Welcoming Home Our Captives: A Prayer for the Future

This week, like many of you, I found myself glued to the livestream from Hostage Square, watching as Romi, Emily, and Doron were released into the hands of the Red Cross. As I witnessed this sacred moment, I heard the news reporter recite Shehechiyanu, the blessing for reaching that moment, followed by the words: “Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha’olam, Matir Asurim.”

This second prayer, “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who frees the captives,” is part of our daily morning liturgy. But since October 7, 2023, it has taken on a weight I never imagined. Watching those hostages return home filled me with relief—and with deep unease.

I thought of Lir, the woman who took me to see the devastation at K’far Aza almost a year ago. She was terrified for her friends, Doron and Emily, praying every day for their safe return. Now, they will be reunited. And yet, my heart aches for the twins Ziv and Gali Berman, also from Kibbutz K’far Aza, whose fate remains unknown. They are not on the list of hostages to be released.

The first phase of this agreement has brought glimmers of hope, but the road ahead feels precarious. I find myself hesitant to trust that more hostages will return. I’ll believe it only when I see it. Yet, we must cling to hope. With every step forward, we must demand that leaders remain steadfast in their ultimate goal: to bring every captive home and ensure that the horrors of this war are never repeated.

As we celebrate moments of hope, we must also preserve the stories that emerge—stories of survival, resilience, and unimaginable loss. This is why I want to draw your attention to a profoundly important addition to our Library: The October 7 War by Ziv Koren.

Described by Liat Collins in The Jerusalem Post as “heavy to pick up and hard to put down,” this book is an unflinching testament to the atrocities of this war. It contains 500 powerful photographs and testimonies from survivors, returning hostages, and the bereaved. It is a record of the unimaginable cruelty inflicted and the enduring resilience of the human spirit.

In the preface, Koren writes:

“I’ve seen tragedy before. I photographed mass graves in Bucha, Ukraine; in Haiti, Nepal, and Turkey, I documented the horrors of earthquakes. But here in Be’eri, and Nahal Oz, in Kfar Aza and at the site of the Nova music festival, the images I captured are more than just destruction; they are the embodiment of horror. Over and over again, I collected evidence of unimaginable cruelty and the pure evil of human monsters—a clash of civilizations in every sense of the word.”

It is not an easy book to read, but it is an essential one. By bearing witness to these events, we honor the stories of those who endured and ensure that this dark chapter in history is never forgotten.  Because of the graphic nature of the photographs, this book will remain at Temple and will not be circulated outside.

As we look to the future, let us remain hopeful and determined, working together toward a world where such tragedies no longer occur. Let us continue to pray for the safe return of every captive, for the reunions yet to come, and for the day when the prayer Matir Asurim carries only echoes of a distant past.