From fear to anger to protection, we start brainstorming ways to change the world to accommodate our children.

I walk into my kids’ rooms at night and check that they’re OK. Everyone is breathing easy, tucked under their blankets.

After a long day filled with work, school, afterschool activities, showers, endless meals, arguments, tears, playtime and hugs, I finally breathe a sigh of relief: Everyone is safe at home, right next to me.

And then it hits me that 502 days ago, 4-year-old Ariel and 9-month-old Kfir Bibas—at the time the same age as my Giordana and Elijah—were tucked inside their beds in Kibbutz Nir Oz when a caravan of barbarians ripped them out of their home, along with their parents, and marched them to what has now been confirmed to be their deaths.

They were savagely removed from what was supposed to be their safe haven. They were torn from a life they hardly knew, taken hostage for God knows how many days before being killed. Their sin? Being born Jewish.

But how can a 1-year-old even sin?

Questions don’t stop swirling in my mind. How can I, as a Jewish mother, promise safety to my own kids when my counterpart in Israel was unable to do so because of forces way beyond her control?

Suddenly, my hands shake, my breath becomes shallow, and my thoughts turn dark. If the reaction of the world to the abduction of the Bibas kids and the subsequent lack of outrage at the pronouncement of their deaths are any indication, society at large is cheering for me to fail—expecting me to fail, daring me to fail, hoping for me to fail, actively collaborating in my failure as a Jewish mother.

If the vast majority of the non-Jewish world isn’t appalled at the murder of these two innocent babies, how am I supposed to gather the strength to raise my Jewish kids on this side of the Atlantic? What am I to tell them about a world that’s supposed to be embracing them? How can I give them hope for the future if I have lost all faith in humanity throughout 500-plus days that have served as a constant reminder of society’s hatred for us as a people, despite the atrocities committed against us for millennia? How can I mother in such a society?

The fear and sadness turn into the purest form of anger as I scroll through social media and see a parade of nothingness accompanied by ridiculous statements by the very people who have proudly claimed responsibility for the deaths of the Bibas children and their mother. I see pictures of coworkers out to dinner, former college mates kissing their safe non-Jewish children or inspirational quotes about the strength required to survive in corporate America. Then I notice news outlets reporting on Hamas’s decision to, oh so kindly, return the bodies of a baby not yet even a year old and his 4-year-old brother—or whatever is left of an undeveloped body at that age—not right now, not at this moment as would be required of any people, but tomorrow.

Unregretful of their actions, the barbarians double down on their barbarism by turning the ceasefire and the return of the hostages (“return” as if they’re expired merchandise and not “released” like cattle from captivity, which is how they have been treated) into a spectacle.

“Next up on Hamas versus Israel, four bodies will be returned to the promised land. Who will it be? Are the Bibas children really dead? You’ll have to wait until Thursday to find out.”

So we sat, as a nation, in front of our screens late last week, clinging onto the hope that—as has happened in the past—Hamas was lying.

We tuck our children in bed and for a moment forget that this sense of security is false and fleeting. We still somehow refuse to believe in the evil that humans are capable of, despite all the evidence to the contrary. We revel in our liberties as mothers for just a second until we realize that even when comfortably breathing in their own warm beds, our kids are not safe. They’re not safe from the men who don’t find anything wrong in bursting into Jewish homes and causing chaos that will reverberate for generations. And they are not safe from those who refuse to believe that those actions are illegal, unacceptable and unforgivable.

And then motherhood kicks in. From fear to anger to protection, we start brainstorming ways to change the world to accommodate our Jewish children. We come together and discuss and create and plan, but the truth is that, deep down, we know this to be our plight.

Jewish mothers have continued to bear children and multiply the Jewish population. In turn, we’ve had to deal with a never-ending barrage of underlying fear and panic. God will help us continue to grow if we somehow gather the might to keep on wanting to procreate within a world that plainly doesn’t care for us. It is the plight of the Jews to thrive as a population and deal with the sort of hatred that has destroyed other communities throughout history.

But is the knowledge of our collective strength and drive for our constant survival enough to keep us going? Can I continue to smile at my kids and tell them the world is ready to embrace them, despite everything? In moments like these, while we collectively mourn as a nation the passing—sorry, the murder—of two beautiful, red-headed babies alongside their mother, finding any meaning in all this is nearly impossible. God, please help me find it.

Anna Rahmanan, a writer and editor in New York, is founder of the site Pretty Kosher.