Finally, finally, FINALLY you are free

A Tribute in Poetry to Hersh Polin-Goldberg (z"l) and His Family

A woman wakes each day for 331 days. She reaches for a roll of masking tape and a black marker, and every day she writes a number and attaches the tape to her left shoulder. Every day, no matter where she is in the world, she then raises her hands in the direction of Gaza. A son, her only son, whom she hasn’t seen since he left home on a Friday night -- October 6th, 2023 -- to enjoy Shabbat with his friends, is there, in Gaza, held captive in a narrow tunnel 66 feet underground. She raises her face and her hands toward Gaza and invokes a prayer:

                                                             יְבָרֶכְךָ ה' וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ.
                                                       יָאֵר ה' פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ.
                                         יִשָּׂא ה' פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם.

                     May Hashem bless you and keep you.
                      May Hashem make his face shine upon you, may He be gracious to you.
                     May Hashem lift His face to you and give you peace.

This blessing is Birkat Kohanim, recited by Kohanim (Judaism's high priests), who bless congregations in synagogues all over the world during morning prayers in Israel each day and outside of Israel on Shabbat and holidays. A mitzvah originating in The Book Of Numbers, this blessing is the oldest known biblical text that has been discovered. Amulets inscribed with these verses have been found in graves dating from the First Temple Period (1200-586 BC). It has been used by many religions worldwide.

                                         May Hashem bless you and keep you

In the early morning hours of October 7th, Israel was attacked by the terrorist organization Hamas. Thousands of men broke through the border into Israel from Gaza, attacking nearby kibbutzim and towns, killing 1200 people and taking another 225 into captivity. One of those captured was Hersh Polin-Goldberg (z”l), the only son of Jon Polin and Rachel Goldberg. He was last seen being forced at gunpoint into the back of a white pickup truck, his left hand blown off in an explosion that killed his best friend Aner Shapira (z”l).

                                                                Bless you.
                                                                   Keep you.

Since that day, Jews everywhere have been living though one long day, a day in October that has lasted for 349 days. For eleven months and thirteen days, nothing has felt more urgent than the return of the remaining 101 hostages (some 100 women and children were released in November), and no organization more important than the Bring Them Home movement. Many, including President Joe Biden, have worked tirelessly to secure the release of the hostages. 

And there have been no representatives of hostage families more compelling than Jon and Rachel. They have traversed the earth, summoning every strategy available to them as American citizens to bring their son home. They have been to the UN, met with the Pope, and even had a Sefer Torah written. Rachel Goldberg has become the face and the voice of hope during this terrible ongoing war. Strong, courageous, self-possessed and eloquent, with the message that her son was abducted along with other human beings of many religions, from many countries. She pointed out again and again that her calamity belonged to all of us, everyone the world over. It was Rachel who stood to talk to crowds, who made a video every day that went out on social media. Her clothes would change but every day there was a mounting number on her shoulder.

In those videos, in those speeches, in pictures and in old home movies, Rachel and Jon described their son: his love of life, his incredible kindness, his plans to travel. As their life unfolded on social media, they made their son Hersh (z”l) not only human to us, not only real, but they gave him to us to love. And love him we did. As the days piled up and more and more stories emerged, our love deepened and flourished and grew fierce.

           May Hashem make his face shine upon you, may He be gracious to you

In the Jewish world, parents have adopted the Kohanik Blessing. On Friday nights, Shabbat, Jewish parents lay their hands on each child’s head and bless them before the festive meal. Before a child's departure on a long or dangerous journey, Jewish parents will look deeply into their child’s face, put their hands on their child's head, and bless them with this incantation.

For a very long time, from the morning of October 7th when Rachel read two texts from her son (I love you; I’m sorry), no one knew whether Hersh was alive. He was wounded. He had lost his dominant arm. Anything could have happened to him in Gaza. No one knew what kind of medical attention, if any, the hostages received. They had been ripped from their beds, in their pajamas and bare feet, without their glasses or medications. They were taken from the Nova Festival for Peace (where Hersh was captured). 

Yet every day, with poise and grace, Rachel gave us her son and encouraged us to work together for the release of all the hostages. Her voice didn’t waver. And neither did her faith. I was amazed by her faith, encouraged by her voice. I and so many others took strength from Rachel as the war and the hostages' plight went on and on. How could a woman remain so steadfast during the most excruciating ordeal a mother could face? Where, I asked myself, does such faith come from? Rachel Goldberg gave me hope.

