Dear Jon and Rachel,
It’s been one week since the crushing heartbreak of Hersh’s murder. Day after day, throughout this 11-month nightmare, you shared with us your slow-motion torture – likened to getting hit by a truck, while every minute of every day the truck is still crushing your chest.
You wanted to lie on the floor, curl up in the fetal position and weep hysterically. But you realised that won't help Hersh. So rather than sink into despair, you chose the path of courage. “Hope is mandatory,” you declared.
Despite the anguish and uncertainty, you mustered superhuman strength to form “Team Hersh,” a public advocacy campaign with professional strategy and staff, its mission to keep Hersh and all the hostages at the forefront of our collective consciousness. Day by day, in hundreds of media interviews and dozens of trips to the global halls of power, you devoted every moment and every possible resource toward rescuing Hirsch – leaving no stone unturned.
As Hersh himself testified in the recently-released video: “I know you’re doing everything you can, out in the streets trying to bring me home.”
Throughout this ordeal, one constant has been the piece of masking tape on your shirts: a new number every day, corresponding to the days of hostage captivity. An emblem of pain over your hearts:
Day 39 at the mass rally in DC; Day 47 meeting with the Pope; Day 67 addressing the United Nations; Day 98 on the cover of Time magazine; Day 131 in the Wall Street Journal; Day 184 on Face the Nation; Day 186 at White House with the President; Day 320 speaking to audience of millions at the Democratic National Convention.
On social media, the “Bring Hersh Home” campaign acquired hundreds of thousands of followers. Around the world, Hersh’s photo was posted everywhere: bright red "Bring Hersh Home" stickers on lamp posts, banners hanging from apartment balconies and store windows, graffiti and t-shirts.
In the process, you helped unite the Jewish people and became an international symbol of hope. Every night before getting a few restless hours of sleep, you could honestly say, “We tried deeply and desperately every single thing possible today to bring Hersh home.”
Beyond any politics and media hype, you spoke with a universal humanitarian message that advocated for all the hostages: Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists, from dozens of countries.
From the steps of the U.S. Capitol, you showed humanity how to fight evil with resilience, projecting a voice of moral clarity: “Why is the world accepting this [hostage situation]?” you shouted. “What will your excuse be?”
As observant Jews, your faith and relationship with G-d was the anchor to guide you through this extraordinary challenge. You spoke with G-d throughout the day, showing us how all life is really a dialogue with G-d. Amidst constant torment, you refused to succumb to grief and sorrow. Your constant mantra of “Stay strong and survive” enabled you to maintain a degree of mental and emotional stability.
You tapped into the power of Psalms, drawing wellsprings of strength from ancient words where, from a deep, dark cave, King David cries out to G-d amidst pain and despair. Your dignity, poise and eloquence penetrated our hearts and gave us an anchor to survive. You showed the world what it means to be Jewish parents: unconditional love for Hersh that has grown and developed even in his absence. You displayed fierce maternal identification with Hersh’s plight, eschewing socialising, sweets and music. You consumed one bland meal a day. On Friday evenings, you’d stand on your apartment balcony in Jerusalem, face south toward Gaza, and scream out to Hersh the traditional blessing over children. It was a blessing you recently repeated at the gates of Gaza, on what would be Hersh’s last day.
At the funeral, you showed the power of gratitude by publicly thanking G-d for the privilege of being Hersh’s parents. You wish it could be more, yet grateful for the precious gift you had.
Through your relentless efforts, Hersh became our brother, son and friend. Beneath the surface, all Jews – regardless of age, gender, politics, ancestry, wealth or beliefs – are one interconnected family. We are a nation in mourning, our hearts shattered into pieces. Your pain is our pain, because the Jewish people are one family. Like a single body, an attack on one Jew is an attack on us all. When one limb hurts, we all feel the pain. In Jerusalem, thousands of people lined the streets as you went to the funeral Throughout the shiva, thousands of people waited in line to offer you words of comfort. You greeted everyone with a warm and friendly smile, and a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
Today, as you get up from sitting shiva, we bless you to stay strong and survive. We pledge to never lose focus that what unites us is greater than what divides us. Thank you for the privilege of inviting us to be part of your extended family. The heart of our nation is now linked with yours forever.
May you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
