Jewish and Arab strangers united to save two girls amid Hamas 10/7 attack (2025)

On October 7, 2023, the southern Israeli border was overrun by approximately 3,000 Hamas members who indiscriminately killed and took hostages—men, women and children; from babies to the elderly; Jews, Israeli-Arabs, Bedouins and foreign workers alike. By the end of their rampage, more than 1,200 Israelis had been killed and 254 abducted into Gaza. Award-winning Haaretz reporter Lee Yaron delved into the stories of those in Israel affected by the attack in her new book, 10/7: 100 Human Stories (St. Martin's Press, September 24). In a compelling tale of intertwined lives, Yaron shares first-person accounts of those who were left to tell the stories. In this excerpt, Yaron tells the extraordinary story of two young sisters thrust into the care of strangers in Sderot, as terror engulfed the town.

Eleven people gathered in the three-by-three-square-meter room of 2-month-old baby Yishai Azougi on Ehvat Israel Street in Sderot that Saturday. His father, Yanon, age 23; his mother, Hillel, 22; Yanon's parents, Eliyahu and Dalia; Aunt Moriah (who was three months pregnant); her husband, Haim; Uncle Yadida; Aunt Tahila; Aunt Amunah; and Aunt Shira.

Also present were 3-year-old Lia Suissa and 6-year-old Romi Suissa. The members of the Azougi family knew almost nothing about the two young Suissa daughters. They did not know where the girls lived or who their parents were, or even how they came to be left next to the police station, covered in blood.

The girls were quiet—the family was afraid to ask.

At half past six that morning, Yanon had made the three-block walk to synagogue, as usual for him on a Sabbath morning. But he'd returned home shortly afterward, with two little girls in tow.

Home was a modest third-floor apartment of an older building, redolent with the smells of holiday cooking from the night before.

"Happy holidays to sweet Romi and Lia, who are celebrating Simchat Torah with us," Yanon called out as he opened the door, trying to explain the unusual situation through the intonation of his voice. The girls timidly entered the apartment's narrow, white-walled vestibule, Lia's mouth hanging open. Romi was crying, her feet covered in broken glass.

Yanon couldn't even explain to his family who was the stranger driving a black car who stopped just next to him, shouted "I am a Jew," shoved the two girls into his hands, and gave a terse order: "Run!"

Run he did, holding the girls in his shaking arms, barely registering the absurdity of the situation: he still did not know how to comfort his own newborn, let alone the children of strangers. Almost by instinct, he brought them home: two girls with wavy dark hair and the family's signature bushy eyebrows and dark eyes.

Yanon's mother, Dalia, a nurse, immediately took the girls to the bathroom to check the source of the blood. Hillel, his wife, joined her, each of them bathing a child. Yanon could hear them singing to the girls from the shower. Romi and Lia were unharmed; the blood they'd been covered in wasn't theirs. Yanon's sisters braided the girls' hair and dressed them in clean clothes, much too big for them.

Just a few weeks before the two Suissa girls were shoved into his arms, Yanon had converted the house's only shelter—its only missile-proof space—into the baby's room. He and Hillel had painted the walls green and white, assembled a wooden crib for Yishai, their firstborn, and installed a small bamboo chest of drawers for diapers and wipes. They'd also placed in the room all the gifts they'd received at Yishai's brit milah, his circumcision celebration. Now, Hillel unwrapped the gifts and gave the toys to the Suissa sisters, hoping to distract them.

In the Eyes of a 6-Year-Old

Around noon, Dalia, Yanon's mother, decided it was time. She took Romi to the bedroom and asked her, "Tell me, my girl, what happened to you?"

The 6-year-old told her everything she could remember, or understand, from what happened to her that morning: a broken monologue, punctuated by shy pauses.

"I woke up early because there were alarms, and Mom and Dad said we were going to drive to the north so that missiles wouldn't hit us. They said my dog Simba could come too. I was happy and sang songs. Then there was a loud explosion in the car. Mom and Dad shouted that we had to get out quickly. Simba disappeared, and Mom told me not to worry about Simba but to run with her. We hid in a bush."

