When news of the horrific October 7th attacks spread, people were frozen in grief and fear. We have a large contingency of Israeli backpackers that spend months in our area, working on farms to comply with visa regulations. They’d often spend Shabbos with us, and we’d get to know many of them pretty well.
That motzei Shabbos, we knew we had to be there for them. Wanting to give them the comforts of home, we scoured the house for any Israeli snack we could find, and loaded the car with Bamba, Bissli, and Crembos. We headed to one of their hangouts, and found the group huddled together, crying, sobbing, shaken to their cores. Many of them were running to catch the first flight back home, while others wondered how or when they’d be able to get back home.
Our own broken hearts had no answers for them, but we sat and listened. We gave out snacks and sang uplifting songs together - songs of hope, of peace, and of love.
One of the backpackers, Daniel Lifshitz, was beside himself. Rumors that Hamas had taken over 200 hostages were swirling, and he’d heard his grandparents, Yocheved and Oded Lifshitz, were among them. He was in agony, not knowing whether his elderly grandparents were alive, dead, or - maybe even worse - captive in Hamas’ underground tunnels.
Daniel flew back to Israel as soon as he could. Baruch Hashem, his grandmother was one of the first hostages released, although his grandfather still remains in Hamas custody.
Our home became a base for Israeli backpackers who wanted a safe place to gather and take comfort in their shared sorrow. I told them all they could use our storage for their stuff while they traveled back to Israel. While some have returned to claim their belongings, too many are still fighting a war against evil, hoping to return every hostage to their homes and families.
