In 1951 my parents immigrated to Israel from Afghanistan with their seven children. My family was moved to live in tents and wooden shacks at Shaar HaAliya.

My mother had a 3-month-old baby born in Afghanistan, my sister Esther. A few months after we arrived in Shaar HaAliya, baby Esther didn't feel well and didn't stop crying. My mother was referred to the clinic at Shaar HaAliya. She put Esther there and came to visit her every day. One day, during a visit, Esther cried a lot. When my mother tried to approach her, the nurses prevented her from coming close and said that they were feeding the children and asked her to leave. The next day, when my parents came back to visit, they were informed that the baby had died. They were not shown a body, they were not given a death certificate, and they were sent home.

My parents were very innocent people with no knowledge, no power, (and) no knowledge of Hebrew. They didn't know how to face the behavior of the medical staff. The staff took advantage of this and ignored them. My parents went home, sat shivah without a funeral and without a body, cried and mourned.

At that time, my family continued to receive food stamps for the baby. My mother always asked why they kept sending stamps to a baby that died.

Mother died in July 1978. A year and a half later, in December 1979, my father died. When we sat Shivah after my father died, there was a great uproar in the media and news about Yemeni children who received draft orders from the army even though it was claimed that they were dead. I was amazed, and I became interested in what was happening. After all, we also had a baby girl whose parents were informed of her death, and she also received a draft order. I myself went to the recruiting office in Jaffa and handed them the order. I informed them that the girl had passed away because that's what I thought. At the recruiting office, the soldier took the order from me and said nothing. Had I found this out before my parents passed away, I would have certainly investigated and asked them for more details, but all the knowledge I had was from my mother's stories back in my childhood. My older siblings also knew only a few details because they were young, but they remembered everything I said.

Since I realized my sister was kidnapped and not dead, I did nothing about it because I saw many parents and siblings fighting to find out what happened with their children, with lawyers and courts, and nothing helped them, so how could I find out what had happened?

Years later, during one of the wars, they called my brother and asked him to inform my sister, who passed away, to come and pick up a protective kit from the home front command. My sister still appears in the resident register with her identity number. I know this because every election, I ask if they have my sister's name, and they always do.

Now only my sister and I are left. I hope we manage to find her.