As we gathered around the seder table this year to retell the story of our ancestors’ journey from slavery to freedom, I shared a modern-day story of captivity and the longing for liberation—one that is deeply personal to me and that I think will resonate with others.
In May 2023, during my work with the Jewish Federation of San Diego, I visited Kibbutz Kfar Aza on a community mission. San Diego has a long-standing partnership with Sha’ar HaNegev—a collection of 10 kibbutzim and one moshav in the Gaza Envelope. This partnership has created a profoundly deep connection between the two communities. During our visit, we met with Ofir Libstein, the mayor of Sha’ar HaNegev and a resident of Kfar Aza. He shared his vision for Park Arazim, an industrial complex and medical center to be built on the land between Sha’ar HaNegev and the Gaza Strip, offering employment, training, education and health care for both Israelis and Palestinians in Gaza. It was a bold vision of shared humanity and peace.
On Oct. 7, 2023, Ofir was one of the first kibbutzniks murdered while defending his home and community. Just a day before, the residents of Kfar Aza were preparing for their annual kite festival. Each year on Simchat Torah, they would gather to send handmade kites over the Gaza border, each one carrying a note of peace, hope or love. It was a tradition rooted in optimism—a belief that even in a region marked by fear and conflict, there was still a place for peace and coexistence.
That morning, the skies filled with rockets and terror, while the kites lay trampled on the floor as Hamas terrorists launched an attack that devastated the kibbutz. That’s when 27-year-old twin brothers, Gali and Ziv Berman, in addition to many others, were abducted from the youth village of Kfar Aza. They are both lighting technicians—men whose profession is to bring light—and they were known for their deep commitment to family. They chose to remain on the kibbutz instead of moving closer to their work in Tel Aviv to help care for their father, who lives with Parkinson’s disease and dementia. Their choice speaks volumes about their character and love. They have been held hostage for more than 550 days and were only confirmed to be alive after the release of other hostages two months ago.
I returned to Kfar Aza on a small solidarity mission with leaders from San Diego in November 2023, five short weeks after the brutal attacks. I stood in that same youth village where Gali and Ziv had lived. The smell of accelerant still hung in the air. The remains of homes were charred and broken. It was silent but not empty. In the rubble, signs of life still spoke: the neck of a guitar, the ashes of a fire pit where friends once gathered, a half-empty beer bottle standing upright in the dust.
As we waded through the wreckage, Doron Steinbrecher’s mother, Simona, approached us. Doron was also taken hostage from the Kfar Aza youth village. Simona asked if she could speak with us. She told us about her daughter—her light, her life—and how she had convinced the army to let her return to the kibbutz, even before residents were officially allowed back. When asked why, Simona said: “I came to look for something that belonged to Doron. Something familiar. So that when she is released or rescued, she’ll have a piece of home. A piece of herself.” Through her tears, she begged us to do everything we could to secure her daughter’s release.
Doron was released. And her mother was there when she came home. Her love had never left her side.
On Passover, we tell the story of the Israelites, who cried out under the weight of bondage in Egypt, Mitzrayim—“the narrow place” in Hebrew—and were delivered. We recall how redemption came not just from above, but through the strength of belief, the courage of leadership and the power of a people who refused to forget one another.
The story of Gali and Ziv, the memory of Ofir, the kite festival, and the courage of a mother searching through ashes—these are our modern-day echoes of that same journey.
When we raised the matzah—the bread of affliction—we did so with the urgency of hope.
And when we opened the door for Elijah, it was a gesture of action as much as faith. Because we are still waiting and working for freedom in our time.
May Gali and Ziv, and all of the hostages come home soon. May every family waiting in anguish feel the embrace of a world that remembers them.
And may we, as a people, hold fast to the light, even in the narrowest places.