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My name is Saray Cohen. I live in Israel. I'm not a politician or a military expert or a pundit. I am a mother. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am an aunt.
My hands are shaking as I write this, and my mind is swirling. My big sister, Judith Raanan, and her daughter, Natalie, taken hostage by Hamas during the devastating massacre on Oct. 7 in southern Israel, have been released from captivity.
But the nightmare is not over.
And that is why I need to share our story with you.
From the first rocket-warning sirens early in the morning on Oct. 7 to the frantic text messages we received when Kibbutz Nahal Oz was invaded by Hamas terrorists, we were plunged into absolute agonizing uncertainty.
It was all so surreal. When the rocket fire began, my sister and niece—both visiting Israel from their home in Evanston, Illinois— ran to the safe room, a haven from rockets, but defenseless against terrorists on the ground.
At 12:18 p.m. that Saturday afternoon, we lost all contact with Judith and Natalie.
We called the police, the army, and everyone we could, begging them to go to the kibbutz to check on our family, but no one could help. The massacre was an ongoing crisis—gunmen rampaging through our communities, raping, torturing and slaughtering innocent people—and our security forces faced immense challenges fighting back, making rescue impossible.
It wasn't until 10:30 p.m. that we could begin piecing together what had happened.
Terrorists had invaded their home. They pushed down the door. There was broken glass everywhere. Clothes and cosmetics were strewn on the floor, but Judith and Natalie were gone.
There were no signs of their bodies, and their phones and passports were missing. We realized with the horror that they had been kidnapped and if they were still alive, they were being held hostage in Gaza.
I lay wake at night remembering all the little things about my sister. How she'd drink her coffee, and how we'd reminisce about our childhood, our easy way of sitting together in the garden, maybe a little harmless gossip, supporting each other through difficult moments. When my husband died, she was my greatest comfort and support, sharing advice and the sweetest old memories—speaking in the shorthand that sisters know, a language of love and years together.
Then my stomach twisted as I played through what-ifs. What if I had insisted that they stay with me for the holiday on my kibbutz up north instead of offering to pick them up on Saturday afternoon? I wondered, are they safe? Are they warm enough? Do they have food? Are the terrorists hurting them? Are they even alive?
And after nearly two weeks of pure hell, Judith and Natalie were released. They're out. They're physically safe. I feel like I can finally draw air into my lungs after days of holding my breath.
When I saw them, I hugged my sister and my niece so hard and close—I didn't want to let go.
The tears came with that first deep breath. Tears of relief, yes. Tears of gratitude, of course. But also, tears of anguish, for the people still held hostage in Gaza, and for the agony of uncertainty their families in Israel and all around the world continue to face.
We cannot fully celebrate Natalie and Judith's return while knowing that there are still more than 230 innocent people—grandmothers and grandfathers, moms and dads, injured young men and women, whole families, frightened children and toddlers, and a 9-month-old red-haired baby whose face I see every night when I close my eyes—who are held hostage by this ruthless terror group.
Seven of our own family members are also there, still in Gaza, inside the belly of a monster we thought only existed in our worst nightmares. Say their names with me: Shoshan Haran; Adi and Tal Shoham with their children, 3-year-old Yahel and 8-year-old Naveh; Shoshan's sister-in-law Sharon Avigdori and her 12-year-old daughter Noam.
And three of our relatives were murdered: Shoshan's husband Avshalom; Shoshan's sister Lilach Kipnis and her husband Eviatar; and his caretaker Paul Castelvi.
Judith and Natalie had no idea about any of this and when they were released, they were devastated and horrified. Our whole family is committed to honoring the memory of our murdered relatives and doing whatever it takes to bring the hostages home.
I think about them all—my precious family, and every single face I've seen on posters and in the news. Faces of strangers, faces of people I know in real life. The young couple, the sweet little girl with the curly hair, the grandfathers, the parents. All these people who woke up on a clear blue Saturday morning and have been stolen. The heaviness of it all is unbearable.
Are they hurt? Are they bleeding? Are they getting food? Are they cold? Are the children crying for their mothers, or have they simply given up, sitting in the darkness, alone?
I hug Judith and Natalie and try to breathe again.
Yes, their release offers a glimmer of hope, but these are still dark times for other families. We cannot ignore the suffering of the others still in captivity, including numerous Americans, and many in urgent need of medical attention.
This nightmare is a stark reminder of the unpredictability of conflict, its ability to shatter lives, and the profound connections we share. No individual can do this alone. In this shared struggle, we remember that the pain of one is the pain of all.
My sister and niece may be safe, but we cannot give up on the others.
And we need your help. We need you to see us and bear witness. We need your support and your voices to bring all the hostages back to their families, safe and as whole as possible. Please, keep their stories alive, share our message, write letters to your local and national representatives—your mayors, the people on your city council, members of Congress and other elected officials. Stand with us to reunite families torn apart by terror.
The nightmare is not over yet. Join with us to help end it.
Saray Cohen's sister and niece were kidnapped by Hamas on Oct. 7, and later released.
The views expressed in this article are the writer's own.
