For most Israelis, the war that began with the Hamas massacre on October 7, 2023, is over. They are talking about the Swords of Iron war in the past tense. Yes, the body of hostage Ran Gvili, a member of the Yasam police counter-terror unit who defended Kibbutz Alumim on the day of the attack and was killed, remains held captive. Yes, our sons, sons-in-law, nephews, neighbors and friends are still serving intense days of reserve duty.
But it's time to 'get back to life' they say. And many Israelis have really done so. That is truly amazing and I am so happy for them and for the country.
I wish it was that easy for me. Because life for me and my family will never be the same. My son, Amichai Yisrael Yehoshua Oster, fell in Gaza two years ago. We will go to his grave on Friday to mark his yartzheit, and weather permitting we will then go to the park we established in his memory overlooking his beloved Nahal Kana, to sing the songs that he loved and to remember him.
Throughout the war, the loss of my son was something that confronted me every day. I work in the news. I have spent many, many days preparing articles about fallen soldiers, their funerals, their families. This was so very difficult, and many times I relived the trauma of the knock on the door, the funeral and the massive shiva. Even now, there are articles nearly every day about memorial projects, the rehabilitation of soldiers injured both in body and soul.
I thought that once the active fighting was over I would be able to move forward. To be able to think about Amichai without crying or getting a physical pain in my chest or gut. I am still waiting for this to happen.
Certainly, some of it is that we have already passed the date of his falling on the Gregorian calendar and are busy preparing for the events surrounding his memorial. (This, too, is difficult to wrap the mind around – ordering food and drinks and planning an 'event' for your dead son.)
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Amichai Oster writes a letter in a new Torah scroll dedicated at Kibbutz Be'eri just weeks after the start of the war
(Photo: Courtesy)
But it is clear that this is something we will be living in and with for the rest of our lives, despite the "end" of the war.
And the truth is, I am not sure which is worse, not forgetting or forgetting. Every time I think about Amichai – his smile, his zest for life, his music, his calming presence – it hurts. I need some relief from the pain. But it would be worse not to remember him or talk about him. I dread the day that it becomes difficult to scrape together a minyan at his graveside for his yartzheit, when we only have to order food for the immediate family and sit down to a quiet meal afterwards.
Perhaps the worst part of the after-war period for me is that it is giving everyone a chance to reflect on the last two years. And since no one wants to dwell on the horrible and difficult parts of the war, they are focusing on its miracles.
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Amichai Oster at Yellowstone National Park during his post-army trip, which he cut short to return to Israel after October 7
(Photo: Courtesy)
The houses that were destroyed in missile attacks but the families that were saved by being in their safe rooms; the explosives placed on the tanks or on the side of the road that did not detonate against our troops, and the incredible successes in saving the lives of our soldiers on the battlefield.
We here at ynet Global have published many stories about soldiers who were practically dead on the Gaza battlefield, who would have died in previous wars, who today are alive and getting married or running marathons or starting university. Or are in rehabilitation and looking forward to doing these things after what could be a long process. These are amazing stories and I am so happy for their families.
But this is the most painful part for me. Because we did not get our miracle. My son did not get his miracle. He did not live. Where was our miracle? Why was my son not saved?
These are, obviously, unanswerable questions. And I am sure there are those that think these are questions that I should not be asking. But I do. Every time that we publish an article about a soldier that was miraculously saved or recovered. Every time someone tells me that it was God's will that my son leave this world so soon or that it is all for the good. Every time that someone tells me that God only takes the best.
Marcy Oster Photo: CourtesyI just wanted a miracle.
And, as I have previously acknowledged publicly, I know that I have so many blessings to thank God for, both before and after Amichai fell. The latest one is just around the corner, when my younger son, who also served in Gaza during the war, will stand under the chuppah with his beloved, and they will build their new life together here in Israel. Every time a young couple finds each other it is a miracle. So, I know there are miracles in store for our family. If only there could have been one more.
Our family is healthy, and growing, and happy, and also, especially this week, so very sad.
Marcy Oster is a ynet Global editor and editorial contributor