Ilai David, brother of hostage Evyatar David, is driven by a singular purpose. “My mission is to bring my brother back. I have no other choice,” he says. When news of renewed talks with Hamas surfaced, he braced for familiar disappointment—a fleeting hope that risks shattering.
“My head told me—it won’t happen. When it does, it happens fast. The heart? The heart doesn’t think, it only hopes. And then you fall,” he explains. He likens the frustration to a chronic illness, saying, “You can’t explain it to someone who isn’t there. It’s a frustration that twists your stomach. My parents are on the edge of madness. It breaks me.”
Recent days have seen negotiations falter once again, mirroring the heartbreak of the families. Each rumored breakthrough inflates their hope, only to collapse painfully. The negotiating team returned without results, talks stagnate and time continues to wear down their spirits.
Families live by the rhythm of news reports, soaring with every hint of progress and crashing back to reality. For those with loved ones still in Gaza—hostages, wounded or no longer alive—the toll is not just emotional but physical and all-consuming.
Ilai rejects suggestions of “alternative paths” to free the hostages, insisting only a genuine deal will bring Evyatar home. “My brother is in the worst place possible. In a tunnel, without light, without a toilet. He eats next to the pit where he relieves himself.
“There’s nothing worse than that. So what more can they do to him? Every day he’s there is horrific,” he says. He views Hamas’ hardened stance as a warning. “If they backed off, it means we made a mistake. The world’s pressure, our internal disputes, all the pundits and politicians throwing out irresponsible statements—it all hurts. It harms the hostages and the chance to end the war,” he argues.
Despite the pain, Ilai refuses to break. “I want to live. I want my family to be okay. And I’ll do everything to bring Evyatar back. It’s the mission of my life. All the pain, the longing, the frustration—they become secondary,” he vows.
Barak Oz, cousin of hostage Bar Kupershtein, opposes any partial deal. “The last deal? It was awful. I didn’t want it at all. You can’t make one father happy and another sad. We saw Bar in a video, 25 kilograms (55 pounds) lighter, pale, running on fumes. Everyone needs to come back. Not half, not a third,” he insists.
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Frustrated by the delays, he questions how anyone can protect hostages in such conditions. “They’re in tunnels, no light, no food, no water. We cry after 10 minutes in a shelter and they’ve been there almost two years,” he says.
Barak supports Bar’s father, Tal, who has begun to walk again, taking his first steps to rebuild himself. “He’s working on himself so that when Bar returns, he can stand and hug him,” Barak explains. His faith endures: “Every day, I believe it will happen. Even tomorrow.”
Michel Illouz, father of hostage Guy Illouz, waited with baited breath these past weeks. “I was optimistic. I dreamed he’d be among those coming back. I prepared myself. And then—nothing,” he recalls. The collapse was devastating.
“I haven’t been in such a mental state since October 7. No desire to get up, no desire to sleep. Real depression. It’s a burden you can’t understand. Even a fighter like me, who’s been through tough things—this? This breaks you," he said.
“No outsider can grasp it, and that’s for the best,” he says. Time is a danger, he warns. “I see the signs among the families. People are breaking. One day, someone won’t hold up. It’s close,” he fears.
Michel lives in a painful duality, grieving a son he has lost yet refuses to abandon. “I want Guy. I don’t want to be in the place of those whose sons are alive—but I’d give anything to trade places with them. To have my son alive. I’m still fighting for him,” he says.
Ilai, Barak and Michel teeter on the brink of endurance, barely holding on yet pressing forward. Their struggle is not for ideology or politics but for family and life itself. There are no simple solutions but their words carry a singular truth: this cannot continue—not for them, their parents, the hostages, or the nation.