By Yael Davidowitz, JNS
Burial is the final act of care we can offer another human being, and it is one we are obligated to provide.
The body of Ran Gvili, the last fallen hostage held in the Gaza Strip, was returned to Israel on Jan. 26 for burial.
He was murdered when Hamas and Palestinian terrorists invaded the southern border with Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, and proceeded to slaughter 1,200 people, kidnap 251 others and drag them into Gaza.
Gvili was killed that day and his body taken into captivity by Hamas. For more than two years, his family waited—not for hope of life, but for the ability to lay him to rest with dignity. Only with the return of this single individual could negotiations unfolding on the world stage move forward. That fact alone speaks volumes.
In Judaism, burial is not a detail. It is not a formality. It is a moral imperative.
The Torah states explicitly, “You shall surely bury him on that day” (Deuteronomy 21:23). Jewish tradition understands this not merely as a commandment but as a statement about how we view the human being. The body is sacred not because of what it did, how observant the person was or how an individual lived, but simply because it once housed a human soul. That value was on full display this week.
Throughout the past two-plus years, Israel has consistently counted the hostages not only among the living, but also among those who were murdered. Even in death, they were not erased. They were not forgotten. They were still “ours.”
This distinction matters deeply. Gvili’s return made that value visible to the world—and deeply personal for me.
I spend much of my waking hours educating Jews of all backgrounds about the importance of Jewish burial. I speak to families in moments of grief and confusion, often when no one has ever explained why burial matters so much in Jewish law and thought.
Judaism insists that the body be returned gently to the earth—not because of sentimentality, but because dignity does not end at death. Fire, destruction or abandonment of the body is seen as a violation of that dignity. Burial is the final act of care we can offer another human being, and it is one we are obligated to provide.
This commitment is not new.
For decades, the State of Israel has gone to extraordinary lengths to recover the remains of its fallen so they can be buried properly. Zachary Baumel was returned for burial more than three decades after he was killed in battle and held by Syria. The remains of Eli Cohen, executed in Damascus in 1965, were pursued for decades as part of that same commitment. Ron Arad, missing since 1986; Guy Hever, missing since 1997; and Yehuda Katz, missing since 1982—names etched into Israeli memory—represent the same unwavering promise: Jews do not abandon their dead.
Gvili now joins that painful list, but also that sacred tradition.
He was on leave on Oct. 7, awaiting surgery. Despite this, he rushed to defend his people. He was one of the first to go and the last to return.
Today, his family can finally sit shiva. A grave can be marked. A body can rest. That may sound basic, but in Judaism, it is profoundly important.
At a time when human life is so often reduced to numbers, strategy or leverage, today reminded us of a deeper truth: A human being is not finished when life ends. Responsibility does not end with death.
Bringing Ran Gvili home was not only a political or military act. It was a moral one. It affirmed a value Judaism has carried for millennia—that the sanctity of a human being does not expire with their last breath.
And that is something worth remembering long after today’s news cycle moves on.
