Bar Kupershtein

738 Days from Nova to Gaza to Home 

I am a survivor.

Normally, when people hear the word survivor, they think of the Holocaust. After I was released, my grandfather came to me and said, "You have lived through a second Holocaust." At first, I did not know how to respond. But after everything I experienced, I understood what he meant.

And so today, I can say: I am a survivor.

At one point, I was an innocent two-year-old boy growing up in Holon, just outside Tel Aviv. Today, I am the same person with the same soul, but with a completely different story. If you had told that little boy how dramatically his life would change in a single day, he never would have believed you.

Before October 7th, I lived a relatively ordinary life. I grew up in a unique home. My mother was religious and my father was not. My mother wanted Kiddush and Shabbat and my father wanted family outings and vacations. As a child, I tried to embrace both worlds. I would make Kiddush with my mother and then go on vacation with my father. That was my life.

I have four siblings, and my parents never forced us to choose. My mother told us, "If you want to be religious, be religious. If you want to follow your father, that is your choice." I chose my own path, taking something from each of them.

When I was sixteen years old, everything changed. My father had opened a falafel shop in Bat Yam. One Friday afternoon, while I was in school, I received a message from my mother: "Come to the hospital immediately. Your father has been in an accident." I could not understand it. My father was a volunteer with United Hatzalah and spent his life helping others and saving lives. How could this happen to him? When I arrived at the hospital, I saw my father lying in a bed, and my mother was crying and my aunt was crying. At that very moment, my grandfather arrived in an ambulance suffering from a heart attack. Everything seemed to collapse at once.

But I made a decision. I told myself, "I cannot fall apart. I have younger siblings at home. They do not know what is happening. Somebody has to stay strong." I left school and began working in my father's falafel shop. My father had spent years building that business, and now he could no longer run it and my mother was at the hospital. So I became responsible.

We lived in a rented apartment and bills had to be paid and food had to be bought. I was sixteen years old, but I felt as if I had become the head of the family overnight.

Two months later, my father suffered a stroke. Two months after that, COVID arrived and the falafel shop was forced to close. I remember asking myself, "What is happening?" But eventually I realized there were things beyond my control. So I returned to school and somehow, I finished.

After graduation, I felt torn between two responsibilities. My family needed me, but my country needed me as well. So I enlisted in the IDF and joined the Nahal Brigade. I served as both a commander and a combat medic. Because my family still depended on me financially, the army allowed me to leave on weekends so I could work. One of those jobs would place me at the center of history.

October 7th at the Nova Music Festival.

The festival was located only a few kilometers from the Gaza border. I knew that border well. I had served there. I knew the threats and I knew the terrorists. But I also believed in the strength of the Israeli army. We were in Israel and we felt safe. I had worked at countless parties and events before, but this one was different.

Everything was perfect. The atmosphere was incredible. Thousands of young people were dancing, celebrating life, and enjoying the sunrise. It was one of the best events I had ever worked. And then, at 6:30 in the morning, everything changed.

Out in the Open

As soon as we got out of the festival grounds, chaos erupted. We tried to escape, but roads were blocked from every direction. Rockets were flying overhead and gunfire echoed across the fields. People were running without knowing where to run. Every few minutes we would dive for cover. We hid behind cars, behind stages, behind anything that could possibly protect us. And then, when the shooting seemed to move away, we would get up and run again. Even today, when I describe it, it feels unreal. At the time, it felt like a movie. There were explosions, gunshots, people screaming, and wounded people everywhere. But it wasn't a movie. It was real. And we were living it.

I remember being interviewed while all of this was happening. The person on the phone asked me: "You're talking to us while you're trying to find a place to hide? You're out in the open?"

And the truth was, yes. We had nowhere safe to go. As I stood there, another memory suddenly came back to me. All my life, my mother had begged me not to work on Shabbat. Whenever my employer asked me to work on Shabbat, I refused. But this event was different. There had been problems with management. People had been fired and the organizers were short-staffed. My boss called me and said, "I need you there. I have no one else. I need you to manage the bars."

