I never talked to her about it. But there was no need. There has always been a deep pain in her eyes. Sometimes she would call my mother in the morning and tell her she dreamt of him again. That one fine morning he knocks on her door, standing there with a big smile and says to her: "Mother, I came back." Then she would wake up. When they asked her how she knew it was him, she would tell about a mole he had on his foot. That’s how a mother is like – she knows her children better than anyone else does. That’s how a mother is like – she knows her children better than anyone else does.

Any bereaved mother will tell you she knows that dream. But my grandmother was not a bereaved mother. My grandmother's child was kidnapped. One fine day they took her child of her hands, when he was a year and a half old. One moment she breastfed him, a few hours later - his bed was empty. They told her he died. A healthy child - died. Where is he? Where is the grave? Where is the death certificate? "Sorry, ma'am, none of these are available. Welcome to Israel".

"Where is my son?"

Grandfather Shlomo and Grandmother Naomi immigrated to Israel in 1949 with the 3-year-old Rachel and the one and a half year-old Saadia. In the immigrant camp in Rosh HaAyin two people were always around, Yemenites, "our people", who urged parents to transfer the babies to a nursery near Tzrifin. They claimed that the shacks where the families lived (including the aunts and uncles) were too small, and so this would be best for everyone. They assured the mothers that they would be able to visit and breastfeed their babies every day.

For several weeks, every day, my grandmother went with the other mothers on a truck from Rosh HaAyin to Tzrifin to breastfeed Saadia. One morning, my grandmother nursed her little baby (who already knew how to mumble a few words), brought him back to his bed and left the compound. The mothers were not allowed to stay close to the babies, so she waited for the next feeding time. But when she returned, she found an empty bed.

"Where is my son?" Grandmother asked in amazement. "There is no child," said the nurses, "he is dead. She burst into tears. "He was healthy in the morning. I want to see him." Any attempt to get answers, from nurses and from the Agency representatives at the nursery and in the immigrant camp, was answered with excuses. For example, when my grandparents asked where the grave was, they were told it was "too far for you". That same day, an announcement declared in the immigrant camp: Saadia Nagar has died.

Death certificate per request

My grandparents were conformists. They voted Mapai (the Israeli Labour party in those days). My grandfather even has a picture with David Ben-Gurion, which was framed and hung on the wall of their home, and when Begin said "I can no longer", he sent him a letter of support. Such were the Yemenis of that time: innocent, believing in the establishment who brought them to the Holy Land. Maybe it explains why most of the kidnapped babies were members of the community (along with kidnapped babies from other Muslim countries and the Balkans). Maybe my grandparents thought Saadia was really dead. But deep down, without a grave to cry on, they believed it was not true. Doubts and questions troubled their minds all the time: Where is he? Who is looking after him? Is he eating? Does he sleep well? Is he warm? You know - the kind of questions every parent asks themselves when their child goes away on a first class trip. And contrary to what people think about their generation, they were deeply loving and warm people. And a mother’s pain, who forever feels her baby feeding on her breast, remains there until her death.

Their life went on, they moved to and from several other immigrant settlements until they found their home in Ra'anana. But that memory stayed there, inside them, in a tightly sealed box. My grandfather never talked about Saadia. He was a sensitive man, and preferred to lavish endless warmth and love on his living children. My grandmother was hurting; not every day, and it was not discussed over Friday dinners in their joyful home, but occasionally she remembered his baby’s mumbling ways: How he asked for a "Ka’aka" (a Yemeni cookie), and how he called his older sister "Lulah".

In the early '60s, when Saadia was to reach the age of 18, a draft order arrived at their home for him. Then came the voter’s card, and that opened the deep old wound. His 11 brothers and sisters, most of them born after he disappeared, felt this was enough. They appealed to the Knesset, appealed to government ministers, and finally received a death certificate which they felt was printed there and then simply for them. In the burial plot that appeared on the death certificate, in the Segula cemetery, are some old graves, over-grown with weeds and mysterious, some without names. And now go believe this is the burial place of your son, your brother, my uncle.

Saadia was not the only one who received a draft order and a voter’s card, and in the 60s an outcry rose up. The community held conferences, issued a call for people with similar stories, and slowly the evidence piled up and hard questions were asked. Over the years, Israel established committees of investigation, evidence was presented, and still the same questions are left unanswered. Depends who you ask.

How can this be? Just like that!

When I tell friends, in some random small talk, that my uncle was kidnapped or went missing (again - depending on who you ask), they are surprised time and again. "It really happened? We find it hard to believe." But exactly in these moments of surprise, is revealed a chasm that exists between us. A person of Mizrachi origin, even if they are of second or third generation in Israel, can understand how and why it happened. That generation's innocence, the blind faith in the establishment who brought them to the Holy Land where such things cannot happen, the superiority of the more light-skinned of the country and the inferiority of the dark-skinned in those years - that's how it happened.

This week, when I told a colleague I was going to write a column about my kidnapped uncle, he arrogantly and unequivocally replied: "But you know they were not kidnapped." No, I do not know, and you do not know either.

For a moment I had that uncertainty again – maybe Saadia might actually be dead, just like my grandparents thought sometimes. But as long as we do not have unequivocal answers, and while the numerous testimonies indicate a pattern of action – uprooting of healthy babies from their families to the a hospital or a nursery, then telling the families they are dead, and ever since they have simply disappeared from the world - as long as that's the case, I refuse to believe that my uncle is dead. For the few babies that were found, adoption papers were found, but the biological parents do not even remember signing these documents. The adopted children themselves, who did not go looking for their biological parents, can be understood; People who have been adopted do not always like rummaging in their past.

And maybe the kidnapped children really have died. There was a lot of confusion in the years of the establishment of the state, and possibly children simply disappeared in custody of the nurses and there was an attempt to cover-up. But I want an unequivocal answer. Not "maybe", not "likely", not "isolated cases". After the Shalgi committee of investigation in 1994 we received a death certificate again. But what is in this grave? Open the graves, see what's inside, do a DNA test and tell us what happened there.

Everyone is talking about confidential documents, and the Prime Minister and the Minister of Justice agreed to open them. What do these documents, which were supposed to be opened only in 2071, hold? What is there to hide? And why should we wait till then? 2071 is so far that it does not even appear in science fiction films. The state owes us an answer.

After Saadia disappeared, my grandparents brought more children into the world. And each time, before my grandmother gave birth, my grandfather told her in his gentle and sweet tone: "I know you wanted another son, but do not worry, he will come, and every girl you bring, we shall love equally." Four daughters came before the first boy arrived (and after him - three more daughters and one son).

Grandfather Shlomo and Grandmother Naomi are no longer with us. They will never know what happened to their one-year-old son who suckled on his mother’s breast. But their children are still waiting for him to turn up on the doorstep to find that same mole.

Roi Jaarany

http://www.mako.co.il/video-blogs-roi-jaarany/Article-c07a395233d7551006.htm