Israel’s foreign home care came from different corners of the world to dedicate their time and energy to taking care of the Jewish state’s most vulnerable members. And when tragedy struck on October 7, these “strangers among us” found themselves in an impossible scenario: Whose needs do we put first in this moment?
As Gaza border communities were ravaged, brutalized in an up-close-and-personal manner, foreign home care workers became front-line defense forces. Between sirens, gunshots, and allegations that terrorists had infiltrated the communities, home care practitioners from across the world shielded those they were dedicated to serving.
On October 7, aides from Sri Lanka, the Philippines, Thailand, Ukraine, and others moved their patients into bomb shelters while still taking the time to prioritize their daily needs. They made sure their patients were fed, had diapers changed, received their medication, and even acted as human shields for them.
In Israel, the home healthcare sector has seen a remarkable increase in the reliance on foreign workers, particularly in the context of an aging population that requires additional support. These foreign workers have not only become an integral part of Israeli society but also, in many cases, like another member of the family for those they care for.
On October 7, caregivers put the person they were dedicated to caring for as their main priority. In moments of strife, they acted on their feet and still put their jobs first.
When the October 6 celebrations began, they were filled with joy, music, and a shared sense of belonging. Yet for Camille Jesalva and Monica Biboso, two home care workers living in Gaza border communities alongside the women they cared for, the next morning’s events turned into an unimaginable fight for survival. Their fight was not just for themselves but for the people they were brought to Israel to care for. Others, including Paul Vincent Castelvi, were killed while protecting those they came to serve, leaving behind loved ones at the most crucial times.
In a panel hosted by Israeli NGO Hotline for Refugees and Migrants, survivors shared their firsthand experiences, while those missing their deceased loved ones paid tribute to the crowd.
Divine intervention
Camille Jesalva, 32, was initially supposed to be flying back to visit her family in the Philippines for the first time in years, just days before October 7. It was a long-overdue break, especially as she was aching to reunite with her young son. Her long-awaited return had been delayed repeatedly by the COVID-19 pandemic, but this time, it was finally happening.
Still, Jesalva decided to stay just a little longer. She postponed her flight to celebrate the holiday of Simchat Torah with her community in Kibbutz Nirim – a choice that would ultimately save lives, including her own.
Any good feelings from the night before quickly vanished. Before 6:30 a.m., red alert sirens began to sound. At first, Jesalva thought it was routine. But when the explosions continued for over half an hour, she knew something was deeply wrong. “I heard Arabic voices outside the window. I said, ‘Oh my God, they are here.’ That’s when I knew they weren’t the military.”
Jesalva and the 95-year-old woman she cared for, Nitza Hefetz, sheltered inside their home. Despite the growing danger, Jesalva’s first thought was Hefetz’s well-being. “She is my reason for being here,” she said. “As a caregiver, we do everything for them. She was hungry, she needed her medicine. So I ran through the glass doors like I was playing with Hamas, just to help her.”
As bullets flew and Hamas terrorists stormed the kibbutz, Jesalva focused on keeping Hefetz calm. “I was scared of the fire but not yet scared of the people – I still didn’t understand.”
When the terrorists entered their home, Jesalva took a desperate risk – she approached them directly, hands raised, and offered her belongings. “I said to the Hamas, ‘Shalom adoni,’ – ‘adoni’ [‘sir’] because I wanted him to be calm – with my hands up. I begged for our lives. I told him, ‘Take everything – my wallet, my money – but not my ticket. I want to go home. My son is waiting for me.’
“I looked him in the eyes and said, ‘Please.’ I wasn’t trying to be brave. I just knew I needed to survive – for Nitza, and for my son.”
Miraculously, the terrorists left without harming them.
Though relieved, Jesalva felt a pang of guilt, unsure if her actions had put Hefetz in greater danger. “When the Hamas left, I jumped to Nitza and cried for two-and-a-half hours. That was the first time I felt so weak – like a candle falling to the ground.”