At first I hesitated. But my family was supposed to move apartments on October 10th and we desperately needed the money. This was three straight days of work. For my family, it was significant income. I remember speaking to my mother. Usually she would object immediately and tell me not to go. But this time she surprised me. She simply said, "Okay. Go." No argument. No anger. Nothing. I remember feeling uneasy. Something felt different. I kept asking myself, "Why isn't she upset? Why is she suddenly okay with this?" At the time, I didn't understand.

Later, after my release, I spoke at many events across America. At one of those events, a man approached me afterward and said, "Bar, you keep telling the story about your mother giving you permission to go. But maybe it wasn't only your mother speaking." I looked at him. And he continued. "Maybe Hashem was speaking through your mother. Because you had to be there. You were meant to be there. You helped save lives that day. If you had stayed home, those people would not have met you.

I don't know. Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn't. I cannot claim to understand Hashem's plans. But after everything I have lived through, I know one thing: sometimes only in hindsight do we begin to see that what appeared to be coincidence may have been something far greater.

And then the terrorists arrived. Everything changed at that point. The nightmare that would alter my life forever had begun.

Trapped by Terrorists

I want to take you back to that morning.

It was 6:30 a.m. and I was sitting inside the security command tent, working on my computer, handling logistics, dealing with the usual responsibilities that come with managing security for an event of that size. My phone was buzzing constantly. Message after message.

At first, I ignored it. Then I stepped outside and looked up at the sky. And immediately I understood that something was wrong. Rockets. Dozens of them. Everywhere.

In that moment I knew that the party was over. As head of security, I ran to the chief police officer on site and said, "We need to shut everything down immediately." He was overwhelmed. Nobody yet understood the scale of what was happening. I remember saying to him, "Either you close the festival or I will." Finally he agreed.

I grabbed my radio and contacted all seventy-five of my security guards. "Close the event. Open every gate. Tell everyone to leave immediately." And that's exactly what we did. Within minutes, thousands of people began rushing toward their cars.

But then something strange happened. Traffic began building everywhere and the parking lots were completely jammed. The roads were packed. It made no sense. It was 6:30 on a Saturday morning; a time when normally the roads would be empty. I got onto my ATV and drove out to see what was happening. When I reached the main road, I saw police vehicles blocking the route. The officers told us that terrorists had infiltrated near Kibbutz Be'eri.

Nobody was allowed to go left. So we redirected everyone to the right, toward Kibbutz Re'im. But fifteen minutes later, cars started coming back. There were terrorists there too. Suddenly we realized the truth.

We were trapped.

No left. No right. Thousands of civilians were stuck in the middle. I drove back to the police commander and said, "If we stay here, people are going to die." "I think there may be an emergency exit,” he said, “but I'm not sure. It's normally only used for ATVs." He hesitated. He was afraid to make the wrong decision. "I have to stay here,” he told me. “I'm the commander."

I looked at him and said, "No. You have to go. You're the only person who knows where that emergency route is. You're the only person who can lead these people out." And to his credit, he listened. He got into his vehicle and started moving. We directed every car we could toward that emergency exit.

Months later, after I was released, that same police officer came to visit me in the hospital. "Do you remember insisting that we open the emergency road?" he asked. I told him yes. And then he said something I will never forget. "That decision saved more than 2,000 people." More than 2,000 people. At the time, I had no idea. I was simply trying to do what seemed right.

But the day was far from over.

After the cars escaped, I stayed behind. The roads were filled with wounded people. People were screaming for help. Some were bleeding and some couldn't move. The ambulances couldn't reach us. One ambulance was trapped in traffic and others were nowhere to be found. And suddenly I realized something.

I was a combat medic and I had an ATV. At that moment, I was the ambulance. There was nobody else. I remember saying to myself, "If I don't do this, who will?" So I started loading wounded people onto the ATV. I drove them out of danger and brought them to safer locations. Then I turned around and went back. Again, and again, and again. More than ten times. Each trip felt like a lifetime. Gunfire echoed all around us and the terrorists were getting closer. And yet there was no time to think about fear.

Only the next person who needed help and only the next life that might still be saved.

Who Will Go?

