Every parent knows anxiety. But there's a special kind that comes with watching those two blue ticks appear on WhatsApp – the digital heartbeat that tells us our children are still alive. For those of us with sons and daughters in Gaza, these tiny blue marks have become our lifeline, our moment of daily resurrection.
We've developed new rituals in this war. The compulsive phone-checking. The way we leave our ringers on full volume, even in meetings, even at night. The silent prayers we whisper each time we send a message. Sometimes, I catch myself holding my breath until those grey marks turn blue.
Minutes feel like hours. Hours like days. Time warps in this waiting space. I find myself staring at old messages, at photos from before, when my soldier son's biggest worry was what to do on the weekend. Now he's navigating the concrete maze of Gaza, where every corner, every doorway, every shadow could hide an enemy.
The blue check marks aren't just message confirmations anymore – they're proof of life. When they appear, I can breathe again. When they don't, my mind races to places no parent should have to go. I've memorized the sound of every possible phone notification, learned to distinguish between a regular message and an official military one.
We're all part of this silent brotherhood now – parents across Israel, united in our vigil over phone screens, waiting for those precious blue marks. We understand each other without words. A knowing look in the supermarket, a sympathetic nod at a café – we recognize the same haunted expectation in each other's eyes.
Some say it's harder knowing than not knowing. In previous wars, parents would wait days for letters, weeks for news. But this instant connection comes with its own torture – the expectation of immediate response, the spiral of worry when minutes stretch too long without reply.
Every day, I see posts from other parents: "My son hasn't been online for 12 hours." "Has anyone heard from Unit X?" We've become digital sentries, keeping watch together, sharing in collective relief when someone's child finally checks in, holding our breath when they don't.
This is the unseen battlefield of every war – the home front where parents wage their own daily struggles with fear and hope. We carry on with our routines, we go to work, we make dinner, we try to maintain normalcy. But our hearts are in Gaza, following our children through dangerous streets, willing those blue check marks to appear.
Tonight, like every night, we'll send our messages. And we'll wait. Because that's what we do now – we wait, we hope, we pray. And when those ticks turn blue, for one precious moment, all is right with the world again.
Until tomorrow, when we start the vigil anew.
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