The most disturbing and shocking part of our reunion was how she whispered. I could not hear her. I placed my ear against her lips to listen. My nine-year-old daughter conditioned herself to remain silent, but the terror in her eyes spoke volumes.
BE’ERI, Israel ꟷ On October 7, 2023, during the Hamas attack on Israel, my nine-year-old daughter Emily went missing. Two days later, the kibbutz leaders informed me Emily’s body had been seen. They told me, “We found Emily, she is dead.” Of all the possibilities I imagined in the hands of Hamas, death seemed like a blessing. I smiled and answered, “Yes.”
However, a month later, the Israeli army told me it was highly probable Emily was alive and being held hostage by Hamas. They found no blood where Emily slept, and they tracked the cell phones of her friend’s family, whom she was with at the time, to Gaza.
This news filled me with fear. The unknown felt awful, but I held onto some hope. My heart weighed heavily with worry about Emily’s well-being and my mind drifting to questions. What food is she eating? Does she have enough to eat? Is she being tortured or, God forbid, physically abused? Losing a child itself is the most difficult thing for a parent to endure. Knowing that child remains captive to terrorists feels even worse.
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My young daughter Emily and I moved from Tel Aviv to Be’eri after cancer took her mother a few years earlier. At just two and a half years old, Emily grew up in the kibbutz. She loved living there and never felt bored. Emily had one best friend, Hila, and they remained inseparable from the age of three.
On Friday evening, October 6, 2023, Emily visited Hila’s house. They danced and enjoyed themselves. The next morning, at 6:00 a.m., Hila awoke Emily after hearing loud explosions. They rushed to the shelter. Despite hearing rumors about the army’s presence, they saw no soldiers around. Amidst the chaos, they entered the shelter, but the door refused to close properly, so they used couches to block it.
I believe my daughter knew the terrorists would come for them. The shelter where they hid sat right next to the vineyard where the terrorists swarmed. In the shelter, they heard yelling and knew Hamas was closing in. The terrorists moved toward them and could easily break through. When they smashed the door with a hammer or something similar, they found Emily. They pulled her, dragged her, and pushed her under gunfire, but fortunately, they did not hit her.
Through her own subsequent accounting of what happened after October 7, I learned Hamas took my nine-year-old daughter to Gaza. Once in Gaza, as Israeli forces attacked, Hamas forced her to run from house to house. She now calls that place “the box.” Slowly, she opens up, bit by bit. I will only fully understand what she endured as she shares more. I feel eager to know everything but must give her time so she feels free and ready to talk with me.
While the Hamas terrorists did not physically harm her, their voices alone controlled her. During the captivity, they required the children to stay quiet and engage in limited activities. The children drew and played with some cards. I took comfort knowing that Hila and Raaya remained with my daughter, providing her with great support.
In captivity, Emily celebrated her ninth birthday with her friend Hila Rotem-Shoshani and Hila’s mother Raaya. During this time, Raaya cared for both Hila and Emily, as if Emily were her own daughter. Although the terrorists eventually freed both girls, they did not free Raaya. Now, Hila lives apart from her mother, adding another layer of cruelty to this ordeal.
When I discovered Emily remained alive, I felt overwhelmed with joy. Miracles happen, and I experienced one myself. After believing her death offered relief, the sudden devastation, fear, and uncertainty felt dreadful. Waiting became torturous. However, a glimmer of hope appeared. Eight weeks after I last saw my daughter, I received incredible news. Emily’s name showed up on the second list of hostages to be released under a temporary truce between Israel and Hamas.
I tried to contain my excitement when I arrived at the base to greet the freed hostages. A long delay slowed Emily’s arrival, as she stayed with the Red Cross. Then, suddenly, the door opened, and she ran towards me. That beautiful moment proved to be everything I imagined. I called out her nickname Emush, and we hugged tightly.
When Emily stepped back from our hug, I saw her face. It resembled mine, with chiseled features. Before she became a hostage in Gaza, her face looked chubby, girlish, and young. Emily wore the same pajamas she wore the night she went to visit Hila’s home. Someone gave her a pair of trousers and a top to wear over top of them.
As soon as possible, she discarded the clothes. When she spoke to me at the reunion, I felt jolted. The most disturbing and shocking part was how she whispered. I could not hear her. I placed my ear against her lips to listen. My daughter conditioned herself to remain silent, but the terror in her eyes spoke volumes.
As we settled into the van, I handed her my phone to help distract her and ease her mind, knowing only time would heal. She immediately played a Beyoncé song. I felt immense relief as I watched her smile and laugh, showing glimpses of being a carefree child again. Yet, her pale skin and hollowed-out face were outlined by a head full of lice.
In a particularly heartbreaking moment, I asked Emily, “How long have you been away from home?” Though she spent two months as a hostage in Gaza, she answered, “A year.” To her, it felt that way. While she received food and plenty of water, she told me she often experienced hunger. Mainly, she ate something for breakfast and sometimes lunch.
Occasionally, they offered food in the evening. Emily learned to eat plain bread with olive oil. Her stomach shrank, so she ate less. Back home, she craved a mountain of food, but we started out with small portions and gradually increased.
Emily lost her birth mother to cancer at two years old. I found it incredibly difficult to tell her that her second mother also died on October 7, 2023. When I delivered the news, her little eyes glazed over, and she took in a deep breath.
Emily rejoiced at reuniting to her dogs but scolded them for not rescuing her. Our dogs Schnitzel and Jonesy can roam freely without leashes. Since Emily returned, the dogs have helped her significantly. She plays with them, and they feel happiest when she is near. Sometimes, I witness both my dogs and my daughter displaying sensitivity and strength simultaneously. In those moments, I feel the most serene; like nothing bad ever happened to her.
Recovery proves slow, but Emily’s strength and spirit help her. She makes the most of her days, but when she sleeps, she falls into a deep sleep. Emily cries at night until her face turns red and blotchy. She wants no comfort, so we let her cry. It seems, she doesn’t know how to be comforted. She hides under her quilt and cries quietly.
I learned in Gaza; guards threatened her and other captives with knives if they made any noise. For at least 15 days after her release, she wanted no one to touch her. I waited patiently until she felt ready. Emily feels insecure and scared. Even at home, she wants someone constantly near her.
She went as far as inventing code words to talk about her abduction. Olives means terrorists. Cheese means hostages and watermelon means blood. She deeply dislikes all these foods now. To track her new code words, she created a color-coded dictionary on a whiteboard at home.
Today, Emily and Hila play games together and look out for each other. We celebrated Hila’s birthday with a cake at the hospital. I also brought a cake for Emily to make up for the ninth birthday she missed during her captivity by Hamas.
Emily makes strides in her recovery, but I feel shattered, and her progress feels slow. I still mourn the loss of my wife, whom terrorists killed. At the same time, I cope with everything happening with Emily and the ongoing conflict.
We now reside in Herzliya. Emily engages in various activities like horse riding. She also enjoys playing Frisbee with a dog at a club. Returning to Be’eri remains a non-option for her right now. Although I wish to go back, I prioritize her peace of mind. Our friends live there, but she fears that terrorists might return and take her to Gaza.
Occasionally, Emily shares her experiences in Gaza with me. She mentions that none of the guards treated the hostages kindly. While she mostly speaks normally now, she reverts to whispering at night and sometimes in the morning. At the moment, psychiatrists advise me not to press her for details and to let her share naturally.
I feel grateful for Hila because she supported Emily during tough times, especially when Emily was being held. Since Emily’s return, I have divided my focus. I dedicate myself to her recovery and work to help bring back Hila’s mother and all the other hostages still gone.