For three years, Nissim Salem (then: Salim) sat in captivity in Syria under the command of Ahmed Jibril. He endured physical and psychological torture – but also met Queen Dina, the first wife of Jordan’s King Hussein, and Syria’s chief rabbi.
Forty years after his release in a seismic deal that set an unprecedented price for the redemption of prisoners, he speaks openly – sharing his advocacy for hostages, revisiting the dark days in his damp cell, and insisting on maintaining optimism while being grateful for every moment.
“It’s as if the chains are still on my hands and feet.”
Does your body still speak to you? “I feel deep pain, helplessness closing in on me, an internal shiver. The stench of mold hits me just like it did there.”
Around us, April blooms. Wheat sways in the breeze. But the building we’re in – what he calls the “frightening house” – returns Nissim Salem to his three years under Jibril. The structure is a frozen ruin, its walls eaten by rot and lined with algae. No windows, only gaping holes; no plaster, just senseless graffiti.
A blue-white-red Star of David and the words “Only Maccabi” are scrawled between bricks. A sunbeam sneaks through, and Nissim follows it. The photographer leads him to a wide, well-lit room, then back to a smaller one. Nissim, a gentle man with a quiet voice and a past in cramped cells, remarks, “Your photographer likes small spaces.”
Did you hesitate to come here? “No. I live in the present, in my reality.”
What is your reality? “My daughter Danielle is an operations officer in the Gaza Division. When she’s late coming home, I visit her there.”
Aren’t you afraid for her? “I am. When I hear about incidents, I call her immediately. Sometimes she answers: ‘We had a hard night, Dad.’”
Did you come here with me to test your resilience? “For years, I’ve confronted things to move past them. Sometimes I hit a wall and retreat – the memories are too heavy.”
Thunder shakes the air. When the IDF demolishes tunnels in Gaza, the windows in Gan Yavne tremble.
How much do the hostages in the tunnels occupy your thoughts?“Every day. I imagine what they’re going through.”
What are they enduring?“No oxygen. If you asked them now, they’d say: There’s no air.”
No air...“And when you think about it, you start to lose your breath, too.”
Forty years ago, on May 21, 1985, in what became known as the Jibril Deal, Nahal soldiers Nissim Salim, Yoske Groff, and Armored Corps soldier Hezi Shai were released. In exchange, Israel freed 1,151 terrorists – many with blood on their hands. A year and a half earlier, Fatah had released six Nahal soldiers captured with Salim and Groff.
The deal with an arch-murderer like Jibril was hard for Israelis to accept. Critics argued it would encourage more kidnappings and was signed without securing the return of those missing from the Battle of Sultan Yacoub.
One of them, Yehuda Katz, remains missing. The body of Zvi Feldman was returned to Israel just this week, 43 years after he fell.
Nissim Salem’s story
Nissim Salem is now 62, born in Assuta Hospital in Tel Aviv. During his captivity, his father, Moshe, suffered a stroke and died years later. His mother, Sophie, is now 96.
The family moved to Holon when he was a baby. “I was a happy child. I loved life.” A classmate introduced him to the National Youth Movement, where he fell in love with hiking.
With his gar’in (core group) “Eilam,” he joined the Nahal Brigade and was stationed in Ma’aleh Hahamisha. Six months later, he began basic training at Camp 80, but it was disrupted. Many soldiers fell ill with measles, others were reassigned to evacuate Yamit, or to form honor guards for the first of the fallen in the First Lebanon War. Two months after the war began, the unit – still unprepared for combat – was suddenly told: “Tomorrow, boys, we’re going to Lebanon.”
They reached the Bekaa Valley and trained amid combat. During one urban warfare drill, he threw his first grenade – into a house full of civilians, realizing the mistake only when the owner ran out screaming: “You’ll kill my family!” The war spiraled; they often didn’t know where they were. Once, they accidentally entered a hostile village, saved only by a commanding officer’s quick warning.
Two days before their capture, intelligence officers ordered the company to set up an observation post along a telephone line running through an unfriendly Lebanese village. “Any kid could trace it and expose us,” they warned. Their concerns were dismissed. “We went to set up an ambush and walked into one,” Nissim says.
Eight soldiers set out – four on watch, four resting. Nissim had just finished his shift and lay down in the woods with Avi Montblisky. Soon, he sensed something wrong. The forest was too quiet. The birds had stopped. Then came a shout: “Don’t shoot, or they’ll kill us all.”
Why did you go down? You could have escaped. “For 40 years, I’ve revisited that decision. I thought if I ran, they’d kill the others and chase us. Maybe we could’ve disappeared, but that dilemma still haunts me. I chose the hardest thing: surrender.”
Why didn’t you open fire? “I feared hitting my own team. I chose surrender.”
Are you at peace with that choice? “Yes. There was no other option.”
Describe the moment you raised your hands. “We were raised on ‘never surrender.’ Raising your hands feels like a thousand tons crushing you.”
They marched for six hours – four terrorists, eight Israeli soldiers. At dusk, they saw flares and helicopters. Six were loaded into a Fatah vehicle. Nissim and Groff were handed to Jibril’s men, who bandaged them and painted the wrappings red so Syrian checkpoints would think they were wounded fighters. Instead of Fatah, they ended up in Damascus, at the home of Jibril’s sister.
What did he say to you? “Nothing. Without a word, he slapped me. To his men: ‘See? This is how it’s done.’”They threw him into a dusty room, stripped and chained him — head down, feet up — for two days.
