By Michael M. Rosen & Danya Rosen
Thursday, November 20, 2025
Elation and tears greet every new picture and video of
returning hostages. A powerful combination of joy and catharsis overtakes us
and the thousands gathered at Hostage Square in the heart of Tel Aviv.
It’s early October, the eve of the Simchat Torah holiday.
It was on that day, two years earlier, that Hamas invaded the Jewish state,
slaughtered more than 1,200 Israelis, and abducted another 250 — the vast
majority of whom were women, children, and the elderly. Fittingly, under the
terms of a cease-fire painstakingly negotiated by the Trump administration,
this was the day that the murderous terror group would release the last of the
20 living Israelis it had been holding captive.
The night before, we witnessed Hostage Square — which had
become ground zero for those fighting for the freedom of the abducted — play
host to Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner, the architects of the Trump deal, who
were greeted with rapturous applause and chants of “Thank you, Trump!”
Fortunately, the cease-fire has mostly held. As of this
writing, the remains of all but three hostages have been returned for a proper
burial in Israel, and international actors have committed to disarming Hamas
once and for all.
In many ways, Israel has come full circle. After two
painful years, the country is finally ready to begin healing and to rebuild
what was destroyed. Having interviewed those who had suffered the most, for our
piece “Hope amid the Horror” in the March 2024 issue of National Review,
we set about closing the circle by checking in with the hostage families, the
evacuees, and the residents of the Gaza envelope (in Hebrew, the Otef Azza),
the belt of kibbutzim and small towns running along the strip.
What we found were individuals and families in the early
stages of recovery, communities beginning to renew themselves physically and
spiritually, and a country absorbing its dreadful losses with an eye to the
future. After October 7, things here will never be the same. But Israelis are
determined to make them better.
***
‘It’s amazing, seeing Alon play piano,” Idit Rosen Ohel
tells us, of her son. “It’s like breathing again for him, for us.”
Alon Ohel, a promising young musician (and our cousin),
was seized by terrorists from the Nova music festival on the morning of October
7. He survived the explosion of several grenades in the roadside shelter where
he hid, but his right eye was significantly damaged.
Following an unimaginable two-year ordeal, Alon returned
home, and doctors are optimistic that they can restore full vision in his
damaged eye. “Alon just underwent surgery,” Idit tells us, “and he’s now at
home recovering, rebuilding himself.” Together, the Ohels are “trying to
rebuild ourselves as a family.” Alon had not yet shared the details of his
horrific ordeal, Idit says. But by “closing his eyes and thinking about life
beyond the tunnels,” he found a way to survive. “He knew in his heart we were
fighting for him.”
A key step in Alon’s recovery involves playing the piano.
He even mustered the strength in late October to join the cast of Eretz
Nehederet — Israel’s Saturday Night Live — to play a popular song
that brought down the house and subsequently went viral.
The Dekel-Chen family has experienced something similar.
Two years ago, we interviewed Jonathan, whose 35-year-old son Sagui was
abducted by terrorists while defending Kibbutz Nir Oz, which lies less than a
quarter mile from the Gaza fence. We spoke with Jonathan several months after
Sagui — a dual American-Israeli citizen — returned.
“We rejoice every day that Sagui is home,” Jonathan tells
us. “He survived October 7 and another nearly 500 days [in captivity] by way of
countless small miracles, some of which we can explain rationally and others we
cannot.” For Sagui’s reunification with his wife and children, one of whom was
born while he was held in Gaza, “we are constantly giving thanks.”
Others who survived the attack are also adjusting to
their new reality.
“Suddenly your home becomes a kind of memorial site and
that’s something that wasn’t here before,” Carmel Be’eri, 20, tells us,
describing the new version of her childhood community in a chilling way.
Carmel, whom we also interviewed previously, grew up in
Kibbutz Alumim, which sits on the Gaza border a few miles down the road from
Nir Oz. On October 7, she was at home with her family when the attack began.
They sheltered in their safe room for many hours until the terrorists had been
repelled.
