I fumbled for my phone and texted the number listed before I’d change my mind: Count me in

Join Klal Yisrael.

Standing in line at the supermarket, the bold lettering held my attention and drew me to read more. The flyer made it clear enough: Learn one halachah of shemiras halashon over the phone every night in the zechus of a hostage. Sign up to receive a name, and get a phone call with the day’s halachah recorded. Signatures of two rabbanim I recognized were scrawled at the bottom, endorsing the campaign, but other than that, there was no logo, no catchy slogan. Just a graphic of a globe and a picture of the Chofetz Chaim.

I fumbled for my phone and texted the number listed before I’d change my mind: Count me in.

I still don’t know what made me do it. While my friends and neighbors had instantly leapt into action at the start of the war, coming up with initiatives and campaigns by the minute — challah bakes, yard sales, fundraisers, chizuk events, Tehillim groups — my approach was to clap both hands over my ears. Awed as I was by Am Yisrael’s resilience and ingenuity for chesed even in the darkest times, I felt paralyzed, more like an observer than an active player in this saga. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and have someone tell me when it was over. Keeping my distance was the only way I could function. The grief, pain, and fear were too raw, too deep to confront, so like a coward, I retreated.

And then this poster stared me in the face and demanded otherwise. Join Klal Yisrael. Hold hands with those who are still living the nightmare, who despair that we have abandoned them, and whose fate is unknown. Receive the name of one hostage, learn a halachah in their zechus. Keep them in your tefillos and thoughts.

A while later, my phone buzzed. Barely realizing I was holding my breath, I opened the message.

Amelia bas Danielle.

Her name glowed on my cell phone, and I firmly decided I would do my part in bringing her home. That night while doing the dishes, I found my thoughts moving toward Amelia. I tried to picture her, but with only a name, she could be anyone. Was she the dark, curly haired sabra in her thirties who rose to my mind’s eye? Or an elderly savta? Or… My musings grew dark, and I pushed the thoughts away with a shudder. Whatever Amelia looks like, she must be scared. So scared.

Biting my lip, I dried my hands and pulled out a pen. Amelia… how would I spell that? Ayin, probably. Then mem…. When I was through, her name in Hebrew struck me with a new layer of meaning. Ami-l’kah: My people to Hashem. Isn’t that what challenge is about? With tears pricking my eyelids, I davened for Amelia. I asked Hashem for the safety of this woman whose identity I could only imagine, for her wholeness, her return.

Leafing through some articles the next day, I began to read an account of a family who had been abducted in the attack. Young parents with twin girls, who’d invited their sister, a single mother, and her five-year-old daughter for a relaxing weekend with family. What could be more picturesque than that? I wanted to put the article down before it got worse, but a photo near the bottom of the page caught my eye. A charming blonde girl smiling impishly at the camera, enjoying a Popsicle while wrapped in her mother’s arms. The caption read: Danielle Aloni, 44, and her daughter Amelia are being held captive in Gaza.

I stared, blinking dumbly at the photo while it sank in. My names!

Now, with more than a name, I felt like I was meeting them for the first time. Amelia wasn’t a woman, old or young. She’s a girl. A sweet little girl no older than my own children. Heat rose to my face as I thought of the unspeakable horrors she’d seen and the hardened beasts who could look into the terrified face of a mother and her child, remaining cold as stone. I resisted the urge to push the thoughts away; instead, I brought them nearer.

That night, and every night since, as I learned my halachah, I cradled Amelia in my mind and whispered to her. Buried wellsprings of emotion burst open, and I shed tears for her and her mother, begging Hashem that they be alive and get through this together.

It was a reminder that for every name, hostage, soldier, victim, there is a face. They have families, identities, lives that have been brutally and irreversibly altered.

Suddenly, I couldn’t learn enough. My earlier denial was replaced by a desire to connect to these people, to Klal Yisrael.

My coworkers were puzzled at my newfound interest, and I shared Amelia’s story with them and everyone I knew. My sister Ariella was especially moved; living in Yerushalayim with her husband and infant, Ariella felt the war much more than I did. She shares a similar aversion to hearing details, but where she is, you can’t really escape it.

“I was on my way home from work, and there was this huge billboard — huge,” Ariella told me in a hushed voice. “It was covered with pictures, and the words ‘Bring Them Home.’ ” Her voice dropped yet lower. “And they were all children….”

One Sunday morning, my phone rang. It was Ariella. Her voice had a cautious sound to it.

“I didn’t want to call too early, but I really wanted to speak to you. I’m reading off a list right now. Danielle Aloni and Amelia Aloni. They’re your names, right?”

I stammered a quick yes. What kind of list is it? Is this good news or bad news?

“They’re home. They were released in the exchange over the weekend.”

My pent-up breath escaped in a sigh, and tears — these of joy — pricked my eyelids. Ariella told me everything she knew; they were in good condition and together. That’s all I needed. We hung up, taking comfort that they were alive. They’re safe now.

I continue to learn a halachah of shemiras halashon nightly, still in Amelia’s zechus. I think about the long road ahead of her and her family, and I want to continue doing my part to ease it. I think, too, about how allowing her suffering to penetrate my defenses melted the distance between us, allowing me to feel the ultimate truth: We are one.

Join Klal Yisrael. I’m glad I did.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 875)