Broken Hearts

It’s been a week. It has been a week since I made Havdalah with my family, my wife, and our three sons. It has been a week since we prepared to send our oldest son back to Israel for Shana Gimel, a third year living at his Yeshiva and working to help inspire the new first-year students. It has been a week since I looked at my phone and saw the news that six more hostages had been found. Found by the IDF. Found in the tunnels under Rafah, murdered by Hamas. Their bodies were riddled with bullets just days before they were found. And then I saw the names.

I’ve cried regularly since October 7^th. Each time one of the hostages was rescued or escaped, or when the brief release of hostages happened some nine months ago. Each time, I cried. This week, my cries have felt different.

Just a day earlier, I shared a video with the staff and faculty of Bornblum Jewish Community School. The video was of Rachel, the mother of Hersh Goldberg-Polin, at the border of Gaza, giving Hersh the words of the blessing I use each Friday as I bless my boys. I shared the video as a reminder to our staff of the times that we are living in. I shared it as we read the words in the Torah of blessings and curses. I did not realize that when I sent the email, it may have been Hersch, Ori, Carmel, Alex, Almog, and Eden’s last moments on Earth. I never thought it would be the last time Rachel would bless her son. I cannot fathom not being able to continue to say that blessing for my boys. And yet, Rachel and Jon are not alone.

Sons and daughters have been lost consistently over the last 11 months.

But it has been 11 months. We say Kaddish for 11 months when we mourn the loss of a close relative. We take a break for a month before the Yarzheit. And there we were, relieving that moment when we first heard about the events of October 7^th. This time, it hurt just as bad. It felt like October 8^th.

Perhaps it was the illusion that it would be different with these six and those remaining in captivity. Maybe the numbness of the mourning was starting to fade, and this instance ripped open the scar again.

And then, on Tuesday, when we returned to school and our staff gathered together prior to welcoming students, I described the blowing of the Shofar. On Wednesday we would begin blowing the Shofar daily at the end of our T’fillah as we prepare for Rosh Hashanah. I explained that the sound of the Shofar is reminiscent of the sound of crying. I knew that our blowing of the Shofar, the first time since October 7^th, would sound like we were all crying together. A cry. A deep cry. A sobbing. And a time to improve ourselves and fix what has been broken.

Last year, at our school, we created ceramic hearts for each of those taken hostage. Each heart had the name of a hostage engraved on it. As hostages were rescued, we replaced the ceramic hearts with red wood hearts. When remains were found, we put up broken hearts. Each time, our Jewish Studies Principal would mark the hearts that needed removal. Each time, our facilities manager would remove the ceramic hearts, and we would send them to Hostage Square to be given to the families.

This time, it was different. Every morning since we placed the hearts by the entrance to our school, I would look at each one as I welcomed our students into the building. I would wish each student a Boker Tov and tell them to have a great day. I would watch them walk into the building, and then I would catch a glimpse of the hearts on the wall. I would wish a Boker Tov to each of the hostages, whose names have been engraved on my soul.

Hersh, Ori, Carmel, Alex, Almog, and Eden’s hearts. On Tuesday morning, I knew that these hearts would come down and would be replaced by broken red hearts. And I knew that I needed to be the one to take them down. At the end of carpool, with some students still arriving late, I began to remove the hearts. With tears in my eyes. And the parents who saw and recognized what I was doing stopped as well. And they had tears in their eyes.

I know that we will send these six ceramic hearts to the families. I hope when they receive them, they will find comfort that a small Jewish school in a small Jewish community is crying with them. I know that we will send the hearts. But for now, I cannot. I cannot move them from next to me on my desk. I cannot stop tracing the names with my fingers, feeling the texture on the hearts, knowing that mine is broken. I know that receiving these hearts will mean so much to the families, but I cannot let them go. I will. Eventually, but today, I am still mourning.