"What happened to your father?"

"Dad took Lia, and they ran in another direction. Lia went back to the car without Dad; she said he was dirty and that he told her to go back to Mom. There was another explosion, and I tried to wake Mom up. I hid my baby sister and covered us with a sheet. When the 'boom boom' stopped, I shouted 'help' in my loudest voice, then one man took us out of the car and gave us to Yanon."

"What are your parents' names?"

"Dolev and Odia Suissa."

Meanwhile, Yanon had called the police to tell them that he'd found two girls; the parents were missing, perhaps injured or dead. The police said they were sorry, but they couldn't help at the moment; terrorists were still shooting in the streets. Yanon then called child welfare services, but they also apologized: they already had too many cases. Yanon contacted the medical rescue services—hoping they'd heard about Dolev or Odia Suissa—but it was too soon for them to check; they were still actively trying to rescue people. Months later, in May, Yanon's 21-year-old brother Yadida, would be killed fighting in Gaza.

Where Is Amar?

Twenty-five minutes from Sderot, in the settlement of Abu Talul in the northern Negev, Amar Abu Sabila's wife, Rada, was searching for her husband. He hadn't returned home since the night before, when he'd gone to substitute for his eldest brother, working the night shift as a security guard at a construction site in Sderot. She'd repeatedly tried calling and texting, but there was no response. Their sons, Salama and Faiz, were about the same age as Odia and Dolev's daughters—2 and 4 years old. Amar and Rada had met five years earlier when Amar worked for Rada's father; she was 19 years old, and he was 20. Now, Rada was pregnant with their third child while Amar was working extra shifts as a security guard, trying to earn enough money to support the newborn.

Amar's mother, Naama, and father, Auda, were parents to 11 children, whose ages ranged from 4 to 26. Amar was their second child. He lived with Rada and their children just one hut away from his parents in their Bedouin village. His 10 siblings also resided within the same ramshackle compound. When the rockets began falling, Amar called Auda and said he was on his way home. While he spoke with his father, a woman started screaming, "Help! Can someone help me?" Amar said he needed to go and hung up.

Every quarter of an hour after that, Auda tried to call his son again. He was hoping Amar had taken shelter or left his phone in the car. By one o'clock in the afternoon, Amar's phone wasn't even ringing: the calls went straight to voicemail.

It was the following evening when Auda's phone finally rang, displaying Amar's number on the screen.

"Hello? Amar, my love? Are you okay?"

"Who is this?" an unfamiliar voice answered.

"I'm Amar's father."

"This is the mayor of Sderot. Could you provide details about the phone's owner?"

"The owner of the phone? This is my son, Amar, an Israeli Bedouin."

"What was he doing in Sderot?"

"He has been working in the city with the rest of the family for years."

"When did you last speak with him?"

"Yesterday morning. He was on his way home when he stopped to help a woman. Since then, I haven't heard from him. Where is Amar? How did you find this phone?"

"We found it in a car that isn't his. Can you describe Amar?"

"He's young, strong, with beautiful brown eyes. He was wearing jeans, a black shirt. Is Amar okay?"

"Someone will call you soon, sir."

Shortly after, a policeman called Auda.

"Please tell me what happened. Tell me the truth. We're going crazy with worry."

"Your son was hit by a gunshot from a Hamas terrorist."

"Where is he? Which hospital? Where did you take him?"

"I'm so sorry, sir. Your son has passed away."

That same evening, Rada, Amar's wife, also received the news via a call from a stranger. A policeman answered her call to Amar's phone and said, "The owner of this phone was murdered but saved the lives of two girls," hanging up without giving any further details.

Answers at an Intersection

Two weeks later, security camera footage provided answers to the three families: a document of the brief moments when the lives of Dolev, Odia, Romi, Lia, Amar and Yanon intersected.

