The Promise On My Wrist

In Jewish tradition it is said that a person dies twice, the first time when our heart stops. And the second? When our name is said for the last time.

It is for that reason I still wear a yellow ribbon on my wrist, and if I’m honest, I don’t know when I’ll be ready to stop. I know some already have, our living hostages are home, that is something to celebrate and I feel such a sense of joy in knowing some of my prayers have been answered. Grief and healing are such personal processes, so I understand the choice, but still I hesitate.

I first wore it October 7^th 2024, the one year anniversary of that tragic day. It started as an act of quiet defiance, in memory of those we lost, those we waited for, and those whom we still wait to come home. Since that day it has served as a reminder, not only of our loss, but of our strength. We are not Jews with trembling knees, and to be part of such a community is something that words cannot comprehend.

It is also a refusal to forget, to let their names fade. Forgetting feels like a betrayal and I fear that second loss. I fear for the day their names are spoken for that final time. I suppose wearing the ribbon is a promise, to myself, to others and to the world, that I refuse to forget them. To share their stories and keep their memory alive. I may not know all of their names; but I carry the weight of them on my heart and in my soul.

יהי זכרם ברוך

May their memory be a blessing

Wearing the ribbon also provides opportunity. I don’t know how many people have noticed it, perhaps a few or perhaps them all. I’ve worn it quietly, never has it been raised, and I never expected it to start a conversation. Not after all this time, but recently someone did. I’ll be honest, it caught me off guard. I’ve never had anyone ask before: not friends, not colleagues, not strangers. But it was a moment I won’t forget soon. Whether it was out of curiosity or care, or even a combination of the two… whatever the reason it felt like compassion. And it was nice to talk about it, to someone who has not lived through it in the same way I have. I’ve often felt like I have no voice, or at least that it doesn’t matter. That I’m screaming out into a void where no one cares to listen. But in this moment I had a chance to speak, to share a little bit of that grief, albeit fleeting. I think, in that moment, I didn’t feel quite so alone. It reminded me that maybe there are people out there listening after all.

So here I am, still waiting, still praying, but also practising joy.  I wait and pray for those who remain, for their families and friends who still hang in limbo. But I am also allowing myself to feel joy, to dance again.

And dance again I will, because even in the darkest of times a little bit of light always seems to find its way.