Omri, my love,
Today is your birthday.
There should have been joy in our home. Our daughters Roni and Alma making decorations and shouting with excitement, the table set for you, a huge birthday cake, the girls waiting by the door. Instead, there is silence. A deafening silence. Because you are still in Gaza — held hostage by Hamas for 553 days.
Roni, now 3, made you two drawings.
In one, she drew a path home — glowing lights leading to balloons in the sky. “I’m a beacon of light,” she told me. “I’m showing Dad the way back.” Even now, after everything, she believes you’ll return. So do I.
But she also drew a second drawing — a black heart, surrounded by a storm. When I asked her what it meant, she whispered, “Maybe the heart will help him get out of Gaza… because we couldn’t bring him home.”
She’s 3 years old. And already carrying questions no child should ever have to ask.
And Alma… our sweet baby. She just turned 2 on March 31. Her second birthday — without you. You held her once, just after she was born, on your 46th birthday. That was the first and last time. She’s walking now. Talking. She calls for you. But to her, you’re a face on a poster — the one hanging on the wall beside her bed.
Sometimes she points to it and asks, “Dad! Can I see him now?”
What am I supposed to say?
Omri, you’ve missed so many moments. Alma’s first words. Roni’s first day of preschool. Every hug. Every bedtime story. Every holiday. We feel the emptiness in our home every single day — but especially today.
We’re doing everything we can. Your father Dani hasn’t stopped for a moment. My siblings, Michal and Moshe, are working tirelessly. We meet with world leaders. We speak at rallies. We sit in protest tents. We march, cry, plead, demand — for you. For all 59 others still held. We speak not only to the world, but to our own government.
And to them — to our government — we say:
You don’t want us, as families, as citizens, as a nation, to keep signing death certificates. You want to see your Omri return alive. We all do.
And I want to say thank you — to the Trump administration — for everything you’ve already done to bring so many hostages home. We’ve seen your involvement. We’ve seen what’s possible.
And we are holding on to hope that you will help bring back my Omri — and the 58 others still trapped — the living, so they may begin to heal, and the murdered and fallen, so they can finally be laid to rest.
This week is Passover. The holiday of freedom. Of exodus. Of redemption.
We will leave an empty chair for Omri at the Seder. Again.
We will tell the story of our people’s exodus from slavery — while our own story of return remains unfinished.
How can we ask, “Why is this night different?” when nothing has changed — and you’re still missing from the table?
What does it mean to truly value life? What does it mean to be part of a people, of a democracy, of a world that promises never to abandon its own? These are not abstract questions. They are our daily reality. My husband — a Shiatsu therapist, a gardener, a husband, a father — is underground in Gaza while our daughters fall asleep without his voice. How can any of us go on as if this is acceptable?
Still, I hold on to hope. That this birthday, this holiday, will bring a miracle. That someone, somewhere, will choose courage. Will choose compassion. Will choose life — and help bring you home.
Come back to us, Omri. Let Roni show you her drawings. Let Alma finally know you — not from a photo, but from your embrace. Let our family be whole again.
Happy birthday, my love. We are waiting. And we will not stop.
Lishay Lavi Miran is the wife of Omri Miran, who was abducted from their home in Kibbutz Nahal Oz during the Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, 2023. The couple has two young daughters, Roni and Alma. Since her husband’s capture, Lishay has been a vocal advocate for his release and that of other hostages, engaging with both Israeli and international communities to raise awareness about their plight.