KIDNAPPED BY HAMAS AND SAVED
Also with no luck, you need a little bit of luck
There is a Hebrew saying, “Gam B’Hosare Mazal, Sarich Tifat Mazal,” which translates to, “Also with no luck, you need a little bit of luck.” Ofir Engel, a 17-year-old boy visited his beautiful girlfriend, Yuval, and her family for the holiday of Sukkot. On that horrific morning of Oct. 7, when Kibbutz Be’eri was overtaken by Hamas terrorists, entire families slaughtered, women raped, Jews mutilated, Ofir was kidnapped with Yossi Sharabi, Yuval’s father. Forced in a black car surrounded by Hamas terrorists pointing guns, Ofir’s eyes were filled with fear as he said goodbye to Yuval.
As his kidnappers sped away, Ofir looked out the window at the only home he’d ever known. Israel became smaller and smaller as he, Yossi and Amit, another teenager who was also abducted from Be’eri, entered Gaza. Ofir was shocked as questions ricocheted from the corners of his mind. Why wasn’t there a fence between Israel and Gaza? How were cars and bulldozers going back and forth so easily between the border? Complete and total chaos, Day 1 was already the most treacherous day of his life.
Immediately upon arrival to Gaza, Ofir was brought to a house with Yossi and Amit where they were handed off to two other terrorists.
Two gun- and grenade-toting terrorists repeatedly asked Ofir his age. When he responded he was 17, they asked if he was a soldier. He told them the truth, he was a high school student, not a soldier.
He was asked the same questions over and over, as if his captors were optimistic to catch him in a lie. Ofir kept track of the days he was in captivity by clipping one nail per day. He turned 18 in Gaza, but kept that secret to himself. If the terrorists knew he was 18, they would treat him as an adult and his release would be delayed if at all. Every few days a third Hamas terrorist arrived, often holding an infant, to speak to the boys and Yossi. His demeanor and words were far harsher, mentally terrorizing them during his visits.
“Your prime minister and country do not care about you,” he’d say. “No one wants you; you will never get out of here.”
Six weeks into his capture, Ofir was handed a notebook and told to write a goodbye letter to his parents. “You won’t see them again,” the terrorist barked.
“How did you manage the psychological terrorism?” I asked.
“I told myself that they are trying to get into my head, they are trying to break me. I didn’t know if what they were saying was true, but I had to believe it was all a lie. I kept telling myself that everyone was doing everything they could to find me.”
“There was bombing all around you, yes?”
“Every day, it was everywhere. Even the building next to us was destroyed.”
He was told to whisper, otherwise the army would hear voices and bomb the house.
I held back tears as I listened to the details of his story. His words felt heavy, as if they wrapped in rocks and placed in my stomach. How could this be his reality? A child. A child whose only crime was that he was born Jewish.
“What gave you continued hope?” I asked. “It seems like an impossibility to muster strength and certainty.”
“The thought of seeing my parents again kept me going,” he answered. “I thought Yuval was no longer alive. The last time I saw her she was surrounded by terrorists with guns saying goodbye to me before I was taken to Gaza.”
Every day was long, difficult and met with a new level of stress. With each passing minute, death and destruction became closer. He did his best to stay calm and hopeful and believed in his heart he would one day be home again. How does a child possess that kind of certainty in the most dire and grim circumstances, I wondered.
Since Ofir’s abduction, I’ve had the honor of being in close touch with his family. Advocating for his release, keeping his image, that beautiful green-eyed boy with the bright smile, in the public eye whether on social media or television, and the almost daily conversations with his family, I came to love them. Their lives became an extension of my own, all consumed with Ofir’s release.
I asked my dear friend, Michael
Rapaport, actor and comedian turned activist, to join me in doing anything he could to urge for Ofir’s release. With more than two million social media followers, Michael hosted Ofir’s Aunt Yael on his podcast and created awareness by sharing Ofir’s story constantly.
Minutes turned into days and weeks, but it was still Oct. 7 for many of us. I’d often wake up and ask myself out loud, “G-D, how? Help us. Please let this all be a bad dream. Please wake us up.”
Around 50 days into the war, it was announced that an agreement had been made between the Israeli government and Hamas. Over the course of four days, 50 hostages would be released in exchange for Palestinian terrorists held in Israeli jails. Women and children would be the first released from Gaza. When I spoke with Yael on Day 1 of the release process, 51 days of captivity, Ofir was not on the list.
“What do you mean,” I asked enraged and fearful.
“He’s not,” she said.
Yael, a gorgeous Israeli woman with full, curly blonde hair and a raspy voice, is a warrior. She had barely slept in 50 days because she was the glue for the Engel family, and the glue can’t sleep. With no proof of life, the Engels continued to hope and pray that on one of these four days, Ofir would be on the list. They lived hour to hour, prepared for nothing but the present.
Day 2, 52 days in captivity, not on the list. There were many questions I wanted to ask but respected that their pain, their sleeplessness and their fear outweighed any question I had.
Day 3, 53 days in captivity.
“Any update?” I asked Yael.
“Ofir is not on today’s list,” she responded, stoic, broken but strong.
“I am so sorry, I don’t know what to say.” On the morning of Nov. 29, I spoke with Aunt Yael.
“I am so happy to tell you that Ofir is on today’s list. Waiting and praying to see the first hug with mom and dad,” she said.
“Best news ever,” I began. “My heart is so full,” I said crying.
“I will let you tell Michael,” she said. When I told him, we carried this enormous and special secret until the evening. Refreshing my newsfeed, googling “hostage release” between incessant nail biting, the anticipation was living in every fiber of my body, as if I had swallowed all my nerves and they were bouncing under my skin.
Night was approaching in America, and it was dark in Israel as Ofir’s parents waited for him outside on the army base with other hostage families. Ofir was finally coming home. His father cheered and clapped as other young boys and girls ran off the van and into their parents embrace. Then Ofir appeared, his turn had come. He hugged his parents, just as Aunt Yael wished. I collapsed on the floor of my house and wept. My husband picked me up and held me until I stopped crying.
His parents smiled wide and proud, their joy and relief were palpable, I could feel them through my television screen. Ofir looked frail and thin, shocked and disoriented, but he was out of Gaza, away from terrorists in the safety of his mother’s arms.
Since his release, Ofir reunited with his girlfriend, and their focus remains steadfast in advocating for the hostages still in Gaza, mainly Yossi and his brother Elli. But then came the immense sadness learning of the murder of Yossi while in Hamas captivity. The last time Ofir saw him was Nov. 28, the day before he was released. Hamas separated them, and Ofir didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. May Yossi’s memory be a blessing and may Elli return home safely.
Ofir has been back to Kibbutz Be’eri multiple times to relive that horrific day. He has stood in the exact place where he was abducted, sharing his story for the world to know.
“Were you scared to go?”
“No, I’m OK, I’m not worried. It is important. At some point the trauma will get to me, but I’m still not there, I’m here fighting for Yossi and Elli. It will take a minute for the trauma to catch up.”
During one of his recent visits, a rainbow appeared as he was walking around the devastation of Be’eri, perhaps a symbol of luck. Ofir indeed feels very lucky, so much so that he recently got a fresh new tattoo with the Hebrew saying, “Also with no luck, you need a little bit of luck.”