Tel Aviv, Israel – October 12, 2025 – In a scene that blended raw emotion with tentative hope, tens of thousands of Israelis gathered under the Mediterranean twilight at Hostages' Square here on Saturday, their chants echoing off the city's modernist skyline as the first fragile threads of peace wove through the Gaza Strip. The air was thick with anticipation—and the scent of falafel from street vendors who had set up impromptu stalls amid the throng. Banners fluttered in the breeze, emblazoned with faded photographs of the 251 individuals abducted by Hamas militants on October 7, 2023, a date etched into the collective Israeli psyche like a scar that refuses to fade.
At the heart of the rally stood Steve Witkoff, U.S. President Donald Trump's special envoy to the Middle East, a real estate magnate turned diplomat whose gravelly New York accent cut through the murmurs like a Brooklyn taxi horn. Flanked by Trump's son-in-law Jared Kushner and daughter Ivanka Trump—both fixtures in the administration's Middle East playbook—Witkoff delivered remarks that paid homage to the unlikely architects of this ceasefire. "To the Arab leaders and partners of ours who meant so much in this negotiation—including President Erdogan from Türkiye, Sheikh Mohammed bin Abdulrahman and the Emir of Qatar, and President Sisi of Egypt—all of whom played a critical and integral role in this peace deal—I say thank you," he declared, his voice rising over the crowd's subdued applause. The words hung in the air, a rare public nod from an American envoy to Muslim-majority nations whose involvement had once seemed as improbable as snow in the Negev.
But the evening's emotional undercurrents ran deeper, revealing fissures in Israel's body politic. When Witkoff extended thanks to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and Strategic Affairs Minister Ron Dermer—key figures in the negotiations—the response was a cascade of boos, sharp and unyielding, rippling through the sea of blue-and-white flags. The crowd, estimated by organizers at over 100,000 and by police at closer to 400,000, had swelled with families of the hostages, many clutching photos of loved ones whose fates had hung in limbo for nearly two years. The jeers spoke volumes: Netanyahu, once a titan of hawkish resolve, now faced accusations from hostage families and protesters alike of prolonging the war for political survival, his coalition teetering amid corruption trials and war fatigue.
The pivot was swift and electric. As Witkoff invoked Trump—"Trump showed the world that strength and peace go hand in hand. They are not opposites—they are partners"—the boos evaporated, replaced by thunderous cheers and a rhythmic chant: "Thank you, Trump! Thank you, Trump!" Kushner followed, his measured tone underscoring the deal's mechanics: a phased exchange beginning with the release of 20 living Israeli hostages and the remains of others, in return for over 1,900 Palestinian prisoners held in Israeli facilities. Ivanka, elegant in a navy sheath that evoked quiet diplomacy, spoke of "humanity's resilience," her words a soft counterpoint to the rally's fervor. Earlier that day, representatives from hostage families had huddled with Witkoff and Kushner in a Tel Aviv hotel, poring over logistics, as reported by the Israeli daily Haaretz.
This moment of catharsis capped a whirlwind week that saw the ceasefire's first phase activate at noon on Friday (0900 GMT), following Israel's gradual withdrawal of forces to the so-called "yellow line"—a buffer zone along Gaza's northern perimeter, as delineated in Trump's 20-point September proposal. The maneuver, verified by Witkoff and U.S. Central Command chief Admiral Brad Cooper during a rare on-the-ground inspection of Gaza, triggered a 72-hour window for the initial exchanges. By Saturday evening, Hamas had begun recalling fighters from forward positions, a gesture monitored by a nascent multinational force of about 200 troops from Egypt, Qatar, Turkey, and the United Arab Emirates, overseen by U.S. military advisors. The group, dubbed the "Gaza Peace Observers" in diplomatic circles, represents a novel experiment in hybrid security, blending Arab boots on the ground with American oversight to prevent incursions.
The agreement's roots trace back to a high-stakes summit in Egypt's Sharm el-Sheikh resort town earlier this month, where envoys from Washington, Doha, Ankara, and Cairo converged with Israeli and Hamas delegations. Trump's blueprint, unveiled on September 29 alongside Netanyahu at the White House, was a blunt instrument: immediate hostage releases, phased Israeli withdrawals, and a pathway to Hamas's disarmament—coupled with a stark ultimatum to the group: accept by October 5 or face "all hell." Hamas, after internal wrangling exacerbated by communication blackouts in Gaza's battered infrastructure, signaled tentative assent on October 4, paving the way for indirect talks that stretched into the weekend.
