This week, Sasha Troufanov and Sapir Cohen were married. The couple had only recently begun building a life together in Ramat Gan when terrorists burst into the home where they were visiting with family on Kibbutz Nir Oz on Oct. 7, 2023. Troufanov was beaten and stabbed. Cohen hid beneath a bed, wrapped in a blanket, but was discovered. They were dragged into Gaza separately.
Cohen was released after about two months, during the November 2023 ceasefire. Troufanov remained in captivity for more than 400 days. During that time, he believed he would never return home.
After his release, Troufanov told Cohen that, throughout his captivity, he prayed not for himself, but that Cohen would find another man to love. He wanted her to have a future, because he had lost hope that he would have one.
On Sunday evening, surrounded by family, friends and fellow former hostages, they were married.
“I want to thank you for coming today to share this joy with us,” the groom told the guests. “You’ve been with us every step of the way. Thank you so much. I love you.”
For the pair, and for those who love them, this must have been a deeply meaningful simcha. For those of us who do not know them, it is also a ray of light emerging from a time of worldwide Jewish anxiety and grief. To know that two people who had endured such suffering are celebrating love and committing to a life together is uplifting.
Much has been said about the fact that, for the released hostages, and anyone who has endured prolonged trauma, the end of the ordeal is rarely the conclusion of the suffering.
Jews worldwide celebrated the return of hostages, thousands embraced them on their arrival home, we felt vast relief that, for the surviving hostages, the worst was behind them. We did not, though, assume that the future would be entirely rosy. We understand trauma now in ways we did not in times of earlier Jewish catastrophes. We know that each survivor will experience varying consequences from what they experienced.
For Troufanov, there is also the knowledge that, while he survived, his father, Vitaly, was murdered on Oct. 7. His mother and grandmother survived captivity. Countless others in their circle did not.
The road ahead will not be easy. Probably not for the happy couple and not for thousands of other families who have lost loved ones and experienced a range of tragedies. But every long journey begins with a single step. This wedding was one of those steps.
Judaism has always understood that joy is not a life without suffering. Joy is an obligation despite suffering. In Deuteronomy, Moses conveys G-d’s command to the Israelites: “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore, choose life.” That injunction, u’vacharta ba’chayim, is not addressed to people whose lives are uncomplicated. It is addressed to a people whose story has already been marked by slavery, wandering and loss. Choosing life is not always easy.
Jewish tradition insists on remembering and re-experiencing. At every wedding, a glass is broken to remind us that even at the height of personal joy, the world remains imperfect. But the converse is also true. Even in the deepest darkness, we insist on making room for joy. The defiant slogan of the Nova survivors was “We will dance again.”
There are people who imagine resilience as stoicism – the refusal to cry or to be affected by pain. Jewish resilience permits grief. It sanctifies memory. It insists that mourning has its time and place. Then, slowly, even painfully, it asks us to re-enter life, to love again, to laugh, to rebuild. This response, we understand, is not because the past does not matter or that it no longer has a hold on us. It is because the present and the future matter too; that what is past and what is to come are a balance, like joy and grief.
Sasha Troufanov and Sapir Cohen may have been, to some, symbols of unimaginable suffering. This week, for one evening at least, they were not former hostages. They were simply a bride and groom. That is worth celebrating.
In Jewish tradition, we often speak of bringing light into darkness. It is an image that can become so familiar we risk overlooking its profound meaning. Light does not eliminate the darkness all at once. It pushes it back, one candle at a time – this wedding was one such candle.
May there be many more joyous occasions, as survivors, their families, their friends and everyone affected by this tragedy – and that means all of us – rededicate ourselves to building the future.