And now we mourn Hersh

It's the scenario we never allowed ourselves to imagine

I keep replaying something my son, Lev, said to me early this morning, when we told him that Hersh is dead, along with five other hostages, shot in the head by their Hamas captors a few days ago.

“I’ll never get to know him,” said Lev, 15.

No, he won’t. We’ve spoken so much about Hersh, walked by his visage on so many banners, including the one that’s been hanging outside our backyard fence for months, watched me water what I call “the Hersh plant” — a miniature olive tree given to us by Jon and Rachel for a birthday — every Friday before lighting Shabbat candles, as the plant, with one branch sticking out, came to represent Hersh for me this year.

But at nearly 16, seven years younger than Hersh, who was 23, Lev and his twin brother Ziv haven’t hung out with Hersh for years.

They were little boys at his bar mitzvah, born just as his family returned to Israel, played as toddlers at his family’s house, where Hersh probably ignored them, when he was 9 or 10 to their 2 or 3 years of age. They never had a chance to have any real conversations with him, certainly not in recent years when Hersh was in the army, and then seeking his adventures.

And yet we’ve all dreamed of having a conversation with Hersh once released from captivity, waiting, of course, until the time was right, but hopefully getting to hug him or shake his hand, to celebrate him.

When I prayed for Hersh, I often imagined a party held in his honor at the courtyard of the local community center in Baka, some combination of rap and trance music playing as all the locals attended, including all the other released hostages, where we’d get to finally meet them as well.

Instead, a vigil was held in Hersh’s memory at that courtyard this evening, with hundreds gathering at this space, regularly used by Jon and Rachel’s shul, to pray and sing together, and gather strength from one another, from this community of neighboring mourners.

There was no trance music or rap, no joyful greetings. There were memorial candles lit and red-and-black scarves, from Hersh’s beloved Hapoel Jerusalem team, draped over the wire links of the fence.

Mourning Hersh in our southern Jerusalem community

We hugged one another, our friends and neighbors, and sort of grimaced at each other — because we couldn’t smile, not today, probably not for several days.

Daniel and I had come from one of the protests taking place around the country, this one outside the Prime Minister’s Office, as hostage families keened and wailed their anguish.

The protests and vigil were taking place as four of the funerals were being held, as Ori Danino was buried at Mount Herzl, Alex Lubanov in Ashkelon, Eden Yerushalmi in Tel Aviv and Almog Sarusi in Ra’anana. Hersh and Carmel Gat will be buried tomorrow, Hersh in Jerusalem and Carmel Gat in Be’eri.

I feel such intense sorrow and more than that, crushing anger that Hersh and the others couldn’t be saved. They were alive — actually alive! — eleven months after Hersh wrote that October 7 Whatsapp to Rachel, saying “I’m sorry” and “I love you.” These six hostages did what Rachel and Jon and the other families kept asking them to do, to survive, to keep holding on because everything was being done to save them by their impossibly strong families.

The hostages kept their part of the deal, in spite of everything, and when the IDF got too close, because of the Netanyahu government’s push to stay in Gaza’s Philadelpi Corridor rather than sign a ceasefire, the hostages were brutally murdered by their captors who then escaped, leaving the bodies deep in a Gaza tunnel.

I can’t wrap my head around it, but I have to, for them and their families. There’s still tomorrow and so many other days and weeks to come.