You never forget your first-born’s birth. Or her death

Doesn’t it seem like yesterday when your first child was born? To me, it does, and decades later, you recall the excitement — more appropriately called nervousness — that had been building as the “due date” approached. Lamaze birth classes are attended, a “go-bag,” in anticipation of the onset of serious labor, is prepared. You might even practice driving to the hospital. The mother-to-be buys a neutral color layette of onesies, blankets, booties, and caps because there were no “gender reveal” parties in those days.

During dinner, your wife tells you what the doctor said during that day’s visit: “You’re not there yet. It will be another week before you go into labor.” Two hours later, she announces: “We have to go to the hospital.” You get the go-bag and say to yourself, “I hope the Oreo cookies are still in there,” and follow the route to the hospital that you practiced the day before.

When you arrive, a nurse matter-of-factly takes the soon-to-be-mother’s necessary information, and you’re escorted to a drab labor room. The doctor arrives before you even have a chance to check on the Oreos, does an exam, and proclaims, “Any minute now.” Your wife, with your help, is doing her breathing routine through labor pains. A nurse asks if I want to go to the delivery room (in the 1970s that was considered cutting edge), hands me a pair of scrubs to wear, and escorts me to the delivery room, where I stand on the side, out of the way. The doctor and mother go to work. You hear the first cries of a newborn and the doctor announces: “It’s a girl!” Then she’s whisked off to the nursery. You head to the nursery, where a nurse holds up your daughter, whom we would name Alisa, behind the thick glass of the nursey so you can see her and take a photo.

I see Alisa’s birth in my mind’s eye as clearly as another event that took place less than 21 years later. That was when I held her hand, after she succumbed to a wound she suffered in a terror attack in 1995.

On what would have been Alisa’s 50th birthday last week, I, her mother, sisters, and brother paused and spent a few minutes looking back.

We remember how Alisa’s life, though brief, left a profound legacy of resilience, compassion and commitment to faith. We recall that at the age of 4, she told her parents that she was not going to the public school around the corner from their home in West Orange, NJ, but to “a Jewish school where Becky” (a fellow student at her nursery school) “is going.” We enrolled her, and Alisa, like the proverbial duck takes to water, took her education to heart.

Alisa planting a tree in Israel. (courtesy)

Alisa developed a love of not only Judaism but also the State of Israel. Taking her first trip with an aunt when she was 11, her last trip, at the age of 20, was her sixth.

That final trip, which began in December 1994, allowed her to immerse herself in Jewish studies at Nishmat in Jerusalem. It also allowed her to live in an apartment with four young women like herself and gave her the time to run daily, to join a gym, and to, in the words of Nishmat’s then-dean Rabbanit Chana Henkin, “sneak off to daven at the Kotel.”

Looking back, I believe Alisa’s dedication to her faith was a central part of her character and guided many of her life decisions. This dedication illustrates an important lesson: that one’s faith and culture are not mere background details, but are essential parts of an individual’s journey towards personal growth. Whenever Alisa and her siblings would return from a trip to Israel, I noticed that they came back not just better Jews, but better people. With this thought in mind, the Alisa Flatow Memorial Scholarship Fund was created to afford others the opportunity to seek their own roots and to understand their personal values deeply, through study in Israel.

Today, almost 30 years after her murder, friends remember Alisa as warm and caring, with an openness and compassion that resonated with everyone she encountered. Known for always having a smile on her face, she had a unique way of making others feel seen and valued.

Her final gift came when her organs were donated following her death. Three lives were saved and, importantly, that act reinvigorated organ donation in Israel, which had become moribund.

With four girls in our family now named after her, Alisa lives on. Each of her nieces and nephews attends or attended “a Jewish school,” and they have been developing their own religious awareness. Watching them grow into upright and proud Jews is a blessing. Today, when a grandchild’s religious observance causes me to shake my head in wonderment as to where that came from, the parents tell me to “blame Alisa,” but it’s all good in the end, and I smile from ear to ear.

Alisa’s short life teaches us that a legacy of empathy, kindness and commitment can spread outward long after a life is cut short. Her story underscores that while we cannot always control our circumstances, we can shape our impact through how we respond to hardship. Alisa’s life and legacy encourage us to think of our own values — and that is quite a meaningful and enduring legacy.

L’chaim.