In 1949 we came from our home in Yemen to the Hashed transit camp in Aden. As soon as we arrived at the transit camp, one of the staff members informed us that the following day we would be flying to the Land of Israel. When we arrived, I was with my husband and my son who was about a year and a half old. We had brought jewelry and torah scrolls with us too, and these were left there in the camp in accordance with the request of the staff. As part of the preparations for immigration to Israel, a photographer was brought in by the Jewish Agency and he asked us to have our picture taken without the boy, who I was carrying. I asked to have the picture taken holding the boy but they wouldn’t allow it.

The following morning, as we had been instructed, we came to board the plane at seven AM. There wasn’t much food, but of what there was I would chew small mouthfuls and then give it to him, from my mouth to his. On the plane, the boy cried a bit, maybe because he was frightened, but he calmed down and fell asleep. When we arrived at Lod at eight AM, a nurse came along with a yellow blanket as I was coming down the steps of the plane. She wrapped him up and said that he mustn’t catch cold so she would take him and bring him back to me later. It was cold, and it was raining and hailing. I will never forget that yellow blanket. She promised that she would bring him back to the baby nursery. I haven’t seen him since.

Trucks took us to the Ein Shemer Transit Camp. I asked for my son. I was told that they would take him for examination and treatment in Pardes Hanna and then they would bring him back to me. We got to Ein Shemer. I waited and I asked. Finally after two days the message came “Your son is dead”.

While we were staying in the tents at Ein Shemer, four families, I asked one of them – “Where is your child?” “Me too, they called me too”. I went to another mother – “Where is yours?” “They didn’t bring the child. Did the bring yours?” “They didn’t bring mine either”. It was like that with all of them at Ein Shemer. All the mothers had their children taken away from them. I asked and checked with the mothers and the families. Waiting and waiting for two months and none of them had their child returned.

I was insistent and went over and over again to the nursery and to the head nurse and, and finally they told me there that he wasn’t dead but had been given treatment and medicines. Finally they told me again that he had died. Did he die twice?

After that, the families were all sent to different places. We were sent to the Jerusalem corridor. We arrived at Moshav Ta’oz which then was Beit Susin. They just threw us there without any guidance or help. We didn’t know anyone and we couldn’t speak the language. There in the tent, I gave birth to the rest of the children.

I heard about the kidnapping of the children – it happened everywhere. Even my niece who was at Rosh HaAyin – they took her to hospital in Haifa for 20 shekels. When my sister was already blind from so much crying over the child who had been taken, she found her eventually and the woman who had taken the child was angry and said that she had bought her from Magen David Adom, that she had a receipt, and that the child was registered as hers.

I am still waiting for my firstborn child, for Yosef. I still have his baby gown. Joseph’s tunic. I used to wash it every year, and weep.

Naomi (Na’ama) Amran Giat