Hadassah Lazar and Moshit Mantzur
Sister (Hadassah) and daughter (Moshit) of Shlomo Mantzur – Eldest Israeli hostage, ‘Farhud’ pogroms survivor
Hostages square, Tel Aviv
“Shlomo was born in 1938 in Baghdad, Iraq, the eldest child in a warm and loving family. From a young age, he was intelligent, mischievous, and full of curiosity.
At just three years old, he survived the ‘Farhud’ – a brutal pogrom against Baghdad’s Jewish community that took place during the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, from June 1 to June 2, 1941. Around 180 Jews were murdered in the violence. Tragically, 84 years later, in a chilling twist of fate, he endured another pogrom – this time in Israel, on October 7th.
In 1951, at the age of 13, Shlomo immigrated to Israel with his family. Upon arrival, they were placed in a tent camp in Atlit, where they faced pressure to move to an immigrant absorption camp in Be’er Sheva. When his parents were told they had to relocate, they refused, as Shlomo’s father had always dreamed of settling in Jerusalem, where his extended family already lived. As punishment for their refusal, they were stripped of their right to food rations and left to fend for themselves – with four young children and another baby on the way.
In an extraordinary act of resourcefulness and maturity far beyond his years, Shlomo found a solution: he took his younger brother and together, they searched through garbage bins for discarded food ration coupons. Through his selflessness and ingenuity, he managed to keep his family from starving.
Despite these hardships, they eventually made it to Jerusalem, where they were placed in the ‘Talpiot’ transit camp, living in small, crowded tin huts.
When Shlomo was offered the opportunity to join a kibbutz through a youth movement – a decision that could ease the burden on his struggling family – he didn’t hesitate. He moved to Kibbutz Kissufim in the western Negev, becoming part of its founding generation.
Shlomo was a man with a huge heart, noble in spirit, generous beyond measure. He was the kibbutz’s legendary carpenter, the handyman who could fix anything, someone who never left a request unanswered.
Above all, he was a true family man. To stay connected with his siblings, he set a fixed weekly phone call with each of them. My designated time was Saturday morning – a cherished ritual, a moment of connection that nothing could replace. Shlomo had a unique way of touching people’s lives; he never forgot important dates and always called to wish a happy birthday or anniversary. He was, in every sense, a Mensch.
Even before we knew his fate, I imagined him in captivity, convinced he was sharing his food with others, putting their needs before his own. I was certain that if offered the chance to be released, he would have insisted that the younger hostages go first. I miss him with every breath. I miss hugging him, kissing him, our Saturday morning calls, hearing his voice, his laughter. I was the little sister, and he was the big brother who always looked out for me, despite our age gap. Our bond was special, deep – something most can only dream of.
Every year on the eve of Yom Kippur, Shlomo would call each family member to ask for forgiveness, in case he had unintentionally hurt anyone over the past year. But today, I feel like I’m the one who needs to ask his forgiveness—for not shouting loud enough, for not warning soon enough about the danger in the south. If we had fought harder, if we had insisted, like we do now in the Hostage Square protests – perhaps things would have turned out differently.
Since October 7, my world has shattered. I live on an emotional rollercoaster, my stomach in constant turmoil. The day after the massacre, we heard he had been taken hostage, and we clung to the hope that he was still alive. We believed with all our hearts that he would return. He spoke Arabic, was kind, and had a warm, winning smile – we were certain he had found a way to survive, that his captors would respect him for his age and dignity. When I was informed that he had been murdered on October 7th, I fell into an abyss. I still struggle to comprehend it. I only hope he will be returned to Israel so we can give him the burial he so rightfully deserves.
I don’t know how I managed to speak about him in the media so calmly. Perhaps it was because talking about Shlomo brought back the sense of peace, he always gave me. If he were here today, he would have told us one thing: Do not let polarization tear us apart from within. I want to believe that we can come together again, that we will find leadership that unites rather than divides, that we can build a better future. The energy we saw in Hostage Square – the people, the unity, the hope – that is the energy we need to rebuild this country.
For Shlomo.
For all those who never came back.
For those still waiting to return.
For every citizen of Israel.
*On February 27, 2025, the body of Shlomo Mantzur was returned to Israel. May his memory be a blessing.