Rabbi Andrew Jacobs

Dear Rachel and Jon,

I am one of countless people you have meet over the past horrific 330 days. We spoke in May, standing in the Rose Garden at President Biden’s reception for Jewish American Heritage Month. As I told you how much we all love and support you both and, of course, Hersh, you took my hand asked about me. You wanted to know who I was, where I was from, and why I was at the White House. I felt my responsibility at that moment was to offer comfort to you, but you turned the tables. You comforted me. As we spoke and you looked me in the eyes, your great strength, remarkable courage, and tremendous grace filled me with hope. Hope that Hersh will come home. Hope that the other hostages will come home – because you never just focused on your son, your only son. You gave space to all the other hostages and their families. You gave us all hope that we as a people, along with all of our allies, will persevere.

Rachel and Jon, when I got word last night that Hersh was murdered along with Eden, Carmel, Almog, Alex, and Ori, I shattered – along with all the other people who have fallen in love with your son – because you put him in our hearts. He was our son. He was our brother. He was our friend. Even though so many of us did not know him. You taught us who he was. You made Hersh more than “one of the hostages.” Your advocacy made him more than a face on a poster. You made him real and, of course, he was real. And he forever will be part of us. While we wish you were never put in this role – thank you for sharing your son with us. He is forever home in all of our hearts. In all of our homes – across the world.

At the same time, you, along with the other families, made Eden, Carmel, Almog, Alex, Ori and all the others part of our lives. They too are our children, siblings, friends.

Rachel and Jon, I am shattered. So, I can’t begin to fathom what you, Hersh’s parents, are feeling, thinking, experiencing. Rachel, I hear your voice, like a shofar, wailing “Hersh, Hersh” at the Gaza border just the other day. Jon, I hear you at the border saying “Hersh, it is Dada.” As a father, I weep. I weep with so many whom you have given Hersh to over the past 330 days. Know we will not let go of him. We will not let go of Eden, Carmel, Almog, Alex, Ori. We will not let go of any of them.

Last night, I did not sleep, Rachel, I kept seeing you collapsing as you did before the crowd at the DNC. This time, however, you are not collapsing because you are overwhelmed by the support – but now overwhelmed by pain and despair. Jon, I see you standing by Rachel, supporting her, as you did at the DNC – but now I am worrying that you too might have, understandably, collapsed. There is only so much one can take.

You have both been our rock during this madness. Now, somehow, we, your people, your extended family, need to figure out how to be your rock as you grieve, wail, scream, rage.

You taught us that hope is mandatory. But I find myself struggling to feel hope after last night’s devastating news.
Hope feels like it has exploded and is now lying around me, broken pieces everywhere.

And then I think of your mantra, your words to Hersh for the past almost 10 months:

Stay strong, survive…

While living through the unimaginable, Hersh stayed strong for months in captivity. We know that because he was alive. He was surviving – this is what makes this moment so infuriating. He was so close to coming home.

You both were, despite, terribly dark moments, staying strong too. You were surviving – for 330 days.

If you were able to do this, if Hersh was able to do this, the best way we can honor you and your son is to dig deep and find the strength needed to pick up the broken pieces and survive.

And so, in addition to sending you both my deepest condolences, I write to tell you that because of Hersh, because of you both, I will, amidst all the agony, stay strong. I and so many of us out here will stay strong so we can be there for you and the other families and, God willing, the other hostages when they return home. And, most importantly, we will figure out how not just to survive, but to thrive because this is how we will honor the memory of your son, and the others lost with him. Somehow, someway, we will do this.

And to the two of you, and the other families grieving this unfathomable loss, let yourself be weak for a bit. Let us, your extended family do some of the heavy lifting. You must know that you’ve taught us how to do this. It is our turn now. For you, we will be strong. If you can, read the Psalms and embrace other rituals as you have asked us to do. And, please, please, please, survive. We promise we will do the same.

הַמָּקוֹם יְנַחֵם אֶתְכֶם בְּתוֹךְ שְׁאָר אֲבֵלֵי צִיּוֹן וִירוּשָׁלַיִם

Hamakom yenakhem etekhem betokh shaar avelay tziyon viyrushalayim.

May the Omnipresent comfort you among the rest of the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem

With much love,

Rabbi Andrew Jacobs