The release of hostages by Hamas on Sunday reverberated across the region and beyond. For many of us in Israel, the moment Doron, Romi and Emily walked free after 15 harrowing months in captivity brought a fragile but profound relief. Finally, these women could embrace their families again, beginning the arduous road to recovery. Yet beyond the fleeting joy, this moment illuminated a larger, timeless truth: the essential — and costly — value of humanisation, even in the most unforgiving of circumstances.
For over a decade I’ve advocated for humanising everyone trapped in this conflict’s relentless grip. At times, it feels almost naive in a part of the world where dehumanisation is often a survival instinct. But the hostage deal, which I have advocated for as many pro-Israel voices opposed it, revealed two stark realities: the devastation dehumanisation inflicts and the radical transformation humanisation can inspire.
Negotiating with Hamas isn’t a matter of compromise. It’s extortion, a cruel calculus of life and loss. We faced a wrenching choice: jeopardise our safety or forfeit a piece of our humanity by leaving our loved ones behind. There were no winners. Yet in the midst of this moral quagmire, Israelis demonstrated something extraordinary.
Take Yair Shriki, a prominent Israeli journalist, who discovered that his brother’s murderer would be among those released. His response was devastating in its simplicity: “It’s unbearable,” he said, “but my brother is gone, and Romi Gonen is still alive.” Shriki’s words carried the weight of a nation that values life above all else. In prioritising the living over his own pain, he embodied Israel’s enduring spirit: to choose life, even when it hurts.
Naama Tzoref, whose parents were murdered in a 2006 terror attack, captured this paradox in a poem that swept across Israeli social media:
The heart will contract with pain.
For human animals to be set free.
For lives that were cut short and will doubtless be cut short again.
But in that same breath, the heart will dance with life.
About souls being redeemed from hell.
Naama’s words are raw but they resonate. Even in the face of unimaginable personal loss, she reminds us of a truth we cannot ignore: saving lives — any innocent lives — is sacred.
As Israelis grappled with the complexity of this deal, Hamas exploited every detail to deepen the wounds. Timelines were delayed. Hostages were paraded in necklaces bearing Palestinian flags, a deliberate act of humiliation. Crowds screamed threats as the women, already shattered by their ordeal, were finally freed. It was a performance of hatred, meticulously staged to extinguish hope. The message was clear: to Israelis, that Palestinians despise even their most innocent; to Palestinians, that dehumanising Israelis is the price of solidarity.
But cracks appeared in Hamas’s narrative. Brave Gazans risked everything to share videos revealing the manipulation. Crowds celebrating the ceasefire were carefully staged to appear larger. One clip showed a woman berating a man handing out sweets, her voice filled with anger: “This is not victory,” she said, “this is death.”
Hamas’s strategy is clear: sow division, amplify fear, and obliterate the possibility of humanisation. But their failure lies in the courage of those who resist—even under the shadow of terror.
The hostage debate in Israel laid bare our national identity. We are a people built on sacrifice, and life is our ultimate value.
The cost of this deal—releasing those who have inflicted unimaginable pain—felt like a test of that value.
Could we still claim to be a society that chooses humanity, even when the cost is so high?
The answer, I believe, is yes. When Romi, Doron, and Emily embraced their families, even the harshest critics of the deal fell silent. The sheer humanity of those reunions was undeniable. They reminded us of something we must hold onto: pain cannot blind us to hope.
Hope feels fragile in a world this broken. But it’s the thread that binds us to a better future. To see each other’s humanity, to fight for a world beyond hatred and violence—these are not acts of weakness. They are acts of courage.
We cannot know what lies ahead. But as we navigate this darkness, I pray we remember the hope we felt when Romi, Doron, and Emily walked free. And I pray we continue to make the sacrifices necessary to bring all the hostages home.
Because without hope — without Hatikvah — we risk losing not just the fight, but who we are.
