‘Our arm hurts’: Grieving for Eli Sharabi

I never met the Fogel family. But after they were massacred in 2011, I cried for days. I even hijacked my husband’s work computer so I could watch the funeral livestream, because missing it wasn’t an option.

After the shooting in Pittsburgh, I sat up in the dark, replaying the horror at the Tree of Life Synagogue, even though I’ve never been there.

October 7th overtook my dreams.

And this past Shabbat, when a skeletal Eli Sharabi returned after 16 months of torture, my body curled protectively around itself — because I couldn’t protect him from the news that his entire family had been murdered. When I think of the moment he cried out in anguish, I wince.

This is more than just empathy. What I’m feeling, and what I’ve been feeling, is actual pain, to a degree that is mystifying. Just as I didn’t know the Fogels or any of the victims of Pittsburgh or Nova or Kibbutz Be’eri, I don’t know Eli Sharabi, Or Levy or Ohad Ben Ami. I am just a bystander. And yet, every second of the drawn-out torture spectacle that began on October 7th and is still unfolding feels like it’s happening directly to me.

This is the phenomenon of being a Jew: the inexplicable overlap one feels with strangers to the point that another’s pain becomes personal.

It’s like that story I hate about the couple that goes to the doctor because, as the husband says, “Our arm hurts.” Maybe not the healthiest model for marriage, but it perfectly captures what it feels like to be a Jew in these agonizing times. If you’re in pain, then I am, too.

The reason I feel like all of this is happening to me is that it is. I don’t mean this in a self-promoting or performative way; I’m saying it because I need to give myself permission to hurt as much as I do.

I imagine I’m not the only olah or Diaspora Jew who feels this way. As newcomers to a country where everyone is connected by one degree, or as Jews living miles away from the events, it’s not always easy to justify our pain, grief and trauma. I’ve questioned myself for being soft-bellied and self-indulgent, because real Israelis are going through far worse. 

But the truth is, I am a real Israeli. And I am a Jew, which means that I am a part of this story. This does not take away from the experience of the victims, the hostages, and their families. If anything, it enriches it, because it means they are not alone. Just as they need physical and emotional support while they navigate the day after, so do the rest of us.

That begins by acknowledging how much “our arm hurts,” without doubt or apology.