I came home. But I haven’t fully returned. Even now, months after being freed from captivity in Gaza, the experience continues to haunt me. It lives in every quiet moment. I may no longer be underground, but part of me still is. Freedom gave me back my life—but not my peace. And it didn’t bring everyone home.
On Oct. 7, my world was torn apart. I was hiding with Sapir, the woman I love, when terrorists stormed into our home in Kibbutz Nir Oz. They ripped us apart and dragged me away from her. They kidnapped Sapir too, along with my mother, Lena, and my grandmother, Irena. After more than 50 grueling days in captivity, they were freed and returned home. But not all of us made it back. My father, Vitali, was murdered that day, leaving a hole in our family that can never be filled. From that moment on, nothing was ever the same. I spent nearly 500 days alone underground—starving, cut off from everyone and everything I loved, trying to hold onto whatever pieces of hope I had left.
There are still 59 hostages in Gaza. Many are still alive. Others were murdered, and their bodies remain held in captivity. I know what they’re going through. I lived it. The isolation. The hunger. The mental collapse that begins when you start to believe no one is coming. The world goes quiet. You begin to disappear inside yourself.
At one point, I truly believed I might never see my family, my girlfriend, or my friends again. Nothing was moving. There were no signs of progress, no talks, no rescue. I had nothing to strive for. And when you’re in that kind of situation, the only way to survive is to find something—anything—that gives you the strength to hold yourself together.
It was around September, more than a year into my captivity, when I overheard my captors talking about the U.S. elections. There was tension, uncertainty about who might win. But just hearing that something was happening in the outside world—that there might be a change—gave me a glimpse of hope. Maybe a new president would see things differently. Maybe someone would finally take action. After so many months of silence and stillness, even the possibility of change gave me something to hold on to.
Later I learned that President Trump had won the election—and that he had promised to end the war and secure the release of all the hostages. It was like a fresh breath of air after months of suffocating silence. He had spoken about the hostages again and again, both before and after taking office. I knew he isn’t someone who makes empty statements. And knowing that this issue remained a priority for him gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the hope that someone was truly trying to bring us home.
Shortly before he officially took office, a deal was signed. It was the deal that brought me and 32 other hostages home to our families and loved ones.
I thought it might also bring closure, that I could return to my life and begin to heal. But captivity doesn’t end when you walk free. The pain stays with you. The fear. The night flashes. And the knowledge that others are still there.
Although I was released, part of me is still there. How can I fully return to life knowing what my fellow hostages are still enduring—trapped underground, suffering both physically and mentally, day after day? I know what it feels like when there’s no water, no air, very little food. When you start to believe you’ve been left behind. That pain doesn’t end when you’re freed. It deepens when you realize others are still living it.
The work isn’t done. There are still 59 hostages—living and dead—who must be returned to their families and loved ones. They deserve that chance, and they deserve to be remembered every single day until it happens. For me, the thought of them never leaves. It haunts every quiet moment I have to think. But I know I’m not the only one carrying this weight.
That’s why I’m addressing this to those who can help—President Trump, and the governments of Israel and the United States. I urge you to join forces, to keep this issue front and center, and to let the hostages know that everything possible is being done to bring them home. Let them know they are not forgotten. Give them hope—because it’s the one thing they need most to survive the hell they are enduring every single day.
Hope helped me survive. Action brought me home. Now both are needed again. It is our duty. It is our obligation.