COMMENTARY
As Israel marks its Independence Day celebrations this week and Americans reflect on President Trump’s first 100 days since his inauguration in January, I find myself once again caught in a complex emotional landscape. How do I reconcile these national milestones with the devastating personal reality that my son Edan, a 21-year-old American serving in the IDF, has now been held hostage in Gaza for more than 18 agonizing months?
There are moments that divide a life into before and after. For me, that moment came on October 7th, 2023 when I learned Edan had been taken hostage. Since that day, I have inhabited a parallel universe—one where time crawls yet simultaneously slips away, where hope and despair battle daily, and where the mundane aspects of life continue despite the gaping hole in our family.
This week’s Independence Day celebrations in Israel bring a particular kind of pain. While Israelis mark 77 years of statehood, my son remains in captivity, his own independence stripped away. The barbeques, ceremonies, and celebrations serve as a stark reminder of what Edan is missing and the freedom we take for granted. Meanwhile, as President Trump marks his first 100 days in office, I find myself counting time differently—this milestone marks 570 days that my son has been held captive, each one a small eternity.
The first few months were a fog of frantic activity. I barely slept, convinced that if I worked hard enough—made enough calls, gave enough interviews, met with enough officials—I could bring Edan home. I remember the early days when I was told to “trust the process” and not speak out publicly. I followed that advice initially, believing it was the right approach for Edan’s safety.
But as weeks turned into months, I realized that I needed to do more. I found my voice, pushing past my natural inclination toward privacy. I started addressing crowds at rallies, speaking to journalists, and meeting with officials who have consistently shown concern and commitment—activities that felt completely foreign to me before this nightmare began. As I’ve told reporters, “This is so not me,” yet I’ve learned to do what’s necessary for my son.
Hope arrived in sporadic bursts. A rumor of negotiations. A statement from an official. A propaganda video which shows us that he’s alive. A testimony from a hostage who returned home who told me about Edan’s inner strength and kindness. Photos of hostages released in earlier exchanges. Each time, I allowed myself to imagine Edan walking through our front door, thinner perhaps, changed certainly, but alive. And each time negotiations collapsed, that hope caved in on itself, leaving me hollowed out. I never for a minute allow myself to abandon the knowledge he will come home alive. I will never abandon Edan.
With the transition to President Trump’s administration, there have been renewed efforts and ongoing diplomatic engagement. I’m so happy for the families which have been reunited with their loved ones. I appreciate the time and dedication of those working tirelessly behind the scenes—diplomats, negotiators, and officials who meet with me, listen to my concerns, and assure me that Edan has not been forgotten. I’ve had to learn to balance between hope and protection against disappointment, frustration and rage at my powerlessness in this situation.
As an American mother of an American hostage, I’m grateful for the continued attention from our government. Officials have been accessible and transparent about the challenges involved in these complex negotiations. I understand the diplomatic intricacies intellectually, even as my heart as a mother struggles with the pace of progress. The path to bringing American hostages home is rarely straightforward, but knowing there are dedicated professionals working on Edan’s case provides some comfort during this unbearable wait.
The waiting has a texture all its own. Living in Tenafly, New Jersey, I’m thousands of miles from where Edan is held, but I have to also try to maintain a normal routine for Edan’s brother and sister. Those miles feel insurmountable some days. I hope he knows we haven’t forgotten him, that we’re fighting for him every minute of every day.
I think often about how Edan chose to move to Israel after high school, how he embraced his Jewish identity and elected to enlist in voluntary IDF service. He was just doing his job on that terrible day, stationed at the Gaza border. Now, that sense of duty has cost him his freedom, and I live with both pride in his choices and anguish at their consequences.
Other hostage families have become my lifeline. We understand each other in ways no one else can. We share information, strategies, and comfort. We hold each other up when the burden becomes too heavy for one set of shoulders. When hostages were released during previous exchanges, I felt genuine joy for those families while my heart splintered anew.
People ask how I manage to keep going. The truth is there is no alternative. Stopping is not an option when your child is captive. I’ve become part of what family members call “the hostage business”—a full-time job of advocacy and awareness that I never wanted but cannot abandon. Some days, simply getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. Other days, I find myself laughing at something before remembering my situation and feeling guilty for experiencing joy while Edan suffers.
The world’s attention is fickle. I work to keep his story alive, to remind people that Americans remain in captivity. I’ve learned to collaborate with officials and media to maintain awareness. Each time public interest wanes, I push harder, knowing that visibility matters.
As Israel celebrates its independence this week, I’m speaking at another rally, reminding everyone that true freedom cannot exist while our loved ones remain in captivity. I continue to work with both Israeli and American officials, appreciating their sustained commitment to finding a resolution that will bring Edan and others home.
Sleep eludes me most nights. I lie awake wondering if Edan is cold, hungry, afraid. Is he being treated for his asthma? Does he think we’ve forgotten him? Does he know how relentlessly we fight for him? In my darkest moments, I pray he’s still alive, though I cannot allow that thought to take root.
I’ve learned that grief and hope can coexist, that strength often looks like vulnerability, and that there is no guidebook for this journey. I’ve discovered reserves of resilience I never knew I possessed and encountered kindness from strangers that has moved me to tears. I’ve also witnessed the dedication of government officials who continue to work on hostage negotiations despite the immense challenges of negotiating with a terror organization.
With negotiations continuing but no deal yet in sight, I live between worlds—one foot in normal life where bills must be paid and other family members need attention, the other in the all-consuming realm of advocacy and waiting. I wake each morning with the weight of Edan’s absence, and I go to sleep each night with a prayer that tomorrow might be different.
After 18 months, I have changed irrevocably. I will never again take for granted the simple text messages Edan used to send, the sound of his voice on the phone, or his presence at our family table. When—not if—Edan returns, we will both be different people than we were before. But I will be waiting, however long it takes, with unchanging love and the fierce determination that only a mother fighting for her child can know.
Until then, I continue this unending wait, sustained by the ongoing efforts of diplomats and officials, and by my belief that someday this essay will be a memory of a nightmare that finally ended. And I beg – to President Trump – please put pressure on the negotiating teams for a deal that will bring home my son – before your next 100 day landmark.
