Meeting former captives who were kidnapped in the Oct. 7 Hamas onslaught evokes a profound sense of respect.
There’s an unspoken code about what to ask and not to ask. You want to hug them, surround them with care, while also respecting their privacy. You embrace them from every angle because there’s no right way to relate to someone who was in a safe room one moment, and in a tunnel with terrorists the next.
Some prefer not to talk, keeping their experiences to themselves, their families, or in closed notebooks. Others have made telling their stories their life’s mission. Chen Goldstein-Almog, who was kidnapped with three of her children from Kibbutz Kfar Aza and released in November after 51 days of horror, is one of them.
Goldstein-Almog has described the feelings of that horrific Saturday in previous interviews. The feeling of sheer terror when gunmen murdered her husband, Nadav, and her daughter Yam. The terrorists kidnapped Goldstein-Almog and her three surviving children with threats and screams.
“I’m working on telling our story,” she says confidently to the camera. Her hair is tightly pulled back in a ponytail. Her posture is straight and composed as if trying to gather the broken pieces inside.
“I understand that telling our story is part of the journey, and it also helps me process things. We went through so much in a short period, and I need to look at it several times a week to grasp it and digest it. It’s exhausting, telling our story, but it’s very important to me.”
Walking a timeline
“And today, today we are okay,” she says, taking a deep breath when asked the simple question, “How are you?” “We are working on living. The grief and pain are always with us. They are ours to carry.
“And we have to work hard to live well. I need to build our lives as a family—a depleted family, but a family that lives and hopes to live the best life we can. We will not let October 7 define us.”
Does time passing make a difference? I ask carefully, and Chen answers firmly: “Absolutely. I walk along a kind of timeline—on one hand, not long ago, we were a whole, strong family together. On the other hand, a lot of time has passed. The one-year mark is here and we are still in pain, still in the midst of the event.
“We are still trying to cope with what we went through and the fact that we have living and dead captives to bring back. You’re constantly in this whirlpool—one step forward, two steps back.”
Chen and Nadav’s love story, set to mark her 50th birthday this month, began in high school. Nadav was a well-known triathlete and VP of business development at Kfar Aza’s Kafrit Industries plastics factory.
Over the years, they built their home in the kibbutz, where they raised their four children: Yam, 20, who was brutally murdered; Agam, 18; Gal, 12; and Tal, 9.
Early on the morning of Oct. 7, when terrorists overran the kibbutz close to the Gaza border, Goldstein-Almog and her family locked themselves in the safe room.
For 51 days, she and her children were held by Hamas. They were freed on the third day of the hostage exchange deal in November. Now, the four of them are starting new lives. When Goldstein-Almog talks about Yam and Nadav, she allows herself to give in to tears. They are everywhere—inside and out. Their smiling faces greet visitors at the entrance to the temporary house where they now live.
It’s a different home but feels comforting. Goldstein-Almog keeps the location private, unable to shake the fear of the killers’ promise that they will return in the thousands next time.
“I still live with the absence of Nadav and Yam, and the loss of our home. I need to deal with that absence, that nothingness, that loss. Now, for example, we need to decide whether to return to the south. These are decisions I always made with Nadav. Now I trust the kids, and we will make the right decision together.
“Nadav was the love of my life, my anchor. For 34 years, I admired him. It was part of his essence—his dedication to sports and his work. He mentored students who came to Kafrit. He was a father in every sense of the word.”
She brushes her fingers across a photo of Yam on her phone. “Yam made me a mother,” she says softly. “It was the happiest time of my life. She was an amazing baby. She grew into an energetic child, full of confidence, then a teenager, and at 20, a woman.”
What would she say now?
“Wow.” She pauses. “If she were here and Nadav wasn’t? We would grieve together that Nadav wasn’t here. Nadav was seriously injured in a bike accident a few months before October 7, and she took care of him in an inspiring way. She took leave from the army to care for him, and we were gifted with her presence during that time.
“It feels good to talk about her,” she wipes away her tears. “And she is so missed. Yam was so dominant, noisy. She left behind so much silence.”
Silence. The word lingers in the air. A word repeated in many stories of mothers kidnapped or held captive with their children. A word that brings Goldstein-Almog back to the darkest days.
“In Gaza, there was a lot of silencing, especially of the children. People keep asking if we were exploited or abused. No, they didn’t beat or sexually assault us. But they mostly silenced the children. And they’re kids—they’re naturally noisy, playful, talkative and quarrelsome.
“It was hard. I remember that during the first days in Gaza, I forced myself not to forget the sight of Yam—bullet-riddled. It was so horrific. I saw her for just seconds before I turned to the children.
“I ran. In my mind, I understood that people were dying in the house, and I was going outside, to the living. It was a terrible sight. And I remember forcing myself to not forget that image.
“It was a kind of self-flagellation—’You will not forget this, and you will deal with it and be strong.’ Fortunately, it fades with time, and I remember her now as beautiful, happy, laughing and full of life.”
When we step outside for photos, we meet Gal, smiling shyly—the boy who witnessed the worst is still able to smile.
“The kids saw their father shot. It’s tough, but they’re very strong children, and their basic trust hasn’t been shattered. They give of themselves and open up.
“They’re supported by a multidisciplinary team at school, with psychologists and counselors, and I’m very grateful for that. It’s crucial for our ability to cope with all these challenges. I also lean on people.
“I’m surrounded by a team that not only provides therapeutic support but also advises me. I’m learning to listen and decide. I fill my day with sports and make sure my day is full. And if it isn’t, I work to make it full.”
Goldstein-Almog and Agam, who recently started a pre-army program, talk constantly about what they’ve been through. They hurt together. They remind each other of the absence. And sometimes they laugh.
“It’s part of our battle—to be happy sometimes. The boys don’t talk to me much, but I hear from others around us that they do open up to them.
“And there are things they remember from captivity. Tal remembers that during one of the transfers, they didn’t let him take a stuffed animal he had found in one of the apartments. He started crying, and a young man shoved the toy into a bag, with its head sticking out. Tal walked half of Gaza with the head of that pink, unpleasant toy poking out.
“He remembers that they [terrorists] brought a cigarette lighter to burn things they [the children] had drawn or written. They weren’t allowed to write in Hebrew, only in English, or to draw.
“In one of the houses we stayed in for five weeks, Tal drew pictures of fighting and war. He and Gal tried to sneak the drawings into their pockets, but they were taken out.
“I constantly thank God that we are here. That we made it out of that hell. We survived October 7. We survived captivity. And we are alive.
“If I can say something to the hostages still there, it’s important for them to know that their families are fighting like lions for them. They’re not losing hope. We will not be able to recover from this event if we don’t bring them back.”
Originally published by Israel Hayom.
