For 737 Days, We Had Numbers on Our Chests

It started 26 days after her son was kidnapped from the Nova music festival. Rachel Goldberg-Polin tore a strip of masking tape, wrote a number on it, and pressed it to her chest. The next day she wrote “27,” then “28,” then “29.” She said later she was inspired by her childhood memories from 1979, when 52 Americans were taken hostage at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran. Every evening, ABC News began its coverage with a running count of how many days they had been in captivity.

It became a way to bear witness—an act of protest, an insistence to all who saw it: “My child is still gone, you may not turn away.”

My wife Jacqueline met Rachel on the street one day in our neighborhood in Jerusalem in 2009. They struck up a conversation and, Rachel being Rachel, we were invited that Friday night for Shabbat dinner. Our families became friends. Hersh and his family joined us for Isa’s bat mitzvah. Rachel and Jon were with us to celebrate Jacqueline’s surprise 40th birthday party, which I planned and organized and so, sadly, ended up not being a surprise.

In solidarity with her friend, Jacqueline began wearing a small piece of tape each morning starting on the 100th day of Hersh’s captivity. She never missed a single day. On about day 130, I started as well. It became part of our morning ritual. I would make coffee and feed the dogs. She would write our numbers and remind me to put mine on.

People would often ask us about the number on the tape. Had we just completed a running race? Was it a combination of numbers for a Powerball ticket? A sports stat? “No,” we would reply. “It’s the number of days our friend’s son has been held hostage in Gaza.” Each interaction opened a door. And every time—every single time—the response from strangers was empathy. No one laughed. No one said something hateful about Israel or Jews. Instead, they listened. They were moved. They cared. It was a reminder that the human instinct, when confronted with another person’s pain, is far more often compassion than cruelty.

This past week—blessedly—on day 737, we put those numbers on our chests for the very last time.

It’s hard to describe the relief we feel collectively at the return of the 20 living hostages. We can breathe again in a way we have not allowed ourselves to for so long. But, like most things in our lives, it’s not uncomplicated. The joy of their homecoming is muted by the heartbreak of the last two years: the trauma we carry, the lives lost in captivity, the more than 900 soldiers who made the ultimate sacrifice to help secure their return, and the bodies now at last coming home so their families can finally offer burial and begin to mourn fully. Our hearts are lifted, and our hearts are still heavy.

This has been one of the most trying chapters in modern Jewish history. And yet, through sorrow and fear, something essential about who we are has been revealed. We have shown not only strength and resilience, but character—our mettle. In moments of profound challenge, we demonstrate to ourselves and to others who we really are.

Here in our synagogue community, we have held on to one another with extraordinary tenderness and resolve. With all of our differences, with our extraordinary diversity, we have been united in our cry: Bring them home now! Beyond our walls, our bond with Israel and with Am Yisrael has only deepened. We have cared, we have advocated, we have shown up—in prayer, in conversation, in action, and in love.

But just as importantly, we have held tight to our values. Despite our own losses, despite the surge in antisemitism and anti-Israel hostility, we have not allowed bitterness to define us. We have continued to embody empathy, to honor difference, and to pray and advocate for peace—not naively with rose-colored glasses, but as a moral commitment, even when it feels painfully far off. Hope, for us, is not a luxury. It is programmed into our spiritual DNA. And empathy, as I argued in my Rosh Hashanah sermon, is not for us moral weakness—it is the very backbone of our moral strength.

In our home, the tape that marks these many painful days will soon come down. We’ll store it somewhere. We will never forget. Those little strips of masking tape tell a story of heartbreak, vigilance, commitment, solidarity, and love. They also remind us that we are capable of holding pain and moving forward—that memory need not prevent healing.

For 737 days, the numbers on our chests told a story of heartbreak and insistence. Now we turn to the teaching of the Psalmist: “Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Ps. 90:12) May we be worthy of the days ahead—counting not only what we endured, but what we build, restore, and redeem together.