How do we move forward?

When the bodies of Shiri Bibas and her young sons Ariel and Kfir, z”l, were returned to Israel as part of phase one of the ceasefire agreement, I was in Israel, visiting JTS students, and spending time with my daughter and her family in Mazkeret Batya and with my oldest grandson, who is studying for a year before university. Earlier in the week, we had gathered in packed coffeehouses, got stuck in traffic, and watched my granddaughter perform in a gymnastics competition. And yet, as Thursday approached, the pall that descended on the country was palpably heavy. Though many of us had sensed in our bones that Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir were dead, the sight of their coffins brought the finality of their deaths to the surface, releasing intense grief.   

In Israel—such a small country—personal and communal pain are inextricably bound. The Jewish people are so tiny in number that we often remark to one another that only two degrees separate us from our fellow Jews, not the proverbial six. Nowhere is this more evident than in the State of Israel.   

My grandson went to Hostage Square on Thursday night, where thousands gathered in solidarity. Their tears flowed freely and seemingly without end. Others gathered with friends and family to draw some measure of comfort by being together. I felt that power at a JTS alumni gathering. Being together, reminiscing about JTS, and meeting alumni from different eras who had chosen to build their futures in the State of Israel, mitigated our anguish and fortified our spirits.  

For many, grief is tinged with regret and guilt. Israelis lined the streets to honor Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir when their bodies returned to Israeli soil and last week on route to their funeral. Amidst their tears, one heard again and again “s’licha,” “forgive me.” For what? For everything: for not preventing such a brutal attack on Israeli soil, for the suffering they had to bear in captivity, for not being able to influence Hamas to release them and all the hostages sooner. Those of us who live outside of Israel identified with this communal pain. For almost a year and a half, we have been praying daily for the hostages; displaying their posters; wearing dog tags, ribbons, and stickers; attending rallies; and lobbying elected officials. And yet, even as we celebrated as some hostages came home, we also confronted the return of dead bodies and the fact that many others remain in captivity.  

To a large degree, the Bibas children and their mother, Shiri, symbolize the larger tragedy of the hostages: the heartbreak, the innocence, the barbarism, the pain that every mother, every parent, every human being could so viscerally connect with as we imagined innocent children suffering and dying and the pain of a mother witnessing this without agency. And at the same time, this tragedy is also a very personal one: Yarden Bibas suffered in captivity only to be released a few weeks before he learned that his beloved life partner and his precious young children had been brutally murdered.  

How do individuals put one foot in front of the other—both personally and communally—in such circumstances? There are no easy or one-size-fits-all answers. In this moment, I can’t get the words of Jeremiah (31:15) out of my head: 

Thus said GOD: A cry is heard in Ramah—Wailing, bitter weeping; Rachel weeping for her children. She refuses to be comforted for her children, who are gone.  

The verse refers to the pain of a mother whose children have vanished, the most searing loss that can never be fully assuaged. The inability to imagine living without our loved ones corrodes our souls. The ever-present sense of loss can overshadow everything. As a mother who buried my son, Elie, z”l, more than 21 years ago, I feel Rachel’s pain every day. This sense of loss accompanies me throughout my life, the weeping for one’s children continues; loss of this magnitude, in this unnatural way of things, is life-altering. And yet, we also must each find a way to live life fully even with our loss.   

So how do we move forward? I know that for me personally, no platitudes or philosophical arguments dulled my pain or made it easier to hold the heartache I felt at the death of my son. What I’ve learned is that we must—individually and collectively—find a way to embrace loss without being defined by it. Only over time—one day at a time—can we rebuild walls of resilience and hopefulness. Only over time can we love and trust again while never forgetting those we have lost. The tears never completely dry; rather, we learn to incorporate them into the lives we continue to create. 

Walking through the airport for my flight home, I again looked intently at the hostage posters that line the approach to the central concourse. There were fewer posters, but the Bibas pictures were still there, surrounded by stuffed animals and loving messages. One cannot enter or leave the airport without seeing them. We internalize the heartbreak, even as we determinedly move ahead with our travel plans.  

We may hope for redemption, but we must do our part to hasten it through our actions. We can create anew—living lives that honor those whose lives were brutally cut short; creating poetry, new life, and more; caring for those around us who need our love and support; and working to build a kinder, more just future.