‘The Mother You Knew’

My son, Oz, was kidnapped in July 2000 while visiting his father in the States.

My life came to a standstill. My daughter Sevan, who returned to Israel without her brother, was overwhelmed.

The years that have since passed are foggy; events waned along­side mundane chores of daily life, leaving meaningless trails of inci­dental happenings void of any significance. Overcome with despair and paralyzed emotionally by the pain of my son’s disappearance, I merely reacted to my surroundings with indifference. Nothing aroused my interest nor left its imprint on me. Days passed blend­ing into sleepless nights, one long slackened breath that lingered over many years erasing all other reflections in my life.

Throughout the first five years of Oz’ disappearance I battled the American legal system tossing between a sense of desperate loss and a childish hope that, maybe, despite all, justice would be found within the courtroom. I clung to hope and refused to let go. I under­stood that without it I wouldn’t be able to go on. Sevan’s presence forced me not to give up and urged me to continue living so as not to allow her a motherless existence. Darien, her father, had already given up on her from the start when he decided to sever all ties between both children as part of his sick vengeance against me.

As time went on the days seemed longer. I wished to put an end to the sorrow and frustration that threatened to ignite in me uncontrollable madness, yet I remained passive lacking any cour­age. My world had shrunk. I merely existed and didn’t even con­sider revenge, though there were moments when my inner storms threatened to spark uncontrollable savagery. I was overwrought with fears of losing my son and longings for him and sometimes I even doubted my sanity. I’d shut my eyes and listen to Oz’ voice, afraid that he might be ill or wet in the rain. I feared he’d cry or become overwhelmed with sadness but mostly I worried about the loneliness and isolated existence that was forced upon him and threatened to derail his somewhat frail mind. And the lon­ger time passed the more I wished to guard my memories of him, and hold onto his image that clung to me day and night. I saw him everywhere, in every dimple that crossed my way. His clumsy gait appeared in front of me on sidewalks or odd places; I heard his met­al like voice in strange conversations while his laughter flickered from hidden corners. I imagined him walking with his dog along the esplanade and patting it as he listened to music or had his friends over for dinner.

How I wish I could rewrite the events, change the reality that transpired as a result of the kidnapping and recreate a very differ­ent one from that which crushed my small family. But my biggest weakness of all, my fear of violence, ultimately won and paralyzed me into passivity by forcing me to freeze in place.

I grew up in a home with little love and the much-needed sup­port for nurturing family ties. What happened in our house reflect­ed my parents’ lack of understanding of my sister’s mental illness, enabling riots and madness to rule our home. Our sick home sprout­ed cruelty and distortions that contributed, years past our child­hood, to my son’s kidnapping. As a child I was scared to breathe or voice my wants and didn’t understand how to negotiate situations or reach compromises. My sister Naomi used paralyzing violence to get what she wanted and my parents chose to ignore it. I was ter­rified of that constant paralysis and of always losing ground to her and carried those fears with me long after I’d left home. Those same frightening emotions also formed the basis of my marriage and accompanied me throughout the divorce proceedings. The price of the divorce was horrific culminating in my son’s kidnapping. The brutality of the act and the vicious manner, in which all ties with my son were severed overnight, caused my small family to fall apart and left me crazed with pain and worry.