For two years, we carried the hostages in our hearts, minds, tefillos — and waited for their return

On Simchas Torah 5784, our nation was plunged into a nightmare. The weeks and months that followed brought more pain, grief, and loss than we could have imagined.

Exactly two years after that dark day, we watched as if in a dream, disbelieving, as the last of the living hostages in Gaza returned home. Hayinu  k’cholmim.

For two years, we carried the hostages in our hearts, minds, tefillos. Today, Family First writers share their impressions and insights

Under His Tallis

Ayala Feigenbaum

ON

November 24, 2023, the first group of hostages was released from Gaza. The moment brought tremendous relief and celebration, but it also came with a difficult price: the release of several convicted terrorists — some with blood on their hands — who were returned to various areas throughout Israel.

I live near an Arab neighborhood in Jerusalem, and that week of November, a few of those released prisoners returned to their homes a few streets away from mine. The night the terrorists were welcomed back from prison, I saw fireworks lighting up the sky — fired by the same neighbors who had also celebrated with fireworks on October 7.

That night, lying in bed with the sounds of fireworks and army sirens in the distance, I was frozen in fear, paralyzed by the weight of the world around me.

Two years later, on this past Yom Kippur, I stepped onto my porch and was struck by the silence. We’re near a busy, predominantly Muslim area, and even on Yom Kippur, there is usually noise from the nearby road. But this year, there was complete stillness.

I looked up and saw thick, white clouds blanketing the sky. My husband joined me, and when he noticed the clouds, he reminded me of a beautiful halachah. The reason we don our tallis before nightfall on Yom Kippur, on this holiest of days: Hashem Himself is said to spread His tallis over His people.

I looked up again, and for the first time, I felt it: a deep, calming sense that whispered through the stillness. Hashem is here. We are under His tallis. It’s going to be okay.

When the last of the living hostages were released, I was overwhelmed with joy — but that familiar concern crept back in. I thought about the additional terrorists who might now be living near my home.

And then I remembered that quiet Yom Kippur night. The clouds, the silence, the serenity. I thought about how this release took place exactly two years after that horrible day, and suddenly, the Divine Orchestration was too clear to ignore.

The fear was replaced with a deep, deep sense of emunah. I’m sitting in the light of gratitude and relief — for the hostages who’ve come home, and for the reminder that even in the darkest moments, we are never truly alone.

Behind the Door

Bassi Gruen

T

he moment that splits me open is when Yosef Chaim Ohana is reunited with his father.

His father stops just before the room containing his son, the child he hadn’t seen in 738 days, lifts his arms to the Heavens, and screams, “Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem echad!” It’s a scream that contains the pain of the centuries — and the faith that has carried us through.

As his son walks out to meet him, he recites shehecheyanu, and they embrace.

Chills run up my arms as I witness a faint echo of Yaakov Avinu’s reunion with Yosef.

I wonder: Was this a gut response, something that ripped out of this father as he faced the most emotional encounter of his life? Or was this something he had planned as he lay in bed sleepless, night after tortured night, as he envisioned that glorious day when his son would finally come home?

Whatever the source, the result is awe-inspiring.

I watch them hug, the father in standard black slacks, white shirt, black yarmulke, and the son, with tattoos running up and down his arms.

There are clearly many differences between them.

And yet now it’s simple. MY SON! MY SON IS HOME!

It’s a primal love, fiery and fierce. Just a parent and child, finally together, holding on and never wanting to let go.

And as I watch them, as I cry along with them, I find myself thinking of our Father.

Every one of us is held captive in some ways and on some level; galus does that to you. Sometimes it’s blatant: a spiritually bankrupt background, trauma, mental illness, crushing life circumstances. But even when all seems well on the surface, the lives we live are such a dim shadow of what they could be. The differences between us and our Father grow.

And yet, He’s there, just behind the door, longing to embrace us.

Whatever we may look like, wherever we may be, when He sees us, He sees a beloved child. And He is waiting for that moment, that incredible moment, when His children — every single one of us — will finally, finally come home.