I Will Never Forget Hersh's Parents. They Embodied Hope.

Where Does That Hope Go Now?

Israel confirmed the murder of six more hostages, including Hersh Goldberg-Polin, whose parents embodied so much hope since October 7th. The burden of their ongoing horror and now, their loss made permanent—there are no words.

In lieu of language, there is the desire to do something. It’s no surprise that since the devastating news broke, Israelis are protesting on the streets against Netanyahu. Americans continue their exhausting debate during yet another vicious election cycle. Someone expresses empathy for a dead Israeli and is accused of no empathy for Gazans. And vice versa. Once in a while, somebody reminds us that Hamas terrorists are to blame. It seems no one can agree about anything.

I envy all that energy.

Meanwhile, bodies pile up. They can’t hear the outrage.

To blame is to believe that things could’ve happened otherwise. Blame carves a path through despair—if we know where to direct our anger, we believe we can change course. It’s one way to keep hope alive.

I admit that cynicism has hijacked my personality. I don’t see a way out of things. Not here or overseas.

Indignation feels like a dead limb I drag around. I lack interest in debate. I observe argument like it’s a long-distance sport whose remaining participants have outlasted me. How do they do it? How do they keep feeling all the time?

Last month, we learned that my husband’s mitral valve repair appears to have failed, and while we await more diagnostics, I wonder if October 7th is what broke his heart. This is my personal curiosity, and in it, I recognize the edge of blame. My mind races across so many moments since October 7th. The times we first realized a friend’s antisemitism. The fear for family when Iran launched missiles on April 14th. The stories of survivors of the massacre.

I resent the ongoing crisis. I am infuriated by the global antisemitism. But my mind no longer processes the ubiquity of it; on the contrary—my worry feels compressed now. All my angst focuses on one human life.

When my husband broke the news about Hersh, I was sitting in our living room, reading. Grief rose softly against my own fear: How much more terror and sadness can my husband’s heart take?

Surely, someone will accuse me of selfishness. How can I focus on one man’s life when so many are dying overseas? And to resent this ongoing crisis, even blaming it for causing my husband’s heart to break? This must be a despicable response.

I won’t apologize for it. My hope is located in this bottled up rage. It’s why I can empathize with Israel’s moral imperative to get back every hostage.

Because: Every life is worth the whole universe.

We will never forget them.