A Visit to Hostage Square with My Grandfather

A stark reminder that we will never give up

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.

---

Photo by Oleg Vakhromov on Unsplash

I sit in my grandparents’ living room in Israel, my grandmother’s warm, soft hands embracing mine. In front of us, shelves overflow with photos capturing milestone moments in her children's and grandchildren’s lives: conscription into the Israeli army, weddings, and my own law school graduation in the States. We watch our favorite Israeli news anchor, Lucy Aharish, an Israeli Muslim Arab, as she discusses the hostage crisis. I’m in Israel for a little over two weeks this summer, here to spend quality time with my family.

My grandmother turns to me and says in Hebrew, “You should go to Hostage Square in Tel Aviv while you’re here. I heard it's a beautiful memorial.”

I shrug, feeling a mix of trepidation and sadness. I’m uncertain whether I can handle the weight of it all, afraid it might send me spiraling deeper into my already heavy feelings.

“Yeah, maybe,” I reply, not genuinely planning to go.  

But as the days pass, a nagging feeling grows within me. It’s my second-to-last day in Israel. I wake up knowing I need to visit. It’s Saturday. A protest is scheduled for later that evening. The streets are set to be filled with Israeli flags and demands for the hostages release. I ask my grandpa to take me before the crowds arrive while the city of Tel Aviv still lingers in its Shabbat slumber.

The memorial stands before the Tel Aviv Art Museum, featuring a massive twenty-foot screen counting the days, minutes, and seconds since the 200+ hostages were taken: 266 days, 3 hours, 19 minutes. Next to it, a giant hourglass conveys the urgency of their return. As I gaze at the ticking seconds, a heavy sadness washes over me.

I grapple with the dread and fear that comes with my peers’ silence surrounding the hostage crisis. In the days following the October 7 massacre, I lost countless friends. I watched former classmates I had shared experiences with on Birthright defend the violence, equating Israel, the only democracy in the Middle East, to terrorism and attacking its right to defend itself.

My Instagram feed filled with global protests supporting Hamas, justifying the kidnapping of innocent civilians. Overwhelmed, I spent weeks crying, isolating myself from the world, distrusting those I considered friends. 

My grandpa and I walk past a display of over 100 six-foot yellow ribbons. We pass what looks like a makeshift Gaza tunnel—a haunting reminder of the miles of tunnels designed to hide terrorists and imprison hostages.

Entering the tunnel, I feel the suffocating heat and thick air. The speakers emit sounds of distant bombs. With only small string of lights to guide us, we are enveloped by darkness. Tears well up as frustration surges within me. How does the world justify and defend this? Why are we alone once again? I ask myself. The knot in my stomach tightens and I'm trapped in the powerlessness of it all. We exit with no peace of mind.

My grandpa guides me to a piano dedicated to Alon Ohel, a twenty-three-year-old pianist taken hostage. A yellow sign atop it reads, “You Are Not Alone.” Yet I feel profoundly alone.

I gaze at a sculpture of the Bibas children, their mother holding them close. My heart shatters at the dehumanization of a nine-month-old and a three-year-old child by those who label themselves “social justice activists.” “Activists” who equate terrorist prisoners with child hostages.

My eyes glisten with tears, begging to fall. We’ve seen this before—during the Holocaust, when the world ignored, denied, and justified the slaughter of Jews. There is always justification, a deep-seated resentment against Jews who refuse to vanish, who continue to thrive. We, as a community, will not break from the inhumanity inflicted upon us.

I look around at the art surrounding me, creations born from suffering, and I feel a renewed sense of purpose: we, the Jewish community, will transform our pain into love, into art, and into innovation. We will not give up.

My grandfather puts his arm around my shoulder. “I’m glad you asked me to bring you here today. I've never been here before. It breaks my heart, but it's beautiful.”

I lean my head against him, finding solace in his protective presence.

“I’m glad too.”

---

Leor Mekahel is an environmental attorney and serves on the board of the San Diego Jewish Bar Association. With a deep love for Israel, she makes an effort to travel there at least once a year. Leor lives in San Diego, California, with her dog, Ocean.

Instagram: @leor_bookstagram

---

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.