Yet, for all the pageantry in Tel Aviv, the deal's contours remain a tapestry of compromises, laced with unresolved thorns. Israeli estimates peg the number of remaining captives at 48, including 20 believed alive—figures corroborated by intelligence shared with U.S. mediators. On the Palestinian side, more than 11,100 individuals languish in Israeli prisons, a population swollen by arrests during the war. Human rights reports from organizations like B'Tselem and Addameer document harrowing conditions: overcrowding in facilities like Ofer and Ketziot, where detainees endure beatings, sleep deprivation, and denial of medical care, leading to at least 54 deaths since October 2023. Palestinian advocates decry the exchanges as asymmetrical, noting that many prisoners face charges under military courts with conviction rates exceeding 99 percent.
The second phase, slated to unfold over the coming months, envisions a seismic reconfiguration of Gaza's governance. Hamas, whose iron grip has defined the enclave since 2007, would be sidelined in favor of a technocratic council backed by the Palestinian Authority, with security guarantees from the multinational force. Disarmament talks, to be hosted in Qatar, aim to neutralize the group's estimated 20,000 fighters and arsenal of 30,000 rockets, though Hamas leaders in interviews with Al Jazeera have framed this as a "phased transition," not outright surrender. U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, in a briefing from Foggy Bottom, emphasized that "Hamas's dissolution is non-negotiable," echoing Trump's rhetoric that branded the group's negotiators "tough and smart" during a White House presser on Friday.
Global reactions poured in like a digital tide, a mix of jubilation and skepticism. United Nations Secretary-General António Guterres hailed the truce as a "desperately needed breakthrough," pledging to ramp up humanitarian aid to Gaza, where the World Food Programme estimates a monthly need for 62,000 metric tons of supplies to stave off famine. French President Emmanuel Macron tweeted cautious optimism: "Peace is possible when strength meets dialogue." In Ramallah, Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas commended the mediators—Qatar, Egypt, and Türkiye—while expressing readiness to integrate Gaza's reconstruction under a unified Palestinian framework. Yet, voices from Palestinian Americans, as covered by The Guardian, voiced wariness: "So much remains unclear," one activist told reporters, citing ambiguities over aid corridors and settler encroachments in the West Bank.
The war's toll defies easy summation, a ledger of devastation that underscores the urgency of what comes next. Since Hamas's October 7 assault— which killed 1,200 Israelis and foreigners, mostly civilians, and triggered the abductions—Israeli operations have claimed over 67,600 Palestinian lives, the majority women and children, according to Gaza's Health Ministry and cross-verified by UN tallies. The enclave, once home to 2.3 million, lies in ruins: 80 percent of structures damaged or destroyed, hospitals like Al-Shifa reduced to skeletal husks, and farmland scorched by white phosphorus munitions, as documented by Human Rights Watch. Aid agencies report acute malnutrition affecting 15 percent of children under five, with cholera outbreaks spiking amid sewage overflows from ruptured infrastructure. In Israel, the economic scar runs deep: tourism has cratered, with Ben Gurion Airport traffic down 70 percent, and reservist call-ups draining the tech sector's lifeblood.
Witkoff's visit to Gaza earlier Saturday—his first as envoy, alongside Kushner—added a layer of symbolism. Standing amid the rubble of Beit Hanoun, he confirmed Israel's compliance with withdrawal terms, a step that Hamas praised as "responsible" in a statement from Doha. Yet, as the sun set over the Mediterranean, whispers of fragility persisted. Previous truces—in November 2023, January 2024, and January 2025—had unraveled over disputes on prisoner ratios and border crossings, each collapse reigniting cycles of rocket fire and airstrikes. Senator Lindsey Graham, a Trump ally, cautioned on X that "Hamas must completely disarm," warning that half-measures could "get us back to the old ways."
As the rally dispersed into the night, families lingered, lighting candles in a vigil that blended grief with guarded optimism. One mother, whose son remains unaccounted for, told Reuters: "This is a start, but peace isn't a handshake—it's a reckoning." In Washington, Trump touted the deal as "the art of the deal, Middle East edition," crediting his Cabinet—Rubio, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, and envoy Witkoff—for "making the impossible routine." For Gaza's beleaguered residents, emerging from bunkers to survey the wreckage, the true test lies ahead: Can this ceasefire bloom into reconstruction, or will it wither under the weight of old animosities?
The road from Sharm el-Sheikh to a lasting accord is paved with more than goodwill—it demands billions in aid (the U.S. has pledged $4 billion initially, matched by Gulf states), demilitarized zones enforced by that multinational patrol, and a political horizon for Palestinians beyond fragmented fiefdoms. As Witkoff wrapped his speech with a plea for unity—"Miracles can happen, the hostages are coming home"—the crowd's cheers drowned out the distant hum of IDF drones patrolling the border. In a region where hope is often a casualty, Saturday's gathering stood as a defiant rebuttal: Perhaps, just perhaps, the partners of strength and peace might yet prevail.
