The pain of losing something that was never ours

From ‘Bring Hersh Home”s Instagram page

I am a fan of Hamilton, to put it lightly. But there was one song that always bothered me. In the refrain from “It’s Quiet Uptown,” it constantly describes the death of a child as “unimaginable.” It was always a bit frustrating to me. Is this not the point of music, and theatre? To give words to situations? Paint me a picture, Lin-Manuel Miranda. 

And then last night we started to hear rumors that Hersh Goldberg-Polin was among the hostages who had been recently killed in Rafah. It is not that each hostage did not have equal worth. They absolutely did. But there was something different about Hersh. 

Maybe it was how active his parents were. 

Maybe it was because, as a mother, the grief and stoicism writ large on Rachel’s face every time she spoke, caused me to constantly wonder if I would have had her strength, her determination, her tenacity, were it my child. If I could handle the pain of knowing that my child is being held captive by those who delight in my pain, who revel in my agony — and only for that purpose. 

Maybe it’s because he was North American, looked like my students. 

But probably because there was something about Hersh that inspired a strange kind of hope. I didn’t think he was alive, thought he had died on October 7th, until we saw that propaganda video. After that, I had a bizarre belief that he was too high-value a hostage to be killed. The prominence of his parents, the fact that he was American, the fact that we know enough about Sinwar to know that he would be surrounded by hostages until his bitter end. I thought Hersh would be a final trading card. Perhaps that hope was naive, the very definition of the psychological warfare that Hamas and its ilk employ. 

But it was not to be. 

Today is, by definition, unimaginable. Lin-Manuel Miranda, in the end, was right. 

It’s not just the grief, the loss of hope. It’s also the anger. It’s remembering all of the people who months ago splattered the internet with #alleyesonrafah, people who held their righteous rage up loudly and proudly as Israel moved in after yet more Hamas provocations. How quickly that hashtag was trending, how within 24 hours it had more supporters than there were Jews in the world. 

And today, when those 6 hostages were found in Rafah, where are their eyes? Where is the anger? People are silent in the face of Jewish suffering, as they have been for ten months, for ten years, for ten centuries. 

These hostages were nothing more than playing chips in the great game. Nothing more than tokens of emotional warfare. The war would have rained down on Gaza regardless of hostages’ status, after the pogrom and gleeful murder of 1200 Israelis. Their murder within 48 hours of attempted rescue is tragic. And the entire Jewish world is grieving today. 

We rip the numbered masking tape off of our shirts, a rip felt as keenly as the rendering of garments that occurs after the death of a loved one. It matters not that Hersh was not our family, that we did not know him: in the last ten months his parents have made him a brother to us all. But underneath the keening grief, there is a deep-rooted anger. 

I am angry. And I am angry at how many people are not. How many of those I once called friends have barely reached out in the past ten months, who have felt unmoved by events. When the massacre happened, when the war started, when my school started being attacked, when hostages died — I am sure I’m not the only one whose social circle has been greatly winnowed in the last year. 

I feel alone in that anger, alone in that rage. And at the same time, I look at my texts and my calls and my social media, and I feel that truly, the Jews are Am Echad im Lev Echad, one people with one heart. We have learned in the past year more than any other time that we are all bound to one another. When Israel takes action thousands of kilometres away, Jews around the world suffer the consequences of it. We are all bound together in tragedy, bound together in grief, bound together by the silence of others. 

And as the Jewish world keens, and our garments are rent, as our hearts and our hope is shattered, the skies above Tel Aviv open and pour rain down out of nowhere, and even a secular Jew like me sees the divine. 

May the memories of Hersh, Carmel, Eden, Ori, Alex and Almog be for a blessing. I hope that they knew, somehow, the strength of their families love and longing for them, for over 300 days. They all deserved better.