Like so many Israelis and people across the globe who have shared in the painful weeks we have endured, day-to-day life has felt incredibly intense and sombre. I am certain that we have yet to grasp the full ramifications of the trauma we have experienced throughout this entire hostage release period.
It is difficult to describe the overwhelming emotions we have faced collectively. Each week, we were forced to endure Hamas' psychological terror as they manipulated the lives of Israeli hostages. The terror group refused to provide a list of who was alive and then orchestrated every weekend to feel like an episode of Squid Game, filled with unbearable stress and cruelty. After announcing the names, we were then made to watch as terrorists in Gaza paraded our hostages – starved, weak, and emaciated – forcing them to smile and wave for the cameras. Gazan civilian spectators, many of them children, gathered to film as if attending some grotesque public spectacle.
Then came the devastating announcement: Oded Lifshitz and the Bibas family – Shiri and her two children, Ariel and Kfir – were coming back in coffins. Every single murder of a hostage has left a scar. I couldn't keep food down for a week when the six hostages were executed in August, and this felt no different. Everything about it – the fact that it was a mother and her two beautiful, redheaded boys, an elderly man who was a journalist and peace activist, and the humiliating way they were paraded – was gut-wrenching. It felt like the days following Oct. 7 and the weeks after the six hostages were murdered all over again.
For me, what is particularly difficult is that, as a journalist, I had come to know both of these families. I have visited Nir Oz several times and the Lifshitz and Bibas homes. I met their families and became particularly close with one of Oded's daughters-in-law, Rita Lifshitz, who has been my main point of contact in Nir Oz. She advocated tirelessly for so many in her community, only to receive her father-in-law in a coffin.
The shiva for Oded was held in Kfar Hamacabiah, an area outside Tel Aviv. Walking in, it almost felt like being back in one of the kibbutzim– – filled with nature, a small oasis removed from the chaos of the city. It was the perfect setting for the members of Kibbutz Nir Oz to mourn together as though they had momentarily returned home.
My friend and I arrived with some cakes to show our respect to Rita and her family. As we walked the path leading to Oded's shiva, searching for something to guide us to the area, my eyes suddenly landed on two signs that had small arrows. The first sign pointed left: "The Shiva of the Bibas Family." The second pointed right: "The Shiva of the Lifshitz Family."
Sometimes, it's the smallest things that hit the hardest. Here I was, in this beautiful park, staring at these signs, and the weight of what I was walking into sank in. The community of Nir Oz – once a tightly woven home – was now forced to hold two separate shivas, mere meters apart. Oded and Yocheved Lifshitz had lived just a few feet away from the Bibas family. Now, their loved ones mourned their dead, just a few feet apart. Nir Oz was one of many kibbutzim devastated on Oct. 7, but what made its tragedy unique was that it was almost completely abandoned that day. In other devastated kibbutzim like Be'eri and Kfar Aza, the Israeli Defense Forces had entered the Kibbutz to fight off the terrorists. But in Nir Oz, they never arrived in time. The first Hamas terrorists entered Nir Oz at 7:00 a.m. By the time the Shayetet 13 commandos arrived at 2:20 p.m., the terrorists had already left, having kidnapped or murdered 180 of Nir Oz's 400 residents.
I stood there, staring at the signs, processing the scale of loss. This community lost a quarter of its people. Now, nearly 17 months later, they were forced to sit shiva once again, just a few feet apart.
Turning left, we made our way to the Lifshitz family. We found the gathering and immediately recognized Yocheved Lifshitz, Oded's wife, surrounded by mourners. We walked over to Rita, and I hugged her tightly, pouring all my love into that embrace. She was grateful we had come. As we sat among friends and family from Nir Oz, someone suddenly called out, "Wow. Ofer is here." I turned and saw Ofer Kalderon.
Ofer had been abducted from Nir Oz on Oct. 7 along with his daughter, Sahar, and son, Erez. His two teenagers were released in the November 2023 deal, but Ofer himself had remained captive until just a month ago, on February 1, 2025. I had spent a year and a half staring at his hostage poster, watching Hamas parade him, crying when I saw his reunion video. And now, here he was, standing right before me, speaking to Oded's grandson, Daniel, surrounded by silent listeners. Ofer's daughter stood behind him, arms folded, watching over her father.
He looked as if he had come straight from the hospital to the shiva. His family had reported that he was held underground in severe hunger conditions and was denied sunlight, medical care, and hygiene for months. I assumed he had come only briefly from the hospital to pay his respects.
There's no rulebook for moments like this. I struggled to process the sheer weight of his presence, to reconcile the hostage poster with the man before me. I tried not to stare, stealing only glances, grounding myself in the reality that he was here – alive, speaking with his friends from the kibbutz.
As we sat with Rita, we met so many incredible people: Oded's relatives, those managing the rehabilitation of hostages, and friends who had come to mourn together. This sweet community, sitting outdoors in the embrace of nature, gave me a glimpse into what life in the kibbutzim must have been like – a place where people truly came together for one another.
Half an hour later, I noticed a small crowd forming. They were hugging a young woman with light brown hair, about my height. At first, I turned away, assuming she was a family friend. Then, I did a double take – recognition striking like lightning. Doron Steinbrecher.
Her hostage poster showed her with long blonde hair, but the blonde had long grown out. Her mother, Simone, was also in the crowd, embracing someone. Doron had been kidnapped from her home in Kibbutz Kfar Aza while hiding under her bed. She was one of the first hostages released in the current deal, alongside Emily Damari and Romi Gonen.
After the excruciating week of waiting, after the horrifying confirmation of the Bibas family and Oded's deaths, seeing released hostages in the flesh felt surreal. They were here – alive, breathing, reunited with their families. Weak and frail, but home. There are no words for the out-of-body experience of seeing them in person. It felt like I could finally breathe like a weight had lifted off my chest.
After we said our goodbyes to the Lifshitz family, we stopped by the Bibas family's shiva. I placed one of our cakes on their table and saw Yarden Bibas speaking with mourners. I saw his family and Shiri's family gathered in a circle of grief and solidarity. It felt bittersweet to see them all here.
I walked away feeling lighter and better than I had in a very long time. I have said this from the beginning, and now I know it to be truer than ever: we cannot heal as a society until all our hostages are home. This past week has been a nightmare, a testament to the depths of human evil – a world where terrorists can murder a baby with their bare hands. It feels impossible to hold on to hope. But seeing these hostages return, witnessing them surrounded by love, breathing, interacting, and hopefully, healing – that is the only thing that gives us a path forward through this darkness.
They must all come home. Immediately.
