Holding onto Hope: A Letter to Rachel Goldberg

Dear Rachel,

I can’t believe this is how it ended. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I dreamt of the moment Hersh would run into your and Jon’s arms. I had hope. Rachel, you gave me hope.

In the heart of darkness, you stood as a beacon of hope for the world. For 330 agonizing days, your son, Hersh, was held captive, and yet you remained steadfast, a vision of strength amidst unimaginable pain. Your resolve was a testament to the unbreakable spirit of a mother and the enduring faith of our community. You carried the hopes of countless people who believed that, despite the odds, light would prevail. As a mother, I saw you the strength and determination that only a mother can have for her child.

Rachel, you rallied mothers everywhere. We felt your fight in our bones, your pain in our hearts, your exhaustion in our eyes. You weren’t just fighting for your son; you fought for all our children. And so, we rallied with you, sharing your prayers, tears, and relentless hope.

But on Saturday night, as the devastating news of Hersh’s death, along with five other hostages—Alexander Lobanov, Carmel Gat, Almog Sarusi, Eden Yerushalmi, Ori Danino—bled through my phone, that glimmer of hope dimmed so much it is now almost impossible to see. The weight of my grief is overwhelming, pressing down on me as I grapple with the loss of lives we so desperately prayed to see again.

How do we grieve, but still fight? This question haunts me, particularly now when the exhaustion and devastation of our community are palpable. I am tired, we are all tired — tired of mourning, tired of fear, tired of the relentless assaults on our people. I am so tired and I can not imagine how tired you are. I yell into the abyss, but it feels like no one is listening. Is anyone listening?

Yet, in this moment of despair, I must remember the example set by you, Rachel —and the values that Hersh lived by. You and Jon, are incredible parents. You both shared so much about Hersh in the past 11 months. We learned that Hersh believed in the power of listening, truly hearing the voices and stories of those around him. He embraced adventure, seeking out the beauty in the world. He shared in Jewish Joy. Above all, he sought to live peacefully, holding onto the belief that despite the chaos around him and us, peace is possible.

While my grief is real and so raw, I must honor it, allow myself to feel the weight of our collective sorrow. But for you, for Jon, for every hostage family, I cannot let it paralyze me. I cannot let it stop it from continuing the fight that you so courageously embodied and that Hersh’s life so beautifully exemplified. To fight in Hersh’s memory and in the memory of all those we have lost is to keep the ember of hope alive, even when it feels like it might flicker out.

Rachel, you are symbol of hope, and now, in Hersh’s memory, all those who gained hope from you must become symbols of resilience.  Continuing to fight—not just for those we have lost, but for the generations to come. The path forward is fraught with pain, but together, we can walk it with the strength and determination that you, Jon, Leebie, Orly, and Hersh showed us for 330 days.

Rachel, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more in those 330 days, but I promise to keep flighting.

From a mom who doesn’t know you yet loves you deeply,

Leora Kimmel