Since October 7th, my heart has grown a protective membrane, shielding me from the unrelenting pain and woe. From the daily tally of IDF soldiers lost fighting a vicious foe to the families of Israeli hostages weeping in the streets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, begging politicians to save their loved ones. From the towns of Gaza that now mirror Europe’s wrecked cities during WWII, to Gazan parents cradling their children’s remains wrapped in cotton muslin, names scrawled in black across makeshift shrouds.
This protective membrane serves its purpose. A voluntary news blackout cannot block everything, but it shields me from the worst stories. It filters out the brutes, the bullies, and the opportunists who see only dollar signs where ethics should reside.
Yet this membrane extracts its price. Cynicism creeps in. Sarcasm becomes a reflex. Everything grows suspect, and nothing good penetrates. Darkness lurks, and life tastes bitter.
I began writing this on Thursday night. On Friday morning, I’m struggling to keep the ceasefire story from breaching my heart’s defenses. I cannot bear to watch it collapse. I imagine the hostage families clustered around their televisions and radios, hanging on every word of Israel’s famous around-the-clock news programs and heated debate shows. Who indeed can argue like a Jewish man convinced of his righteousness and others’ folly?
This ceasefire agreement is undeniably bitter medicine for Israel. Many in the government and their supporters resist swallowing it. They refuse to grant Hamas any concession to acknowledge their existence. Yet according to a recent Israel Democracy Institute survey, more than two-thirds of the public supports a deal to release all or some hostages. The remainder—about a quarter—advocate maintaining military pressure on Hamas, believing it will yield better terms for Israel.
Let’s be clear: no ceasefire, no armistice, arrives without complications. Questions about what remained unaccomplished will persist. The melody of “would’ve, could’ve” plays eternally in the background. This is an imperfect process, as all such processes must be.
As I prepare for Shabbat, I hold fast to one hope: bring them home. I pray: bring them home. Despite the unfinished business and political machinations, I pray this marks the beginning of a long, winding path toward some form of peace.
As Daniel Gordis writes, “A deal can be a huge success and a crushing failure at the very same time. A deal can raise the spirits of a country and leave it shattered at the very same moment—and that, assuming the deal goes through, is almost certainly what will happen. If this deal goes through, what happens to the spirit of the Jewish State? If this deal does not go through, what happens to the spirit of the Jewish state? We do not know.”
What I know from here in the Diaspora is this: As odious as Hamas is and will always be, they remain an unavoidable reality. There’s no one else to negotiate with. The release of these Israelis is beyond overdue. The cost of this hostage exchange is one we must collectively bear. Bring them home.
Before Shabbat 