I Am Sorry—And I Believe in Your Light.

** Since October 7, I have written to my daughters. As news of the Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir hit, I felt the need to write them an apology letter. **

Dear Daughters,

I am sorry. I am so sorry.

I can’t believe the world you are growing up in, and honestly, I don’t know how to explain this to you. We live in a world where good and evil are distorted beyond recognition, where the loudest voices often drown out the truth, and where silence in the face of unimaginable violence feels like a betrayal. And the only explanation I can find is because we are Jewish.

I am sorry that for the last 16 months, our conversations have so often revolved around hostages, red alerts, and the chaos unfolding half a world away. I know that you feel the weight of it all, even when I try to shield you. I see it in your eyes, hear it in your questions, and feel it in your hugs that last just a little longer.

Avie (9), my heart aches knowing that you wake up with nightmares—worried that the war might come to Boston, that the unthinkable could somehow find its way here. I know how much the images of the Bibas family weigh on you, especially those of Ariel and Kfir—their innocent faces etched into your heart.

And Mila (4), your innocence and obliviousness to it all is something I am at times grateful for. I hope that by the time you are more aware, the world will be a little bit brighter.

I see the people you both are becoming—kind, curious, strong—and I can’t stop thinking about the Bibas boys and the lives they will never get to live. The dreams they will never chase. The laughter they will never share. The hugs they will never give. They will never know the warmth of their parents’ arms or the joy of running barefoot through the grass on a summer day. They will never grow up to discover who they might have become.

And that is a cruelty beyond words. It is a loss that echoes through my bones. It is a sorrow that feels too heavy to carry, and yet, we must. Because their stories—and the stories of so many others—deserve to be remembered. Their lives deserve to be mourned. Their absence deserves to be felt.

Sometimes, the anger feels just as overwhelming as the sadness. Anger that this world allowed such horror to unfold. Anger that so many looked away. Anger that speaking out feels like shouting into the void. Anger that I spoke out for so many causes, for friends and colleagues but most have remained silent. I am really angry. And yet, I know that anger alone cannot be the legacy we carry forward. But I would be remiss if I didn’t name the diabolical behavior we have witnessed—the parading of human beings and human remains as tools of terror. It is a kind of evil I never knew existed, and I will do everything in my power to protect you from it.

So, my little ladies, I promise you this: I will teach you to hold on to hope even when it feels impossible. I will show you that kindness and courage can exist even in the darkest moments. I will help you see that being Jewish is not a reason to fear—it is a reason to stand taller, love harder, and live louder.

You are part of a people who have endured centuries of hatred and hardship—you are the great-grandchildren of a Holocaust survivor—yet we are still here. We sing, we dance, we build, we love. That resilience flows through your veins. It is your birthright. And I believe—with every beat of my heart—that you have the power to change this world for the better.

So when the nightmares come, when the questions feel too big, and when the world feels too cruel—know that you are not alone. I am here. Our family and friends are here. Our community is here. And while the world tries to pull us apart, we will stand united. Together is the only way through this.

With all my love,
Mama