Hundreds of Israelis gathered in Tel Aviv’s Hostages Square on Saturday evening for a collective Passover seder, sharing food, singing songs, and transforming the festival of freedom into a call for the return of the 59 hostages still held in Gaza.
The atmosphere was homemade and heartfelt. At 7:33 p.m., the 200 plastic bowls of matzo ball soup prepared by the Zabloni family ran out. An hour earlier, they had been busy choosing just the right spot for the massive pot set on a gas burner, worried there would be no one to take what they called their “hope soup.”
“We felt we couldn’t be anywhere else,” said Hila and Adi, as Udi was setting the pot safely in a corner. The soup went fast—partly because it was delicious, partly because it helped warm people up, and mostly because everyone who showed up last night in Hostage Square to mark or celebrate Passover Seder needed exactly that: hope.
Hours before, the square had been quiet, as it’s often been recently. A few dozen people wandered among fading displays under the sun. Someone played the piano dedicated to Alon Ohel, still held in Gaza.
A stack of yellow plastic chairs sat to the side, and the air held a quiet fear—that the people of Israel would ignore the Hostage Families Forum’s call, and for the second Passover in a row, the families whose children remain in captivity in Gaza would be left alone.
“I wish we could do more,” said Sivan Ofir, with her one-year-old son Almog strapped to her chest, standing by a Seder table display at the edge of the square. They stopped by on their way to a separate dinner—because they felt they had to.
“We forget too quickly,” said Ofir, whose husband has served in the reserves for the past year and a half.
“I came to make sure I show my solidarity. I don’t have the right words, but I hope we can stay with the families until the hostages come home—that the solidarity lasts,” said Avital from Rosh Ha’ayin, who was also stopping by before her traditional meal. As evening fell and the sun disappeared behind the clouds—or the towers of Tel Aviv—everyone seemed to think the same thing: just don’t let the square be empty.
“We are here, and we are alive,” said Avital, who regularly joins protests near the IDF headquarters. “I have family, work, kids—but there are people whose lives have been completely frozen. We need to stand with them.” Around her neck hung a dog tag that read, “Our heart is captive in Gaza. A broken heart can still be whole.”
Seventeen-year-old Ofir Angerst, whose older brother Matan is still captive in Gaza, stood at the Seder holding a white kippah. Ofir, who is set to enlist in the military next year, has spent the past year and a half, he has spoken wherever and with whomever he needed to—media, the Knesset, Hostages Square—in the effort to bring his brother home.
People approached Ofir to say they came so the families wouldn’t be alone. He responded to every single one.
“It’s not taken for granted that people would leave their family Seders during the most family-centered holiday to be here with us,” he said. “It’s moving, and we are so grateful.”
Ofir recalled that when former hostage Liri Albag spoke last week in the square, she said captivity during Passover was even worse than usual. “She said they made her work during the holiday of freedom. It’s hard to celebrate freedom when there’s no real freedom,” he said.
Rabbi Natalie from Kfar Vradim stood on a chair, gathering those who had just arrived and others who had finished their meals. She led a Seder on behalf of the Conservative Movement. Someone passed around grape juice in disposable cups. Some snapped photos, others opened their Haggadahs. Mats were laid out, bottles of wine opened. Anyone without a seat was invited to join. Food passed hand to hand. “Let all who are hungry come and eat,” Rabbi Natalie recited with the crowd.
Though some tables had bits of chametz (leavened food), matzah, kippot, and seder plates dominated. Beside the Zabloni family’s big soup pot, someone placed a the traditional shmura matzah eaten by Chabad. A deeply religious family at the edge of the square hugged Anat, Matan’s mother.
Time—what separates matzah from bread—was slipping away. It was time to retell the Exodus.
Revital, Tzvia, and Itzik arrived early from the far north, bringing chairs bought at a gas station along with trays of matbucha, meatballs, carrot salad, potatoes, eggplant salad, and goulash.
“There are still 59 hostages. Coming here isn’t a big gesture—it’s what the moment demands. We felt we had no other choice,” they said.
Tzvia’s husband died a year ago while they were evacuated from northern Israel’s Kibbutz Eilon. She sat shiva in a hotel, then returned to a home with no bomb shelter.
“During sirens, I stood in the safest spot I could find,” she said with a smile. “I got many invites to Seder, but I couldn’t be anywhere else.”
“We’re a nation that can’t breathe—so I prefer to not breathe here,” said Revital, who refused to evacuate from the northern town of Shlomi during the war so she could keep working at a factory engraving gravestones for fallen soldiers. “Reading the Haggadah tonight—it’s the irony of fate. The complete opposite of what’s happening in this country. We are also victims—living victims.”
As those who had gathered began to eat the festival feed, an uncomfortable feeling hang in the air.
“The fact we’re even holding a Seder while those poor souls don’t get to eat—it’s stuck in our throats,” said Merav Shamai, who came with her family from central Israel and Haifa to celebrate in the square.
They joined three tables together, laid a white cloth, placed a seder plate, food, drinks, and opened a Haggadah. “We brought our home here,” said Shamai proudly.
At the head of their table stood a photo of abducted soldier Edan Alexander. Just 30 minutes earlier, Hamas had released another video of him—a sign of life.
“We’re not connected to him personally,” said Shamai. “We just needed someone to fill that chair.”
Ari and Esther Klein from Tel Aviv filled the other empty seats. “Even the most detailed potluck plan couldn’t have created such a perfect mix of food,” said Klein. They hadn’t known each other before. They were all just searching—for a place, for human connection. And so, the table grew longer.
“This strengthens the finest threads of the heart,” Esther said. “You lose hope, and then you come here—and you’re filled with it again. You’re not alone in the pain.”
More families, couples, and friends filled the square. “Mutual responsibility is the least we can do—to show they’re not alone. This isn’t a protest or demonstration—it’s presence. To show their sorrow is shared,” the Senior-Cohen family said.
The Reshef family from Kiryat Ono spread a mat and set out food. “There’s a disconnect between the holiday of freedom and 59 people still held captive. We as a nation didn’t do enough to bring them back. This felt like the right place to be—so the families know we’ll always be with them,” said Or, who came with Liat and their daughters Adva, Noam, and Stav.
“Last week, returned survivors stood on this stage,” Reshef said. “It was moving—gives you hope that others might return. Maybe the flap of a butterfly’s wings will shift something.”
Eventually the moon rose, full and bright, and the square began to empty. Chairs were stacked. Tables folded. Empty pots packed away.
Some hostage families marked the holiday, others didn’t. Some followed tradition; others relied on sheer emotional strength.
The people of Israel—whether in the square or at home—prayed, quietly or loudly, and sent their strength to families whose suffering is beyond words: May we soon lead the redeemed in joy to Zion. Next year in a rebuilt Jerusalem.
