The ties that bind, the chains unbroken

Today is not January 27th, 2026. at least not in Israel. It is finally October 8th, 2023.

The clocks have stopped. The last hostage is home.

There is a frayed yellow ribbon whose writing has nearly faded, that was still attached to my purse. It’s finally time to untie it and let it float away in the wind. The writing on the ribbon said October 7th, 2023. It cried these words, whispered them in pain, screamed into the void – but many weren’t listening. There is a yellow ribbon pin that is now lost in my clothing; after October 13th, 2025, I wore that instead of the necklace, even though, in truth, my heart was still with those left in Gaza. For some reason, the pin was more difficult to remember than the neck chain; probably because every evening when I removed the chain I would feel guilty that I was able to take off my “shackles” but those we were waiting for, hoping and praying they would come home alive, could not be unchained by so simple an act.

Those who were still alive finally came home on October 13th, 2025. But not all those who were also meant to be returned came back to at least give closure to their loved ones. Our loved ones came home in plain wooden boxes, not befitting their pain or their sacrifice as heroes deserve, but honoring the traditions of our people, and wrapped in blue and white. Yet we waited and waited for the last. Even after weeks turned into months of more waiting, as some of our lost were finally returned, there was still one left.  Our Ran. Do I know him? No, not personally. Do I know his family? We’ve never met. But do I know his soul, the soul of our people? Yes, I know it very well. We all know that in the same way as his mother said in an interview I saw yesterday, we are proud, and sad, and wouldn’t expect anything else of this amazing generation that we’ve raised. If we teach them to save lives, to run to calls for help, how can we be heartbroken when that is what they do? First in, last out, Rani’s parents said. He went, although he didn’t have to, and he came back last of all those taken from us on that tragic, awful day.

Now Ran has come home. What about the fact that he is coming home draped in a flag, rather than a hug? How can we be glad he has finally been returned, if it’s only for burial? What difference does it make, if he was (horrifyingly) buried in a Gaza cemetery, rather than with honors in his country? All the difference in the world. His family, his community, his whole country was waiting for him, still holding our breath, for the day when we could rip that date off our calendars and start to move forward and begin to heal.

That they moved him, more than once, shows only (again and again and again) their cruelty. That they put him in a burial ground with their own, not for honor but to make it that much harder – both to find him, and for those who had to endure disinterring and identifying remains of 250 bodies until they could be sure it was him. Cruel? Evil? No more so than all that our enemies have done for thousands of years, for the past two years and three and a half months which felt like centuries, for 843 days. Think. It just occurred to me. 250 bodies. 250 hostages taken. And now the last, the very last one, is home.

Are there still many of our boys and girls and men and women in that godforsaken place, fighting to protect our people? Yes. Do I worry about them? All the time. Those I know, and those whom I have never met. My family, your family, our family. Are we going to ever let this happen again? No. When I read that someone was fired on for approaching the line we hold, and possibly eliminated- oh, to be done with euphemisms! Do I feel bad? Only for those who have had to “learn the means of death” and use them.

The soldiers who found him, who did this awful work, what about them? Are they broken, sad, horrified? One would think so. But when they found Ran, when they knew this was it, they could bring home our final fallen hero, instead of looking defeated, they held each other and sang “Ani Maamin,” “I believe.”

This is our people, our nation. Across mountains and rivers and oceans, across all different views of our religion, throughout history, we keep hold of each other. We keep the chain unbroken.

Tonight, I will untie the faded ribbon, and think of the final family who can lay their child to rest in his home soil, with all the honors he deserves. I will pick up the necklace whose invisible weight I felt on my neck these past three months, after having worn it daily for two years, and I will celebrate our country’s “release.” As I have learned, when soldiers here are released from the army, they cut their army card, and some also break their dog tags, to show freedom. I, too, will break that chain, even though a lot of my heart is still broken for those we have lost. In a week that ends with the Torah (bible) reading of our escape from Mitzrayim, which led to our unification as a nation and celebration of freedom, I, too, will finally break that chain that reads in English, Bring Them Home Now, but in Hebrew it says, Our hearts are with them in Aza. By breaking this chain, I will be with all of my people who are removing pins, bracelets, necklaces, and status pictures.

But of course, everything isn’t over, others say, and I can’t fully ignore that there’s yet another war brewing that is not our fault, and yet somehow, our responsibility. Yet as those ominous clouds blow in through the news and social media, I will dwell on this: Ran is home, his parents can finally put their boy to rest.

May our people find healing and pull together, and may we all find peace.