Redemption of The Captives

Pidyon Shvuyim — The Oldest Moral Commandment Reborn

The 20 living hostages released on October 13, 2025: First row, from left: Elkana Bohbot, Matan Angrest, Avinatan Or, Yosef-Haim Ohana, Alon Ohel. Second row, from left: Evyatar David, Guy Gilboa-Dalal, Rom Braslavski, Gali Berman, Ziv Berman. Third row, from left: Eitan Mor, Segev Kalfon, Nimrod Cohen, Maxim Herkin, Eitan Horn. Bottom row, from left: Matan Zangauker, Bar Kupershtein, David Cunio, Ariel Cunio, Omri Miran

There are moments in history when the past doesn’t simply echo — it stirs awake.
When the stories we thought were over begin breathing again through the present.

For 738 days, Israelis and Jews across the world kept repeating the same plea, in the streets, in homes, on posters, and in prayers:
Bring them home.

And now, with the news that all living hostages were released on October 13, 2025, that plea has been fulfilled.

The Deepest Thread in Jewish Life

Long before there was a modern Israel, Jewish communities carried a sacred responsibility — one that transcended politics, geography, or creed:
to redeem those in captivity.

This act, known as Pidyon Shvuyim (pee-DEE-yon sh’vuh-YEEM), was considered among the highest of all good deeds — what the sages called “the greatest of mitzvot.”
Why? Because a captive embodies every form of suffering at once: hunger, fear, humiliation, and despair.
To bring someone home is to restore not only life, but dignity — to return the spark of humanity itself.

In medieval Spain, when word reached Córdoba that a ship of Jews had been seized by corsairs off the coast of Málaga, merchants left their stalls and scholars left their studies. The community gathered by candlelight, counting coins and prayers in equal measure. One merchant, it was said, sold his entire cargo of silk and saffron to ransom a single scholar who had once taught his son. Others set sail themselves, risking capture or death, guided only by faith and a sense of duty that outweighed fear.

Across the straits in Morocco, rabbis walked from town to town with petitions, knocking on doors until enough silver filled their satchels to buy a stranger’s freedom. In Poland, when soldiers dragged Jews away for ransom, families would sell their homes and heirlooms, parting even with the Shabbat candlesticks that had lit generations of prayers. They did it because to leave someone behind was unthinkable — an affront to the very idea of community, to the belief that the suffering of one soul diminishes all who remain.

Jewish law held that Pidyon Shvuyim outweighed even feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, or tending to the sick.
The reason was simple and timeless: captivity is the convergence of all those pains.
To redeem one life from it is to heal an entire circle of human suffering.

That same moral instinct lives on in modern Israel.
When the nation negotiates for the release of its hostages, it is not merely engaging in diplomacy —
it is continuing an ancient covenant of conscience, a living commandment passed down through exile and rebirth.

And now, that commandment — the insistence that no life be forgotten, no soul left behind —
has found expression again, as every living captive has come home.

What Makes Israel Different

When Iran took American hostages in 1979, the world watched in anger and frustration. For 444 days, fifty-two of them remained in captivity.

But few Americans wept or gathered in the streets every night to pray for their return.
There was outrage — yes — but not the visceral, personal heartbreak that Israelis feel when even one person is taken.

Why? Because in Israel, the bond between citizen and nation is not symbolic — it’s existential.

Every Israeli soldier knows that if they fall captive, the entire country will stop.
People will fill the square, flood the airwaves, and cry out until they are found.

For Israelis, a hostage isn’t someone else’s child — they are everyone’s child.

This collective response — this refusal to look away — is what makes Israel unique among nations.
It’s a moral reflex written into its bloodstream.
It’s not policy; it’s identity.

And it raises a question for the rest of us:
Would we — fractured, distracted, divided — rally for one stranger’s life with the same unity of purpose?
Would we set aside politics and pride to bring one person home?

It’s not an accusation. It’s a mirror.
Israel shows the world what it looks like when the worth of a single human life outweighs every other calculation.

The Price and the Principle

Every generation faces the same painful question:
How far should compassion go?

In the past, Jewish thinkers debated whether paying ransoms encouraged more kidnappings.
Today, Israel faces the same dilemma in hostage exchanges: how to balance the infinite worth of one life against the safety of many.

There is no perfect answer.

But there is a guiding principle — we do not turn away.

Because to save a life, even at great cost, is to affirm the very idea of civilization itself.
It says that moral responsibility matters more than convenience or control.
And that belief, however fragile, is what keeps humanity from collapsing into indifference.

A Nation Remembering Itself

For Israelis, the return of the hostages is more than a national relief — it’s a reminder of who they are.

It binds the modern soldier to the ancient traveler, the mother staring at her smartphone, to those who once waited by caravan gates.
It bridges centuries of wandering with a single act of solidarity.

In a world where politics harden hearts and outrage often eclipses empathy, Israel’s response calls us back to something essential —
the shared pulse of belonging, the simple truth that no one’s pain is too small to matter.

Every person brought home is a thread rewoven into the torn fabric of a people’s soul.

The Human Mirror

Beyond religion or politics, this story holds a universal truth.

Every act of rescue — every life reclaimed from despair — is a quiet defiance of chaos.
It’s a reminder that even in the darkest corners of the human story, there are still those who will risk everything for another’s return.

When captives walk free, something in the world itself feels lighter.
As if, for a moment, we’ve remembered what we were meant to be — custodians of one another’s freedom.

The Eternal Return

Jewish history — and indeed, human history — is a cycle of captivity and release.
From empires to wars, from ghettos to gulags, people have been taken and people have been freed.

Each redemption, however small, is a rehearsal for the next.

So when the hostages returned, the echo was larger than Israel.
It was the echo of our shared humanity whispering: Bring them home.

Bring them home — not just from the tunnels and prisons of the world,
but from indifference, division, and despair.

Because when one life is restored, we all remember who we are.
 A people — a species — still capable of mercy.