Hostage Release - Shehecheyanu

שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְּמָנוּ וְהִגִּיעָנוּ לַזְּמַן הַזֶּה

Shehecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh

Blessed is the One who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this moment.

It’s the Hebrew blessing we say at moments of significance — family gatherings, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries. It signifies celebration and gratitude. But, as with all Jewish celebrations, it carries a certain heaviness — a shadow of memory and regret for those who are only with us in spirit. It’s a reminder of how much we owe to those who made our present moment possible.

I can hardly think of a more appropriate time to recite the blessing than today. There are inevitably mixed feelings. We celebrate the return of the living — their freedom from the dungeons of captivity. We mourn the more than two years they spent suffering helplessly, enduring mental and physical torment at the hands of the most depraved, sadistic individuals. We rejoice in their reunions with family. We grieve for those who could not return safely to theirs. We celebrate the end of a nightmare. We regret the 465 Israeli soldiers — most of them in their late teens and early twenties — who gave their lives in the war, and the tens of thousands of innocent Palestinians killed and wounded, along with the hundreds of thousands who continue to endure deprivation and inhuman living conditions.

I am grateful to the politicians who finally reached a deal. I blame the politicians for taking so long — for the unimaginable toll their delay has taken.

Shehecheyanu, yes — but this should have, and could have, happened much sooner.

Almost two years ago, on October 29, 2023, the Montreal Jewish community gathered downtown to call for the release of the hostages. My wife and I attended, and we brought home a bright yellow sign that said, “Release the Hostages.” That day, I stuck the sign in the window of our front door and vowed not to take it down until every hostage was released. I never imagined it would remain there for almost two years.

I thought I was taking a small risk. Ours is a quiet, affluent neighborhood. Many Jewish families live on our street, though it’s a mix. What worried me most was the bus stop directly in front of our house. I feared someone not from our neighbourhood might see the sign, take exception, and throw a rock at the window. I figured the worst that could happen was the cost and hassle of replacing some broken glass. Taking a public stand, however meagre, was worth the risk. My worries grew as the war dragged on, the Palestinian death toll rose, and antisemitism in the diaspora intensified. Still, I kept my vow to myself. 

In those two years, we experienced only two clear responses to our sign — and perhaps two more, if you count the ambiguous ones.

The first was direct but civil: someone stuck a pink Post-it note to our door, on the sign itself. In neat cursive it read, “And stop killing the children of Gaza.” Hard to disagree. It was a restrained gesture, considering the hatred and vitriol that were exploding online.

The second involved my wife’s small business. She sells vintage housewares online and by appointment from our basement. Once, a customer who had arranged to pick up an item failed to show. Later, she messaged my wife to say that she had changed her mind. We’re fairly certain that she came to the house, saw the sign, turned away, and decided not to go through with the purchase.

I might also add that more times than not, the sign elicited positive and considerate reponses from some of my wife's customers. One time, my wife went to the door for a customer and saw through the window that she was removing her keffiyeh, presumably so my wife wouldn't be offended.    

The remaining two incidents are more speculative. One week, our recycling wasn’t collected. Normally it’s picked up from the curb, right near where the sign is visible from the street. I’d put the blue bag out early; all the other houses’ bags were taken, except ours. It was picked up the following week, so our house wasn’t blacklisted — but I still wonder if the driver decided that day to make a quiet protest gesture of his own.

The last incident was stranger — and unsettling. One summer weekend, while mowing the lawn, I found a large kitchen knife planted upright in the grass near our walkway. I had no idea why it was there. Perhaps someone waiting at the bus stop had found it on the street and stuck it in the ground absentmindedly. But this happened during a time of vandalism and violent acts against Jewish institutions and on university campuses, and for a brief moment a chill ran through me — as if it were meant as a threatening message. Within a few minutes, I dismissed the thought as paranoia, pulled the knife out of the grass — it was perfectly good, maybe even expensive — and brought it into the house. We still have it. There was never any follow-up, and I’ve come to think it was pure coincidence.

Today, the last 20 living hostages have come home - I must settle for the living for now. I am taking the sign down. I’m relieved it’s gone.

Shehecheyanu, indeed.