A New Beginning

Friday October 17, 2025 – כ״ה תִּשְׁרֵי תשפ”ו

They had become household names; some might say even celebrities. Just normal people living their lives prior to that fateful and tragic day — known only to their family and friends. Now, so many of us feel like we know them, know their stories, their family members. We recognize their likeness from pictures and posters hanging in our synagogues, community centers, schools, and bus stations. The hostages had this aura around them, and at one point, at a convention in Israel, I overheard two pre-teens asking each other, “So, who is your favorite hostage?” as if they were trading baseball cards or discussing rock bands.

We offered prayers and speeches on their behalf, tried to persuade anyone who would listen to take up their cause, left empty spaces at our Shabbat and holiday tables, and wore yellow ribbons and “Bring Them Home” bracelets, pins, t-shirts, hats, and even talitot. Their posters greeted travelers arriving at Ben Gurion Airport as they made their way to baggage claim, and graffiti caricatures adorned the stucco walls of South Tel Aviv’s old industrial alleyways.

They. Are. Everywhere.

Millions around the world rallied for their release. Their families left no stone unturned, no connection unexplored, no politician unlobbied.

And now, on one emotional and cathartic day — two years later, on Erev Simchat Torah — the twenty living hostages are home. The viral images of them reuniting with their families brought me to tears: Einav hugging her son Matan; Omri playing with his daughters; Noa Argamani reunited with her boyfriend Avinatan Or; Arbel Yehud with her partner Ariel Cunio — each a dramatic and emotional moment. We learned that Gali and Ziv Berman, 28-year-old twins from Kibbutz Kfar Azza, had been separated in captivity only to reunite on the day of their release, stepping off the IDF helicopter wearing Maccabi Tel Aviv jerseys.

Aviatar David, who we all remember from the Hamas video of his emaciated body digging his own grave, reunited with fellow hostage Guy Gilboa Dallal, and within two days was already on stage strumming the guitar with the soloist of his favorite band, Hatikva 6. Matan Angrest, a captured Tank Corps soldier, left the hospital to eulogize his commander, Captain Daniel Perez, whose body was returned to Israel as part of the deal.

Now that they are home — as we anxiously await and continue to fight for the return of the nineteen (as of this writing) remaining deceased hostages — this moment must be about a new beginning.

More stories about what they endured will soon become public, but even in the few days since their return, we already know the following:

• Matan Angrest was beaten so severely that he lost consciousness and suffered severe psychological warfare at the hands of his Hamas captors.
• Elkana Bohbot was held in shackles and complete darkness.
• Rom Braslavski was shot at, beaten, starved, and held in total isolation.
• Aviatar David was bound hand and foot and spent weeks with a bag over his head.

More will surely come to light, and their healing and recovery will take a long time.

Now is the time for a new beginning for them, most especially, but for all Israelis generally and for world Jewry as well.

We just completed our annual cycle of Torah reading, ending with Moses’ death and the words recounting “the great might and awesome power that Moses displayed before all Israel.” Now we turn the scroll back to the very first words: Bereishit bara Elohim et hashamayim ve’et ha’aretz — “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”

As we open the book of Bereishit, we return to the story of beginnings — of light emerging from darkness and chaos, of creation born from confusion. It is a fitting moment for Israel, for the Jewish people, and even for Gaza. After two years of darkness and destruction, we stand, trembling, on the edge of something new. Like the world at its birth, we are unfinished, fragile, and unsure of what will emerge from the void. Yet Bereishit reminds us that creation is not a one-time act but an ongoing task — to separate light from darkness, to name what is broken, and to begin again.

The Torah tells us in the opening creation story “וְהָאָרֶץ הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ… וְרוּחַ אֱלֹהִים מְרַחֶפֶת עַל־פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם” — “The earth was unformed and void… and the spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters.” That hovering, that trembling ruach — divine breath over chaos — echoes in Shalom Chanoch’s haunting lyric, sung by Yehudit Ravitz and requested by freed hostage Alon Ohel: “כי שירי הוא משב הרוח, חלוני הפתוח…” — “Because my song is a gust in the wind, my open window.” Out of silence and uncertainty, the wind stirs again — both divine and human, fragile and full of possibility. The same ruach Elohim that hovered over the waters of creation now hovers over our wounded hearts, carrying with it the faint sound of a new song.

Israeli Reform rabbis are marking this transition, too. As our MaRaM and IMPJ colleagues wrote this week:

“After two full and turbulent years of war and endless sorrow, during which we held 103 Havdalah ceremonies and prayers for the return of the hostages in Hostage Square in Tel Aviv, this chapter has come to an end with the return of all the living hostages.

We sought to create a spiritual and alternative space — a place where one could breathe, hope, distinguish between despair and hope, offer and receive comfort, and above all, be together and cry out — in the ancient words of Jewish prayer and the new language and music of Israel — the shared pain, in the hope that someone, somewhere, is listening.

We now stand at the threshold of a new chapter in the history of Israel and in the struggle for the return of the fallen and for peace.
It is a twilight time, filled with both hope and apprehension. For now, we have chosen to pause, to breathe, and to give thanks for the path we have walked together.”

Next week, I will travel to Jerusalem for the World Zionist Congress — a gathering that itself was born out of chaos and longing, convened to turn an ancient dream into a living reality. This year, that task feels as raw and urgent as it ever has been. Standing alongside Jews from across the world — left, right, and center, religious, secular, Israeli, and Diaspora — we will wrestle again with what Zionism means after October 7th, and what it asks of us now: to breathe new life into an idea that must keep evolving, or else stagnate.

We are not sure what this new reality will bring, but for the first time in two years, many Israelis are smiling — and not feeling guilty about doing so.

We don’t yet know if the next phase of the plan will be implemented or if the Peace Summit orchestrated by President Trump after his whirlwind visit to Israel will have a real impact.

We don’t know if this will finally be the moment when Israel will allow an official State investigation into the failures to prevent and stop the massacre on October 7, 2023.

We don’t yet know if Hamas will disarm and stop murdering its own people as well, or if the Middle East will be rejiggered. But we know that we can now move forward with a sigh of relief.

But, we do know that for those 20 and their families, their suffering is over.

As Alon Ohel wrote on the whiteboard from the helicopter, quoting Shalom Chanoch’s song:

דומייה סביב
והיה אם אתה מקשיב
אולי, אולי, אולי
אתה בא והולך אליי
כי שירי הוא משב הרוח
חלוני הפתוח
מעיין כוחי, צחוק ובכי
קץ יסוריי

Silence is surrounding
And if you were listening
Maybe, maybe, maybe
You’re coming and walking toward me.
Because my song is a gust in the wind
My open window
My source of strength, laughter, and tears
End of my suffering.

While the future remains uncertain, we can take solace in the fact that for the returned hostages and the many circles around them, this was the “end of their suffering.”

In the beginning, God saw that the light was good. May we, too, find a way to see goodness and to be hopeful for this new beginning— even after all we have seen.

Shabbat Shalom.