A baby being comforted by its mother on our flight back from London. A baby sitting in a shopping cart, being pushed around Trader Joe’s. A baby on the Zoom screen, while celebrating a Jewish lifecycle moment.
Each time, I had the same reaction.
Each time, all I saw was the red hair.
Each time, I thought about Kfir Bibas.
While there have been lots of stories, lots of images, lots of videos from October 7 and its aftermath, I have found myself returning again and again to the story of Yarden, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir. I cannot shake the image of the fear in Shiri’s face as she clung to her babies. And I will never forget the video of them cruelly and violently being taken captive. Red hair has become synonymous with those two beautiful boys. And in the 500+ days since they were taken from their kibbutz, kidnapped by violent and evil terrorists, we have prayed for them, thought about them, and hoped they would return home safely.
When this most recent ceasefire began, there was once again hope. Hostages would begin to return home, reuniting with their families, escaping the violence and terror of Gaza. But there was also an awareness from the very beginning that some people would not be returning home alive, having been cruelly murdered on October 7 or in the days, weeks, and months since then. There was hope when the names of Yarden, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir were included on the list of hostages who would be returned. But this hope quickly gave way to fear, when the children and their mother were not freed alongside the other living women. Yarden came home and we still waited for news about his wife and sons. It was a growing sense of despair, but we never completely gave up on the hope that there might be a different ending to this story.
Two weeks ago, that hope evaporated. Hamas announced that Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir would be amongst the murdered hostages returning to Israel. Alongside Oded Lifshitz, their bodies were returned — only it wasn’t that simple: it never is when dealing with Hamas’ cruelty. The coffins were locked, the wrong keys were sent — and that is to say nothing of the awful ceremony that was held in Gaza before their return. And if that wasn’t cruel enough, it transpired that the fourth body was not Shiri, but an unidentified woman. It would be another day before Shiri would finally return home.
It has been a long, arduous, painful, and difficult year-and-a-half since October 7, and it felt like we were thrust back into that feeling of despair. There may be a ceasefire, hostages are returning home, the war is paused, but there is also so much pain. Even with those returning home alive, we have witnessed their emaciated forms, the torture evident on their bodies, and the echoes of the Holocaust in their tortured forms. And as we wait to see if there will be a second phase, we know that many of the remaining hostages will not be returning home alive. There will be more coffins, there will be more stories of lives ended too soon, there will be more heartache for our people.
With a world that doesn’t seem to care about the plight of Jewish hostages, that is unsympathetic to the murder of Jewish children, that ignores our suffering — it would be easy to despair. As hostages return in coffins — it would be easy to despair. With protesters and groups who still support the Hamas terrorists, despite all that they have done — it would be easy to despair.
But I refuse to allow them, the voices of hate and antisemitism, and the supporters of terrorists, to reduce me to despair. And despite everything, despite all that we are witnessing, despite the very real tragedy of this moment, there is still reason to hope.
With the return of Oded, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir, funerals had to be arranged. And the people of Israel were going to make sure that they were honored and supported on their final journey. The streets were lined with people to ensure that the Lifshitz and Bibas families would know that they were not alone.
What was striking to me was the way that an entire country came together to honor those who were murdered. The crowds stood together as one, with a single purpose. And when you saw people lining the streets, it was not a protest of hatred for the enemy, with slogans attacking the murderers, or banners calling out the terrorists. Instead, it was a gathering of support and solidarity, focused on love — love for the people who were murdered, for their families, and for their community. The people gathered together at this saddest moment to ensure that the victims of this most vile crime would be accompanied on their final journey with love.
I can’t help but contrast these images with the protests and gatherings that we have seen on university campuses and in cities around this country. These protests, which claim to support the Palestinian people, so often end up focusing on hate rather than solidarity. Terrorist slogans are shouted, banners spewing hatred of Jews and Israel are waved, and it is so clearly a protest against a group, rather than in support of anyone or anything.
Despite the very real pain at the murder of Oded, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir, the people in Israel did not allow themselves to give in to hatred, and in their lining the streets they instead chose love.
And in the eulogies that were delivered by their families, in the midst of the most difficult of circumstances, they once again chose to focus on love. When Daniel Lifshitz, Oded’s grandson, stepped forward to remember his saba — his grandfather, he said: “I learned from you about the Middle East, about how the world is actually so small; you taught me that people are good.” And when Dana Silberman Sitton eulogized her sister and nephews, she shared the values that she and Shiri had been raised with. She said that they “grew up in a home filled with love, compassion, and understanding […] raised to be strong women, to love others, and respect differences.” Amid heartbreaking tragedy, a reminder that people are good and that we need to love others and respect differences. I don’t know how they found the strength.
There are many reasons to give in to despair at this time. And alongside Oded, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir, we must also remember Ohad, Itzik, Shlomo, and Tzachi, who were also murdered by the terrorists and returned to us in coffins this past Wednesday. So much death, so much destruction, so much hate — and so many reasons for despair. But that is not how we honor their memories. That is not the way Israel chose to accompany the victims on their journeys to their final resting places.
When we hear that a family member has died, the Jewish tradition is that we are supposed to tear whatever clothing it is that we are wearing — we represent this ritual with the keriah ribbon, which is torn at the beginning of a funeral and worn throughout the week of shiva. There is so much symbolism in this simple gesture. It represents the brokenness that we feel in our hearts when a loved one has died. It represents the fact that our lives are irreparably changed when a loved one dies; the tear can be sewn over, but evidence of the rip remains forever. And it represents the fact that our world feels torn apart, permanently changed with our loved one being gone.
And in the aftermath of murder, after losing a loved one in the cruel circumstances that robbed us of Oded, Shiri, Ariel, Kfir, Ohad, Itzik, Shlomo, and Tzachi — the break is that much sharper, the rip stretches more deeply, and it feels impossible that the tear can be sewn over. Our hearts are broken and there is immense pain in the brokenness that we feel. But I think there is also something immensely powerful in the brokenness that we are feeling — it reminds us that despite the horror of this moment and the situation we find ourselves in, we still feel, we are still human, we can still love. Love and loss are tragically, inextricably linked. I often think about the quote from Golda Meir: “Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart do not know how to laugh either.”
There is an Instagram account simply entitled @jewishpoems, and they shared the following:
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With our broken hearts, we will love longer, harder, and stronger than before.
This sermon was originally shared with the Temple Shir Tikva community on Feb. 28, 2025. Watch it here.
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