Israel-Hamas war: the story of the hostage released from Gaza, Emily Hand

I traveled to Kibbutz Hatzerim in the Negev, where the displaced community from Kibbutz Beeri will live for the next two or three years.

Rows of temporary homes stretch across the sand, a backdrop both harsh and fitting for a community forever changed. The residents of Kibbutz Be’eri, who were relocated north and towards the Dead Sea, are finally reunited in one place for the first time since the Hamas mega-atrocity of October 7. It’s a broken community, with so many lives lost, trying to find a new sense of belonging.

Thomas Hand greeted me when I arrived, but he informed me that his daughter Emily, captured by Hamas at the age of eight and released last November, would not be joining us. She was participating in her extracurricular activities for the first time since they moved, and I felt a pang of disappointment; I had hoped to photograph them together.

Thomas and Emily Hand

Thomas, who I met during our time together in Poland during the March of the Living earlier this year, asked me about my filming and interview crew. I smiled and said, “It’s just me this time.” I am here to listen and tell your story through my photographs.

We sat down to chat and I began with a simple, sincere question: “How are you?” Thomas paused to think for a moment, then said, “This is different from other interviews I’ve done. » He was very comfortable chatting with me, as we had spent time together earlier in the year during the March of the Living in Poland, where we had formed a natural rapport. I had not come to question him formally; I was there to take pictures of him and Emily.

Emily Hand. (credit: CHEN SCHIMMEL)

I reassured him: “It’s different. I want to know how you are.

“For the first time,” he declared, “I can honestly say that I am doing wonderfully. We are installed for the first time since October 7th. But it’s strange. Every time I go out and talk to my neighbors and friends, my mind races, as I try to understand who they lost, who among their loved ones was killed. It’s like I’m constantly counting and constantly remembering.

We talked for half an hour, our conversation punctuated by the soft glow of the sunset reflecting off the sand outside the window. I could see the orange hues and knew it was time to capture the moment. I photographed Thomas on the newly constructed porch, a structure the government had built for the family. Later, we moved into Emily’s room, which doubles as a safe. Thomas pointed out the door’s faulty locking mechanism, which clearly troubled him.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, half amused. “It doesn’t even lock from the inside. What good is a bulletproof door if you can’t lock it? Despite the imperfections, there was relief in his voice – grateful for safety and space, but aware of all that had been lost.

When I asked him if he had returned to Kibbutz Beeri, he sighed. “Yes, I’ve been back several times. I took Emily with me, but we did it gradually. I took her to her best friend’s house – it had been set on fire. Then I took her to Raya’s house, from where she was kidnapped, and finally to our house. Bullet holes, yes, but otherwise intact. I spent nights there alone – it’s strange. I lock my door now. I was never used to it.

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We shared laughs between the clicks of my camera, and although the conversation was brief, the weight of our words hung in the air. I excused myself to head to the bathroom before meeting the waiting taxi I had booked, disappointed that I hadn’t been able to photograph Emily.

AS I was leaving the bathroom, I heard a voice. Emily had arrived. His presence filled the room. I was immediately struck by her beauty: tall, healthy, with vibrant blue eyes and pale, smooth skin. I handed her some cookies that I had brought back from Tel Aviv, which won her over.

She agreed to be photographed and I quickly told the taxi driver to wait while we retired to her room for the photoshoot. She was dancing on the bed, doing cartwheels while Thomas sat nearby, looking at her with a peaceful expression I hadn’t seen before. His daughter – home, safe, happy, dancing like a freed bird.

A year ago, Emily was pulled into a car full of terrorists, her future uncertain, her life oscillating between freedom and captivity. Now, as I watched her cartwheel on the bed, it was like those chains had fallen off. She was still a child, sure, but there was something remarkable about her energy – wild and pure, as if the weight of those dark days had been lifted, if only for a moment.

Even though Thomas didn’t say I couldn’t interview him, I didn’t want to pursue that. My priority was to make sure they both felt comfortable, especially Emily, since she is just a child.

I stayed longer than expected. We took off our shoes and walked out onto the porch and the sandy expanse beyond. Emily danced for me again, barefoot in the sand, as I sat and captured the moment. Thomas was smoking a cigarette, quietly observing his daughter, a picture of calm and contentment.

Emily sat down next to me and I handed her the camera. Barefoot in the sand, we switched roles and she eagerly began taking photos of me as I danced, much like she had done moments earlier. Laughter filled the air as she captured each moment with effortless joy, her excitement behind the camera as natural and free as her movements in front of it.

Thomas looked with an intensity that spoke volumes. “Family, all family,” he had told me earlier when I asked him what got him through the darkest times. “It’s what gets me out of rock bottom – Emily, of course.”

As I left that day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bigger was happening here. Emily’s freedom wasn’t just hers: it was a symbol for us all, a reminder that even in the darkest times, there is always light. And although the wounds of October 7 will never fully heal, in the freedom of a child dancing in the sand, there is hope. For Emilie. For Beeri. For Israel. 