The memory is not yet a memory, for everything is still vivid, fresh, present—it unfolds before our eyes daily. The horrors and the stories have become an inseparable part of us. October 6, 2023, was the last day of our normalcy. The next morning, we woke up in a nightmare, and since then, we are no longer the same. No one has remained the same. In these days, as the Feast of Tabernacles, Sukkot, reminds us of the fragility of all life, I feel the words of those who have experienced the unimaginable more deeply than ever before. Three voices, three people who lost their most beloved in the war—speak from the heart of both pain and hope. Their words are not complaints but testimonies of a faith that refuses to break.

• Ruth Greenglick, the mother of fallen Shauli, speaks to God with an honesty that cuts and heals.
• Yarden Bibas tells of his boundless love for his wife and children, taken from him, and of his decision to keep living nonetheless.
• Saphir Zohav Hamami writes to her husband Asaf, whose body remains in Gaza, transforming her longing into a hymn to life.

These three voices carry us—as a society, as a people, as human beings. From their loss grows a quiet but unyielding faith that love is stronger than death, that memory does not mean standstill but obligation: to live, to love, to connect.

The first text comes from Ruth Greenglick, the mother of Shauli Greenglick (26), who fell in the Gaza war. Shauli dreamed of a career as a singer, even participating in the show Kochav Nolad (“A Star is Born”) during the war and advancing further. Ultimately, he chose to return to the army and take part in the war. There, he was killed, and with him, all his dreams died.

“For the past few days, I’ve hardly dared to say that I feel I have nothing to ask forgiveness for. On the contrary, the Eternal, our God Himself, should ask me for forgiveness,” his mother said. “It’s a feeling that’s hard to express. I know you don’t speak to a Father like that. But sometimes, when a father does something a child doesn’t understand, he can embrace them and say, ‘I’m sorry’—not for the act, but for the painful reality that resulted from it. That’s how it is among partners in a family. I know I don’t see the bigger picture. I know there must be reasons. I know all that, and yet… For a long time, I couldn’t say it; it seemed excessive. So I kept it deep inside. But as the hours passed and the tears rose in my throat, I knew I had to say it—for all the mothers and fathers who might feel as I do. So, now I’ve said it.”

Family and friends attend the funeral of Israeli soldier Shaul Greenglick at the Ra’anana Military Cemetery, December 27, 2023. In the foreground right: his parents mourning their son together. Photo: Avshalom Sassoni/Flash90.

The second text comes from Yarden Bibas, whose wife Shiri (32) and two boys, Ariel (4) and Kfir (1), were murdered in brutal Hamas captivity. He himself was held captive for months, unaware of his family’s fate.

“They dragged me out of the safe room—it was Ariel’s room. That was the last time we were all together, the whole family. That was the last time I saw them; that’s where our paths parted. That was the end of the Bibas family. Before they took me away, I kissed Shiri, Kfir, and Ariel. I told them I love them more than anything in the world, always and forever. If I had known it was the last time, I would have kissed them longer. One more time. And another.”

“Later, when they showed me the video and told me what happened to Shiri and the children, I asked to be taken to David. For the second time in our lives—the first was before my wedding to Shiri—we slept side by side, under one blanket. Then they separated us. I miss Ariel’s voice as he plays in the room, the sight of him running between rooms, climbing onto the bed to lie between me and Shiri. I miss Kfir’s laughter, the sound of his toys. Shiri’s voice, her conversations with me, how she’d say, ‘Yarden, turn over, you’re snoring.’ The house was small, but vast in what it held. If life is a race, Shiri and the children were my finish line. They were my victory in this world. They were the fulfillment of my dream to be a husband and father.”

“When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I feel is their absence. I had everything and lost everything. I can’t see beyond tomorrow. But I’ve chosen life—at my own pace. Maybe one day I’ll see the day after tomorrow too.”

Former hostages and relatives of hostages held in the Gaza Strip hold a press conference in Tel Aviv, marking the 600th day of the hostage-taking, May 28, 2025. Second from left: Yarden Bibas, whose wife and two young sons were murdered by Hamas terrorists. Photo: Miriam Alster/Flash90.

