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One mother, two small, terrified children, and a thin blanket wrapped around them—shielding them from the evil that surrounds them. A pair of frightened eyes pleading for help, begging for a sliver of mercy: "Just don’t touch my children."
And yet, despite the terror, her hands do not rise in surrender. They hold on, clutching tightly, refusing to let go. Holding onto life. A lioness of a mother, standing alone before bloodthirsty murderers who abducted her, her husband, and her children from their home. Around her, shouts and armed terrorists. No one to protect her. No one to save them.
She stands before them with only one power—one that belongs to her alone: A mother’s love.
Shiri Bibas and her children Ariel and Kfir have become the symbol of this war. I look at that image and cannot believe what has taken place here, in free Israel, in a country with a strong army. So where was everyone? Where was God? Where was humanity?
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This image stirs memories of other haunting images—photos of children from 80 years ago. But back then, there was no state, no army. The world remained silent.
Since then, we built a country. We flourished. We rejoiced. And yet, it turns out that a murderous hatred for Jewish children still exists, even 80 years after the Holocaust. Even in our sovereign land. And yesterday, the story of Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir came to a horrific end. We had hoped for a different ending, but here we are, in tears.
We are a people who move between pain and joy—this is our history. We fall and rise again. We stand before such images, we weep, and then we lift our heads and rebuild. Our victory is in our ability to rise. And from this moment on, we have an obligation—to Shiri and her boys. We must be better, more compassionate, hold onto hope, and work to change reality.
We have a mission—to rewrite the ending of Shiri and the children’s terrible story. To bring our brothers and sisters home. To defeat the forces of evil that would abduct children. To rebuild our Israel—strong, caring, determined, and secure for its people. To ensure that Ariel and Kfir will be the last children ever photographed in a moment of terror.
At the very spot where that horrific image was taken, I envision a picture of hope: children playing on the grass in Nir Oz, babies crawling along the paths, elderly men and women sitting on benches in Kfar Aza. I see everything blooming once more.

But imagining is not enough. We must act. And we will. We are a people who know how to rise. And from this, too, we will rise. We will repair. We will restore hope.
Miriam Peretz is an educator and public speaker and the Bereavedmother of 2 sons killed in the defense of Israel