Who Will Count for Me?

I counted for them.

I started on Day 100, when Rachel Goldberg Polin asked us all to carry just a little bit of her burden. Every morning since Day 100, I wrote the number on a piece of tape and wore it all day, marking the brutal days that passed since these beautiful people were stolen from their families.

At first, it was an act of solidarity, of unity. A way to say: I remember. I see you. I haven’t turned away. You are not alone.

But it became something deeper — a ritual that grounded me when words felt too fragile, too small for the enormity of their families’ pain, families who could not rest, whose days were stitched together with unimaginable horror and unanswered prayers.

I thought of them, and I counted because it was all I could do. Wearing the tape on my shirt everyday was a small act of defiance against forgetting.

As the days became weeks, and the weeks became months, and the months became years, I realized I counted because I was afraid. I was afraid that if this nightmare came to my door, no one would count for me or for my family.

Let’s be honest with ourselves. How much time have we spent marking time for the Goldin or Shaul families? How often in the last 11 years did we truly stop, remember, and count for them? Not nearly enough.

Maybe that’s why, when Hadar Goldin was finally laid to rest, tens of thousands lined the streets. It wasn’t just grief but guilt – guilt for not having shown up enough for the them. We were absent from their struggle and we showed up on day 4,118 because we hadn’t counted enough along the way.

Now, as we stand in the wreckage of years we can’t get back, we all should admit what we know is true.

We failed them. We failed to shoulder even a fraction of the burden they carried. Not all of us kept counting. I know because I was asked about the tape too many times.

There is pain in admitting that. A deep, uncomfortable pain in looking head on at the places where we fell short.

Counting wasn’t just a record of days gone by. It was a way of promising that I didn’t turn away, even when it made others feel uncomfortable for forgetting.