                          May Hashem lift His face to you and give you peace

When this blessing is read in synagogue, the word “shalom” is drawn out for several beats to lengthen the blessing. To draw it out. Shalom. Peace. It is perhaps the most emblematic word of Judaism and the Jewish people. As soon as it is uttered anywhere, people know you are talking about something Jewish. Today the word “shalom” is used as a greeting. Hello. Goodbye. It is Hebrew for “peace.” 

Shalom is also the second name of my youngest son Meir. Meir Shalom. His name translates into “He will bring the light of peace.” We thought of the name Meir as soon as he was born, but the second name came later, after a six-day ordeal in which his bilirubin climbed higher and higher and we were afraid he would require a blood transfusion. Not the worst thing, and yet any threat to the stability of a newborn is frightening. When we were finally released from the hospital and I climbed into the backseat beside the baby, like a whisper or a poem his name came to me. “Shalom,” I said. “We will call him Meir Shalom.”

It was then that my husband, more learned than I, told me that “Shalom” was one of the many names of Hashem. It is the name of God that connotes “achdut” -- unity -- among people. It became a greeting in ancient times when, meeting each other, people would invoke it to say, “I see God in your face.” I see the God in you. Shalom. 

                            May Hashem lift His face to you and give you peace

Prayers for the hostages covered the earth. We all just wanted to see Hersh returned to his parents’ arms. A fervent effort was made by the US government to secure a ceasefire deal, but it was not to be. On August 31st, 2024 we heard that six bodies had been found in a tunnel. On Saturday morning, September 1st, I opened my phone to see the announcement that Hersh (z”l) was among those killed. I burst into tears.

Everyone in Israel was weeping. Jews the world over were weeping. Hersh’s body was found with five other holy souls: Eden Yerushalmi (z”l,) Ori Danino (z”l,) Carmel Gat (z”l,) Almog Sarusi (z”l,) and Alex Lobanov (z”l). All had been recently shot. None of them needed to die. They could have been saved.

Just days before, Rachel had been with other hostage families at the Gaza border. Huge amplifiers were set up so family members could call out to their loved ones. “Hersh,” Rachel cried. “HERSH! It’s Mama.” When Rachel raised her voice to call out, it entered us. Her voice is that powerful. I hope he “heard” her there -- that deep underground, his soul heard his mother’s cry. I hope he had that comfort at least.

It is said that the hand of the Almighty can be found at the end of our own arms. When we lay our hands on our children’s heads, when we look down into their faces, when we love them, raise them, protect them and discipline them, we are bringing shalom, the healing energy of unity into this world. In her eulogy for her son, Rachel Goldberg set her son free. It was a remarkable goodbye to a beloved son and everyone should find the video and listen to the entire funeral. 

Jon and Rachel recently got up from shiva, and in gratitude to the many who saw them through the past year, Rachel wrote a letter. And in the gracious way the Goldberg-Polin family has shared themselves and their son with us, she shared the letter on social media. The end of her missive called for a revolution. Not one of setting fires or breaching fences. Not one of shooting guns or firing missiles. She calls for us to do better.

“Keep davening that we all survive and thrive again, somehow, some way... someday, because we will.

And may Hersh's light always inspire us. May his memory be a blessing and a revolution... but not a crazy revolution... just a revolution to think and do differently. 
To think and do... better.” 

Shalom. I see God in your face. 

Here I offer you twelve poems written by Jews across the religious spectrum and from around the world. There is love and anger in these poems. There is grief. There are prayers, for Hersh, for his family, for all of us. I hope these poems ease the ache we all feel at the losses the Jews have sustained, at the losses the Palestinians have sustained, at the way instability in Israel/Palestine brings instability to people everywhere. In Rachel’s words: we need to do better.

Let’s do better.

                                                                                       –Rachel Neve-Midbar

---

FAYE RAPOPORT DESPRES

September 1
 
Dawn is hours,
miles
away. 
The cat,
full of bounce,
leaps to the window.
 
I slide the pane
open 
to air thick
with sitting.
 
I slide the pain
open, 
and I hear them—
the crickets
who sing
the world’s
silence.
 
Our eyes
turn up,
my cat’s and mine,
as we search 
for the morning,
for a signal,
for something—
for anything that might
reveal heaven
when the day
breaks.


Faye Rapoport DesPres is the author of five books; she lives in Massachusetts.

