As the hostages begin to return, painfully thin and totally traumatized, we think of the those 180 odd hostages who are still there, the men and boys who are not slated for an exchange with prisoners in Israel.  And anyone who thinks of them is traumatized as well.  To be thrown in a dark dungeon is bad enough for these women and babies, but who can imagine what is being done to the soldiers or the old men.  They will have to be rescued some other way.  

Every few days some organization calls me to ask how I am doing – it might be the municipality,or a writers’ organization or one of the philanthropic organizations that takes care of the elderly.  Whatever it is, I am always surprised and think for a moment before I say I’m okay.  After all, I’m functioning, smiling, shopping, etc.   But I make so many little mistakes I never made before – forget to call people, buy the wrong thing, send the wrong letter to the wrong person, mess up friendships, and so on – that I must be much more traumatized than I realize.  Of course I’m addicted to the news, know every facial expression of the Army Press Representative, can identify each hostage, donate something or some time every week to the cause of freeing the hostages or helping out with the terrible financial burden of the evacuees from the north.  But not doing that would be crazy in this environment.