It’s been two years since the best and the worst essay I’ve ever written. In blessed memory of The Beutiful Six, BDE.
***
Late Saturday night, after Shabbat was over, my texts lit up with messages from other Jewish mothers. Like every night for the past 330 days, we were all holding each other up. A grieving mass of women, bodies that brought Jewish souls to earth. My messages were from Australia, Israel and New Jersey, from Los Angeles and nearby in Berkeley. They said one thing, over and over:
Hersh.
Hersh.
Hersh.
As more news broke the names piled up:
Eden, Carmel, Almog, Alex, Ori.
We were adrift in a sea of pain. We were checking our children’s sleeping faces, kissing them, reminding ourselves that right now in this moment, they were here with us. But knowing, in a way that we’ll never be able to unsee, that the world turned their back as Jews died.
And then we learned that the six hostages were executed in cold blood. That they’d survived more than 300 days of hell, only to face the cold terror of evil and death alone.
Hersh Goldberg-Polin had a quintessentially Jewish mother, a woman named for a matriarch — one who did the impossible, the unimaginable. Rachel Goldberg-Polin got up every morning, not knowing if her son was alive or dead, and fought. She recited the priestly benediction for her son after she woke. She met with world leaders. She put a piece of masking tape on her chest each morning, counting the days he’d been gone. She asked all of us to speak up, to care, to not give in to hate, to fight for love.
When I was pregnant the first time, I imagined having a girl. I’d grown up in a house full of girls, and I’d always surrounded myself with other women. I understood being a daughter, and having one was easy to imagine. I was laying on the table in the exam room when I found out we were having a boy, and my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know what it would be like to have a son; I didn’t have a way to comprehend it. My husband leaned over to me, grabbed my hand, wiped my face, and told me, “Sons are special. For them, the sun rises and sets in their mother’s eyes.” Then he laughed and said, “For Jewish boys, that goes double.”
He was right. We have two beautiful children who I love with my whole heart. My daughter is brave and ferocious, my tiny mirror. But since the moment he was born, my son has been devoted. He would go to the ends of the earth for me, and I for him. Like a good Jew, he ends every day with an argument, saying, “I love you more than you’ll ever love me. Even though you don’t believe it, I’m right.”
For 330 days, we witnessed Rachel Goldberg-Polin show the world the love between a Jewish mother and son. Just this week we saw her scream her son’s name, voice breaking on the Gaza border. “Hersh,” she yelled, the pain clawing out of her chest, “It’s Mama.” We now know that those hours were likely some of his last. As his time was ending on this earth, what we heard was a mother’s love crying out.
A matriarch. A force. A lioness. A Jewish mother.
Tonight I will push my children’s hair off their faces in bed, smother them with kisses and know that my job in this world is to keep them safe, know that while much of the world may have turned our back on us, our tribe, our people, are always with us.
I will pray for peace. For them. For all of Israel. For all who mourn in Zion. For the world. For Rachel and Jon. For the family members of all of the hostages, living and dead. And for every Jewish mother in the world, fighting to keep her head above the gray sea of despair. Knowing that to the very last, we have each other.
And then I will go back to my own bed, and my texts will light up, with messages from other Jewish mothers, spread out all over the world. “How are you?” they will say. “How did you get through the day? How will you get through tomorrow?”
And the answer will be the same as it’s been every day since Oct. 7, every day since Sinai.
Together.
https://t.co/YtCxQO9tph
@RoKhanna@camkasky You must, lose your job, get your career fucked, be an educational tale for generations to come how one can succumb to this delusional spiral.
@snboxing The gas tank thing happened, but I have an alternate theory -- as the tank was gassing, he got injured in round 8, seriously injured, and part of why is he lost his composure at the tail end of gas, didn't realize he could move, hold, and jab for 2-4 rounds and still win.
This F'ing idiot, who deserves to be called that, is so entitled he believes he can come to the U.S. on a visa, terrorize students based on ethnic prejudice, and be declared a hero. He fools the foolish, but not most Americans.
A federal judge just ruled that the Trump admin's use of immigration law to deport me and other noncitizen students for pro-Palestinian speech is unconstitutional. No one should fear speaking up for Palestine.
In a case brought by @TheFIREorg, the judge said: ‘Stated plainly, in the United States, freedom of speech belongs to the people. It is not the government’s to take.’
https://t.co/86xg7Buxya
I read this over Shabbos. The Memory Monster by Yishai Sarid is sharp, disturbing, thought provoking. (It’s also short, which is sometimes nice.) I see a lot of poor translations these days in submitted manuscripts and @YardenneG’s translation is beautiful.
@ShabbosReads
"The genocide allegation survives only by declaring every piece of exculpatory evidence meaningless. Births supposedly tell us nothing. Vaccinations tell us nothing. Food deliveries tell us nothing. Humanitarian pauses tell us nothing. Failed famine predictions tell us nothing. The absence of measured famine mortality tells us nothing.
These academics have strayed wildly beyond their lanes and converted moral vanity into counterfeit legal authority. They profit in attention and publication from a blood libel whose human cost is paid by Jews they will never meet. Shame on them. They are shameless." @Mr_Andrew_Fox https://t.co/TNOAHAqQFA