---

TARA ZAFFT

Yellow-September 3, 2024 
We are all crying and all our tears are all different.  
(From “My brother comes to me” by Tiphanie Yanique)

The streets are quiet. Filled with people like me starting 
the day. And yellow—everywhere. A color forever ingrained
in my brain. Every bench, every tree, poster on a playground. 
Bring them Home. 
Our eyes dry from crying, from watching the funeral live,
then on repeat: 
my sweet boy Hersh, we tried so desperately to save you. 
My California mom calls as I make my way up Chen, 
past the trees we call Ents from Lord of the Rings, my son’s 
favorite books, and I think of sons. And mothers. Everything
makes me think of sons and mothers and yellow. How are you?
my mom asks through her own mama tears. 
She says, I know I’m not Jewish, but he was like mine too. 
And Rachel…
Her voice gets crackly and I say I know Mama. We sit in
silence, unable to find words and I kiss her goodbye, say
I love you and now I’m at Rothschild, at the bottom with chairs. 
Six yellow chairs with candles and flowers and posters and names:
Hersh, Eden, Ori, Alex, Carmel, Almog. 
And now walking up Rothschild I struggle to breathe till I see
a little girl, not much older than five, with a toothy
smile she looks straight into my eyes. Then skips
up the hill, knowing her backpack-laden, bicycle
pushing ima will keep up. Dressed in sparkly pink
on her way to school. Still believing. And hoping,
her yellow untamed curls bouncing as she skips.


Tara Zafft, wife and mother of three, writes personal poetry that explores relationships and the strength of the human spirit. She currently lives in Tel Aviv with her husband.

---

S.C. GORDON

Free

In the dust of dawn, the Land strains
under the weight of silence.
Klal Yisrael’s heartbeat
slows
as if pausing to listen
for a voice that’s become an echo,
a name whispered into the wind.

Hersh

you are more than a name.

Hersh

And now
the weight that once pressed heavy
against the world
lifts,
and your name—
no longer a question,
no longer a whisper—
rises, unburdened.

                  you are free

 no longer bound
to the spaces we searched

                               finally, you are free.



S. C. Gordon is a British poet and fiction writer.

---

HARRIET LEVIN

Hersh Is My Namesake Too

after my great uncle.
Back when my parents gave it
they had just lost a different
child, his heart-shaped lips,
his sleepy eyes. Maybe it never belonged
to me, like words I mispronounced
in the pages of books where I lost
myself. And so the name stuck
like a kind of love, the kind
that startles between the branches
true to the meaning of Hersh,
which is deer. So fragile
a sound when attached
to the umbilical cords’ looping
rope, how it could endanger the unborn,
as if the possibility always
remains through a life
divided into parts, like an apple
and its core. One part birth.
One part death. My grandmother
carefully reached in
her hand and scooped out the seeds.
And I know Hersh’s mother
will do the same, so that seed
after seed will grow years
from now, hoping to keep Hersh
in this world, as if time itself
has retraced its steps and everything
that has happened is
on hold, though she knows
there is nothing she can do
to stop it, no protests, no burning
tires in the streets. It was once believed
that to dream of a deer
means rebirth. Begin with me,
my name, my street,
its brick houses all in a row,
the driveway lanes in the back,
the sturdy trunks laden with fruit.


Winner of The Barnard New Women Poets Prize, Harriet Levin is the author of three books of poetry and one novel.

---

REBECCA BAT-ZEEV

Deer

It’s the trust that makes deer so terrifying. 
They believe in you along the muzzle of your gun.
They are still. They watch. Their backs freckled
like a little boy’s cheeks. You imagine they smile. 
I see them in my son’s eyes, I see the deer’s mother
and I wonder what waits in this world,
what harsh held Hersh and how what is so dear
can be so fragile, how she steadied the hands that wrote
the numbers. Nothing as strong, as helpless, 
as hope. Soft, soft, finally you’re free.
I still believe in you. 
 
 
Math With My Son
Eleven months into the war
 
If you have two hands 
and they take one away,
how many fingers
on the body we bury?


Rebecca writes about Judaism, motherhood, joy, and loss. She lives in England with her husband and two children.

---

AVIYA KUSHNER

Permission
 
Nobody asked your permission
to blow your arm off,
take your freedom,
starve you, take your life.


Aviya Kushner is the author of two books, WOLF LAMB BOMB and The Grammar of God.

---

MATTHEW LIPPMAN

Hear My Voice Hersh 

Hersh’s mother, she knows what’s up.
Tonight, her son is dead, and we eat steak.
How can we eat rib eye?
With grilled squash?
I burned my fingers on the grill and my lord, her son is dead.
My wife said, She went to the border, put up a structure, grabbed a megaphone
and screamed, Hersh, I want to talk with you so I am talking with you.
How might you say that in Hebrew?
Tonight, we ate steak and how do you live 11 months with half an arm.
Hersh’s mother grabbed a megaphone and screamed into Gaza,
Hear my voice, Hersh, I am here.
How do you howl that in Hebrew?
She grabbed the megaphone, and it was a staff
and we ate skirt steak marinated in a soy, balsamic, garlic glaze.
I did not scream when I burned my finger on the grill plates.
I did not complain.
Her son is dead.
You always have to think about that for the rest of your days
when you get a mosquito bite
or the 1 train does not stop at 238th street for track repair
or you get a flat tire on I-80 headed into Iowa City.
You cannot moan and cry and complain.
Rachel knew he was dead even before he was dead.
She is the King of the Jews today, and tomorrow,
and from now into eternity,
back into eternity.
13.8 billion light years back.
That’s what she screamed into the megaphone across the border into Gaza.
Hersh, we are coming for you.
You can’t even imagine the silence that followed
even when it was so quiet
all that existed was the dust of stars rolling around
on the tip of her tongue.