After I evacuated the wounded again and again, there were still people trapped. Every instinct told me it was dangerous and every instinct told me to stop. But I kept thinking the same thing: these people need help. If I don't go, who will?

I knew the area was under attack and that terrorists were everywhere. But I also knew there were injured people who could not save themselves. So I kept going. My friend was with me the entire time on the ATV.

At one point I turned to him and said, "You can't come with me anymore. This isn't a game. This is too dangerous. You need to stay here." But he refused. "No," he said. "I'm coming with you." Again I told him no. Again he refused. Finally I said, "Okay. If you want to come, first go back to the tent and bring me something from the safe area." The moment he left, I drove away. I tricked him. I didn't want him following me. I didn't want him to die because of me.

As I continued forward, everything changed. Suddenly we saw the terrorists. They were right there. In that instant I understood something terrible. I could no longer save anyone. Now I had to save myself. Bullets were flying everywhere. I abandoned the ATV and threw myself to the ground. In the distance I could see a pickup truck with terrorists standing on the roof.

One of them fired an RPG toward us. I started running with everyone else. When I later looked at the photograph taken from that moment, I realized something chilling. Of all the people visible in that picture, I was the only one who survived. Everyone else was murdered. I kept running until I realized I couldn't stay on the road. The terrorists had complete control.

I needed to disappear, so I dove into bushes alongside the road. Then I began crawling. Slowly… quietly, trying not to be seen. Eventually I reached a large hill and looked ahead and saw bullets striking the ground beyond it. I understood immediately: if I crossed that hill, I would die. So I stayed where I was. I was alone, hidden, waiting, and thinking. All the time I kept asking myself, "What happened to my friend? Did I do the right thing? Did I save him? Or did the terrorists find him?" I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Around me, the battle continued. I heard gunfire, tanks and helicopters. And I told myself, "The army is fighting. I know this area. I served here. It may take time, but everything will be okay." Then, suddenly, there was silence. Complete silence. And for a brief moment I thought it was over.

And then I heard something I will never forget. "Allahu Akbar." Again. And again.

At that moment something inside me broke. I could not understand it. How had they won? How were they still here? I had always believed that, in the end, the army would arrive. In the end, Israel would prevail. But now all I heard were the voices of the terrorists. Then the shooting began again. I heard screams and gunshots and then… silence. Then more screams, more gunshots and… more silence.

Each time, the sounds were closer and closer and closer. I realized exactly what was happening. They were moving from person to person and finding people and executing them. And getting closer to me. I knew my turn was coming.

I closed my eyes and said, "Shema Yisrael." I prepared myself to die and waited for the terrorists to arrive. Eventually they did.

They found me.

What happened next is something I still struggle to explain. I expected them to kill me. But instead, they took me hostage. Maybe it was chance or maybe it was fate. Maybe it was because the last words on my lips were Shema Yisrael. I don't know. All I know is that I was alive.

And suddenly I found myself standing in the middle of a group of terrorists, beginning a journey I never imagined I would survive.

G-d Loves You

After that, Hamas used us for propaganda videos. They drove us throughout Gaza before eventually bringing us to an apartment. There they handcuffed my hands, chained my legs and covered my eyes.

And that became my life. I remember one night, sometime after midnight, one of the senior terrorists came over to me. He looked at me and asked, "Where is your G-d now?" For him, it was probably a joke. For me, it became a question. A very real question. I sat there thinking: where is my G-d? How did this happen to me?

I could not sleep that night.

Again and again, I asked myself, "Where is G-d?" But no answer came. Then I thought to myself: whenever I had questions about Judaism, Torah, or faith, who did I always ask? My mother. She was the religious one in our family. So I asked my mother in my mind, and I imagined her answer: "G-d is with you all the time. He is watching you. He wants to see what you will do in this situation."

At that moment something changed inside me. I realized that I was being tested. And I made a decision. I would not fail that test. As the weeks turned into months, we were constantly moved from one apartment to another. Every move was dangerous and every move carried uncertainty. But there was one move I will never forget.

By then it had become routine.

The terrorists would wake us up, blindfold us and we would walk through the streets of Gaza. We would then arrive at another apartment, and life would continue.

