Drawn to Innocent Memories, Pulled to Novel Hopes

The day before Erev Rosh Hashana, I visited Hostages Square. A feeling that I needed to be there before the holiday. Walking the path between the entrance to the new pavilion of the Tel Aviv Museum of Art and the space turned into Hostages Square lined with trees bearing posters, pictures of hostages. Past noon, hot, sunny, people at tables under the awning outside of the café on the western side of the square. Very few lingering people in the square, new and old installations in place. The counter – days, hours, minutes since October 7 at the eastern side.

Desperate for iced coffee, I entered the plaza before the café, directly for the tent with items for sale. Once home, I noticed the yellow ribbon magnet missing from my car door. Earlier, at the Square, I purchased another magnet, #UntilTheLastHostage.

Wondering if my missing magnet was taken by a kid who wanted it, Haim’s reaction validated my suppressed assumption – removed in protest, someone believing returning the hostages is secondary to continued war and destruction in Gaza. Saddened by the likelihood.

I bought a yellow bracelet with “BringThemHomeNow” printed in black. The print on my old bracelet had remained relevant too long, now faded, barely legible. Like the yellow ribbons faded and tied to the mirrors on the left and right sides of my car since October 2023.

I bought the double yellow ribbon pin and more yellow candles for our set of yellow candleholders, the ribbon symbol carved out of the metal frame of one, #BringThemHomeNow carved out of the other.

Barcode scanned, items paid for. The volunteer salesperson engaged me in small talk. I learned the father of her children is American. Her sister lives in the US. She volunteers at Hostages Square several days a week. Idan Alexander, a returned hostage with US citizenship, is the nephew of one of her best friends. Supporting her friend was the catalyst for her volunteering. Headshaking and turns in conversation. Trump. Bibi. Evangelist missions deplete their merchandise warehouse. Different passersby and people making purchases tell her stories. Demonstrations. Purchase peaks.

Much communicated between us, “understood without saying,” she said. A reminder of times when Israelis hesitated less to interact, more certain of shared values. Once thinking we had  tacit understanding of something shared, and fewer differences. She asked my name and told me hers. Not sure if we hugged. But she touched my heart. She enabled me to remember something special here. We can’t give up on it.

Strong winds introduced the season’s first rain late Wednesday night. I was not yet asleep, and Haim awakened with a start, when the bedroom window shutters closed with a bang. His startled reaction reminded me of our fears, spoken, unspoken. Sitting in my home office/saferoom a day later, wind banged at the laundry room door. Never one to calmly laugh through the haunted house at an amusement park, but since October 7, my fright begins with terror of terror – terrorists walked into people’s home saferooms on October 7.

Friday, preparing our family dinner, Haim clicked a lighter that ignites the gas burner. It was screechy. I whispered: it sounds like the preliminary warning on the app from the Home Front Command advising you get to a safe place in anticipation of an air raid siren.

But I skipped moments of almost pure joy – if you disregard reality, thoughts of war and hostages, of Israel attacking innocent Gazans and reneging on responsibility because “we warned them to leave.” We spent Erev Rosh Hashana at Kibbutz Yad Mordechai to be with Haim’s daughter’s family at her brother-in-law’s home. Our 3-1/2-year-old granddaughter and her cousin of the same age invited me to play with them.

The kibbutz is close to Gaza. I was anxious lest we hear IDF planes attacking. It was a quiet evening. But soldiers lost their lives during the holiday, and civilians were injured in Eilat by a Houthi attack.

Yet, arriving at the kibbutz, the smiling guard at the gate wished us a happy holiday and new year, restored my hopes. A kibbutz evacuated on October 7, filled with families observing the holiday in their homes.

Me and my 3-1/2-year-old play buddies in the backyard after dinner. A green light crossed the sky. The boy asked what it was. Not sure. Green? “Maybe a plane or a helicopter.” He responded, sounding determined in less than decipherable age-appropriate language. The unequivocally clear word uttered was “bomb.” Maybe the aircraft was carrying a bomb.

Media report an imminent end to the war at the end of the holiday. Return of all hostages. International and PA representatives managing Gaza without Hamas involvement in local government. Haim convinces me its viable.

Bibi’s UN speech was nothing more, nothing less than expected. Nevertheless, its effect, and Israelis applauding him validate Meir Kraus’s analysis of the penetrating effect extreme right messianic ideology brings to bear on religious political ideology, carrying it into broader circles. I read it on our way home from the kibbutz. When messianic messages possess your consciousness, it becomes easy to avoid confronting what Israel is doing in Gaza, easy to justify necessity for Israel’s every act in Gaza. I am not denying our need to defend ourselves. Yet, I agree with social psychologist, Prof. Eran Halperin, who the next day posted his expression of gratitude to European leaders condemning Israel and declaring a Palestinian state, recognizing their attempt to save Israel from its government.

Dare I foresee progress? With setbacks, but progress, on a trajectory of healing, creating a better Israel and Palestine?

Harriet Gimpel, September 27, 2025