When Lyr Returned: Our First Sweet New Year without Hostages

Two nights ago in Tokyo, we hosted 50 Israelis for Erev Rosh Hashanah. This is the norm since opening our home to Israelis some 3.5 years ago and becoming what has become an Israeli heart in Tokyo. Any given Friday night or holiday can bring this many to us. 

What was also significant was the fact that it brought someone’s return. The day before, he came up the steps with his girlfriend, their packs, and small trolley suitcases. I was ready to introduce myself, and then I saw his eyes. Light. Piercing. 

“I know you.”

And then the realization. 

It was Lyr who came with his best friend, Ido. They left almost as soon as they arrived, a tragic about-face. 

Joy to be here, all the way in Japan, ready to eat ramen, sushi, and explore. Ready for all the good stuff. Also, ready for war. Lyr and Ido were with us that Friday evening, with laughter and so much fun. But then came Saturday, Oct. 7, 2023. He and Ido were considered active-duty soldiers.

While continuing to hunt for seats on a plane that would take them back, they were with us in Japan. If you squint, you can find their faces on the stage here at the rally we had in the busiest intersection of Shibuya.

Maybe they would have flown back anyway, but on Oct. 7, their response was immediate and solemn. I remember them not sleeping. None of us did, but they needed the next flight home with their bloodshot eyes. As soon as they found a flight, they flew down our stairs, left in the taxi next to my basil plants, and shipped out on the 12th.

It was another soldier, too, an incredible young man who held up a small cardboard sign at our protest and gathering of solidarity at Shibuya Crossing, huge muscles always flexed while his face communicated pain. 

And then there was my Japanese husband, who already had a ticket for Israel. El Al confirmed that he could still use it, assuring him that all the soldiers and Israelis who needed to depart on that Oct. 12 flight had seats. 

Those days and nights were purposeful: as we wondered whether he would still be flying, we gathered supplies for soldiers and displaced children nonetheless.

Just what they were sailing into was devastating. We could only send them with tight hugs, not knowing that danger would still be there. We were “living out” Zionism with them. It was life as Jews on the sharp cusp of grief and hope, living and serving within the worst existential fight since the Holocaust. I sent my husband off not knowing if he’d run into his own terror. Later I saw the photo of him and his friend in multi-threat vests driving to the south. I also saw them with our soldier friends, his heart unfurled along with the Japanese flag he brought. It was a declaration of togetherness and support. Solidly. Forever. 

The IDF currently reports 968 soldiers have cumulatively died on or after Oct. 7, 2023. That is 968 sons or daughters, 968 friends, mentors, brothers and sisters. That does not even count those murdered at Nova or in the kibbutzim, security personnel who fell, or other precious people with families and dreams.

We later learned that Ilay Levy, another incredible guest of ours and a young, exceptional major, fell. His family later came to our home on their journey to see Japan through their Ilay’s eyes. 

Every person, every soul, is treasure. We all know this well. Each life is to be fought for. 

Over coffee, Lyr tells me about his childhood friend, Omer.

“His name is Omer-nissim Bitan. He was a reserved soldier. Omer went on October 7th to participate in the mission of protecting Kibbutz Nirim in the Gaza border. He got hit by a bomb on October 14th, and actually, by that, he saved all of his friends’ lives.”

Lyr says, “The last conversation we had was on WhatsApp, on October 11th. I took it while I was here–from this home, Beit Samurai. Omer will always be remembered…

And Lyr came back. Back to his parents and his home. Back to his girlfriend and his dreams. 

Back here to continue or finish his Japan trip. And next time with Ido. 

When I arrived at our community center to arrange flowers and set up my seven round challah loaves with honey in the center, it was Lyr I first saw in the kitchen, blistering peppers over the fire. Another tight hug, smoke and tears in my eyes. 

I later lit the candles, my voice rising at the front of our room. We chanted and spoke each blessing, including the ones over dates, pomegranates, and the fish head that my son ate. We called out Lyr’s name and explained the significance to our guests.

We remembered how one year ago at the last Rosh Hashanah gathering, we still displayed the yellow ribbon flag and we were deeply praying for our hostages. Many of the friends sitting in this very room had helped with that and also had lost friends. We looked around. Nowhere were yellow ribbons or posters of loved ones still fighting for their lives, their whereabouts unknown, their return still uncertain. 

In just a few weeks, we’ll welcome another significant guest—former hostage, Guy Gilboa-Dalal. 

We’ll host him, his siblings, their partners, and the original best friend, Yonaton, whom Guy was supposed to fly to Japan with in April 2024—when instead he was in a terror tunnel and not safe, not under cherry blossoms, not feasting with us, not exploring Shinjuku, not making a video of them walking across the Shibuya Scramble or draping their arms over the statue of faithful Hachiko. 

We’ll hold another huge Shabbat evening and Guy and his loved ones will be our special guests. This friend we prayed for by name: Guy, whose face we wore on the shirts his father and brother handed to us, along with bracelets and pins when they themselves came to Japan to advocate for him and share Guy’s love for the country with Japan.

And then there are those who made it—the beloved, specific people whose gorgeous lives were pulled out of normalcy, routine, and a holiday, and plunged into darkness.

For Guy, it was 738 days before he emerged again. 

My family and I are not funding the trip, but we are fundraising via Go Fund Me and are organizing everything. In fact, we just purchased the airline tickets this afternoon. 

We host, but the real job is simply opening our doors and creating the conditions that speak safety and love. 

The idea is not a simple trip to Japan to binge sushi and ramen, buy Onitsuka Tiger shoes, or win the fluffy characters in the arcade; it’s about restoring his dream and righting something together for him. We cannot change Oct. 7 or the fact that he was subjected to horrible, terrible things. We can, perhaps, help restore some of what was stolen. Even a little bit. 

What are the other words for “restore”? Whatever the word is, it was peace that was taken. Laughter. Sleep, probably. Time. His family’s ability to work. The Japanese Guy was learning was replaced by Arabic, he told me. Not voluntarily.

Zionism, I have found, is desiring deeply what our people and our friends so need: justice, peace, simply the ability to live with joy and not in terror. From my home in Tokyo, wherever Israelis are, I want their best, and I’ll voice it. 

It’s seeing more of this: light where there was darkness, rest where there was unrest. The most delicious Shabbats and Rosh Hashanah celebrations. It’s seeing your Japanese, non-Jewish husband blow the shofar so long that a roomful of Israelis have grown accustomed to it each year, and yet he still draws incredulous cheers. It’s honey, wine, and making room for guests.