But this time felt different. I cannot explain why. I simply felt that something was wrong. Something bad was waiting for us. I was together with another hostage, Elkana.

As we walked through the streets, I prayed nonstop. Shema Yisrael. Tehillim. Every prayer I could remember. And I spoke to G-d. "Please take us somewhere safe. Please let the new terrorists treat us kindly. Please protect us."

The truth is, I did not even know what to ask for. I had no idea what was waiting for us. But I kept praying again and again. Shema Yisrael. Tehillim. Anything I remembered.

Finally we reached the street near the new apartment. We waited there for the terrorists who were supposed to take custody of us. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. An hour. Then another. Nothing. This had never happened before.

The sun was beginning to rise and everyone seemed nervous. Finally, a man appeared in the distance. At first we assumed he was one of the new terrorists.

But something felt wrong. He stopped about fifteen meters away and I watched carefully. There was no greeting, no signal, no code words. Nothing.

The terrorist guarding us suddenly stood up and walked toward him. The man immediately turned and ran away. The terrorist returned looking worried. "We have to leave," he said. “It's too dangerous." So we turned around and went back.

Later he explained to me; "The new terrorists never came. They didn't wake up." I accepted the explanation. What else could I do? A day or two later, the same terrorist came to me.

He looked at me and said something I will never forget. "You know," he said, "G-d loves you." I was surprised. "What do you mean?” “Remember the apartment you were supposed to move to?" he said. "Yes,” I said, remembering. "That exact apartment was hit by an Israeli missile."

For a moment I could not speak. That was the apartment where we were supposed to spend the night. That was the place where we were supposed to be. And it no longer existed.

In that moment I understood something. G-d had been with me all along. Not only before October 7 and not only before I was taken hostage. But there, in Gaza, in the darkness, in the fear, in the uncertainty, He had protected me, listened to me and never left me.

From that moment on, I knew something with absolute certainty. I did not know when I would go home. Maybe in a month, maybe in a year, maybe longer. But I knew I would go home.

Because I knew I was not alone.

Shabbat in the Tunnels

A few days later, on day 47, the first hostage deal took place. At that point, we were moved into the tunnels. The terrorist guarding us wanted to kill us. His sister had been killed during the war, and he wanted revenge.

I still do not know exactly what happened, but somehow the commander of the terrorist cell heard what he was planning. He intervened and said, “No, bring them to my tunnel.” That decision saved our lives.

So Elkana and I were taken underground. We remained there for a week, until day 54, when another hostage was brought in after his wife was released. From that point on, there were three of us. The tunnel was tiny and there was almost no air. The food was also minimal and the water was dirty and salty. The terrorists occasionally gave us a deck of cards.

We played cards and told stories. We lived from one conversation to the next. Most of the time we were alone, far from the terrorists. That became our life. Elkana and the others told me stories about their families, their jobs, their childhoods, and their dreams.

When they finished all their stories, they started telling them again. And then again. And again. At times it was difficult. But those stories kept us alive.

Months passed.

Then, around day 250, after Operation Arnon, three more hostages were brought into the tunnel. I remember thinking, "Yes! New stories." Their names were Maxim, Segev, and Yosef. Suddenly the days moved faster. There were more people to talk to and more memories to share and more life inside a place built for death.

Of course, there were new challenges too. The amount of food stayed exactly the same and now six people had to share what had previously been enough for only three.

The tunnel was still the same size and the air was still the same. Everything was more crowded. But somehow we became a family. Like every family, we argued. We got annoyed with each other. But we were together. And together meant everything.

I remember the first Shabbat after they arrived.

We gathered in the tunnel and we sang Shalom Aleichem. We made Kiddush over a cup of water because there was no wine. We imagined the challah, closed our eyes and pictured ourselves sitting around a Shabbat table at home.

For a few moments, the tunnel disappeared, the darkness disappeared and the terrorists disappeared. There we were, six Jews, deep underground in Gaza, making Kiddush. To me, that was victory and that was freedom. That was something no terrorist could ever take away. Even today, when I think back on everything I experienced, those moments remain among the most powerful.

