This week, Jews around the world, and all lovers of peace, rejoiced at the news of the miraculous rescue of Fernando Simon Marman, 60, and Louis Har, 70, after 129 days in Hamas captivity. The stories the released have told of starvation, terrible medical treatments, physical and sexual abuse, are enough to horrify any decent human being.
So when they were rescued in a flawless and heroic operation with no IDF fatalities, all people of good conscience had reason to celebrate.
But there was one specific detail in the story that caught my attention. As I listened to the recording of the soldiers' radio communications during the mission, after they eliminated the terrorists and located the hostages, one of them called over the radio the words that confirmed the mission had been accomplished: "The diamonds are in our hands."
The US Secret Service famously assigns code names to individuals under their protection. Clinton was known as "Eagle," Bush was "Trailblazer," Obama "Renegade," and Trump "Mogul." The military also employs code names for missions; for example, the operation to eliminate Bin Laden was codenamed "Geronimo."
For this mission, the IDF chose to use the code word "Diamonds."
How appropriate and how Jewish! This is the way we should look at our fellow, and this also explains why Israel was willing to take extraordinary measures for such a daring mission to save hostages. 
It reminded me of a story. For decades, the Rebbe devoted three nights a week meeting privately with people in his office, where he listened, offered encouragement, advice, and blessings upon those who sought his guidance. Though they would begin in the evening, oftentimes these meetings went well into the night, sometimes until 6 or 7 AM, ensuring that each individual on the schedule for that evening had their chance to connect with him.
As the demand grew and it became physically impossible to accommodate everyone, the Rebbe proposed something new. Starting on his 84th birthday, each Sunday he stood in the lobby between his office and Synagogue, and greeted each person briefly. Thousands flocked each week, forming lines that stretched around the block.
The Rebbe would stand for as long as eight hours without pause, despite his advanced age, and personally engaged with each individual, offering guidance or a blessing, and handing them a dollar bill to donate to a charity of their choosing. He said that when two people meet, a third should also benefit. As a young child, I had the privilege of meeting the Rebbe several times during these occasions.
Once an elderly woman asked him: "Rebbe, How do you do it? How is it that you do not tire of standing for hours and hours?"
The Rebbe smiled and replied: "Every soul is a diamond. One does not tire from counting diamonds."

Several weeks ago I got a call from a woman on the West Coast. She told me her father Rob lived in the Black Hills and his health was deteriorating. The doctors said he didn’t have much time left, and she wanted to know if a rabbi could spend some time with him. She was very thankful when I told her I would be glad to drive from Sioux Falls. "Oh, and one more thing," she asked. "Does your wife make chicken soup? He would love that!"
Later that day I called Rob to tell him I had spoken with his daughter and that I would be coming to visit him with a bowl of chicken soup. When he asked if my wife also knew how to make “kreplach,” I knew this was going to be a very special visit. 
Little could I have imagined just how inspirational it would be.
After a long drive, I arrived at Rob’s place. He told me he had lived in the Black Hills for over fifty years. He was born and raised in Philadelphia, where he went to Hebrew school, his family went to Shul, and he had his Bar-Mitzvah. After serving honorably in the Navy he settled in South Dakota where he enjoyed the nature and freedom the state offers. 
We visited for over an hour. He told me that for all those years, he had no formal connection with Judaism. He often felt alone, but never forgot who he was. He said the attacks on Israel on October 7th, and hate marches against Jews in America since, had been deeply distressing and very awakening. He told me he was born as a Jew, and now that he felt his time had come, he wanted to be sure he would die as a Jew. When I asked him if he knew his Hebrew name, he proudly told me it was Ruven ben Avraham. I helped Rob put on Tefillin, his first time since leaving Philadelphia, but he still remembered the brachos and was able to say the Shema fluently. We also said Viduy together, the prayers traditionally said at the end of life. 
Not long after I visited, Ruven ben Avraham returned his soul to its maker. May his memory be a blessing.