S.A. (Severe Agony) 42602-03-16

Boom, boom. Twice. Year after year. That is how Shmuel lost his parents - two graves, five orphans.

He was a slight boy who did everything to make himself unlovable. He ran from frameworks, acted out, destroyed things, disappeared for days, violated every condition, and attacked his brothers. When they called the police, he felt betrayed and abandoned, refusing to meet them when they visited. He spoke in two conflicting voices: 'I want someone to take responsibility for me, but I won't let anyone hold power over me.'

Shmuel fell between the cracks. Borderline IQ - not impaired enough for welfare disability care, yet too delinquent for youth protection facilities. Prison became the only institution obligated to take him in.

I visited him dozens of times in prisons, detention centers, and hearings. He cursed frequently, though never at me. That felt meaningful amidst the chaos.

Once, escorting him from detention to a hostel, he escaped that very day, disappearing for three months. The police claimed they had no leads. His brothers saw him roaming the streets in dire condition. We called the police repeatedly with specific locations, but they exerted little effort, labeling him 'voluntarily missing.'

When finally located and brought to a locked facility, he escaped again. The court revoked his placement, giving up on him. I chose to continue supporting him even when my formal appointment ended. As long as Shmuel kept in touch, I refused to break the connection.

And he did. He stayed with a friend at an undisclosed address, meeting me monthly at designated spots in the city. He would step away from his suspicious affairs just to talk.

As his 18th birthday approached, I promised to celebrate and bring him a gift. But on that exact day, before we could meet, Shmuel was arrested and sent to adult prison. The police suddenly found the urgency to locate him on his birthday. I felt immense anger - at the police, at him, at myself, and at the ruined milestone.

I couldn't pull him out of crime or prison, nor convince him to enter therapy. I failed to mend the rift with his brothers. Mostly, I tried, knowing failure was likely.

Sometimes I just wanted to hug him and melt the anger away. I wish things were that simple.

I wonder if he felt loved, or if he felt anything at all.

Occasionally, I see his name in crime news, labeled a 'dangerous criminal.' To me, he remains that small boy who told the judge: 'I always take responsibility for my offenses. I confess and serve the punishment I deserve.' We are all children inside.