For the last 2+ years, Jews and allies around the world surrounded themselves with daily reminders of the times we’ve been living through. Dog tag necklaces, bracelets, posters, ribbons… all reminding the world that we were in pain. That pieces of our hearts — our family — were being held hostage by those seeking our destruction. We cried universal tears of pain as we learned the fate of those who were no longer with us, and tears of joy as those still living were returned to their families. And then there was one. We held our breath each time a new update came. All along, the daily reminders that we were not whole. The slogans changed. Broken hearts and house emblems were added to the posters telling the world their fate. One by one.

For over two years I wore the Bring Them Home Now dog tag with the hostage pin and Nova exhibit dog tag. A trifecta of pain and tears draped around my neck for the world to see. The chain became a point of connection — in the grocery store, in airports, in Jewish spaces and not. When I saw someone else wearing it, I felt less alone. I’d make eye contact and give a reassuring nod or smile. It brought me into conversation with Itai Chen’s parents on a flight from NYC to Baltimore. It inspired the cashier at Target to tell me she was praying for the Jewish people. It made me stand taller at remembrance events and ceremonies. The chain became part of my daily routine. It became part of me.

When I came in from shoveling snow at my sister’s house on the morning of Monday, January 26th, I was surprised by the flood of alerts lighting up my phone screen. With frozen fingers, I began to scroll. Every message was the same. Ran had been identified and was coming home. The last hostage. The last face. The last justification for the ribbons, pins, dog tags…

After 842 days since October 7th — over two years with hostages in Gaza — I could finally take a deep breath. But my thoughts began to race. With Tuesday declared a daytime pajama day because of the snow, it wasn’t until Wednesday morning that the gravity began to sink in. As I got dressed and zipped my suitcase for my next trip to Israel, I stood frozen — not from the cold outside, but from thoughts flooding my head and heart. I held my chain in my hand. The chain that had been around my neck for over two years. And I thought, now what? What do I do with this daily reminder that we were not whole? The hostages are home. The healing can begin. The necklace’s purpose had ceased to exist.

I couldn’t leave it behind, so I tucked it into my pocketbook and headed to the airport. It felt strange. Relief that I didn’t feel the need to wear it. Heaviness that it wasn’t on me. This was my sixth trip to Israel since the start of the war. The country had changed, evolved. I had come to expect the shifts in appearance — fewer kidnapped posters as loved ones came home, more memorial stickers as loved ones were killed. The memorials. The posters lining the airport hallways of those yet to come home. The ever-changing exhibits at Hostages Square. The clock. The clock counting the seconds, minutes, hours, and years since our lives were shattered. Since our family was still fighting for the release of every single person — dead or alive — who had been victimized on that fateful Shabbat.

But now – now the hostages were home. What would be of what I had come so familiar with? Walking Tel Aviv on Thursday after arriving, I already felt the change. I didn’t see kidnapped posters or banners criticizing the government. There were no Bring Them Home Now banners hanging on overpasses or on the sides of the buildings. Memorial stickers were more tattered and torn than before.

On Friday afternoon, we joined the final Kabbalat Shabbat at Hostages Square. Only five days earlier, Ran had returned home. The place that had become so iconic in the fight for those taken was already being transformed back into its previous purpose — a simple square in front of a museum across from an IDF and government office. The long table once set for the hostages was now a small table set for one. The hourglass had no more sand waiting to fall. Most of the exhibits were gone, dismantled, some stacked to the side as if waiting to be discarded.

And the clock. Well, the clock was off. There was no more time to be counted.

This time, even the name felt different. There were no more hostages. And more than that — there were former hostages with us to welcome Shabbat. Standing in front of me was Lishay Miran, one of the most outspoken advocates on behalf of her husband Omri — and Omri was there beside her. Their little girls ran around in their dresses as if life had not been so violently interrupted. Speaker after speaker. Song and prayer. All in Hebrew. Each moment more surreal than the next. 

For the next two weeks, I continued my Israel journey as planned. If you didn’t know better, you could walk the streets and feel as if nothing was different. But if you know what to look for — if you hold your gaze a little longer — you’ll see them. Yellow ribbons hanging as if untied and forgotten. Memorial stickers worn by weather and time, peeling from their surfaces as if waiting to be carried off by the wind.

On one of my last nights, I walked to Dizengoff Circle, where for over two years this space had become a memorial — not only to those taken into tunnels, but to the lives ripped from this earth. The memorial has changed over my visits, but this time felt different. As I walked around the fountain lit against the night sky, something unsettled me. The photos forming a circle around the edge of the fountain were void of color. After so many days, weeks, and now years — the images had faded. The vibrancy drained into shades of brown.

If this can happen to the photos, would it happen to the lives they represented as well?

My mind keeps returning to the question of what creates a memory. When we teach about the Holocaust, we do not say six million — but one and one and one until you reach six million. Every individual was a whole world. Watching this unfold in real time, as colors fade and stickers tear, I find myself wondering: are the memories of the nearly 2,000 souls lost on and since October 7th fading as well?

No more dog tags. Faded photos. Tattered stickers.

As Elie Wiesel reminded us, “To listen to a witness is to become a witness.” For over two years, many of us learned the stories of those we lost, those who were taken, and those who survived. But our work is not done. It is on each of us to keep their stories — and their individuality — alive in ways that feel meaningful.

The posters will come down. The ribbons will fray. The dog tags will no longer be worn. But the stories only disappear if we stop carrying them.

Teach as Alex Dancyg taught.

Create music like Alon Ohel and Agam Berger.

Follow your passion like Norelle Manzuri.

Dance like Hersh Goldberg-Polin.

Remember like Sean remembers his sister, Noa Farage.

Belong to something bigger like Dekel Swissa.

Fight like Aner Shapira.

Be brave like Youssef Ziadna.

Rebuild like Nadav Tsabari.

Follow your heart like Rose Lubin.

Embody friendship like Guy Gilboa-Dalal and Evyatar David.

Smile like Kfir and Ariel Bibas.

Live like tomorrow isn’t a given.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)