Could you sleep? “Your body won’t let you. You’re on high alert.” They beat him. He begged, “Haram, haram” – mercy. But the beatings continued. “They hate our existence so much – nothing helps.” Lying battered, he clung to his only possession: a glowing watch. One night, a guard screamed “Sikina!” – knife – and tore it from him.
Jibril’s men and Syrian officers interrogated him. Then they threw him into a two-meter cell with a brick bed and a hole for waste. One day, his guard, “Abu al-Mawt” – Father of Death – brought milk: “Drink. We read it’s your birthday.” He drank, then collapsed. Poisoned, convulsing, he screamed to Groff: “They’re killing me!” Abu al-Mawt opened the door, grinning. Nissim gouged his own eye, permanently scarring his face.
Accused of escape attempts, he was chained to an iron bed. One day, Jibril sat before him. Nissim begged for release. Jibril said: “Not only won’t I free you – you’ll stay here, chained. Maybe die here.”
How did you endure?“You tell yourself: ‘It’s over.’ But in the background, you keep a corridor of hope.”
Define that.“A quiet belief that you’ll survive. I clung to it.”From his bed, he threatened them: “Even if you kill me, the IDF will hunt you down.” Jibril replied: “We’ll keep you alive – but very close to death.”
They would thoroughly douse him with water and electrocute him with a cattle prod, especially in the groin. “You know why I do this, Nissim? So you won’t have children. So you end here.”
Sometimes he’d free a leg, angering his captors. They spread his legs with an iron bar. His hips were damaged. He had to tie them together at night.
Amid the torment, brief moments of solace came. At a Syrian base, he met Queen Dina. She had helped free six Nahal soldiers in 1983. “She told me who she was. I couldn’t believe such a woman came here. She said: ‘You have humanity. They don’t.'”
She warned: “What I’m about to do will get you beaten – but don’t fear.” She pulled out a camera. Guards went berserk. “I wanted to protect her – I feared they’d kill her.”
How did she react?“She said: ‘No afraid. If one hair falls from my head, they’ll all die.’”
The fear of Assad.
“Yes. Dina knew him well. She gave my parents a photo – a sign of life from me. The meeting with her gave me more hope, more oxygen.”
Another day, his guard mentioned “matzah, matzah.” Nissim realized it was Passover. Then came another man with clothes. “Get dressed. We’re taking you somewhere for Passover.”
Blindfolded, he was led into a room, where he met Syrian Chief Rabbi Abraham Hamra. Jews in America had petitioned Assad to send matzah. Assad agreed.
“What blessing do we say, rabbi?” Hamra replied: “Next year in Jerusalem. You and me both.”
(Rabbi Hamra made it to Israel a decade later. Nissim returned in 13 months.)
When Hezi Shai joined them, release seemed near. But fearing an IDF rescue, he was hidden each night. Israel knew where they were but couldn’t reach them.
The release
Finally, Austrian mediator Herbert Amry brokered the deal. Prime minister Yitzhak Shamir, a former prisoner, pushed it through. On May 21, 1985, they were freed.
“They dressed us nicely. The guards said: ‘Today, you’re going home.’ I saw the streets of Damascus for the first time.” Then Geneva. Then Israel.
On the plane to Israel, Brig.-Gen. (ret.) Varda Pomerantz greeted him. Although he had refused to put on a uniform, when she gave him a gar’in Eilam shirt, he put it on with great emotion. “I was starving – but refused the food. Later I realized I just wanted to say ‘no’ without being hit.”
Did you feel public resentment for the deal? “Personally, no. Israelis then respected those who’d suffered.”
At a presidential event, he saw defense minister Yitzhak Rabin smoking. He called out: “Rabin, it’s Nissim – I want to talk.” Rabin shook his hand: “Oy, the trouble you caused me, Nissim. But not for a moment do I regret bringing you home.”
But when you hear that a terrorist freed in the Jibril Deal commits an attack, doesn’t it affect you?“I don’t know how many are still alive; it’s been 40 years [since the deal]. If, after such a deal, one of the released terrorists strays in the slightest [back to terrorism], arrest them. But we have to do it [make such deals] so as not to prevent the return of prisoners of war.”
Today, Nissim Salem is deputy director-general of the National Workers’ Union and chairs youth movements. “Volunteering heals the soul. Without it, I wouldn’t have risen.”
His wife, Mira, comes from a bereaved family. Her father fell in 1970. Nissim never disclosed his possible infertility – but they had three children. Their son Mor served in Nahal Recon. One day he called from near Syria’s border. “A very heavy feeling,” Nissim shares.
On October 7, he sensed something was wrong. Sirens wailed. “Toyotas in Sderot? How did so many breach the fences?”
Did you fear they’d reach you? “I have many knives here. If they return, I’ll fight this time.”
His identification with Gaza’s hostages is total. He advises families and opposes sending freed captives to Poland: “They’ve suffered enough.”
Do you believe Netanyahu is doing everything? “I want to believe so. Losing trust unravels everything.”He longs for Saturdays when hostages came home. Now, silence. “Some returnees are shut down. It’ll take years.”
Does time heal? “Not sure. The coals still burn.”
A year ago, a hernia nearly killed him. In the hospital, a feeding tube triggered flashbacks. “The nurse didn’t understand why I screamed. It wasn’t her – it was them.”
His body is tormented: ulcers, diabetes. Weekly therapy helps. “Even the strong need to talk.”
His 96-year-old mother, deep in dementia, still panics when he doesn’t answer. “She thinks I’m gone again.”
How does your family live with your trauma? “Some nights, they tread lightly. But from this pain, we grow stronger.”
Does life feel beautiful after all? “Look at us – free people standing in the sun, talking. Yes, life is beautiful.” (Maariv)