Kumzitz songs, slow songs, gratitude and yearning and chizuk and sweet, simple joy

The classroom is an explosion of balloons. On the walls, on the ceiling, tied to chairs, and bobbing gently at the windows. Every color, different shapes, a mismatch of metallic balloons in turquoise and silver alongside regular party balloons in bold kiddie reds, blues, yellows, oranges, and greens—

I blink. And then, before I can even register the scene, I’m greeted with a wave of song: Chasdei Hashem, ki lo samnu, ki lo chalu rachamav…

My classmates are dancing toward the door, arms around each other, voices raised in song and smiles beaming on their faces.

They’re dancing toward me. For me.

The balloons, the party…

It’s for me.

Mrs. Gerber signals me to come inside. Her face is wreathed in smiles. “We just had to celebrate the wonderful news, Ashira,” she says, eyes crinkling and looking slightly damp. “We were all so relieved to hear from Raizy that your parents were found. And when she said you’d be coming in to school today, we decided to celebrate together with you.”

I am stupefied into silence. After the overwhelming relief of hearing the news yesterday, we’d waited for a while until Abba and Ima were able to speak on the phone, once the armored cars were out of the danger zone and things were a little quieter. Just thinking about that moment, hearing their voices again, makes me want to break down all over again.

Of course, I’d cried. And even when we’d finished on the phone — Abba and Ima had to go, they were trying to make arrangements for travel, together with the officials at the embassy who were helping them — I’d cried and cried some more.

It was like the whole terrible week had merged inside me and was now erupting, a geyser of terror and fear and grief and relief and joy mingled with sheer, utter exhaustion.