OPINION:
My brother Ran wasn’t supposed to be at the Nova music festival on Oct. 7, 2023. He was at our parents’ home, waiting for shoulder surgery. When the horrific attacks began down south, nothing could have stopped him from going. As a master sergeant in the police counterterrorism unit, he put on his uniform and headed out without hesitation, without thinking of himself. Maybe that’s because he did think about who he was at his core: a man of courage and principle who couldn’t stay on the sidelines while others faced danger. He went to protect and to save lives, fully aware of the risk.
That morning, Ran got into a vehicle with his friend Lt. Col. Guy Madar. Together, they pulled 50 people to safety from the Nova music festival while trying to reach Ran’s fellow officers, who were under attack in Kibbutz Alumim. They came under heavy fire and had to abandon their vehicle and separate. Our eldest brother, Omri, managed to reach Ran by phone during those terrifying moments. Even under fire, Ran answered to reassure us and promised he would make it back.
He kept fighting. Ran linked up with Kibbutz Alumim’s emergency response team and, alongside those brave defenders, helped save the kibbutz from massacre. That day, people started calling him Ran, the Shield of Alumim. Three months later, we were told he was killed that day and that his body was taken to the Gaza Strip. That’s where he remains, more than 770 days later.
Ran took enormous pride in his police uniform and what it represents, but he is so much more than his badge. To me, Ran means weekend motorcycle rides through the countryside and late nights at parties. The inside jokes that only siblings share. My nickname for him is “genetic defect,” and he calls me “Lucifer.” These are small things — silly things, even — but they’re ours. They’re the ordinary life I ache for. The teasing, the laughter, the bond that runs deeper than words.
I carry him with me everywhere. I find myself slipping between memory and reality, between the brother I knew and the brother I’m still fighting for. Every day is a pendulum swing between hope and despair, between crushing grief and fierce determination to keep going. For myself, for Mom and Dad, for Omri and for Ran.
The miracle we’re waiting for is a phone call telling us he has been found, that we can finally bring him home.
How did this become my life? How did I reach a point where I envy families who at least have a grave to visit, a place to say goodbye?
The truth is, I’m terrified of how this ends. Yet for our family and two other families still in this limbo, even the worst closure would mean finally turning the page. We can’t stay like this forever.
I’m deeply grateful to President Trump for the agreement that brought nearly all the hostages home, those who survived and those who didn’t. His efforts gave dozens of families what they desperately wished for, but Ran is one of only two hostages whose remains are still held in Gaza, and the only Israeli. The world can’t forget about them.
To us, to his fellow officers, to everyone who believes in bringing our people home, Ran is not just a name or a number. He is a person who ran toward danger to save others and deserves to be brought back with the honor and dignity he earned.
Ran is part of a brotherhood of heroes: the police officers, soldiers and emergency responders who risk everything to protect others. To them, he is a fellow warrior. To Israel, he is a protector. But to us, he is our son, our brother. We won’t stop fighting until Ran comes home.
• Shira Gvili is the sister of Israel Police Master Sgt. Ran Gvili, the last remaining slain Israeli hostage in Gaza.
Correction: A previous version of this column referred to Master Sgt. Gvili by the incorrect first name in one instance.
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