Every Shabbat, every Yom Tov, every prayer, they were miracles. We had no calendar and no clock beyond the one I used to count the days. We did not know when Chanukah was. We did not know when Rosh Hashanah was. We did not know when any holiday would arrive.

Yet somehow, every time, G-d sent us a sign. One day during Chanukah we went to collect food and the terrorists had a television. On the screen we saw Prime Minister Netanyahu lighting a Chanukiah. Immediately we knew, "It is Chanukah." Again and again, before every holiday, some sign would appear. To me, those signs were not coincidences. They were reminders that we had not been forgotten.

More than a year passed.

One day the terrorists arrived with a camera and a script. They told us, "You need to make a video. You need to thank Hamas. You need to tell everyone how well we treat you." The camera could say whatever it wanted. Anyone looking at us could see the truth. We were painfully thin and exhausted and broken.

After that came the second hostage deal. And one day, Ohad Ben Ami was released. I was genuinely happy for him. For the first time, someone was leaving and someone was going home. Someone would see his family again.

And I also knew something else. I had no idea what my family knew. I did not know whether they knew I was alive. Now there would be someone who could tell them. Someone who could say, “Bar is alive. Bar is okay." I remember watching television later and seeing Ohad reunited with his wife. It was one of the happiest moments I experienced in captivity.

People ask me, "Weren't you jealous that he was released before you?" The answer is no, not for a second. I was happy for him. And I believed that my time would come too. Maybe this deal was for him. Maybe the next deal would be for me. G-d had brought me this far and I believed He would bring me home as well. Now it was Ohad’s time and I could celebrate that. We all celebrated that.

After he left, we convinced ourselves that another deal would follow and that our turn was coming. But it didn't.

And once again, we were left waiting.

The Radio

The fighting intensified again. The war returned with full force, and life in the tunnel became even more difficult. Every morning, almost every morning, I prayed. I would turn to G-d and say, "Please, give me something. Give me a sign. Give me a little hope. I'm not asking You to release me today. I'm not asking for a miracle. Just send me something small so I know You are listening."

A few weeks later, one of the terrorists came into the tunnel carrying a small transistor radio. It was supposed to be used for listening to the Quran. I remember looking at it and thinking, "What am I supposed to do with this?" I wasn't interested in learning the Quran.

So I started playing with the radio. At first, it was simply a way to pass the time. Anything was better than staring at the walls. After a few days of turning the dial back and forth, I suddenly found an Arabic radio station. I couldn't believe it. We were nearly thirty meters underground, almost one hundred feet beneath the surface. How was it possible to receive a signal? Then I thought, “If I can find Arabic stations, maybe I can find something else.” I wasn't even dreaming of finding Hebrew. Maybe English. Maybe something.

So I kept searching.

And then, one day, I found a Hebrew station. Galatz. Army Radio. From that moment, everything changed. The terrorists only allowed us to listen for about two hours each morning. Most of the time it was music.

But during those two hours there were also news broadcasts. For the first time in months, we heard voices from home. For the first time in months, we heard Israel. Every morning we waited for those two hours. Every morning we listened.

Then one day—my birthday—I heard something unexpected. One of the radio hosts wished me a happy birthday. Me. Bar Kupershtein. A hostage in Gaza.

Someone remembered. Someone knew. Someone was mentioning my name. After the program ended, everyone else was ready to stop listening. But something inside me told me, "Stay. Keep listening." I don't know why. I just felt I needed to. So I moved closer to the radio.

The signal was weak, but it was still there. A new program began. And then I heard the host say: "Today we have a very special guest. Her name is Julie Kupershtein. She is the mother of Bar Cooperstein." For a moment I froze. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My mother. My mother was speaking. Not in my imagination, not in a dream, not in a memory. My mother was speaking to the entire country.

And somehow, against all odds, her voice had found its way thirty meters underground into a Hamas tunnel in Gaza.

I had asked G-d for a sign. Just something small. Just a little hope. And now, on my birthday, I was hearing my mother's voice. In that moment, I understood. G-d had answered me. Not with freedom. Not yet. But with exactly what I needed.

Hope.

