Ode to the Bibas Family

 When they took you, they did not know your name.

They did not know you loved the orchard, and trucks, and your hero, Batman.

They did not think about your cousins, your aunts and uncles, your grandparents (two of whom they killed.)

They just saw you and your baby brother as helpless children, Israelis, Jews.

Your father, who knew your name and your penchant for kumquats, worried you would be too loud in the not-so-safe room. He risked his life for you.

Your mother held you and your brother tight, fearing the worst, knowing the worst. She would have given the world to protect you and little Kfir, too.

When they wrested you from your home, stole you from your paintbrushes and toy cars and superhero DVDs, you were just a nameless, blameless victim.

For five hundred days, the world has cried your family’s names: Yarden. Shiri. Kfir. Ariel.

Only your father came home, but what is a home without his loves?

For five hundred days, we honored your rites of passage, costume-less Purims, unhappy birthdays, and imagined you were still alive. We deluded ourselves with a pyrrhic and unfounded hope.

For five hundred years, or more, the world will remember Bibas, Bibas, Bibas.

You were just a little boy, a big brother, not aiming to be the mascot for a peace plea, or a revenge chant. But here we are, now.

If only you had come home alive…

If only there were no war….

If only we knew each other by more than name alone, but by heart.