The accounts of Shabbos observance in Gaza will be etched into our collective memory alongside the timeless stories of kiddush Hashem from generations past. How the hostages discovered a dialogue with Hashem, pulling snatches of tefillos and Tehillim from memory that served as their anchor within the depths of Hamas depravity.

And many of the harrowing stories of mesirus nefesh from this time come from people who were not considered Torah-observant — yet they risked their lives to save others.

Countless victims, both in the kibbutzim and among the security forces, were murdered because they saved other Jews. Most could have chosen to stay safe but instead leapt directly into the inferno, risking everything for the lives of Jews they did not even know.

Three of the newly-released hostages were security guards: Bar Avraham ben Julia Kuperstein, Rom ben Tamar Braslavski, and Eitan Avraham ben Efrat Mor. All three could have fled but chose to stay in order to save others.

Bar set out in his car, ferried people to safety, and returned to the Valley of Death multiple times to save others. Along the way, he utilized  his training as a combat medic, to treat the wounded. On his fourth trip, he was kidnapped.

Rom moved through the area, hiding people from danger. He was given the opportunity to flee, but insisted on staying.

Eitan was already on his way to safety with a group of people he had rescued. On the way, he saw two bodies and insisted on stopping to bury them. In the middle of the second burial, he was taken hostage.

How can the rest of us remain indifferent in the face of such righteousness?

Yet, we might ask, how could it be that so many selfless, dedicated young men — some of whom took their private weapons and voluntarily came from far away in order to save lives — were killed or taken hostage?

A Jew who knows there are no mistakes, no miscalculations, even when the pain is excruciating, can somehow find his bearings and move forward.

Moshe Elul was one such person. He was the bus driver on the 405 Tel Aviv-Jerusalem run that was commandeered by a terrorist in the summer of 1989.

“I was religious,” he told me. “I kept the mitzvot, but I believed I was in control of my own fate. I hadn’t yet internalized that HaKadosh Baruch Hu alone determines a person’s future.”

Elul had set out on what appeared to be just another routine trip. A group of passengers had been waiting for about half an hour at the old Tel Aviv Central Bus Station. There was no shade and the heat was intense. When the bus pulled up, the passengers hurried aboard, eager to escape into the air-conditioned interior.

Among them was a young Arab man.

“He immediately caught my eye,” Elul recalls, “but I soon forgot about him. The fact that he went straight to the back of the bus calmed me down a bit.”

There are a few other passengers Moshe Elul still remembers from that trip.

“Yitzchak and Esther Naim spent a long time debating whether to get on,” he relates. “They were trying to decide if it was better to travel with me and then wait an hour in Jerusalem for the bus to Ein Gedi, or to stay in Tel Aviv and wait for the next bus to Jerusalem, which would mean less waiting time at the central station in Jerusalem.

“I told them to get on, that the Jerusalem station had a nice, air-conditioned area where they’d be more comfortable. And they, along with fourteen others, were killed in the horrifying attack that followed.”

The bus neared Kiryat Ye’arim (Telz Stone) on the ascent to Jerusalem. Telz Stone rose up on the left, and on the right, over the guard rail, was a deep ravine. The young Arab who’d boarded in Tel Aviv, Abed al-Hadi Ghanem, rose from his seat in the back. When he reached the driver’s seat, he suddenly lunged for the steering wheel. Without uttering a word, he yanked it sharply to the right.

Realizing what was happening, Elul fought back with all his strength. “I pulled the wheel sharply to the left, and he pulled it right again.” Some of the passengers had dozed off, completely unaware of the life-and-death struggle unfolding at the front of the bus. Others did notice and began screaming in panic.

The battle continued. Elul managed to regain control of the wheel for a moment, but by then, the bus had begun veering dangerously to the right. Elul spotted the guardrail just ahead and felt a flicker of hope.

“I was bracing for the worst,” he shares, “but I was hoping the guardrail would stop us from plunging into the abyss.”

Within seconds, the bus collided with the guardrail, its wheels tearing into the metal. The right side of the bus tilted over the edge of the ravine. The chasm loomed below. The smell of death filled the air.

“My life flashed before my eyes as I realized there was a very real chance that I was about to leave this world,” Elul relates. “But at the same time, I believed — hoped — there was a chance I could still prevent the fall.”

But then, the terrorist planted his legs under the dashboard and pulled the steering wheel hard to the right. That was when the bus broke away from the road and began plummeting downward.

“I felt like I was on a rollercoaster,” Elul recalls. “Below me I could see the whole slope. I still thought maybe I could stop the bus on one of the upper terraces. But HaKadosh Baruch Hu had other plans. The bus plummeted all the way to the bottom of the wadi.”

Elul was thrown out of the bus — and that’s what saved his life. “It was as if a hidden Hand reached in, pulled me out, and removed me from the horror,” he says. “I lost consciousness for a few seconds, but then I found myself standing on top of the mountain, very close to the road I had just fallen from.”

Several other passengers had also been flung from the windows — and they, too, survived. The rest remained trapped in the bus as it plummeted into the abyss — straight to their deaths.

“When I came to, I didn’t immediately understand what had happened to me,” he says. “Then I spotted the bus, upside-down in the wadi, already beginning to burn. Everything came rushing back.”

The bus went up in flames, ignited by the engine’s impact at the base of the ravine. Sixteen passengers were killed on the spot. Twenty-five others were injured.

Moshe Elul was hospitalized. He recovered physically, but inside, he was shattered. Day and night, he kept trying to turn the steering wheel left. He couldn’t forgive himself.

“People paid money so that I could take them to Jerusalem,” he explained to me. “They trusted me. I persuaded the Naims to board my bus — and they were killed.”

He was broken. He wanted to die.

What helped him regain his life? He says it was a moment of truth when he internalized that Yiddishkeit is not just about keeping mitzvos, but about all-encompassing faith in Hashem. It’s about leaning on Him, about trusting that He alone asah, oseh, veyaaseh l’chol hamaasim. There are no mistakes. Whatever happened — was meant to happen.

Today, the former bus driver studies Torah in a kollel. Every morning, he relates, he puts on the same pair of tefillin that survived the attack 36 years ago, a daily reminder of where he came from and Who is in charge.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1085)