As my children settle in for bed each night, they always ask me the same question: “What happened in Israel today, Abba?” Most nights, I share stories—some hopeful, some miraculous and some sad. Despite the news to be shared, these moments have become a cherished routine.  

But last night was different. The news of the Bibas family hit with a weight so heavy, words couldn't fully capture the horror.  I dreaded the question all day. As I held my boys close in my arms, I found myself overwhelmed with tears, unable to share anything more than silence.

Any parent can understand the feeling of holding your child in your arms — wanting to show them love, but also to protect them. It’s in those moments that we begin to understand what Shiri Bibas must have felt as she fought to protect her sons, to comfort them, to make them feel safe even in hell.

The image of Shiri holding her innocent children, trying to shield them with her body and a flimsy blanket, trying to love them even there.  It's unbearable.  

For over 500 days, I’ve thought of Ariel and Kfir Bibas every day, seeing their faces in my own children. Now, the world learns more of the unimaginable brutality inflicted upon them. In Gaza, mobs cheered at the sight of coffins, and Hamas even returned the wrong body, showing a disregard for human dignity that shocks us to the core. This cruelty is a stark reminder of the depths of inhumanity we face.

As much as the right answer to my children last night might have been silence.  Our answer cannot be silence.  

In an article in Commentary Magazine this week, Seth Mandel captures what it means to see such cruelty unfold before a largely silent world. He writes:

"In such a world, the faces of the Bibas children would be everywhere at all times. In the world in which we live, by contrast, posters with those faces get torn down from bulletin boards. In the kind of world we hope to deserve to inhabit, no children’s charity or NGO would go a day without drawing attention to Kfir and Ariel and the monsters who stole them."  

His words echo our own sense of righteous anger: Where is the global outcry? Where is the unequivocal condemnation of such brutality?  How do we live with this deafening silence?  How are we meant to respond?  

We cannot stay silent. 

We cannot turn away from the reality that our brothers and sisters in Israel—our families, our friends, our loved ones—are still under attack. Just last night, more bus bombings took place in Israel, a grim reminder that Hamas remains relentless in their campaign of terror.  

Our commitment is clear: 

We will speak out - to our communities, to our neighbors and to our political leaders - insisting that the world recognize Hamas for what it is: a terror organization ready to kill again.  

We will support Israel - through prayer, through advocacy and through every means at our disposal. 

And we will remember - the names, the faces and the stories of the victims, especially young Ariel and baby Kfir, so that the world cannot ignore their fates.  

As we enter Shabbat with a heavy heart, I am comforted by words shared by Jewish scholar Dr. Mijal Bitton.  She reflects on the transition from the revelatory moment at Sinai, described in Yitro last week, to the more grounded laws of Mishpatim we will read this Shabbat.  The awe-inspiring moment of divine revelation, marked by lightning, flames, and a powerful voice, bound the people together "as one person with one heart."  However, Mishpatim brings us from the ecstasy of Sinai to the more grounded, practical realm of laws and civil responsibilities. 

She writes, "I always found this transition jarring. How did we go from revelation to legal disputes over oxen? From ecstasy to the minutiae of civil responsibility? Then I became a mother. And I understood.  I learned that love is not just passion—it is obligation. Not grand gestures, but the repetitive acts that sustain another: feeding, holding. Love is duty. Love is labor."  

"This is the heart of Mishpatim. It is not only the legal scaffolding for Jewish society. The Torah takes the logic of parental love—unyielding, obligated—and insists that we expand it beyond the walls of our homes, to our entire people."

The Torah has shaped us into a people who refuse to let heartbreak belong only to those who suffer directly. Yes, this love makes us vulnerable, but it is also our greatest power. This Shabbat, let us embrace that power. Take a moment to hug your loved ones—not a quick, casual hug, but a deep, long embrace, like the one Shiri Bibas must have given her children. And let them know that everything will be okay.

Sending chizuk (strength) and hugs,  

Eric Maurer
CEO
emaurer@ujcvp.org