I am a mother with no grave to visit. No final embrace.

This Sunday, America will mark Mother’s Day — a day to honor the bond between a mother and her child.

For me, it will mark 580 days since I last saw my son, Tamir.

On October 7th, 2023, Tamir was taken. He was 38 years old. A father of two. A husband. A devoted son. A man who loved the soil of our kibbutz, who believed in hard work, and who stood up — unarmed — to defend our home when terrorists stormed through our gates. He was wounded, kidnapped, and murdered. And yet, 580 days later, he is still being held in Gaza.

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I am a mother with no grave to visit. No final embrace. No place to say Kaddish.

There is no name for a parent who has lost a child. Widows. Orphans. These words exist. But when your child is stolen — and never returned, not even in death — language fails. The silence is the wound. The absence, the ache. I don’t need a word to describe it. I live it every single day.

When you become a mother, everything changes. You no longer think in terms of your own life, but in terms of theirs. You stay up at night worrying. You tend to every scratch. You invest in their future. You dream about who they’ll grow up to be — the values they’ll carry, the life they’ll build. You protect them as best you can, for as long as you can.

Until one day, you can’t.

He was supposed to visit me later that morning. But then — he was gone.

I often try to explain the feeling to people who haven’t lived it. It’s like walking with your child through a crowded store. You’re holding his hand. You turn your head for just a second. And he’s gone. Disappeared. Stolen. You call his name. You run in every direction. Your heart pounds. You can’t breathe. And no one helps. No one finds him. Then imagine this panic — this primal, overwhelming fear — lasting not for one day, but for nearly two years.

We later learned that Tamir had been injured trying to defend himself. That he died in captivity. But even in death, they didn’t let him go. Hamas is still holding his body — as if he were a bargaining chip, as if he were less than human.

What kind of people do that? What kind of world allows it?

This isn’t about politics. It’s about humanity. It’s about decency. It’s about the most basic truth every parent understands: no mother should have to beg for her child’s body. No family should be forced to live in limbo, denied even the right to mourn.

When a person dies, we bury them. We say prayers. We bring flowers. We light candles. We build something — a resting place, a legacy, a way to go on. But without a body, there is no burial. Without burial, there is no peace. There is only suspension — an endless, aching, unnatural pause.

Tamir is not “gone.” He is missing. He is still being held by those who murdered him. And I cannot move forward until he is returned.

I do not want sympathy this Mother’s Day. I want Tamir back. I want to bury my son.

That is why I share this with you now. Because I still believe in the values that have long defined both Israel and America — family, dignity, and moral clarity in the face of evil. These are not abstract ideals. They are lived, tested, and revealed in moments like this.

Our leaders have influence. Our voices have power. We can make a difference.

I’m asking you: speak out. Urge your representatives to demand that Hamas return the hostages it holds. Insist that any diplomatic engagement include the return of the dead — not as a gesture, but as a requirement. As a condition of basic decency.

Tamir was not a soldier. He was a civilian. He died protecting his home, not waging war. What justice is there in denying his family the right to bury him?

You don’t have to know Tamir to stand with him. You just have to be a parent. Or a sibling. Or a human being who understands that death should not be weaponized. That grief should not be held hostage.

Every mother deserves the right to say goodbye to her child. Every child deserves to be brought home.

This Mother’s Day, many of you will gather with your families, surrounded by love. I hope you hold your children close. I hope you cherish the blessing of seeing their faces. And I hope, in the quiet moments, you remember those of us who cannot celebrate—not because our children are gone, but because we are not even allowed to grieve them.

I will never stop being Tamir’s mother. And I will never stop fighting to bring him home.