8 | JANUARY 11 • 2024
around the world, particularly
in the U.S. I believe he was
the victim most reported
on in the days after the
massacre, because of his
U.S. citizenship, the years
in Seattle and his peace
activism (not to mention
the abundance of flattering
pictures).
In “normal” times, people
in communities take turns
caring for sufferers. Death
and illness happen more or
less randomly. Before Oct. 7,
paying a shivah visit often felt
like a nice thing to do or even
an unwelcome obligation,
an interruption to our hectic
schedules.
After Simchat Torah,
our society experienced
an enormous amount of
suffering all at once. People
needed to care for the
families of the dead, the
injured and the traumatized,
the 200,000 Israelis who were
displaced from the north and
the south to safer locations,
and the partners and children
of those called up for reserve
duty. My own daughter
arrived from Beersheva with
her small children after her
husband’s unit was called up,
although he was able to stay
with us until after the shivah.
There have been multiple
campaigns to meet the needs
of the soldiers, too.
A PUBLIC MOURNING
I realized early on that
because Hayim’s death was
part of our national story,
the mourning would be
public. Expecting a crowded
and hectic shivah house, we
publicized times to allow the
family time for meals and a
reasonable bedtime. I realized
that I would have to push my
personal grief aside until after
the shivah. You can fall apart
later, I told myself.
The shivahs in the
aftermath of the Oct.
7 massacres had a surreal
quality. Not everyone could
cope with their intensity.
One friend told me that
after getting to my building,
she couldn’t bring herself
to come inside because she
was so afraid of saying the
wrong thing. But others
felt compelled to be there. I
noticed that parents who have
lost a child made a special
effort to come, members of a
“club” I now belong to.
For others, I was the only
personal connection, no
matter how faint, to this
national tragedy. It seemed
that the comforters who had
the least connection to me
or Hayim appeared the most
affected. I think they needed
to be there the most.
During this period, I
realized that I had a role to
play, a mission if you will.
Aside from typical mourning
activities like sorting out
Hayim’s personal effects and
preparing the text for the
tombstone, I found myself
serving as a kind of container
that allowed people to process
their own grief.
This was crystallized
during a shivah visit from
my friend Rachel Cohen
Yeshurun, whom I had
only known online until
then. Rachel’s son Yosef
z”l tragically died by
suicide earlier this year as
a consequence of mental
illness. At the shivah, she
told me how she coped by
grasping at what she called
in Hebrew pisot nechama,
fragments of comfort. She
searched for any memory that
allowed her to feel good while
pushing away the bad ones.
“But you, you have so
many pisot nechama,” Rachel
went. “All those stories about
Hayim that you are sharing.
They will help you later on,
when everyone has left, and
you are alone.”
Rachel had one more thing
to say. “Your posts about
Hayim comfort me, too.”
I hadn’t imagined that
stories about Hayim could
comfort a mother who had
lost a child to suicide. This
resonated with me.
The fact that my private
mourning has a public effect
hit home in a bigger way, a
month after Oct. 7, when
I attended a memorial and
protest service at the Knesset.
The organizers asked to bring
signs, so I had a sign printed
that included Hayim’s photo
and a description of his
many occupations. I invited
friends to come along and
hold them with me. The
colorful sign, designed by
my CWJ co-worker Rachel
Stomel, came out so well
that I felt a bit like an over-
achiever, but holding it felt
good. I needed my grief to be
recognized. A steady stream
of people approached me at
the event, sharing how they
had also lost friends and
family in Holit. Others had
been Hayim’s students at the
pre-army academy where
he taught, his academic
colleagues, journalists and
people who knew me from
online spaces.
But I was most moved by
what happened afterward
while waiting with my friends
at the bus stop. The 10 or so
people waiting noticed the
signs with Hayim’s picture
and began to ask questions,
listening intently as I told
them about his life. They
stood in a half circle around
me. A woman I didn’t
know who had attended the
memorial sat next to me on
the bench and clutched my
hand.
“Who is he named after?”
asked one woman. (My
mother’s father, Hayim
Yisrael).
After I mentioned that
my father was a Holocaust
survivor from Poland, she
asked, “What hasidut was
your father from?”
“Gur” (Gerrer), I replied.
“I knew it!” she said.
A young Haredi woman
and her husband approached
before continuing down the
street. “Our apartment in
Netivot suffered a direct hit,”
she said. “I feel for you.” The
bus never did show up.
I saw a comment by
The author holding a sign with her son’s photo at a memorial event.
COURTESY OF NOGA TARNOPOLSKY
PURELY COMMENTARY
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