October 7 was a day of unique Jewish pain; two years later, has come a day of joy that only we can truly savor
The tableau that unfolded on Hoshana Rabbah was scarcely imaginable when this week’s issue went to print before Succos. It was a moment of homecoming, of national catharsis — the sign that Israel’s long, long nightmare was finally over.
For days, an entire nation held its breath, scarcely daring to believe that its missing sons were coming home.
From the minute Donald Trump announced the bombshell news of his ceasefire agreement, there was only one thought: the hostages. These were the names — Zangauker, Horn, Angarest, Kuperstein — that had featured in so many tefillos, their faces familiar from a thousand posters in the walkways of Ben-Gurion Airport to flyers ripped down in London and New York.
Had the anguished prayers of the Jewish People finally torn down the iron walls, or would some new Hamas devilry keep the hostages in their dungeons?
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