But Hefetz, whom Jesalva had protected throughout the attack, returned the favor.
“She hugged me. She calmed me. She’s my hero,” Jesalva said. “I came to take care of her, and she ended up taking care of me.”
They remained trapped for over seven hours before the military arrived.
Even then, Jesalva feared it might be another deception. Once she realized help had truly come, she and Hefetz began their escape – crawling through mud and dodging gunfire.
“We escaped under fire. I injured my foot catching Nitza so she wouldn’t fall. We fell in the mud. It was like a roller coaster,” she recalled.
Reflecting on the ordeal, Jesalva credits her survival to faith, resilience, and the unwavering sense of duty she felt as a caregiver.
“I kissed my son’s photo and said to God, ‘If it’s my time, take me.’ But somehow, I’m still here,” she said. “I came here for my son, and for Nitza. I don’t need to die – I need to live.”
Risking it all to protect her patient in Kfar Aza
Just days after her husband had flown back to the Philippines to join their two children, terror struck for Monica Biboso, a caregiver who stayed laser-focused on helping her patient in a crisis.
When explosions woke Biboso before 6:30 a.m. on October 7, she immediately sensed something was terribly wrong. The gunfire that followed wasn’t distant – it was right outside her window in Kibbutz Kfar Aza. Still, her first instinct wasn’t to flee. It was to care for Esther Rot, an 81-year-old woman with dementia whom she looked after.
Biboso, 36, a caregiver from the Philippines, had been trained to prioritize her own survival in emergencies. “They always told us, save yourself first,” she said. “But I went to Esther.”
She changed Esther’s diaper, got her out of her pajamas, administered her medication – including sleeping pills – and blended food, and moved her into the mamad, the reinforced safe room. “I thought to myself, it’s not good. But I didn’t think twice. I had to take care of her.”
As gunfire and explosions intensified, Biboso did what she could to remain composed.
“All the time, I’m holding the door,” she said. “They tried to open it again and again. I don’t know how I was that strong, but they couldn’t open it. I put all my power, all my strength.”
When the Hamas terrorists couldn’t break down the door, they deployed chemical smoke.
“It was a very bad smell – like burned rubber or plastic. I couldn’t breathe,” she said. “I told myself, ‘It’s better to die here than for them to catch me.’”
Esther was barely conscious, unable to speak more than a word or two. As smoke filled the room, Biboso stayed focused on keeping her alive. She improvised a gas mask from her T-shirt, tying it around her face. She surrounded Esther with pillows and blankets, hoping to preserve a small pocket of breathable air.
“Her whole body was red,” she said. “I even used her pants to fan away the smoke. It wasn’t enough.” At one point, she thought Esther had stopped breathing. “I shook her and said, ‘Esther, Bucha, shake.’ But she was so quiet. She didn’t move.”
Biboso, now physically weakened and soaked in sweat, began losing her grip on the door.
“I peed on myself from fear. Twice,” she recalled. “I didn’t even feel it. I thought it was my last breath already.”
Without Internet, electricity, or hope, Biboso placed her phone under Esther’s bed and waited. Friends and Esther’s family had been trying to reach her, and when connection briefly returned, she got a call from a soldier who was a friend of one of Esther’s daughters. He told her it might be safe to leave – that the IDF was close. “I trusted him,” she said.
Biboso opened the window and jumped outside, hiding under a maple tree beside the house. “I asked him where I should run – right or left – but he didn’t know. I decided to go right.”
What she saw next would haunt her. “Bodies lying on the floor. Burned cars. I couldn’t go. I dropped my phone next to a dead body. I picked it up and ran back.” Too shaken to continue, she returned to the safe room.
After more than seven hours of hiding, the IDF finally reached them.
Esther had to be rushed to the hospital due to smoke inhalation. Biboso, though conscious, was severely dehydrated and emotionally devastated.
