An October Elegy

It was April of this year when I confronted a red-headed man on Manhattan’s Amsterdam Avenue. He was scribbling over a poster of Kfir Bibas, a fellow redhead. With a dog leash in one hand and a black Sharpie in the other, he scrawled “15,000 dead” across Kfir’s smiling face. Nearby, a gruff-looking elderly man in a wheelchair tried to reason with him, pleading with this determined Manhattanite to stop defacing the poster of a kidnapped infant. 

I was wearing my “Bring Them Home” sweatshirt, dog tag, and a Jewish star necklace, heading home from the Forum’s weekly Central Park walk. By April, many—including myself—tried to avoid confrontation with agitators for our own safety, especially as a lone young woman visibly supporting Israel and the hostages. But this time, I summoned the courage of the hostage families I’d just been with, stepped next to the elderly man, and looked directly at the redhead. “That’s a baby,” I said.

I wasn’t sure what my goal was—maybe I wanted to make him feel shame, to pull him out of his trance and make him see the absurdity of his actions. Instead, he turned to me, eyes both hollow and ablaze, and spat out, “What about 15,000 Palestinian babies?”

I was confronting a man who saw pain as a competition—suffering reduced to a numbers game with winners and losers. Channeling the words I’d heard from the hostage families just half an hour before, I took a deep breath and said, “Every life is equal.” As I began to walk away, he screamed after me, “So why do you only care about the hostages then?”

I care because Kfir is a baby. A baby with red hair, just like his poster’s defacer. But unlike that man, Kfir may never get to grow up and walk city streets with his own dog. I care because Hamas, fueled by the rhetoric of people like this red-headed New Yorker, brutally murdered six innocents. I care because, as Jon Polin, father of one of those innocents, said at the DNC, “In a competition of pain, there are no winners.”

Hersh Goldberg-Polin, son of Rachel and Jon Goldberg-Polin, was one of the six hostages recently murdered after surviving nearly 11 months of captivity. Throughout 330 days of fighting for their son, Rachel and Jon exhibited unimaginable strength, grace, and dignity. Their public fight, which spanned from the Vatican to the DNC and everywhere in between, showed the world that compassion is only as finite as we allow it to be. While advocating for and centering the plight of Hersh and the hostages, Rachel and Jon also displayed deep empathy for those caught in the crossfire of the Gaza war. This message of shared humanity allowed Hersh’s story to reach millions who might otherwise ignore the suffering of our hostages. Photos from Rachel and Jon’s speech at the DNC show people in keffiyehs and Free Palestine gear in tears—an image almost impossible to imagine in a world where nuance is often discarded.

It was October of last year when Jon and Rachel, along with all the Jewish people and Israel, were torn into two. Since then, we’ve lived as separate selves: the one we present to the world and the one consumed by despair. We are like Frankenstein’s monster—loosely stitched together, heavily scarred, and repeatedly torn open.

Yesterday, we were torn open once again. 

Just a few days ago, Hersh, Ori, Eden, Almog, Alex, and Carmel were still alive. These six human beings endured unimaginable suffering over the past year, only to be executed as the IDF fought nearby. 

I can’t stop thinking about their final days and moments. Did they hear Hebrew as the IDF operated overhead? Did they know we hadn’t forgotten them? Were they taunted by their captors with the threat of death, or did it come swiftly and unexpectedly? Were they alone in their final moments, or did they find comfort in each other? 

Because of Rachel and Jon, I’ve thought about Hersh every single day since October 7th. I know I’m not alone in this—Rachel and Jon have painted a vivid picture for the entire world of a vibrant and fascinating young man who now feels like both a family member and a friend I wish I’d had. Hersh’s American roots make his death especially painful and personal to the American Jewish community.

I was so certain Hersh would get his happy ending. Each time a hostage was freed, I imagined the moment when Hersh and the Goldberg-Polins would get their turn—when Hersh would run into his mother’s arms, and they would collapse in relief that he was finally home and free. As Rachel said in her eulogy today, Hersh is finally free. But instead of a reunion, his family said goodbye to the boy we all wish we had met.

The last few days have brought levels of anger, pain, and sadness that many of us haven’t felt since October 8th. We are once again torn open, but we will piece ourselves back together for Hersh, Ori, Eden, Almog, Alexander, Carmel, and their families. As our grief is politically weaponized across the spectrum, we must remember that now is a time for mourning and standing with the families. Now is a time to grieve our dead and fight to bring back the living. To paraphrase Jon Polin at Hersh’s funeral, “May their memories be a revolution.”

As we approach the first anniversary of October 7th, our hearts are so broken they feel numb, overwhelmed by a toxic cycle of hope and despair. Still frozen in October 2023, we walk the streets of our cities, confronting the torn-down posters of our hostages amidst pro-terror, anti-humanity chants on the periphery. Those living in Israel face a society increasingly divided and politically fractured, acutely aware that the hostages are just miles away. Worldwide, we need to channel the unity we exhibited after October 7th and do everything we can to bring the rest of the hostages home, alive. We must strive to piece ourselves back together, both as individuals and as a broader nation. While as people we are torn in half, our peoplehood must remain whole.

To Hersh, Ori, Eden, Almog, Alexander, and Carmel—all that’s left to say is slicha. We tried to save you, but we were too late. Slicha.

אין דבר יותר שלם מלב שבור