First to race into the inferno of October 7, Ran Gvili is now the last.

By Forest Rain Marcia

“Don’t worry Ma. See, my arm is fine!”

He knew his arm wasn’t fine. She knew it too.

They both knew there was no way he was staying home. Not after the videos he had seen, not after the emergency message he received, the message all policemen in the area received, the message they thought they would never hear: a call to respond to an invasion.

It didn’t matter that he had a broken shoulder and was scheduled for surgery in a few days. He was trained to defend the innocent, and nothing would stop him.

It was October 7th, and his country needed him.

Master Sergeant Ran Gvili of the Yasam Special Patrol Unit put on his uniform, took his father’s car, and drove to the police station. He met his team, donned battle gear, gathered weapons and ammunition, and drove straight into the eye of the storm: “The Al Aqsa Flood.”

At the Saad junction, they found themselves in battle with the invaders. They helped party-goers escape the Nova massacre and reach safety. Ran was shot in the leg. He fashioned a tourniquet and battled on. At Alumim, he and other warriors managed to prevent the invaders from entering the kibbutz, saving those sheltering there — but at a terrible cost. The attackers had already slaughtered 22 workers from Thailand and Nepal and taken others hostage. Fourteen people fleeing the Nova party were murdered near the kibbutz, and five defenders of Israel were killed.

We think.

While learning through the news about friends and colleagues who had been killed, Ran’s brother, also a policeman, assumed Ran was home.  After all, Ran was injured and scheduled for surgery.

When Ran’s phone rang, the battle was raging. His brother was shocked to hear him explain where he was and to learn that he had also been shot in the hand: “Don’t tell our parents. I’m shot, but I’m fine.”

Ran sent this selfie(below) on October 7th – his last photo.

Separated from his team, with a broken shoulder and two gunshot wounds, Ran sheltered from the attackers and passed critical information to the relevant security forces, doing everything he could to bring help to the battle. When the invaders discovered his location, he fought them alone.

The bodies of fourteen terrorists were found at the point where he had been sheltering. Ran was gone.

It took more than fourteen to subdue him and take him to Gaza.

Intelligence officials discovered footage of his unconscious body being taken to Gaza. They informed the Gvili family that the injuries Ran sustained are not survivable — unless given emergency intensive care, which he did not receive. None of the liberated hostages saw him during their captivity.

No one knows for certain what happened to Ran. Until his body is returned, his family clings to the faint hope that this powerful warrior — their Rani —could somehow survive.

He was among the first to race toward the battle and is now the last who has yet to return home. His mother says Ran always made sure everyone else was ok before thinking of himself. It is like him to be last, to make sure everyone else goes first.

Hollywood has nothing on us. Our heroes are real.

I never met Ran, but I have met his mother, Talik Gvili, and seen her in action. She is a hero, a warrior of a different kind. It is no surprise that her son is a hero.

Since October 7th, Talik’s heart has ached for her Rani, but she has devoted her mind to defending our people. She has spoken in the Knesset and around the world, advocating for the release of all hostages through strength. Only victory over Hamas will protect us from future invasions. She says:

 “I am the mother of a hostage. I do not want to be the grandmother of a hostage.”

One of the most extraordinary moments I have witnessed was between Talik Gvili and Einav Zangauker, mother of Matan, who at the time was held hostage in Gaza. I was accompanying families of hostages to the Knesset, where, during committee sessions, families were given the chance to speak to parliament members and other government officials. Each family spoke in turn; all listened respectfully, no matter what was said or how long it took. Some pleaded with the government officials to save their loved ones. Others explained that they expected their loved ones to be saved in a way that didn’t endanger the future of Israel.

Einav Zangauker unleashed her fear and frustration at the committee head, haranguing him with devastating accusations:

“The blood of my son will be on your hands. They will bring him back dead, and you will manage the funeral and the shiva.”

There were some seventy people in the room. We all sat in silence. The more she spoke, the more extreme her words became, and the more everyone cringed, devastated, in their seats.

Until Talik spoke.

It was like magic. I don’t remember her exact words, but with grace and dignity, she broke the torrent of Einav’s rage, refocused her, and calmed her to the point where she got up, walked around the table, hugged Talik, and sat down next to her, holding her hand.

Allowing us all to breathe again.

Talik has rightly received awards and praise for her wise and eloquent advocacy. After one event, I approached her and told her I admired her greatly but needed to correct one huge mistake in her speech. Startled, she focused on me. I said, “You claim that you aren’t a hero, but that ignores what heroes are. They aren’t just warriors in battle; heroes are people who go above and beyond what the average person would do in the same situation.” She looked at me, unmoving. I continued, “When this happened, you could have crawled into bed, pulled the covers over your head, and refused to move. It would have been much easier.”

Her eyes softened. She sighed and nodded. “That’s true. Thank you.”

Hero. Mother of a hero. I wish I could give her a fraction of the strength she has given for all of us, for our safety, for our future. Now her Rani, one of the first to race into the inferno, is the last in Gaza.

We say that “the last one out turns off the light.” Perhaps Ran, the last one out, will be the one who turns off the darkness that has taken over Gaza.

Perhaps he won’t come home until we make sure the darkness is extinguished. There is a job that has yet to be completed. We are responsible for making sure that happens.

About the writer:

Forest Rain Marcia is an American-born Israeli who lives in northern Israel. She’s a branding expert and storyteller. Her passion is giving voice to the stories of Israel illuminating its profound events, cherished values, and exemplary role models that transcend borders, casting Israel as an eternal wellspring of inspiration and strength for a global audience.
Forest Rain made Aliyah at the age of thirteen. After her IDF service, she co-developed and co-directed a project to aid victims of terrorism and war. These activities gave her extensive first-hand experience with the emotional and psychological processes of civilians, soldiers, and their families, wounded and/or bereaved and traumatized by terrorism and war (grief, guilt, PTSD, etc). Throughout the years, she has continued to voice the stories, pain, and strength of traumatized Israelis to motivate others to provide support and counter the hate that threatens Jews in Israel, around the world, and Western civilization itself through the understanding that what begins with the Jews never ends with Jews.

Inspiration from Zion: https://inspirationfromzion.com/

While the mission of Lay of the Land (LotL) is to provide a wide and diverse perspective of affairs in Israel, the Middle East and the Jewish world, the opinions, beliefs and viewpoints expressed by its various writers are not necessarily ones of the owners and management of LOTL but of the writers themselves.  LotL endeavours to the best of its ability to credit the use of all known photographs to the photographer and/or owner of such photographs (0&EO).