The third text comes from Saphir Zohav Hamami, the widow of Asaf Hamami (40), a colonel in the IDF and commander of the Southern Brigade in the Gaza Division. Asaf was the first to be alerted on the morning of October 7, 2023—and the first casualty of the war. His body remains in the Gaza Strip to this day. Everyone prays and hopes for his return home. His close friend was my second son, Moran, who served under his command for a long time and describes how profoundly Asaf’s personality and death shaped him as a person and an officer. My husband Aviel, Moran, and I attended Asaf’s funeral, even though his body is still in Gaza.

“My darling, my love, who would have thought that two years have already passed—and you’re still not here. Everything is still fresh, and I’ve grown older than you by now. I want to tell you: This year, Ela had her Bat Mitzvah, and she’s so much like you! So diligent, persevering, ambitious. She wants to be the best at everything. She’s precious, respectful, has her own path, and she’ll soar far. And Alon—so grown up, a child and a man at once. He carries so much of you in him, a little leader, full of creativity, always surprising me. For him, nothing is impossible, just like for you: everything is possible. And Arbel, our little rascal, strong, cheeky, with a huge heart. One look from him, and everyone melts.

“So brave, so full of joy. I look at him and think, he’s now the age Alon was when he used to drive with you to the base on weekends. How beautiful it would be to see you both together… Longing and memories have a place of honor in our home. We keep recalling your pranks, the hide-and-seek games throughout the house, your patient waiting until someone found you. And how you’d come home on Thursday evenings when I was already half asleep, crawling into the kids’ bed, waking them all up, slipping under the blanket, and calling out, ‘Mama will never find us!’ And everyone laughed while I quietly smiled. Or how on Saturday mornings you’d make giant pancakes and wake the kids with the song Boker Tov (‘Good Morning’), picking up Ela and Alon in your arms and dancing with them in the living room. And on Fridays, before the afternoon nap, stirring your black coffee, putting on headphones, pressing ‘play,’ and humming through the kitchen with a broom as a microphone. These little memories—they are indelible.

“You know, my dearest, you had arranged private motorcycle lessons for Alon. I was scared but let you have your way, and every time, something came up. Today, my love, a convoy of motorcycles drove from our house to here to honor you, to remind you that your dreams live on too. On Yom Kippur, you were almost always with us, making that day especially calm, especially safe. It was our day.

“But on your last Yom Kippur, shortly before October 7, you couldn’t come. You were at the base too long, wanted to come home, but had to stay. We waited for you so much. I know you wanted to be here too. Since then, every Yom Kippur has been heavy. Your absence hurts. Every thought of you, of us as a family, makes my heart clench—for all that could have been. The longing doesn’t stop and never will. I’m only learning to live with it. Looking back, you prepared me for this life without you—with countless exercises in missing you. I try to be the best version of myself, for the kids and for you. In my mind, I often talk to you and see your gaze, showing me if I’m on the right path. That’s all I need. The path is rocky, heavy, full of stumbling blocks and emptiness. But you left me all the tools to keep going.

“I had so hoped you’d be with us today, that we could finally breathe a little. So I ask you, my dearest, it’s time to come home. It won’t ease the pain or heal the heart, but it will calm the thoughts a little. How much love and pain reside in longing. Thanks to dear friends, family, and good people who support and accompany us. Thank you for being with us on this journey.”

The wife and children of Colonel Asaf Hamami mourn at his funeral at Kiryat Shaul Cemetery in Tel Aviv, December 4, 2023. Photo: Miriam Alster/Flash90.

Each of us has our own October 7. For me, it was the moment all my children went off to war, and I stayed behind—full of pain and endless worry. A fear I had never known before settled in my heart and stayed there for a long time. Since then, I live with one single realization, confirmed again and again: you must make time for each other—time with the children, the grandchildren, the partner. I consciously make time to connect hearts—that’s my daily work.

That, I believe, is the great legacy of all those who did not survive that terrible, bleeding day. Everything in life is so fleeting, so transient. That’s not a cliché. And now, during the Feast of Tabernacles, Sukkot, the festival where we sit in a temporary booth for seven days to remind us: everything in life is temporary. Everything passes. Therefore, it is our duty, in the time we have, to be better, more sensitive, more loving. Cherish moments of joy and love, for we never know what tomorrow brings. It is a mitzvah to live in joy and gratitude.

As the Jewish scholar Baal Shem Tov said:

“Sadness locks the gates of heaven. Prayer opens locked gates. But joy—joy can shatter walls.”