The words you are reading exist solely because of Israel's unwavering commitment to bringing home its captured soldiers. Had the state not secured my father's release from Egyptian captivity in 1968, neither I nor my children would exist today.
My father, Avraham Yasur, was captured during a naval operation at the Suez Canal. A 20-year-old corporal in the Navy, he was dispatched alongside another officer in a rubber boat flying a large Israeli flag, tasked with asserting Israel's right to freedom of navigation in the canal. This occurred in July 1967, in the wake of the Six-Day War.
Following six months of grueling isolation, torture, interrogations, and the constant shadow of death at Cairo's Abbasiya prison, my father and his fellow servicemen were freed in a prisoner exchange. Roughly five years after returning home, he met my late mother, built a family, and went on to lead a fulfilling life marked by both physical and emotional well-being.
My grandparents never had to take to the streets in protest. They weren't forced to plead for information, print T-shirts, or join demonstration rallies.
In that era, elected officials didn't bark "get out of my sight" at them or demand they be brief. They weren't branded as enemies of the state or portrayed as obstacles to total victory. They didn't face verbal abuse or physical attacks on the street, nor were they required to declare their political affiliations, attend support rallies, or wage daily campaigns to maintain public awareness about my father's captivity.
Even in captivity, my father maintained his faith that the state wouldn't abandon him. His conviction was so strong that he and his fellow prisoners – naval commandos and two pilots – sent word that they were willing to remain imprisoned longer to secure a comprehensive exchange deal that would include four prisoners from the Lavon Affair, who had already endured 14 years in Egyptian detention (indeed, they too were held for political considerations, and only the persistence of then-Mossad Director Meir Amit ultimately secured their release).
Fast forward to today. Among our 101 hostages are fathers of both young and grown children, alongside young men and women whom I desperately hope to see return, wishing they too will have the chance to build families and lead healthy lives. Each passing day – and we've endured 422 horrific days – could be their last. Their health is deteriorating, and they face immediate life-threatening conditions.
The contrast between prison conditions in Cairo, harsh as they were, and the tunnels of Gaza is stark. The difference between my father, who received regular Red Cross visits with letters and packages, and today's hostages, whose medical conditions and – for some – very survival remain unknown, is profound. And the gulf between the public atmosphere then and now is almost incomprehensible.
Yet I choose to believe that Israel's core values remain unchanged between 1968 and 2024. Poll after poll confirms that the redemption of captives remains our paramount value. However, the government's continued failure to secure their release represents a moral abdication. There can be no national recovery without the return of the hostages, and time is running out.
Most crucially, we must hold onto the hope that a full, meaningful, and healthy life is possible even after the trauma of captivity, as my father's story proves. But such healing can only begin once our government exhausts every avenue to bring them back to their families and their lives.
