My younger brother, Evyatar, turns 24 on Dec. 28. His Hebrew birthday falls on the eighth night of Chanukah, the second of Tevet. I should be planning his celebration.
Instead, I’m writing these words while he remains in captivity in the Gaza Strip, 440 days after being kidnapped from the Nova music festival in southern Israel on Oct. 7, 2023.
As a big brother, I was raised to protect my younger siblings. However, on Oct. 7, I could not protect Evyatar. Someone sent us a video that day. He was lying handcuffed on the ground with other festival-goers, terror in his eyes that I had never seen before. I saw black.
Every night before sleep, I imagine Evyatar returning and hugging our parents. I picture him with his guitar in hand. Music always brought us together. Through music, he transformed from a hyperactive child to a calm soul—playing drums and guitar. We’d play together for hours when he’d come home on weekends. Now, I imagine him in captivity, probably turning anything he can find into a drum. That’s just who he is.
Recently, there’s been talk of a deal to release the hostages. Of course, we want every hostage who returns home to be celebrated, yet I can’t help feeling afraid when I hear about “phases” that could leave young people like Evyatar for last. They say “humanitarian phases,” but every life held captive is a humanitarian emergency. While we desperately want all deals to succeed, the thought of separating the hostages tears at my heart. We are not puzzle pieces to be pulled apart.
The hostages are suffering physical and mental torture daily. We’ve already lost precious lives in those tunnels. Every day that passes puts them at greater risk. The world must understand that time is running out. When rescuing bodies becomes “good news” because at least those families have clarity, you know we’ve entered a dark reality.
This Chanukah, as Jewish communities worldwide light their menorahs, about 100 souls remain in darkness. They represent the entire spectrum of Jewish and Israeli society—young and old, soldiers and civilians. We are one body—the hostages’ families, bereaved families, the hostages themselves and the people of Israel.
I live in two parallel realities now. In one, there’s hope—every mention of a deal brings the possibility of seeing Evyatar hug our parents again and of playing music together once more. In the other reality, there’s only despair—hopes raised and dashed repeatedly until you can’t bear to expect anything anymore.
Yet as we mark Chanukah, for “celebrate” feels hollow now, I cling to hope. The Chanukah story teaches us about miracles, about light overcoming darkness. But miracles also require action. We need your voices. We need your help to ensure that all of the hostages—every single one of them—return home.
This isn’t just about my brother anymore. It’s about who we are as a people. History will remember how we faced this test. Will we leave anyone behind, or will we stand united in demanding everyone’s return?
I still believe I’ll see Evyatar again. We will play music together. We will hug again. But for that to happen, we need action now. Help us bring them all home before it’s too late.
May this Chanukah bring the miracle we so desperately need: the safe return of all hostages, including my little brother Evyatar.