For some reason, a Spanish expression comes to mind which may end up being the only funny thing in this post. “Eramos muchos, y parió mi abuela.” There were a lot of us already, then Grandma had a baby. You say it when things go from bad to worse.

Things had been as bad as they could possibly be, and then the news came today that four corpses will return to Israel tomorrow. These four:

These bodies have been held in Gaza for over 500 days and return home tomorrow, in exchange for convicted murderers who are alive and well, because apparently this is what we’ve come to.

I hope that these souls flew free long before now, because the state of the living October 7 hostages who are just returning home now is beyond frightening. I hope these beautiful babies, whose names and faces are forever seared into my soul, did not suffer the way the adults did — underground in airless tunnels with scarce rotten food, with seawater to drink, enduring constant torture and psychological torment. I hope their beautiful mother died at the same time they did, and did not have to witness her babies being murdered. What a monstrous thought to have. I hope their husband and father, who returned alive from hell recently, is somehow able to find a will to live.

Oded was known to his grandkids as “Super Saba” (Super Grandpa). He helped found Kibbutz Nir Oz, and he drove Gazans for medical treatment in Israel. He was committed to peace. He was murdered by his neighbors.

I have had posters of these faces up in my office since November 2023, when I first became aware that there were people in America who could see a poster of a kidnapped infant and decide to rip it down because it highlighted an inconvenient truth which challenged their diseased worldview. I knew I needed to take a stand, so I printed posters and hung as many in my office as I could find space for, because I knew no one would rip them down. This means that I have stared at these faces for nearly 500 days. They are a part of my life. Every news article that appeared about the hostages, I would look over the faces and update accordingly. My grim daily task has been to account for the innocent people dragged to hell, to print new flyers to replace the ones I take down when I hear a hostage has been killed, or, on rare occasions, rescued.

My workplace grief has been alienating. One of my officemates is someone I can confide in, and when I was leaving the office today, we hugged and I cried. I know there are other supportive people in my workplace, but at this point I am not seeking them out. They are silently supportive, because that’s their privilege, but that isn’t something that carries me all that far.

Recently at work we had a quarterly DEI meeting where we shared the stories of our names. I decided to talk about my last name instead of my first name. I wrote about my family and looked back at the family tree my father had painstakingly compiled, which went back to 1791. And in doing so, I noticed something that I’d never noticed before. For six generations — SIX GENERATIONS — my family lived in the same small town in Poland. My grandfather deserted the Polish army and went to Argentina in 1928 (and much of his family were murdered by the Nazis), and from then on, we have wandered. My parents were born in Argentina, my brothers in Israel, me in Brazil. The thinking had been, when we got to the United States, that this would be our new home. Then the 2016 election happened. And then, against all reason, the 2024 election happened. And now this place that has been home is being rapidly dismantled by racist, hateful, antisemitic kleptocrats, who have not forgotten to meddle in the arts this time around. So I have returned to wondering, Where is home?

This post is sort of all over the place, because I am too, right now. Today I finished the third of five courses in the certificate program I’m doing this year. The latest fallout from my cancer journey was needing to get injections of steroids into my eyes, and the latest indignity of aging was throwing my back out last Thursday, merely because I bent down to pick something up in the shower. I planned a short solo vacation to Tucson, which I’m leaving for tomorrow. Now I’m more worried about traveling and back pain and heartbreaking news updates coming at regular intervals, all of which make me wonder how much I will manage to make this trip a recharge and a reset. I know it all depends on how much time I spend on my phone, so I am going to try to figure out a good way to stay informed, but also not spend five days feeling outraged against a beautiful desert backdrop. Wish me luck?