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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