Rachel, Our Mother 

There were two moments in Rachel Goldberg Polin’s eulogy to her son that stood out to me, and they have stayed with me since. The first was her slight but piercing cry, her scream to her sweet boy who is now finally free. The second was her plea to her community, asking them not to leave her family behind in this new phase of pain—this new kind of, new extent of, unimaginable suffering.

This week has been one of torment for many of us. For me, it has been the hardest week since Addir died. I’ve felt desperate, hopeless, and depressed. How could such beautiful human beings be alive one moment and gone the next? We were so close to seeing them reunited with their loved ones. We needed this win so badly. We needed to believe that all of Rachel’s efforts—her unyielding, relentless, composed fight for 333 days to bring her sweet child home—would end with her hugging him again. We wanted to believe that after all her pleas, she could return to being a mother in the most human, ordinary way. But instead, she has become a symbol of something much larger than any of us expected.

I imagined, as so many of us did, that she would get to manifest her one wish: for her son to survive.

This week, the world feels dark. Yes, I know there is light, and I know we must reach for it—but right now, I can’t feel it. I can’t touch it. This week, I don’t believe in the light, but I hope for it. And I will work for it, every day of my life.

As I was thinking about Rachel, I couldn’t help but think about the mother of my nephew, Addir- my sister Sheerie, along with Ifat and Miri, the mothers of Ilay Nachman and Matan Eckstein who were murdered on that dark October day. These mothers are like superwomen to me. I hold Rachel close to my heart, and with her, every mother who has borne this unimaginable weight. Like Rachel, I, too, ask the community not to leave us. I, too, need to ask whatever community exists out there: don’t leave us behind. We need each other, and it is the only way forward.