This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
A Prayer on this Rosh Hashanah
May you — we- have the courage to not lose hope, even when hope feels lost after Hersh, Carmel, Eden, Alexander, Almog, and Ori were murdered (and all of the innocent lives taken on Oct.7)
May you — we — have the courage to believe in a better world, even when it feels so far away.
May you have the courage to wear a Star of David, even if you want to hide it under your sweatshirt at times.
May you hold the despair of this past year and may you honor the countless lives that have been taken since October 7.
But may you not fall into hopelessness.
May you not lose a sense of community and connection.
May you seek comfort in the laughter that unites our Jewish family.
May the melodies of your favorite niggun wash over you.
May the voices of so many beloved Jewish activists and thought-leaders fill you with awe. May the support of your elders nourish you.
May the familiar taste of soft challah remind you of the triumph of being Jewish. For us here, all of us, we are miracles.
May this new year remind us how sacred and precious we are.
May this year be a year of hope and safety.
May we all find liberation from pain and despair, and welcome a time of sweetness and wholeness.
May this year replace our tears with joy.
And may we have the courage to believe it’s possible.
For Rachel Goldberg-Polin
Rachel, we feel like we know you.
We have heard your wails. We’ve heard your calls. We’ve watched you stand up over and over again and become a celebrity of sorts, even though you never wanted this.
You never wanted this year.
You never wanted to be ripped away from the life you were supposed to be living, a life of peace and with ALL of your children alive and safe and whole.
You have become public and your grief is so real. I can’t look away from it.
But, I hope, against hope, that perhaps, that you are finding a small way to be private with your grief and with your love and with your family.
I hope that you can shield a small part of yourself and where you can protect yourself without the world watching.
You let so many watch your pain and we witnessed your fierce, fierce mothering.
We saw you and we saw Hersh and boy did we witness more evils than imaginable from the depths of a sickening hellscape.
How can we protect you from this loss? How can you, who gave yourself over to saving your precious son, survive this pain?
Rachel, sweet Rachel, we see you. We know this new year won’t be joyful and there is nothing that can be said except we love you. And we love Hesh.
I will listen to Hersh’s favorite playlist and I will eat his favorite chocolate chip cookies and I will keep reading about his wonderful life that ended far too soon.
I will think of him as the light that he was — and the pure light that he is now.
He is part of the light that comes right before the sun rises, that part that is almost indescribable, yet it faintly, proudly, lights the whole sky.
I will think of you, standing tall, so many times when you must have wanted to sink down into the ground.
I will think of your towering husband, standing beside you. Letting you be seen.
Rachel, you let the Jewish world into your life and the intimacy emboldened so many. And the pain was vast and deep.
And I know your pain is deep and vast and long, longer than those death tunnels right next door to Erez Yisrael.
But, please, please, know that there will be light again.
It won’t be there tomorrow. But it will be soon.
And it will whisper Hersh, Hersh, Hersh. And you will whisper back, it’s Mama. I’m here.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Molly Ritvo is a writer and author living in Burlington, VT. She has been writing for her whole life, beginning when she was selected as the class poet in the 1st grade. Her work has been published by Upstreet Literary Magazine, the Jewish Writing Project, Tiny Buddha, Elephant Journal, Mother.ly, PJ Library, At the Well, and more. She holds a BA from Tufts University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Molly has worked as a freelance writer, a communications specialist for many different organizations, and a journalist. She is currently writing her debut novel, a collection of Jewish themed poetry, and working as a communications consultant and grant writer. Her most important role is being a mom to her daughter, Jimi. Find out more about Molly and read more of her writing at mollyritvo.com.
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