Matthew Lippman is the author of 6 poetry collections. More at matthewlippmanpoetry.com

---

AVIYA KUSHNER

Heartbreak

Just when I thought my broken heart could not
break more, because it had frozen into metallic anger,
I read that “forensic findings showed
that Hersh, Ori, Alex and Almog defended Eden and Carmel.”
Eden, whose face stared at me all summer
in Tel Aviv, whose face was the entire décor
of the misadat poalim, the workers’ restaurant,
which reminded me of my grandfather,
a lone survivor who built this country
with his hands, with concrete, who called himself
a po’el pashut, a simple worker.
 
Eden was a waitress. A worker. The décor
at the restaurant was a simple reminder
that maybe she had once worked here,
or in another bare-bones place like this,
the kind of place with schnitzel and chips
that seems to only serve men. Exhausted,
starved, far from any restaurant, the four men
held hostage had defended the two women.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Even
with their bodies broken, the men
were not broken. They had remained
men, in the Yiddish sense of the word.
 
In that low, dark tunnel—
menschen, humans.
 
Their famished hearts unfrozen.
How brave that strange lone survivor, the heart, at the end.

---

ZEEVA BUKAI

In Her Embrace

On the dance floor you wear your freedom like a badge,
even as your heart clenches.
In between the beats you wonder how they are, 
the children who haven’t seen the sun in 331 days. 
You try shake to it off, the worry,
the lake of sadness so deep 
you can’t reach bottom.
So, you dance. 
You sweat under the disco lights and smile,  
then step outside to feel the night air, 
breathe the endless sky drenched in starlight. 
And like the wind over the lake,
you hear the current of whispers
lap the shores of your body.
Six dead. 
Executed. 
Among them, Hersh.
How? You wonder, how could they kill Hersh 
when Rachel held him so tight.
Even in the center of the earth 
he must have felt her embrace, 
her breath on his neck
her lips on his cheek,
as she clutched him to her,
cleaved him to her breast.
In her arms we thought he was invincible.


Zeeva Bukai's debut novel, The Anatomy of Exile, is forthcoming from Delphinium Books, January 2025.

---

MICHAL KARA

Memoirs of the Diaspora- The Boys Named Hersh

It wasn't until I saw the video years later that memories like that one played themselves back to me, a quotidian moment unmasked as an echo to our people's past.
A mother with strands of hair clipped back, hands cupped around her mouth as she called out to her son across the fence. "Hersh! Hersh!"
The year was 2030 and at least five boys on the playground looked up. They all thought it might be their mother.
“Come, time to go home for dinner," she waved to the one that was hers. The other boys went back to playing, waiting to be picked up.
There were a lot of boys by this same name in my class, I once remarked to my own mom, who had replied that it was surely an honor for their families.
Then I saw that video, captured some ten years before, around when many of us were born. A mother standing at the border, her hands cupped around a microphone as she called out to her son.

                                                                             -- Memoirs of the Diaspora, 2037


Michal Kara is a mom and marketer in Chicago by day and a writer @lionessheiress by night.
Her latest series, Memoirs of the Diaspora, recalls memories from an imagined Jewish future.

---

HANNA YERUSHALMI

Silent Witnesses									

When you go to Re’im, 
to that sacred ground, 
notice the trees, 	
silent witnesses
to the horrors,
dazed and rooted,
their bent limbs 
could not lift up 
the fallen,
their sturdy trunks
could not shield 
the vulnerable,
their broad leaves
could not shelter 
the wounded.

When the breeze comes 
in the south,
if you listen carefully
you can hear those trees,
somber filigree pillars,
always rising,
reeling,
whispering, 
yitgadal, 
veyitkadash, 
shmeh rabbah, 
and in the distance,
the shifting sands 
utter a mournful 
amen.


Hanna Yerushalmi is rabbi and licensed clinical professional counselor.  She is the author of two books of poetry, Strip of Land and October Shiva and lives in Annapolis, Maryland with her husband, four adult children, and two cats.