Two years later, after a challenging temporary
relocation, Carmel shared with us how she and her family are coping now. “At
the start of the war, mine was one of many families who spent most of their
time in their bomb shelters,” she recalls of those terrifying early days after
the attack. “It’s weird that now I’m taking part in fighting the war as an IDF
soldier.”
Although most families have already returned to their
houses in the Otef, there are many who’ve found it impossible to feel at home
in their old homes.
Liora Ben Tsur, from Kibbutz Ein HaShlosha, had given
birth just 30 hours before October 7 and was in the hospital as it was taking
place, her husband and older children at home. Her mother was savagely murdered
that morning on her way to visit her grandchildren.
When we ask Liora what gave her the strength to keep a
positive outlook just a day after the tragedy, she answers, “In 1948, during
the independence war, so many soldiers gave their lives so that we could have a
Jewish country, so that we could have a home for the Jewish nation. Who am I to
give up because of a terrible tragedy? Absolutely not,” she continues, “it is
my responsibility to take care of the Otef, of my home.”
For Liora, it’s personal. The day after the attack, at
her own mother’s funeral, she sat her kids down and told them, “I know it is
not simple that we lost Grandma, but we are going home. We are going to build a
better future for the Otef.”
***
It’s dusk on a November evening in Kibbutz Be’eri, and an
uneasy silence settles over the still largely uninhabited community.
Be’eri — like Nir Oz, Alumim, and Ein HaShlosha —
suffered terribly on October 7, with scores of members murdered, dozens of
others abducted, and nearly a third of homes incinerated by Hamas. As we
recounted during our first visit there, in December 2023, the stench of burning
was heavy in the air, and the sounds of Israeli artillery interrupted our
guide’s position every few minutes.
This time, the quiet is punctuated by the sounds of
cement mixers and jackhammers. Dozens of new houses are under construction, to
replace the destroyed residences as well as to develop entirely new areas of
the agricultural community. As Alon Pauker, a member of the kibbutz council,
shows us the scenes of both destruction and rebuilding, it’s evident that
there’s still a long way to go.
Be’eri, at its peak, had about a thousand residents.
About a hundred have returned, while the remainder have temporarily settled in
the town of Hatzerim, some 25 miles away.
“We really want to see quiet,” Alon tells us — a firm and
nonnegotiable requirement for returning home. As of this writing, Hamas remains
in power in parts of Gaza, and its murderous intentions haven’t abated in the
slightest. Until the terms of the cease-fire are fully implemented, Be’eri will
not be fully repopulated.
In Alon’s case, the concern is justified: he and his wife
survived the slaughter on October 7. “We played Russian roulette once, and we
don’t plan on taking another chance,” he tells us. He, his wife, and the rest
of the kibbutz are very “hesitant” to return, especially because they know they
“can’t rely on Hamas.”
As Alon and other members of the Be’eri council ponder
their future, many views have also emerged on how exactly to commemorate the
invasion. “To revive the kibbutz physically is one thing,” he tells us. “But
there are so many other decisions we need to take, and each one is very
complicated, difficult, and emotionally fraught.”
Other communities are also rebuilding, however
tentatively.
For Nir Oz, the return of the living hostages in October,
four of whom were native sons, was “particularly joyous,” Jonathan Dekel-Chen
says. At the same time, everything changed. “Life just didn’t go back to the
Sixth of October. We lost everything: our homes, our way of life, many dozens
of our friends, neighbors, workmates, and family members.”
As for whether the kibbutz will recover, Jonathan tells
us that “Sagui and his family haven’t returned to Nir Oz. Generally speaking,
all of the young families who survived October 7 will not be returning to Nir
Oz.” Instead, they plan to relocate as a group to another kibbutz called Beit
Nir, which is far from the border. “It will allow them to move into a better
place in life, far from the trauma they experienced,” he explains.
Liora Ben Tsur wants to make sure that communities like
Be’eri and Nir Oz will be restored. She’s a member of the organization Atid
LaOtef (in English, the “future of the Gaza envelope”), a Zionist movement born
following the events of October 7. It was founded by and consists of residents
of the surrounding towns who understand the importance of the State of Israel
as the Jewish homeland. Its goal is to assist in the rehabilitation and
development of the Otef according to the needs and the vision of the region’s
residents.
