Since October 7, I have been unable to watch any graphic videos from that harrowing day, unable to even fathom the immensity of the pain. It is incomprehensible. For months, I have struggled to describe how I feel because there are no words.
Since the hostage deal started taking shape, I started to breathe easier as I watched the bittersweet reunions of freed hostages embracing their families.
Although reunions are joyous occasions, each one fills me with conflicting emotions - constantly fluctuating - of joy, shock, fear, and pride. Joy upon their return, shock at their appearance, fear for their long road to recovery ahead and for those still in captivity, but pride at the strength of each and every hostage and their families.
But seeing the dire condition of the three male hostages released on February 8 (Eli Sharabi, Or Levy, and Ohad Ben Ami) emaciated, and barely able to walk without assistance, made me reel with horror and anger. Their appearances bore resemblances to Holocaust survivors. The images of their gaunt faces and the pain in their eyes are etched in my mind and will haunt me eternally.
I can’t stop thinking about Eli Sharabi and how he only found out that his wife and daughters had been murdered, after his release. The cruelty is unimaginable. Or Yarden Bibas - returning home to an empty house, also without his wife and kids, still unaware of their status, still hopeful.
On January 30, together with all of Israel, I watched mortified, as Arbel Yehoud and Gadi Moses were surrounded by frenzied throngs of terrorists and Gazans - the thousands of so-called “innocent civilians”, the world rallies for - before they were released.
I saw the terror in Arbel’s face, a young girl, my age exactly, and the stoic strength of Gadi, an 80-year-old man, who survived the depths of hell, as the mobs closed in on them, trying to get a closer look at their prized captives.
The horrific scenes of shouting, violence, and terror in Gaza offered a stark contrast to the warmth and kindness of the IDF soldiers who greeted the hostages and the scenes of jubilance and singing that awaited them as they returned home.
I held my breath as each hostage was transferred to the Red Cross vehicles, the “humanitarian organisation” that transported the freed hostages, and took full credit for their services, conveniently forgetting their absence throughout the hostages’ entire captivity.
On January 25, I felt nauseous as I watched the four young observers being paraded across the stage, Hamas’s propaganda tools, forced to smile and wave like animals as the crowd cheered on. Yet I also marvelled at their incredible strength and resolve, as they refused to appear weak in front of their captors.
I rejoiced when Agam Berger was released on Thursday instead of Shabbat, fulfilling her mother’s wish of not descrating shabbat, and cried tears of joy when I saw the five observers finally reunite and embrace each other.
I was filled with immense pride when I read the first words that Agam wrote following her release: “I chose the path of faith, and through faith, I returned,” and when Emily Damari raised her injured hand in triumph - a symbolic gesture that has become iconic worldwide. I am in awe of the strength of these young women, these survivors, some who are barely 20 years old, my sister’s age.
And I laughed when the first thing Ofer Kalderon said to his children upon his return was: “I guess hiding in the bushes wasn’t the best idea,” and to his brother “It took me being kidnapped for you to say that you love me!” illustrating that despite everything, he has still retained his sense of humour.
Still fighting for the release of all the hostages
Even after returning home, every single freed hostage and their families are still fighting for the release of all the hostages. Rachel Goldberg-Polin, whose son Hersh was tragically murdered in captivity, is still speaking up, fighting, and comforting bereaved families.
Again and again, I have seen these men and women, young and old, show signs of immense courage despite their immense suffering. Of course, their return is bittersweet, and their recovery journey will be long and painful. I have heard countless testimonies of Nova survivors and released hostages, each one more chilling than the next.
Then, two weeks ago, the breath was knocked out of me once again. Involuntarily turned symbols of the entire Jewish nation, the Bibas family’s tragic fate has been followed by thousands worldwide for the past 16 months.
Up until then, like the rest of the world, amid the rumours and speculations, I remained hopeful and prayed for a miracle, despite expecting the worst.
But when I heard the devastating news finally confirmed, my heart was absolutely shattered. I don’t even know these people and I feel this way; I can’t even imagine their pain. There are no words to describe it. I can’t unsee the image of Shiri Bibas, valiantly clutching her red-headed babies in a blanket wrapped around her chest. Or Yarden Bibas - his hopes of reuniting with those most dear to him, shattered in an instant. It is an unbearable reality.
And just when I thought that the cruelty couldn’t possibly get any worse, I was struck speechless as thousands of Palestinins gathered to celebrate the murder of a mother and her children, aged 10 months, and 4 years old, calling it a victory, as their coffins were paraded on the stage, in the most humiliating degrading ceremony that I have seen yet.
Alongside the coffins of Shiri and her children was a fourth coffin holding the body of Oded Lifshitz. An 86-year-old Israeli journalist and peace activist, Lifshitz dedicated his life to fighting for peace, justice, and Palestinian rights, even volunteering for Road to Recovery, an organization that transports Palestinian children in Gaza and the West Bank across the border to receive treatments in Israeli hospitals. The very people he helped and fought for, betrayed him in the most heinous way.
Two days later, a momentary reprieve from the grief was offered as I watched six more hostages walk free, only to be followed by disgust when the broadcast showed Evyatar David and Guy Gilboa-Dalal, forced to watch their peers being released - Hamas once again proving that its grotesque cruelty knows no bounds.
Now I am furious. How was this allowed to happen? What happened to never again? Where is the outrage?
Difference between us and them
Then, last week, I watched the funeral of the Bibas family as thousands upon thousands of Israelis lined the streets, raising Israeli flags and orange balloons, singing, and crying to offer their respects.
Despite having never met Shiri, Yarden, or their children, every Israeli and Jew worldwide feels deeply connected to them, and to every hostage, released, or still in captivity. A nation that has endured unimaginable suffering and is filled with rage toward the government came together to comfort the Bibas family.
Once again, I am reminded of the difference between us and them. While they glorify death and revel in cruelty, we sanctify and cherish life. While they teach their children to hate, using them as human shields, we teach ours to love and respect.
This was made strikingly and glaringly obvious in the images and scenes that sent shockwaves through our nation over the last few weeks. Yet there are still many who refuse to believe the truth, dismissing anything that goes against their warped narrative.
The fact that these monsters claim that their actions have moral and religious grounds and justifications, and even more so, that people believe, support, and legitimize them, is truly mind-blowing.
I have come to realise that aside from a very small minority who are open to dialogue and other views, most antisemites and pro-Hamas individuals can’t be reasoned with. This is the way the world was created, and I, for one, will never understand it.
Yet there is something about our nation that stands out amid our collective agony and that no one will ever take away from us: our hope, our integrity, our resilience, and most importantly, our spirit.
It is a testament to the essence of who we are as a nation, to the core of what we stand for, and that good will always prevail. This message is even reflected in our national anthem, Hatikva, meaning hope.
As I watch the reunions of broken families and thousands of Israelis and Jews worldwide gathering together to celebrate and mourn in a beautifully tragic display of solidarity, I have never been prouder to be part of the Jewish nation.