Returning Home

After I was released, my mother told me something she had never shared before. A few months after I was kidnapped, she received a phone call. The caller was a terrorist and he told her: "Your son is in my hands. And if you ever want to see him again, you need to join the protests. You need to speak against your government. You need to do what I tell you. If you don't, bad things will happen to your son."

My mother listened and then she answered: "My son is not in your hands. My son is in G-d's hands. And you know what? You are also in G-d's hands."

There was silence. Complete silence. For almost a minute. Finally, the terrorist replied: "I respect that."

And the call ended.

When my mother told me that story after my release, I understood something. The faith that carried me through captivity did not begin in the tunnels. It began at home. It began with my mother. It began with the certainty that no matter what human beings do, there is still Someone above them.

Then, after 738 days in captivity, the day finally arrived.

The terrorists brought us to the Red Cross. The Red Cross transferred us to the Israeli army, and for the first time in more than two years, I was free. We arrived at a military base near the border. They gave us showers and they gave us clean clothes. People wanted us to rest. They wanted us to recover slowly.

I remember one of the soldiers asking me: "Do you need more time? Do you want to rest? Do you need anything?" I looked at him and said, "Are you crazy? My family is outside. Bring them to me."

That was all I wanted. Nothing else mattered. Not the shower, not the food, not the clothes. Only my family. When I finally saw them, it was the moment I had imagined hundreds of times in captivity. The moment I had prayed for. The moment I had dreamed about during every Shabbat in the tunnel. I had lost almost sixty-five pounds. My body was weak, but my heart had never felt stronger.

And when I embraced my family, it felt as though the world had started moving again, as though time itself had finally resumed.

Years later, people may remember the politics. They may remember the negotiations and they may remember the headlines. But what I remember is something much simpler. I remember every prayer. Every whispered Shema Yisrael, every chapter of Tehillim and every conversation with G-d in the darkness. I remember asking for hope and not to be forgotten. And I remember discovering, again and again, that I wasn't.

After my release I returned to Nova. I stood in the place where everything had begun. The place where so many lives were taken. The place where my life changed forever. And there, surrounded by memory and pain, I was able to pray once more.

Not as a hostage. Not as a prisoner. But as a free man.

For me, that was the closing of a circle. That was victory. Not revenge. Not hatred. But love, faith and life.

The Last War

And after I came home, I wrote a song, called Ha’Milchama Ha’Achrona, The Last War:

(English Translation)

Father, listen, 

I love you, 

You probably know, 

Despite everything I've been through, 

Thank G-d I'm not going crazy, my psychologist is talking, 

And he's really trying, 

But there's no way he can really help me. 

I think I've grown up a little too much. 

In the mirror I only see half a person, 

Giving people a hug, they cry and melt, 

But with me everything is mixed up, 

The feeling is disconnected, 

And this feeling of suffocation, from the van, when I realized everything was wrong, 

And now the tears are flowing when I remember, 

They won't take my freedom, I won't break down, 

During the nights I always dreamed of my family, 

In the mornings I woke up to a cold floor again, 

And I was never angry, 

Father, father, don't forget, so now... 

I pray 

That this will be 

The last war 

That comes up, 

All of the pain will go away, Father, I’ve had enough, bring us Redemption. 

And I won't forget the good moments, 

How we talked, and you were always close, 

And how everything that I asked for, you always gave me everything 

With something sweet, or a little more to eat 

Or when I shouted at night, father, just don't leave me alone 

And some old radio that was thrown on the floor out of nowhere turned on.. 

Julie, if Bar can hear you now, do you want to tell him something?

If you can hear me, it’s Mom,

Don’t lose hope, Bar

If you hear, it's Mom 

Just don't lose hope 

My mom spoke on the air and I heard you speak to me 

My child in my heart 

Child, never ever forget that father doesn't leave 

I pray 

That this will be 

The Last War 

That comes up, 

All of the pain will go away, Father, I’ve had enough, bring us Redemption. 

Father, 

Although now the floor is no longer cold 

But I'm still here trying to understand what my purpose is 

Did you know? 

A man once told me that I have a mission in this world: 

Maybe it's to save people, 

Maybe it's to unite. 

But I have one request 

If you took my happiness, 

Bring me my redemption