These parents prayed from the depths of their hearts, that pure, never-sullied place where the Jewish spark is never extinguished

On Simchas Torah 2023, as the illusion of control was shattered and Jews all over began to reconnect with their core identity, Hashem drew me into the saga as well, allowing me to stand alongside survivors and hostage families in their darkest hours.

Two years later, with the release of the remaining hostages, many of their stories have since had a happy ending, while others have had tragic closure. Either way, it’s my privilege to share the journeys of these families with you.

During one of the Kesher Yehudi shabbatons for hostage families, I was asked to lead a circle discussion on Friday night with siblings of the hostages, ranging in age from ten to 18. These kids were expected to continue going about their daily lives — wake up, go to school, do homework, go to sleep — even as they were struggling with intense feelings of fear, stress, and anxiety. Their parents were constantly on the move, attending one rally after another and traveling abroad to speak, so it was natural that these kids were not having an easy time.

I sat down in the circle with them. Almost immediately, the questions began flowing, but they weren’t so interested in talking about themselves — they preferred to talk about me. Why was I wearing a kapote? Was it true that chareidim have huge families? Why did I tuck my peyos under my yarmulke? Who was the biggest tzaddik in the world?

After about half an hour of their little interrogation, they finally ran out of questions.

Sitting in the middle of the circle was Ofir Angrest, brother of Matan Shachar ben Anat, who was finally released after two years this past Hoshana Rabbah. At the time, though, Hamas had released a video of an emaciated, tortured Matan in which it was clear that he was suffering greatly.

Ofir is a sweet, lively kid. At the Shabbos day seudah, he got everyone to sing together.

And then he turned to me and said, “Until now, we asked you questions about chareidim. Now you ask us questions about chilonim.”

His comment hit me right in the most delicate part of my heart, and I answered him with complete sincerity and newfound clarity: “Ofir, I really do want to ask questions about chilonim. But first you’ll have to find me a real chiloni.”

Because if I ever meet a real chiloni, I’ve got lots of questions for him: How is it that we are the smallest, mot persecuted nation, yet we’ve survived against all odds? How come we’re the smartest, most different, most talked-about nation? What are we made of?

I’d love to ask — but I’ve never come across a real, honest-to-goodness chiloni to ask.

Last year on 11 Cheshvan, dozens of brokenhearted family members gathered to daven together at Kever Rachel on the day of her yahrtzeit. Their children had been in captivity in Gaza for over a year, and they wanted to cry, to plead, to pour out their hearts at the resting place of Mamme Rachel.

Reverberating through everyone’s mind was the eternal promise that “your children will return.”

Before leaving to the kever, the mothers gathered for a short talk and a chizuk lecture. Among the speakers was the mother of Matan Shachar Angrest. She said that his original name had been just Matan, and she described how, on the advice of tzaddikim, she had added the name Shachar. They had chosen that name because Chazal compare the Geulah to the rising dawn.

After that, Rabbi Yitzchak Fanger spoke, asking a question on the first brachah we say every morning: “Hanosein lasechvi vinah l’havchin bein yom u’vein laylah — Blessed is He Who gives the rooster understanding to distinguish between day and night.” But really, what kind of great wisdom does it take to know whether it’s light or dark?

“The rooster’s wisdom lies in that it senses — while it is still dark — that dawn is about to break,” Rabbi Fanger explained. “True understanding is to integrate the idea that even in the deepest darkness, it will soon be light.”

As they arrived at the complex, Mrs. Niva Wenkert turned to Rabbanit Tzila Schneider, director of Kesher Yehudi, who stood nearby. Omer Wenkert was languishing in Gaza, and although she didn’t consider herself religious, she knew her last recourse was to daven.

“Rabbanit,” said Mrs. Wenkert, “I, too, want to add a name to my son.”

Rabbanit Schneider, who was in the middle of reciting Tehillim, nodded, as if to say, “Okay, we’ll look into it.”

But Mrs. Wenkert insisted: “No, I want to do it right now. Right here at Kever Rachel.”

The Rabbanit tried to explain that it’s not usually done like that. A name change should be given careful consideration, under the guidance of a rav, and it’s usually done in shul during krias haTorah.

But this determined mother would not hear of it. “I want to add a name now. I feel in my bones that this is what he needs from us.”

So while Mrs. Wenkert’s request didn’t conform to the usual rules, Tzila Schneider understood that not everything sacred is logical. Her anguish was palpable.

Right there, they called the wife of chief rabbi Rav Kalman Bar, who had also formed a close relationship with the hostage families. Rabbanit Schneider hoped she would be able to consult with her husband on the spot.

Soon he was on the line. This was the gist of their conversation:

“What’s your son’s name?”

“Omer. Omer ben Niva Wenkert.”

“Why did you choose the name Omer?”

“I always wanted that name. The truth is… when my father-in-law passed away, my husband wanted to name him after his father. But I insisted on Omer.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then suddenly, she gasped: “Wait — I just remembered! We gave him both names at his bris: Omer Binyamin!”

On the very day of Rachel Imeinu’s passing and her own son Binyamin’s birth, Mamme Rachel reminded an anguished mother of the true name of her own “ben oni,” so that we would all be able to daven for him properly.

Rachel Imeinu, who died in childbirth, named her son Ben Oni, or “son of my suffering,” but Yaakov called him Binyamin — a name of triumph and perseverance.

Three months later, Omer Binyamin ben Niva was released from Gaza alive and well.

These parents prayed from the depths of their hearts, that pure, never-sullied place where the Jewish spark is never extinguished — because there’s no connection between the gaping ignorance and the blazing pintele Yid. As they stepped outside, one of the mothers asked another, somewhat hesitantly: “Who was Rachel? Was she the one with Antiochus?”

And there was no place where that was clearer than deep in the Hamas tunnels. A year after that, just last week, there was another Kesher Yehudi-sponsored shabbaton, but this time, the guests of honor were the freed captives themselves, those whose names had been on our lips for the past two years.

Matan Angrest, Segev Kalfon, and Eitan Mor shared publicly for the first time how they observed Shabbos for two years in captivity.

Segev Kalfon said that he and fellow captives tried to preserve Shabbos traditions as best they could underground. “We were in a place of impurity, so for us it was something big,” he said. He told the crowd how the tunnel literally shook with Shabbos, how, with no wine, they made Kiddush over water, and those who knew the words sang Lecha Dodi to welcome Shabbos.

Some of the young men were from frum or traditional homes, and while there was no Shabbos food, “Everyone would talk about how their mother makes the fish and what they eat at home, while we were eating half a moldy pita or a few grains of wormy rice,” Segev said. He told how they marked the end of Shabbos by reciting Havdalah using a flashlight, and how they did their best to keep holidays, although sometimes they learned only afterward that they had not calculated the dates correctly.

Matan, who since his release has spoken about how he somehow got hold of a small siddur and decided to daven three times a day, said that he learned about Shabbos observance from a pamphlet he found that had probably been left by an Israeli soldier. He shared that “Once I had a siddur, I told myself I couldn’t pray three times a day and then not keep Shabbat. It goes together.”

Like I told his brother Ofir, back when we could only pray for the welfare of Matan and the rest, “First you’ll have to find me a real chiloni.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1088)