My parents immigrated to Israel from Yemen in the year ‘49, to Pardesiya in the immigrant camp Beit Lid.

My late mother gave birth to her daughter in the Beit Lid Hospital.

As she recounted, she gave birth to a pretty, fair-skinned girl with green eyes (like mine). The baby was born healthy and unblemished. She was was told that she should come to breastfeed her three times a day. My mother went every day to breastfeed the baby (my sister), and on the third day when she came to nurse her, she was told the baby was dead. My mother didn’t believe it and called for my father. When my father asked to see the body he was told that she had died and already been buried by them.

My mother of course yelled, and cried, and pleaded with them that the baby was healthy when she nursed her, and couldn’t possibly have died so suddently.

My naïve father believed that he had come to the Holy Land and that Jews would not lie to him. He told my mother there was nothing to be done: “God gave and God took away.”

The name of the baby, my sister, was Tziona Dahari.

My mother went home crying and not believing that her baby was dead. And because of that, afterwards, she refused to birth her next three children -- among them myself -- in the hospital, and she had me and my siblings at home.

Until the day she died my mother cried for her daughter and enjoined us, the siblings, not to let go of the matter and to search for our sister.

I hope I can fulfill my mother's instruction and find out what happened to my sister.

Mali Adaki