“While we were driving, I saw bodies, burned cars, everything,” she said. “That’s why I have nightmares all the time.”
Despite everything, Biboso never left Esther’s side. “Everyone thought we were dead,” she said. “I thought no one would save us – just God. So I prayed. I prayed a lot.”
In the face of terror, Biboso held the line – both literally and emotionally – choosing courage over flight, and care over fear. “I don’t know how I did it,” she said. “But I did. For Esther.”
‘God will never leave us alone’
Filipino caregiver Paul Vincent Castelvi was killed on October 7 – his son was born weeks later.
On the night of October 6, Castelvi, 42, was full of pride. He had just assembled a crib and stroller in anticipation of his baby boy’s arrival. Smiling, he sent a selfie to his wife, Jovelle “Bell” Santiago, back in the Philippines. “He was so proud and happy that he already built it and it was ready for our son’s arrival,” she recalled.
The Kipnis family, for whom he’d worked as a caregiver and extended family member, had gifted him a ticket back to the Philippines for Christmas of that year, according to a Thai news outlet citing Paul’s father, Lourdines. Little could anyone have known, the events of the following morning would drastically change those plans.
The next morning, October 7, sirens blared across Israel as Hamas terrorists launched an unprecedented assault on Israeli communities near Gaza.
Castelvi, a caregiver working in Kibbutz Be’eri, messaged Jovelle to say he was already in the bomb shelter with the couple he worked for, Eviatar and Lilach Kipnis. Eviatar was badly injured in a bike accident nearly a decade prior and had developed an autoimmune disease, leaving him in a wheelchair.
He urged her to stay calm: “Try and relax and not to worry – God will never leave us alone.”
At 9:30 a.m., Castelvi sent what would be his final message. Hours passed with no reply to his wife’s repeated calls and texts. “I thought there was no signal in the bomb shelter,” she said. “But time passed, and it was already afternoon – and he didn’t reply.”
Castelvi, along with Eviatar and Lilach, was murdered that morning in the terror attack.
Castelvi was declared dead, and his body was recovered in the nearby Be’eri Forest. Eviatar was found dead on October 17, and Lilach was found dead on October 23.
A month later, Jovelle gave birth to their son – a child Castelvi never got to meet – bearing the name of his father in his memory.
Now a widow and single mother, Jovelle continues to speak about her husband with love and quiet strength. “I’m still hoping this is just a dream, a nightmare – that I’m living alone now, without my husband,” she said. “A widow, and left with our son – a son that Paul was never given a chance to meet.”
She described Castelvi as a gentle, selfless man. “Paul, my husband, was a very good man – a good provider for the family, a good son, and a good husband.”
Castelvi was also the family’s primary breadwinner, according to his parents. He sent much of his income back home to support his parents, siblings, nieces, and nephews financially.
Though overwhelmed by grief, Jovelle is determined to raise their child in his father’s image. “For our son, little Paul, I will be strong and brave to raise him.”
Jovelle also remembered Castelvi’s employers, Eviatar and Lilach, who had embraced the young couple as family.
“They were great people,” she said. “They were excited to meet our son, and that I would come to Be’eri for my maternity leave. They made us – both Paul and me – their own family.”
Her tribute ended with a final farewell to her husband: “To Paul, my love, you are always in my heart until we meet again. My greatest love, you.”
Their names may never appear in history books or on national memorials, but the stories of Camille Jesalva, Monica Biboso, Paul Vincent Castelvi, and so many others are etched in the collective heart of a nation.
These caregivers did more than fulfill a job description – they risked everything to uphold their promise to protect and serve the vulnerable. On October 7, when faced with terror, they responded with love. In a moment where many would have run, they stayed.
They acted not as bystanders but as lifelines. Their bravery is a reminder that in the darkest of times, humanity is defined not by fear but by compassion, duty, and an unbreakable sense of purpose. ■
