Holding Grief Hostage

In the United States, the burial of fallen soldiers and the honoring of their memory is sacred. So sacred, in fact, that the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier — the final resting place of an unidentified World War I soldier — holds a place of profound reverence in Arlington National Cemetery.

This week in Israel, we marked 600 days of war. Six hundred days of hostages still held in Gaza. We commemorated Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, honoring soldiers and civilians killed in war and terror. Nearly two years after the horrors of October 7, too many young men and women have joined the heartbreaking ranks of the remembered — lives turned into memories.

And yet, even now, 59 hostages remain in Gaza — held like bargaining chips in a war they never chose. Among them, 35 are believed to be dead.

Recently in New York, I listened to the parents of Omer Neutra and Itay Chen speak about their sons — one American-born, both IDF soldiers killed in action on October 7. Their grief was compounded by the agonizing fact that their sons’ bodies are still being held by Hamas. The father’s voice trembled not just with sorrow but with urgency — his plea for his son’s return as raw and desperate as any parent still hoping their child is alive.

To the world, recovering the dead can feel secondary to rescuing the living. But to the families, that distinction is both cruel and unbearable.

Without a body to bury, without a grave to visit, these parents are denied the most basic human right: the right to mourn. They live suspended between hope and horror, forced to grieve without proof, clinging to rumors and intelligence updates as their only tether to the truth.

How does one grieve a child whose death has no confirmation? How can you honor a life that cannot be laid to rest?

These families are hostages too — not trapped in tunnels, but imprisoned in a purgatory of unending grief. Their pain is compounded by the national silence that surrounds them. While other fallen soldiers are honored with public funerals, these parents are left with memorial trees instead of headstones, ceremonies without closure.

Their sons fought and died for their country. Yet without their bodies, their sacrifice feels invisible. The absence of acknowledgment is a national failure — one that undermines the very values we claim to uphold.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier exists to honor the unnamed — to give dignity and meaning to a life lost without identity. But we know the names of those held in Gaza. We know their stories, their faces, their families. What excuse do we have for not returning them home?

We must not let these soldiers become invisible. Like the living hostages, they deserve to come home — to be buried with dignity, mourned with love, and remembered with honor. Until we do, we are holding their grief hostage too.