Welcome Home

The first three are back.

It’s been hard these past few weeks to write, with this constant waiting in my wings—for the anticipation of a deal, for a sliver of good news. And so finally, with today’s news, some words can take flight here.

Emily Damari, Doron Steinbrecher, and Romi Gonen are home. A few minutes ago, we saw Romi’s hot-pink hoodie briefly, and then she, Emily, and Doron climbed out of a Red Cross van on their own two feet, stable, to a place where they were examined briefly, then brought back to Israel.

They are alive.

They have assorted injuries. Within minutes of writing this, they will be reunited with their mothers on Kibbutz Re’im, a place where many were murdered, just yards from where Romi was taken hostage on that fateful day. Then, they’ll be flown to the hospital for more extensive medical care and reunions with extended family.

As rumors of a deal began swirling these past weeks, the stress-eating, the nail-biting, the doom-scrolling, the half-sleeping—they’ve all been at their peak. As I slept in my warm bed, night after cold night, I wondered about the condition of the 98. Dead or alive? Healthy or sick? Of sound mind as well as body?

Only time will tell. Initial reports are that these three are in good condition. But what I can tell you is that this had to happen. Itamar Ben Gvir, Israel’s extremist right-wing minister of national security, quit the government because he felt the price Israel must pay—the release of hundreds of Hamas terrorists with Israeli blood on their hands—was too high.

No price is too high. Nothing can take back what happened that day, or our collective responsibility in it. As a nation, we let the murdered and the hostages down. Mostly the government and the army—-but everyone has a part in the collective here, whether we agree with the decisions made on our behalf or not.

The values of this country—though they have been tested, tried, debated, and challenged—dictate that no cost is too steep. And oh, will we pay.

As I re-glue myself to my screens, I bow my head to the Beautiful Six (as Rachel named them): Hersh, Alex, Eden, Almog, Ori, and Carmel, and the dozens of other hostages who either died or were killed in captivity. They came so close to this, freedom eluding them by weeks or days—if not hours.

My hope is that there are no more razor-thin margins. That this deal holds. That the remaining captives come home. That the war can end. That the healing for all of us can begin. That no more innocent lives have to expire on either side of the border. There are tough times ahead. The families of the remaining 30 hostages in this round of exchanges face sleepless nights ahead, and the remaining hostages not included in the deal will be having nightmares until their loved ones’ fates are known.

It’s not all going to be good news. But for today, as these three women find their footing for the first time in 470 days, I can dream of them in their mothers’ embraces. The softness of a loving hug, the things we take for granted. Their futures ahead of them, recovered, blooming, blossoming, traveling, resting, recovering, dreaming. Dreaming into the light, rather than into the abyss.

Welcome home, ladies. We love you.