When Israel Buried Hersh Yesterday

We buried an innocent, loving, kind, creative, curious, far too young human being—along with part of this country's soul

Jerusalemites line the streets as the Goldberg-Polin family makes its way to Hersh’s funeral. (Photo source: synagogue WhatsApp group)

The history books, I think, will tell one day that something about Israel died this week. Regardless of how this existential war plays out (and when the Prime Minister said last night, once again, that the war is existential, he was essentially acknowledging that we might win—or we might not), something changed this week.

It will take a long time to understand precisely what that something is; for now, it’s impossible to articulate precisely. But people here (at least in my circles—there are many different Israels) feel its demise, and they know: it died, or at best, it is in its very last gasps.

We lost six innocent souls, murdered in cold blood by what President Herzog, speaking at the funeral, rightly called “depraved barbarians.” Six innocent souls who somehow managed to survive 330 days of a living hell none of us can begin to imagine, only to be murdered when they were seemingly so close to freedom.

That in itself is unfathomable, bottomless, heart-rending loss.

But we lost more.

This week, we also lost a some part of the sense we had of ourselves. Different Israelis will undoubtedly describe it in different ways.

Some will say what we lost was the very last pretense that there’s anything we can do (or anything we will do) to get the hostages back—so what we lost, yet again, was the belief in our ability to defend ourselves. Or, for some (but certainly not all), the belief that we have it within us to do the right thing and to get the remaining hostages home.

Some will say that what we lost even the pretense that some (again, some, not all) of the leaders of this country even care that much.

Times of Israel screenshot

Some will say that it’s deeper than that. They will say that as long as the agony of his captivity endured, as long as Rachel and Jon Goldberg-Polin, along with their daughters, fought indefatigably for the return of their beloved son and brother, we were blessed (for the most horrifying reasons) to see the very best of what Israel can be. Dignified, passionate, determined. Zionism that is genuine (they moved here, after all). A profound Zionism that also has a place for acknowledging the pain of all the innocent victims—not just us. Deep religiosity animated not by hate, but by boundless love.

Because of his extraordinary parents, who have touched more hearts and souls than any contemporary Jewish or Israeli religious figure one could possibly point to, Hersh came to symbolize those qualities for millions of people. With the news of his death, we were reminded how few are the voices in the Jewish world who reflect those values. So when he died, some hope we have for ourselves, some piece of our sense of who we can be when we are at our best, died as well.

Those thousands of people who lined the streets as Hersh’s family made their way to the cemetery (photo at the top) were there to support them. But I think they were also there to express the fear, or the knowledge, that almost a year into this war with no end in sight, part of us is dying, too. Likely, we don’t know yet precisely what that “part” is.

But if you’re here, even if you can’t put it into words, you feel the heartbreak over its loss, you feel the mourning for the something you can’t yet describe.

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As long as there have been human beings, there have been words. And for as long as there have been human beings who could not find the right words, there has been song. At least in our community, in the two and a half days since we heard the horrifying news, song has filled the void for the words we still cannot find.

Sunday night, the same day that most of us heard, was an unbearably heartbroken day. Which made the idea of a wedding that night incomparably complex.

Yet my niece was getting married that night, in Jaffa. The wedding had obviously been long-planned, people had flown in from everywhere to participate, and of course, there was a truly incredible couple to celebrate.

But how? How does one begin a wedding, with the sun setting over the horizon of the Mediterranean, the gentle, life-filling breeze wafting through the crowd, knowing of the grief consuming everyone, everywhere?

You begin by singing what we’ve been singing, and praying, for eleven months.

[As for] our brethren, the entire House of Israel who [still] remain in distress and captivity, whether on sea or on land, may God have compassion on them, and bring them from distress to relief, from darkness to light, from servitude to redemption, at this moment, speedily, very soon; and let us say Amen.

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It didn’t occur to me Sunday night, at the wedding, that the next time I’d hear that melody would be so utterly, horrifyingly, tragically different a moment.

Same melody. Same prayer—and indescribable heartbreak. But now, not a few hundred people celebrating off the gorgeous Jaffa beach, but thousands and thousands and thousands, grieving in the baking sun, waiting for Hersh’s funeral to begin, praying for those who can still be saved.

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The mournful singing was spontaneous. No one was “in charge,” and it was impossible to tell who was starting the melodies. So I’ll confess to having been momentarily taken aback when the thousands of people assembled began to sing a very well-known line from the High Holidays liturgy.

אָבִֽינוּ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ חָנֵּֽנוּ וַעֲנֵֽנוּ כִּי אֵין בָּֽנוּ מַעֲשִׂים עֲשֵׂה עִמָּֽנוּ צְדָקָה וָחֶֽסֶד וְהוֹשִׁיעֵֽנוּ:

Our Father, our King: favor us and answer us for we are undeserving; deal with us charitably and kindly and save us.

I wondered why the person who began this melody had chosen it.

Maybe, I thought, because 330 days is horrifyingly close to 365. And if we were past 330, we’re getting close to a year, which will be Simchat Torah once again, the end of the High Holidays.

Or maybe, I thought, because the funeral was taking place on the eve of Rosh Chodesh Elul, the beginning of the month of Elul, which in some sense is the beginning of the High Holiday season.

Or maybe, I thought, simply because the words are so very, very true. Because in so very many ways, we have proved ourselves undeserving.

And because in so many ways, in ways more numerous than we could begin to point to, we desperately need to be saved.

אָבִֽינוּ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ חָנֵּֽנוּ וַעֲנֵֽנוּ כִּי אֵין בָּֽנוּ מַעֲשִׂים עֲשֵׂה עִמָּֽנוּ צְדָקָה וָחֶֽסֶד וְהוֹשִׁיעֵֽנוּ:

Our Father, our King: favor us and answer us for we are undeserving; deal with us charitably and kindly and save us.

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