sunglasses tucked into his shirt. Such affection in his face for whoever is taking the photo. He is looking right at the person taking the photo. I speak in broken Hebrew as I hand out the remaining signs. Every single one.
“Are there more?” a woman asks.
“Come with me. I’ll show you.”
I take her to the front. Set Gadi Moses down a moment to direct her to the banners and the Stand With Israel stickers and the remaining water bottles.
“Do you want to hold a sign?” the woman asks her child. “Do you want Moses?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’ve got Moses.” As though I could fight for him if I simply held on to his sign.
We sang Hatikvah under that blue sky. Acheinu under that blue sky. We read the names of every person who is still held captive.
I didn’t let go.
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