Odia and Dolev stopped their car in the middle of the road and got out; Odia, in pajamas, was carrying Romi by the hand and running toward the bushes, while Dolev, dressed in red shorts, carried Lia and ran in the opposite direction, toward the square. Another van with another squad of terrorists appeared in the square. Dolev managed to run with Lia for about six seconds before they shot him. The terrorists continued driving, while Dolev lay on the pavement bleeding, Lia in his arms. Dolev yelled at Lia to leave him and go back to her mother. The 3-year-old girl, barefoot in a white dress, stayed with her father for another 25 seconds until she followed his instructions.

An ambulance and a private car passed the wounded man on the sidewalk without stopping.

Lia took a few steps forward, then returned to her father. Dolev lifted himself up to Lia and begged her to find her mother. Lia slowly returned to the family car, repeatedly looking back.

After a long minute, a police car entered the square and the officer noticed Dolev. Inside the vehicle was Golima Samzeo, a 48-year-old policeman whose parents had immigrated to Israel from Ethiopia and who volunteered with Holocaust survivors in his time off. Samzeo assured Dolev that he was in good hands.

Two seconds later, Odia emerged from the bushes with Romi and returned to the car, where Lia was waiting. She stepped back to check on Dolev, who gestured for her to stay away, save the girls and keep on driving. Just then, another vehicle pulled up near Dolev. It belonged to Ofek Shetrit, a 26-year-old resident of the city. Officer Samzeo asked him to take Dolev to the nearest first aid station. Dolev managed to stand and get into Ofek's car.

"Terrorists shot me. I have two daughters. There are terrorists in a white van. I have two daughters. I don't want to die. Take care of my girls," Dolev repeated over and over as Ofek drove him to get medical treatment.

"Are you sure? Maybe you were hit by shrapnel from a missile?" Ofek, certain that Dolev was disoriented from the pain of his injury, questioned him doubtfully, still unaware that these same Hamas terrorists had also claimed his mother Naomi's life during her morning jog.

"There are terrorists, driving white vans," Dolev reiterated.

"Open up, I have an injured person here,"Ofek shouted upon arriving at the first aid station. The medics had begun to treat Dolev when Ofek heard gunshots coming toward them and realized that his passenger might not have been mistaken.

After Ofek had sped off with Dolev, Amar's car arrived at the square. Officer Samzeo hailed Amar's car, told him that Odia was unable to drive, and asked Amar to help her to safety. Amar agreed and decided to leave his car and drive Odia's. Lia and Romi were seated in the back of the car. Amar drove, and Officer Samzeo drove ahead of them.

They approached the police station just as Hamas terrorists were laying siege to it. A group of terrorists turned and shot at them, hitting Officer Samzeo in his car and Odia and Amar in theirs. All three were killed.

Romi and Lia, in the back seat of Odia and Amar's car, were left unharmed, though covered in blood. Romi unfastened Lia from the car seat, got down with her on the floor of the car and covered them both with a white sheet. In a brief moment when the gunfire subsided, Romi shouted from the back seat, "Help us."

Meir Yair Avinoam, a corrections officer and a member of the Sderot emergency department, who was part of the combined force of police officers and civilians who'd arrived at the police station to retake it from the terrorists, heard the shouting and, dodging occasional crossfire, approached the car.

When he opened the door, Romi whispered, "No, please no."

"I'm not shooting, not shooting," Meir assured her gently.

"Are you the police?" Romi asked.

Gunshots echoed in the background.

"There are fatalities here," Meir said into his radio, looking at Odia and Amar in the front of the car.

"Are you from Israel?" asked Romi.

"Yes, sweetie, yes."

"Take us!"

"We will take you." He opened the door.

Roni was crouched in the back, clutching her sister.

"I'm here with a baby girl."

"Okay, I'm with you. Jump on me and we'll run."

"I don't want my sister to die."

A moment later, Meir gave the girls to Yanon.

Adapted from 10/7: 100 Human Stories Copyright © 2024 Lee Yaron. Published by St. Martin's Press.

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