From the shadows: Freed hostage Karina Ariev pens moving letter to mother of murdered hostage

In the dim descent of a tunnel on October 9, 2023, amid the terror of captivity, Karina Ariev first glimpsed Yotam Haim—a figure of quiet strength whose presence would linger with her long after their paths diverged. From her hospital bed, the young lookout survivor poured her heart into a letter to Iris Haim, Yotam’s mother, recounting the moments when her son, later killed by accidental IDF fire, became a beacon of solace in a place stripped of hope. That letter, a fragile thread of memory, reached Iris last Thursday as she stood thousands of kilometers away in Paris, stirring a flood of tears that blurred the lines between grief and gratitude.

“Without knowing me, he approached, squeezed my hand,” Karina wrote, her words painting a vivid portrait of Yotam—red hair tied back in a ponytail, a smile that defied their circumstances, eyes brimming with peace, love, and care. “From that first moment, Yotam glowed with reassurance; his touch, his hug, his words let me breathe easier, convincing me that as long as he was beside me, the fear could subside.” His voice, steady and sure, echoed in her mind even now: “Don’t be afraid, everything will be fine.”

Their time together was fleeting. Separated after that initial encounter, they crossed paths again a month and a half later for a few precious minutes. Yotam remained a pillar—optimistic, attentive, his smile an unbroken promise of hope. “He cared for us, asked about our stories, listened, and held space for me,” Karina recalled. Even in captivity’s depths, he found joy, tapping out rhythms on pots with drumsticks, a fleeting melody amid the silence.

For Iris Haim, the letter was more than words—it was breath itself. “Karina sent this to us while still in the hospital,” she wrote in a Facebook post, her voice trembling through the text. “Hearing about Yotam gave me air to breathe. He was strong in captivity—not just looking out for himself but uplifting everyone around him.” Yotam, who wrestled with inner struggles, emerged as a towering figure, his smile a lifeline for those younger than him, a quiet heroism snuffed out too soon alongside Alon Shamriz and Samer al-Talalka, z"l. “I miss that smile so much,” Iris confessed. “Sadly, for all of us, it lives on only in memory and photos.”

Yet in that loss, Iris found a mission. “Karina is part of our family now,” she wrote, her words a tender embrace across the miles. “Thank you, Karina, for remembering Yotam and what he gave. It means so much to him, and thank you, Yotam, for every moment you were with us.” She spoke of others who knew Yotam, whose stories of his beauty—inside and out—would weave a tapestry of an angel who guarded them still.

At the letter’s close, Iris turned to the future, to a project born of Yotam’s spirit: “The Yotam House—a place for people with life’s challenges, yet powerful like him, to find their strength through music, through the inspiration of his path. It’s our solace.” No more hugs, no shared burgers or laughter over his quirks, no new songs or concerts. But in helping others, Iris vowed, “We’ll meet our Yotam again.”

Ynet contributed to this article.