The Unbearable Silence: A Letter to Yarden Bibas

There are tragedies so profound, so unspeakably cruel, that they defy the limitations of language. We grope in the darkness, searching for words that simply do not exist, phrases that could somehow give shape to the bottomless pit of grief that has been carved into our hearts. But how does one articulate the unfathomable? How does one begin to comprehend the evil of Hamas, an organization that embodies inhumanity in its purest form?

Yarden, as you stand in the shadow of this devastating loss, it feels almost insolent to intrude upon your grief with words. Your two precious sons, Kfir and Ariel, were taken from you in a manner that defies the moral order of the universe. Their lives were not just stolen—they were extinguished by those who worship death, who celebrate the annihilation of innocence as though it were some perverse triumph.

There is no comfort that can erase the indelible scar on your soul, no words that can bridge the chasm left by their absence. But let me try, nonetheless, to offer you this: You are not alone. Your pain is not yours to bear in solitude. An entire people weep with you, an ancient nation that has known suffering beyond measure and yet has refused to be broken. We are with you, Yarden, with every breath, every prayer, and every tear.

For centuries, the Jewish people have stood defiant in the face of hatred. From the burning sands of Egypt to the ashes of Auschwitz, we have been pursued by those who would see us erased. Yet, like the burning bush at Sinai, we endure—unconsumed, unyielding, and unbowed. It is the promise we made, standing at the foot of that sacred mountain, when we took upon ourselves the covenant of eternity. And now, Yarden, in this moment of unspeakable pain, we renew that oath.

We renew it because your children were our children. Because Shiri is our sister. Because when Hamas murdered your children, they attacked all of us—every Jew, every Israeli, every human being who believes in the sanctity of life. Let there be no equivocation: Hamas is evil. Not “militants,” not “fighters,” but purveyors of death who rejoice in the suffering of innocents. And to the world that hesitates, that fumbles for “context” or “balance” in the face of such wickedness, shame on you. Shame on your silence, your cowardice, and your moral vacillation.

But let us not drown in rage, for rage is the enemy of resolve. Instead, let us take this sorrow, this overwhelming heartbreak, and forge it into strength. Let us stand taller, speak louder, and fight harder. Let us make a vow—not in whispered prayers, but in voices that shake the heavens—that we will not rest until justice is done.

Yarden, from this day forth, we are your strength. We will carry you, even as you carry this unbearable loss. Your pain has become our pain, your grief our grief. You may feel shattered, but you are not broken, for you are part of a people who refuse to yield. A people who will continue to live, to build, to dream—not despite our enemies, but in defiance of them.

We pray for Shiri’s safe return and the loss of Kfir, and Ariel. We pray that their souls find peace, and that their memory becomes a blessing and a beacon, lighting the way forward even as the darkness tries to consume us. We pray for you, Yarden, that you may find some semblance of solace in knowing that you do not mourn alone. An entire world stands with you, remembers with you, and fights alongside you.

This is our covenant, our oath renewed. Am Yisrael Chai—the people of Israel live. And because they live, your loved ones will never be forgotten. Their names are inscribed on the tablets of our hearts, and as long as we endure, so shall they.

May their memory be a blessing, and may you find strength in knowing that we stand with you, today and always.