About 330 days ago, Jewish students across the country held vigils on their university plazas, surrounded by their peers, singing songs of mourning, and shedding tears of despair in the wake of October 7. This week, déjà vu shrouded me when I stood on that same university plaza, encircled by my peers, singing those same songs, and shedding tears. However, this time, an eerie stillness filled the air, chilling the flow of tears. Numbness prevailed, underscoring the menacing nature of that eeriness: Is this what we expected? This can’t be normal.
Hamas’s monstrous execution of hostages – Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Eden Yerushalmi, Ori Danino, Almog Sarusi, Carmel Gat, and Alexander Lobanov – was a subject that many of my peers and I had feared for months. With dwindling hope, we have been asking each other how many hostages we think are still alive.
We have clung to our Jewish faith and the persistence of our people, hoping that by the first anniversary of the October 7 tragedy we would no longer need to shout “Bring Them Home,” because civilization would have triumphed, and the hostages would have been returned to their families.
But after this monstrous act by Hamas, our hopes have diminished as those hostages, alive and nearly rescued by the Israeli Defense Forces, faced a death sentence for being Jewish. We lament the possibility that soon we may all be echoing the words of Hersh’s mother, Rachel, who said of her “sweet boy,” “Now I no longer have to worry about you. I know you are no longer in danger.”
The root of the menacing eeriness that my peers and I felt had something to do with Rachel’s words. We fear that, amid this tragedy, and in a world where sheer evil walks among us, we may have to adopt a mindset whereby one’s death becomes synonymous with freedom.
Grieve, but don't give up
We can accept the death of our loved ones when we so dearly cherish life, when we have been fighting to free the captives and our beloved Israel. If our tears freeze and our faces numb when we grieve for second, third, and perhaps fourth times – each time a hostage is declared dead – it is almost as if we have allowed ourselves to give up and expect this prospect.
Simultaneously, however, there is something special in the DNA of the Jewish people that redeems some of the lost hope and erodes the threatening edge of that eeriness. Something struck me when a friend told me that, upon hearing the news of the six murdered hostages, he felt the same emotions and relived his reaction to waking up on the morning of October 7. The Jewish community deeply values life, but more than that, we value each individual life. We refuse to let this expectation of tragedy override our belief in humanity or allow our numbness to become normal.
This concern was shared by Jack Werber, a Holocaust survivor who helped save more than 700 children at the Buchenwald slave labor camp in the last months of World War II. Of the six million, he said, “When you look at the number, you see merely a six followed by six zeros. You don’t see parents and children. You don’t see rabbis, professionals, and workers. You don’t see teachers and eager students. You don’t see communal and cultural institutions that took hundreds of years to develop. ‘Six million’ is just too anonymous a term to convey what was really lost.”
NUMBNESS IS a coping mechanism, and it can be normal. But the Jewish people’s emphasis on individual human life, whereby each life represents an entire world, dilutes any worry of anonymity for those we have lost. Jewish and Zionist communities continue to post the faces of the hostages on city streets and social media; Jewish and Zionist communities platform, support, and pray for their families. We commemorate the beautiful way the victims of October 7 and the hostages lived rather than the barbaric way they died. By rallying around “six,” the same way we do for a thousand or more, puts the human back into humanity and keeps the Jewish faith and people alive.
Remembering six distinct souls murdered in one stroke
We remember the six hostages, bound by their shared identities and personal passions. All were Jews and Israelis, driven by a love for music, learning, helping, and healing. Yet, within these similarities, each had a distinct light: Hersh, an Israeli and American citizen, sought to bridge Israelis and Arabs through soccer; Eden, a bartender at the Supernova music festival and an aspiring Pilates instructor; Carmel, a lover of punk rock and an occupational therapy student; Alex, a bar manager and devoted father of two; Almog, a guitarist who traveled Israel in his jeep to share his music; and Ori, a nature enthusiast who dreamed of studying electrical engineering.
With each of them in our memory, the souls stolen from us continue to inspire Diaspora Jews to champion the values of life and uphold the essence of humanity. As long as their legacies endure, and as long as we, the living, cherish and remember one person as we would a thousand or a million, our frozen tears will never harden into indifference or vengeance. Instead, they will solidify into resolve and a drive for justice, as we, the Jewish people, wrestle with our enemies, triumph, and trailblaze ahead.
The writer is a senior at George Washington University.