These days, you need to factor in more time when planning to leave Israel from Ben Gurion Airport. Come to think of it, you need extra time whether you’re leaving or entering Israel.
If you are leaving, alongside the moving walkway that leads to the duty free, food court, and departure gates, on the glass is a long line of large photograph-posters, one after the other, of the hostages held in Gaza. At the top of the poster is the hostage’s name and age, printed in red on a white background.
When you arrive, you pass the same posters along the walkway that brings you to passport control.
It’s such a painful walk.
And such a painful reminder: you may be leaving or returning to Israel, but for the hostages, nothing has changed. They have lost their freedom of movement. They are in captivity. The posters highlight the contrast of the freedom to travel with the hostages’ frozen fate.
You can’t just briskly walk by, business as usual, running to catch your flight. It stops you in your tracks. No matter how many times I have been at the airport and passed these faces, these people, these hostages, when my eyes meet theirs, my blood runs cold. It is always jarring.
The posters of the hostages are everywhere in Israel. From busy streets to city center squares and, perhaps, in the details on a door of an elegant boutique. The hostages are with us every where we turn.
The thing is, at the airport they are each framed in their own right; they each have a space of their own, and are large. You really look and see each of the faces, the people and names I feel so connected to for sadly over a year now. Thanksgiving was 419.”
At the airport, these large posters have become personal. Passersby, friends and strangers alike add their own touches. Handwritten notes of longing or hope. Stickers of various insider quips. Quotes describing the person’s character. Accessories representing their hobbies. Favorite sports team memorabilia. And, of course, the yellow ribbon and little blue and white Israeli flags.
Many posters also have stickers of encouragement. Or verses from Jewish tradition, such as “emor me’at va’asei harbei, speak little but do much.” Often, the urgent “Bring Them Home Now” stickers will are layered over the others. Sometimes, there will be pictures of a hostage’s hobby, such as a bicycle or a guitar. Random sticky notes like “it could have been me,” or artistic pencil sketches of their faces, or graphics of a favorite food such as ice cream . . . it’s all there. And somehow the hostages each come alive with these personal touches and reminders.
I’ve seen birthday balloons, when it was a hostage’s birthday.
Sometimes, your heart stops, because the picture, the familiar face and person you feel you have come to sort of know, is still there — even after you know they have been executed, no longer on the official hostage list.
This last time I was in the airport, glued to the side of one of the photos was a miniature, crisp, black-and-white notice of death, holding his name. His death had just been announced.
They’re all there. Old, young middle aged. With glasses, without. Long hair. Short. Serious. Smiling.
But then there is an area that is more full than the rest. Suddenly you catch sight of little stuffies such as Mickey Mouse, teddy bears, little trucks, trains and wagons. Stuffed hearts, and even a little baby carraige. Pacifiers. Blankies.
It’s the little redheaded Bibas brothers.
Somehow the hustle and bustle of an airport suddenly feels transformed into a sacred space.
It’s the gateway, the threshold, the door of the country, and as you pause at this national gate, entering or leaving, about to embark on new adventures and possibilities, you leave the airport carrying these hostages with you, in a visceral way.
You’re leaving, they are still left behind.
You are allowed passage. They are not.
As you leave the borders, the feeling enters your bones. They too are beyond the borders, but trapped in the darkness of hell.
It is a painful juxtaposition.
Part of current Israeli life.
© IJN 2024
