By: Nomi Kaltmann as seen in Crikey
10 October 2025
Although Jewish people are currently in the middle of Sukkot, a week-long festival when we usually take time off work, go hiking, spend time in nature or visit each other’s sukkahs, this weekend will feel very different. In Israel, every household will be indoors and glued to the television. After two long and painful years of war, it seems that a Trump-brokered ceasefire might finally hold, and the fighting could be over. Along with the end of bombing in Gaza, Israeli hostages who have been held underground by Hamas for two years are expected to return home.
When Hamas crossed into Israel on October 7, it murdered around 1,200 people and took 250 hostages. Most of those taken were not Israeli soldiers; some were seized from the Nova desert rave, others from kibbutzim near the Gaza border, and many were captured from their homes. Among them were men, women, children and elderly people, as well as foreign workers from Thailand and Nepal who were employed on Israeli kibbutzim.
Since that day, the plight of the hostages has defined Israeli life and shaken Jewish communities around the world. The names and faces of the hostages are everywhere. In Israel, posters cover street corners, bus stations, balconies and the sides of buildings. Families have kept an empty chair at the table during every holiday to mark their absence. In Melbourne, where I live, huge billboards with their faces are spread across Caulfield. Even here, thousands of kilometres away, it is impossible to look at the faces of the hostages and not feel the ache of collective memory and fear.
In Jewish tradition, redeeming captives — called pidyon shvuyim — is considered one of the highest moral acts. For centuries, Jewish communities have raised money and taken great risks to free their people from captivity. The Talmud teaches that there is no greater good deed than freeing a captive, because every moment in captivity is a living torment. The obligation to protect and redeem those taken away runs deep in the collective story of Jewish people. From the times of the Crusades to modern-day wars, our history has been shaped by the trauma of abduction and the sacred duty of return.
In the two years since the war began, Israel has made two previous deals with Hamas. The first, in November 2023, freed women and children in exchange for Palestinian women in Israeli jails. The second, in early 2025, saw the release of another 33 hostages, including the bodies of deceased hostages, in exchange for male Palestinian prisoners in Israeli jails.
Today, 48 hostages remain in Gaza, though more than half of them are believed to be dead. If this deal holds, Israel will release 250 Palestinian prisoners serving life sentences, along with 1,700 Gazans who have been held under administrative detention in Israeli jails since the war began, in exchange for the bodies of the remaining hostages, and around 20 living hostages.
Although I live in Australia, I have followed this story closely for two years. Like many Jewish people around the world, I feel as though I know the hostages personally. Over the past two years, I have prayed for their safety and return at my synagogue, and I’ve seen their faces on all community newsletters and newspapers. I share mutual friends with some of the hostages currently in Gaza, and their families have waged an almighty battle to bring them home, flying around the world, speaking to anyone that will listen, begging world leaders to help them.
It is hard to find hope in this conflict. The political landscape is shattered, trust has eroded, and grief has hardened into anger on all sides. Gaza has been devastated, and its people deeply traumatised. I hope that with the return of the hostages and this ceasefire, people in Israel and Gaza can begin to heal and rebuild.
For me, the return of the hostages marks the end of a nightmare for families who have lived in suspended grief for two long years. This joy does not erase the suffering in Gaza, but it personally restores something precious that had almost vanished from this war: a belief that life, in all its fragility, still matters.
Despite the Sukkot festival, this weekend I know I will be glued to the TV, watching the hostages come home. Because after two years of darkness, their return reminds me that every human life has value. In my mind, the message worth carrying comes from Rachel Goldberg-Polin, an Israeli-American mother whose son Hersh was kidnapped from the Nova music festival and later killed in Hamas’ tunnels. She writes: “There is no measuring stick for aches of agony … pain is pain.”
To me, her words cut through. If we can still make space in our hearts for compassion, even after everything, then maybe there is still a way forward, one built not on vengeance but on our shared humanity.