The Unbreakable Pintele Yid

What the October 7 Hostages Teach Us on Purim

It is Purim, and I am thinking about Esther.

I am thinking about what it must have been like for her to hide, to conceal who she was in the Persian palace, never knowing if or when she would be forced to reveal the truth. I am thinking about the moment she stood before King Ahasuerus, when she could hide no longer, and she declared: I am a Jew.

But more than anything, I am thinking about the hostages who lived their own Purim story this year. The ones who were dragged into Gaza, stripped of their freedom, humiliated, beaten, and starved. The ones who had every reason to let their Jewishness fade away in captivity but refused to let it go.

Because Purim is not just about hiding. It is about survival. It is about resilience. And it is about the moment when, despite everything, we stand up and say: I am a Jew.

The Jews Who Kept Judaism Alive in the Depths of Gaza

The Pintele Yid—a Yiddish phrase meaning "the Jewish spark," the idea that every Jew has an essential, indestructible core of Jewishness—was alive in Gaza’s tunnels. It was there in Daniella Gilboa, who was forbidden from speaking Hebrew by her Hamas captors. But she and her fellow prisoners refused to let their Jewishness be erased. So they learned to sing Shalom Aleichem (a traditional Friday night song welcoming the angels of peace at the start of Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath) in Arabic, the only language their captors allowed. Even in the heart of darkness, they refused to let Shabbat slip away.

It was there in Omer Shem Tov, held alone for 450 days, with no one to pray with, no one to remind him of home. Yet he counted the days. He rationed pieces of pita so that every Friday night, in complete isolation, he could say hamotzi (the blessing over bread) and keep the holiness of Shabbat alive.

It was there in Agam Berger, who—despite being locked away in Gaza—marked Hanukkah by lighting a single candle. She had no menorah (the nine-branched candelabrum used during Hanukkah), no community, no family to celebrate with. But she lit what she could, and in doing so, she declared: I am still here.

Berger’s story, however, goes even deeper. Her captors discovered a siddur (Jewish prayer book) among the possessions left behind by Israeli soldiers. Surprisingly, instead of destroying it, they handed it to her, asking about its purpose. They might have seen it as a relic, but for her, it became a lifeline. She clung to it, using it to maintain her faith despite the horrors she endured.

With what little access she had to information, Berger and her fellow captives tracked the Hebrew calendar, piecing together radio broadcasts and snippets of television news to recognize Jewish holidays. During Pesach (Passover), she refused to eat chametz (leavened bread forbidden during the holiday), instead choosing cornmeal provided by her captors. She observed fasts on Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement, the holiest day in Judaism) and Tisha B’Av (a day of mourning commemorating the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem). She resisted in the only way she could—by holding onto her identity when everything around her was designed to take it away.

It was there in Alexander “Sasha” Troufanov, who—after nearly 500 days in captivity—was freed and immediately felt the need to reconnect with his Judaism. With the help of a rabbi, he put on tefillin (black leather boxes containing parchment scrolls inscribed with Torah verses, traditionally worn during morning prayers) for the first time in his life, wrapping himself in the words of Torah as if to say: You tried to take everything from me, but I am still a Jew.

And it was there in Noa Argamani, who was dragged away on the back of a motorcycle, her fear broadcast to the world. She was cut off from her family, her people, her life. But the moment she was free, she did not shrink away. She stood up and said: Bring them home.

Hiding for Survival vs. Hiding for Comfort

These hostages had to conceal their Jewishness in order to survive. They had no choice. But even in hiding, they found ways to hold onto their Judaism in the smallest, most fragile ways. They fought for it.

We, on the other hand, do have a choice. And far too often, we choose to hide—not out of necessity, but out of convenience.

We live in a world where it has become easier to mute Jewishness. We remove “Jewish” from our bios. We hesitate before speaking out about antisemitism. We replace “Hamas” with vague terms like “the conflict.” We tell ourselves we’re just being strategic, but deep down, we know the truth.

When did we decide that being Jewish was something to downplay?

Too many of us hesitate to wear a magen david (Star of David) on the subway. Too many of us avoid speaking about our love for Israel in public. Too many of us worry that being too openly Jewish might cost us friends, jobs, or opportunities.

But here’s the thing: If Jews could hold onto their Judaism in captivity, we can hold onto ours in freedom.

If Daniella could sing Shalom Aleichem in Arabic just to keep the song alive, then we should be singing it louder than ever.

If Omer could keep Shabbat alone in a dark tunnel, then we should be lighting candles in our homes and inviting others to do the same.

If Agam could light a single Hanukkah candle in Gaza, then we should be placing our menorahs proudly in the windows.

If Sasha could put on tefillin for the first time after being freed, then maybe it’s time for some of us to embrace traditions we’ve let slip away.

If Noa could come back from hell and immediately fight for those still trapped, then surely we can stand up for our people, no matter the cost.

Learning From the Hostages’ Strength

This Purim, we must ask ourselves: Are we hiding because we must, or because it is easier?

Esther hid because she had to. The hostages hid because they had to. But when the moment came, they stood up and said: I am a Jew.

This is our moment, too.

Because here’s the thing about the Pintele Yid: You can try to suppress it, you can try to hide it, but it never really goes away. It is always there, waiting to burn bright again.

The hostages showed us what it looks like to hold onto that spark when everything is taken away. The least we can do is make sure we never let it fade by choice.

This Purim, let’s honor them—not just by telling their stories, but by living Jewishly, proudly, and fearlessly.

Let’s put our magen davids back on.

Let’s say Am Yisrael Chai (the Nation of Israel lives) out loud.

Let’s fill our homes with the sound of Jewish songs and our tables with Jewish traditions.

Let’s make sure the world sees us—not just as individuals, but as part of something eternal.

Because the moment has come to stand up and say:

I am a Jew.