We Are One: The Day the Hostages Came Home
Monday, all of the living hostages were released. Alongside them, several of the murdered were returned home for burial. Two sacred acts happened at once — life restored and dignity returned.
Across the world, Jews everywhere found themselves glued to their phones, WhatsApp groups, livestreams, and news alerts. In Los Angeles, London, Jerusalem, Melbourne, and Buenos Aires — it didn’t matter where you were — the moment united us. We cried for people we had never met, rejoiced for families we had never known, and yet felt it as though it were our own children, our own siblings, our own parents coming home. Because in a very real sense, it was.
That’s the remarkable truth about the Jewish people: our empathy does not require acquaintance. When one of us is in pain, the rest of us feel it. When one of us is redeemed, the rest of us breathe again. As the buses crossed into Israel, as soldiers embraced the freed hostages, and as the nation exhaled after months of fear and anguish, something ancient stirred inside us. From ultra-Orthodox enclaves to secular cafés, from kibbutzim near Gaza to Jewish communities across the diaspora, the same words rippled through social media and synagogue halls: כולנו אחים — kulanu achim. We are all brothers and sisters.
That phrase is not a slogan. It’s a truth carved into our collective soul. We might disagree about everything else — politics, theology, strategy, even who makes the best hummus — but when Jews are in peril, those debates fall away like leaves in the wind.
While we wept with joy, another truth revealed itself, and it was far more bitter. For months, the loudest voices demanding a ceasefire claimed their crusade was rooted in compassion. Celebrities, student groups, and social justice influencers all proclaimed their devotion to “human rights” and “peace.” Yet today, when the ceasefire actually came — when lives were saved and families reunited — there was no celebration from those same corners. No posts rejoicing at the end of violence. No statements commending the miracle of hostages coming home. Instead, there was silence — or worse, venom.
The same people who claimed to care about innocent life continued to vilify Israel, continued to target Jews. They weren’t motivated by empathy; they were animated by hatred. Their cause was never peace. It was never about people. It was propaganda dressed up as justice. You cannot claim to champion the sanctity of life while refusing to celebrate when lives are saved simply because those lives are Jewish. The mask has fallen. And in its place, we’re left with a painful but clarifying truth.
The power of this day, however, is not found in the world’s reaction — it’s in ours. For a people who have often found ways to disagree about nearly everything, today reminded us of something elemental: we are one family. Religious and secular. Right and left. Israeli and diaspora. Mizrahi and Ashkenazi. Observant and atheist. Kulanu achim. We’ve said those words before, but today we felt them.
It’s easy to talk about unity in times of mourning — to hold vigils, recite psalms, and say the right words. But unity in celebration, that’s something else. When our hearts lifted together watching strangers being welcomed home, it wasn’t just relief. It was recognition. Recognition that across continents and centuries, the Jewish people remain a single, breathing organism.
This isn’t poetic exaggeration; it’s a spiritual reality. We have survived because we have cared for one another across distance and disagreement. We have lived by the principle that Jewish suffering anywhere demands Jewish response everywhere. And today, Jewish joy — thank God — demanded the same.
There’s something deeply poetic in the timing of it all. Nearly two years to the day, we find ourselves again at Simchat Torah, the holiday that celebrates both endings and beginnings, the cyclical reading of our sacred text that reminds us the story never truly concludes. Simchat Torah is about renewal. We finish the Torah and, without pause, begin again. That’s what today feels like — an emotional aliyah, an ascent. A moment when the Jewish heart remembers that resilience is not a theory, it’s our inheritance.
Two years ago, Simchat Torah was marked by horror — the darkest day in modern Jewish memory. But now, as this season returns, so too does a piece of our collective soul. The circle of grief doesn’t close, but it bends toward hope.
It would be easy to stop here, to rest in the warmth of reunion and the glow of unity. But Jewish joy has always come with responsibility. If we truly believe we are one people, then today’s elation must lead to tomorrow’s action — to support, to advocacy, to connection. To remind our children that being Jewish means being part of a living, breathing family that celebrates together, mourns together, and stands together, even when the world refuses to stand with us.
We can’t control how others react, but we can choose how we respond. We can double down on empathy — not just for our own, but for the humanity others seem to have forgotten. We can reject cynicism and show that Jewish unity is not a reaction to tragedy, but a reflection of covenant. And we can keep telling our story — loudly, proudly, without apology.
Because if this moment proves anything, it’s that the world may not always understand us, but we understand each other. When the news alert flashed across our phones today, I watched my group chats light up with messages, photos, tears, emojis — a digital minyan of joy. From friends who hadn’t spoken in years. From rabbis and skeptics, Zionists and cynics. Everyone felt it. Everyone shared it.
That’s what it means to be part of this ancient, maddening, miraculous people. Even in our heartbreak, even when the world scorns us, there is an unbreakable thread that binds us. You can stretch it across oceans and centuries, across languages and denominations — and it still holds.
Today, that thread pulled tighter. As we welcomed home those who survived and honored those who did not, we were reminded of something that outlasts politics and persecution alike: We are one. כולנו אחים.
And no one can ever take that away from us.
