Hersh’s Funeral – Light amidst the darkness

At 5:36 a.m. on Sunday, Jon Polin sent a short message in a friends WhatsApp group: “We are so sorry to inform you that Hersh is no longer with us. You are all amazing people.”

With this single, stark sentence, containing both the unspeakable tragedy and the familiar gratitude of the Goldberg-Polin family, an 11-month ordeal came to its bitter end. For nearly a year, I watched my dearest friends simultaneously diminish and burn brighter – fading, yet adding goodness to the world. Until their son Hersh was ruthlessly kidnapped to Gaza, I could not imagine that from the bleakest place, from a hell on earth, it would be possible to illuminate the world with peace, love, and hope.

When my nephew was wounded on the northern border, Hersh’s mother, Rachel, was the first to reach out to me, ensuring I knew that she prayed for him every day. The gratitude and appreciation she and her husband exuded to everyone around them proved immeasurably more than what we could reciprocate. Not a moment passed without them sincerely asking after each person’s well-being. How does all this align with Rachel’s eyes, which sank further and further into despair, or with her beautiful smile that vanished one tragic morning? I do not know.

Despite a persistent cough that Jon suffered from the moment Hersh was kidnapped, he spoke from his heart, wherever he went, uniting his listeners, urging them not to look away, not to politicize this tragedy. How did he summon the strength to say that he understands those who think differently, asking only that they study the details before forming an opinion, even when a negotiated deal was the only thing standing between them and Hersh?

Jon and Rachel journeyed around the world without a single word of hate – accompanied only by sincerity, by pain. Even when Hersh’s parents spoke harsh truths, they spoke them lovingly. Everywhere they went, they left behind a trail of hope, a glimmer of a dream for a better world, lodged in the hearts of all who listened.

And their prayers. Oh, their prayers – from the depths of their souls, in full faith in the majesty of God on earth, in the plea for a resolution. How many people – religious and secular, in Israel and abroad – did they unite in prayer. They simply sat and prayed together. Their only request: “Pray for Hersh and the other hostages.” From this, they believed, salvation would come.

I arrived at the funeral shattered. How could those who disseminated only goodness have suffered the worst possible fate? How could those who prayed with such purity have their prayers go unanswered? Part of me refused to live in a world in which the goodness they radiated didn’t redound to Jon and Rachel, to their daughters Leebie and Orly; in which they were denied the chance to embrace Hersh again. And I felt afraid. I feared that their faith would shatter in a single blow. If their faith shattered, after all, what would become of mine, of ours?

Jon addressed the funeral in a broken voice, invoking the words of Hatikva, Israel’s national anthem: “Our hope is not yet lost.” He asked Hersh to accomplish from above what they couldn’t from here below – to intercede to bring the remaining hostages home. And I realized that nothing had changed in him. Even now, at the bitter end, as a father stood broken-hearted before his son’s body, he was still thinking of others. Rachel, who began her eulogy with gratitude to God for the privilege of raising Hersh for 23 years, wished for more, but still gave thanks for what she had. They, and their daughters, told us about Hersh – precisely the kind of person you’d expect from such extraordinary parents: a lover of humanity, a merciful pursuer of peace. Rachel tearfully asked Hersh to send them the strength to be strong, to survive, so that one day they might once more hear laughter in their home.

Even as the crowd’s weeping reached a crescendo, our hearts lifted in unison to the heavens. Rather than rage at unanswered prayers, we were filled with grace for the little that had been given. Despite the unceasing tears and the sharp pang that pierced my heart, I felt faith gathering up all its fragments, and I believed once again that goodness would prevail. It is impossible to see the Goldberg-Polin family and not believe in goodness, not gain inspiration, not be suffused with an enormous surge of hope, even where hope seems to have vanished.

Rachel asked their community and friends not to abandon them now; to help them endure the raw, harrowing pain. I ask you, in turn, Rachel: do not abandon us. Continue to illuminate the world, for we cannot see our way through this darkness if you do not. Continue to inspire us. You carry the goodness of this world, and through you this goodness will prevail. You are our guides to this graciousness, and we will never abandon you. Never.