In December 1950 we immigrated to Israel from Iraq, my parents – Rosa and Me’ir Yitzhak and their four children. My mother was pregnant and in 1951 gave birth to my brother, Gideon. I am the eldest daughter and was born in 1944. When he was a few months old, Gideon suffered from diarrhoea and was sent to a hospital in Haifa, I think it was the Rothschild hospital. We lived the David camp near Haifa. One day my mother returned from a visit to the hospital and told my father she was told Gideon died and the hospital will take care of all the burial process, because he is a baby. My parents received the notice with sorrow and believed what they were told. They barely spoke the language and so hardly understood the procedures. We did not receive any document attesting to his death.

Us, the children, were told the baby died and till the day they die they spoke no more about him. At the time, when the story of the Yemeni kidnapped children came out, to us the siblings it was clear our story is very similar. Often I walk around the streets and try to look for someone that resembles us, because I have a feeling he is near us.