This Is What We Fought For

by Skylar Ribotsky

In the early hours this morning, Jewish lives around the world seemed to pause. We refreshed news feeds, held our breath, and waited—for our people to come home, for the moment we’d see them reunited with their families in Israel.

Most of us never knew these hostages. We wouldn’t have known their names had October 7th never happened. But we watched as if they were our own. To explain this to someone who isn’t Jewish, I think of what I’ve heard about America after 9/11. My dad tells stories of strangers showing up for one another, of people who’d never cared about national identity suddenly standing proud during the anthem. I was born two years after that day. I learned about it, but I’ve never felt that unity in the America I know.

Since October 7th, 2023, that’s what being Jewish has felt like—every single day. It hasn’t mattered where our ancestors came from, how observant we are, or whether we’ve ever been to Israel. Our differences faded. We were simply Jews. And Israel—whether we realized it before or not—became part of our identity. It’s the one place every Jew knows they can flee to. Which until two years ago did not seem like something most would ever think they needed.

Just as Americans showed up for each other after 9/11, Jews have shown up for each other since October 7th. We prayed for strangers. We lit extra candles on Shabbat. We spoke out—in classrooms, at work, at the ballot box. Some even gave hostages’ names when ordering coffee, just to keep those names alive. It may seem strange to the outside world, but there is a common understanding between Jews since October 7th. We did not have to say anything, but we all understood and knew what we collectively thought, hoped and prayed for.

October 7th feels like yesterday. But the world kept spinning, and so did we. Still, we made a promise: to remember the names of those lost and those taken into Gaza. For most Jews, the past two years have been about one thing—bringing our people home. The world made it political. They said it was about land, about Israelis. But for Jews, it was always about Jews. These were our people. Everything else was secondary.

Being Jewish since October 7th hasn’t been easy. But it’s been beautiful. To be part of a people who choose life—especially when it’s the hardest choice—is something special. For someone my age, who doesn’t know America as a place where unity outweighs politics, it’s powerful to belong to a people who serve their country with pride, even in the depths of hell, fighting to bring our people home.

Peace in the Middle East remains uncertain. But this morning, Jews around the world stayed awake, fighting sleep, waiting to see our people come home. We may never know them, but we are bound by shared history and a collective promise. And today, we lived that promise: Am Yisrael Chai—the people of Israel live.

These aren’t just words. They’re a choice. A choice to stand for our beliefs. A choice to bring our people home, no matter the cost.

Today, sons, brothers, and fathers returned to Israel after two unimaginable years in Hamas captivity. And for Jews everywhere, that’s what this fight has always been about. The world could learn a lot from that.

While today is a day of joy for Jews around the world—and for all those who have stood by us—we must not forget those who will never have a reunion like the twenty we witnessed today.

We remember the families still fighting to bring their loved ones’ bodies home from Gaza, just to have a grave to visit. We remember those who have already buried their loved ones, never getting the chance to say goodbye. And we remember the more than 900 men and women of the IDF who gave their lives defending their nation and her people.

To them, and to their families, we say: we see you, we thank you, and we will never forget you.