My son has been a hostage of Hamas for 623 days

OPINION:

Earlier this month, families around the world marked Father’s Day, a time to hold close the people we love most. For many, it was a day of laughter, shared meals and joy. For me, however, there was no celebration. My heart was with the child I cannot hold: my beloved son Alon, who is spending his 623rd day in Hamas captivity.

Instead of biking together, planning our next road trip or talking about the next concert we will see, Alon woke up to another day in a tunnel — chained, wounded, starving and alone. A kind 24-year-old boy, sitting in growing darkness, 49 yards underground. A gifted pianist, unable to play, only an imaginary piano on his chest, just to keep the rhythm of his heart going.

As if the silence around the hostages weren’t already unbearable, the world’s attention has shifted again. In recent days, as Iranian missiles have fallen on our cities and sirens have sent us into bomb shelters, I sit with my heart pounding, and all I can think about is Alon. What must it be like for him, buried underground, to hear those same terrifying sounds every day for 623 days? He has no siren to warn him. No shelter to run to. No air defense systems. No loving voice to whisper, “It’s going to be OK.”

Even amid the chaos are whispers of progress: reports that negotiations may finally be moving forward. For families like mine, however, hope is a dangerous thing. We have lived through so many false starts, so many nights refreshing our phones, clinging to rumors. Each headline brings a wave of anxiety: Is a deal finally happening? Will Alon be part of it? Will this be the moment or just another heartbreak? While diplomats speak in careful language and political timetables, we count every hour, every minute, every second he is still not home.

So what more can we do? That’s the question that has haunted us since Oct. 7, 2023, when Alon was kidnapped from the Nova Music Festival. He was hiding in a small shelter with other young people. Terrorists threw grenades inside and opened fire. Most around him were killed. A grenade exploded beside Alon. Shrapnel tore through his face. He was bleeding, in pain, half-blinded but alive. Then they dragged him by his beautiful golden curls, threw him onto a truck and took him into the Gaza Strip.

We later heard from Eliya, a former hostage held with him, that Alon had lost sight in one eye but sight in the other might be saved if we acted in time. We learned that he suffered a head injury and was sewn up without anesthesia by a 19-year-old using a needle and thread. That his only treatment is a few painkillers while his body remains full of shrapnel. For 623 days, we’ve lived and breathed Alon. We have begged. We have knocked on doors and cried out to leaders.

Still, there is no deal. Still, he is there. Still, the world allows this to go on. How is it possible that a young man who went dancing was shot, kidnapped and buried alive and the world says nothing? How can governments claim moral leadership and stay silent? Fifty other families are asking the same questions.

However, Alon is not just my son. He is a whole world. The kind of person who never stops smiling. Quietly magnetic. His friends call him the anchor of the group, the one who listens, supports and lifts others without needing to be the loudest. He has a deep love for music, people and cars. Since he was a child, he could identify every car by its symbol. That was our thing, father and son. A few months ago, I had to buy a car for the first time without him.

After Oct. 7, his phone was returned to us. We started sending him WhatsApp messages just to keep the thread alive. It began as something technical, but it became sacred, a way to say, ‘We’re still here. We’re still waiting.’ His friends write, too. Thousands of messages waiting just for him. We told them we wouldn’t open a single one. They’re for Alon to read when he comes home.

Later that day, his mother wrote to him: “Hey my love, today’s the day Dad bought a new car. I know you won’t believe it — I couldn’t, either. But I know you’ll come back and see it in the driveway. And that smile of yours will light up again. Dad felt it was a sign from you — like the universe sent you to be with us at that moment.”

There’s a saying in Jewish tradition: “In a place where there is no humanity, strive to be human.” Alon lives by that, even in the tunnels. One day, terrorists offered him dates. When he saw the others wouldn’t get any, he refused to eat. Even there, even then, that is who he is.

There are no words strong enough to express what it means to be the father of such a son. We believe in him, in his strength, but we are afraid. Afraid of what hunger is doing to his body. Afraid of what each day underground does to his soul. Afraid that time is running out.

So today, like every other day since he was taken, I do what I can to keep him close. Hoping, wishing that someday I’ll hold my son again and breathe.

To reach that day, I need your help. If you’re reading this as a parent or simply as someone who loves someone else, I’m asking you: Help me fight for my son. Talk about Alon. Share his name. Don’t let him vanish from memory. Maybe, with your voice beside mine, we will make that wish come true.

To the leaders who can make this happen, I say this: You have the power to bring them home. Not in a week. Not in a month. Now. President Trump, you’ve built your legacy on making deals. I’m asking you, from one father to another: Seal the deal. Bring my son home.

• Kobi Ohel is the father of Alon Ohel, who was one of the 251 people taken hostage by Hamas on Oct. 7, 2023, in Israel. Alon Ohel remains in the Gaza Strip.