At Kibbutz Ein HaShlosha, Liora tells us, her brothers
were some of the first people to make it there as the attack was unfolding.
They came all the way from just south of Hebron, a nearly 55-mile drive,
highlighting the sense of family and of mission that Israelis feel toward the
Otef.
Kibbutz Alumim has experienced something similar. While
many families have yet to return, Carmel tells us that there are new families
who have made the brave decision to move to the kibbutzim in the Otef. She
explains that they, too, feel the same responsibility that Liora does for the
region. “It’s like a sense of mission,” says Carmel.
After returning to Alumim over a year ago, she feels that
it is a different version of where she grew up. “It is my home. It’s just that
something happened in my home. It’s not the quiet and pastoral place it always
was,” she says, “It’s not just a beautiful place of blooming anemones, it’s a
memorial place of a big tragedy that happened.”
During the first few hours of the massacre, it seemed to
residents of the Otef that security forces were nowhere to be found. The “first
responders” consisted of gun-wielding civilians who left their homes and
bravely defended the overrun kibbutzim. Israelis “used to think, ‘No big deal,
they fired missiles at the Otef,’ no one cared,” says Carmel. “And now it
matters to people because they understand that if it happens to us, in the end,
it will reach everyone.” Carmel adds, “Now there’s a chance . . . to see the
kibbutzim flourishing again.” Many residents of the Otef have shared their
gratitude for the thousands of citizens who jumped to help immediately
following October 7.
One of those was Elchanan Kalmanson, a resident of the
hilltop religious community of Otniel and the son of a rabbi who founded a
yeshiva there. As soon as they heard the early reports on October 7, he and his
brother grabbed their guns and vests and drove 50 miles to Kibbutz Be’eri. The
two men fought valiantly to save as many residents as possible. At nightfall on
that dark day, Elchanan, 41, fell to a Hamas sniper.
In partial tribute to the soldier’s supreme sacrifice,
Alon and Elchanan’s father co-founded Brit Ha-Negev VeHa-Har (the Covenant of
the Negev and the Mountain), an organization designed to bridge ideological and
cultural gaps between right-wing religious communities like Otniel and
left-wing secular ones like Be’eri. From tragedy comes common ground.
***
‘The Jewish nation,” Liora heartwarmingly answers when
asked what gives her hope for the future of Israel. “The overwhelming love and
support we were shown to be a part of this nation that will be there for me
under any circumstances.”
As residents of the Otef rebuild their lives, their fate
remains bound inextricably with the rest of their countrymen, who are slowly
recovering from two years of deep anxiety.
Carmel sees the horrific events of that day as an
eye-opener for the rest of the country. Only now can Israelis begin to breathe
enough to contemplate what they’ve been through.
“There are prerequisites to a better future,” Jonathan
Dekel-Chen tells us. “The first is completing the Trump deal. Without it, there
really can’t be a future for Gaza or Israel. If there is in fact a post-Hamas
future for Gaza, I want and need to believe there can be a process for
demilitarization or de-hatred-ification of the entire region.”
“I have hope that I can be optimistic,” Alon Pauker tells
us, with classic Israeli wit.
Idit Rosen Ohel credits American advocacy and hard-nosed
negotiation for her son’s return. “Alon’s home safe because of Trump and
Witkoff.” But she also feels grateful to all those around the world who prayed
for her son.
There’s no question that, for Israelis, life has shifted
irreversibly. The Jewish state has suffered painful losses on the battlefield,
not to mention its economy. Since October 7, profound change has convulsed
Israeli society in military, financial, cultural, and political ways.
What hasn’t changed over the past two years is
hopefulness — fitting for a country whose national anthem is “The Hope.” The
urgency of forging common ground among citizens of the Jewish state hasn’t
subsided either. Hope and unity are critical for traumatized but resilient and
motivated Israelis to rebuild themselves, their families, and their
communities, and to renew the promise of the country they love.
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