My synagogue hosted the Israeli resident Avi Rosenfeld, father of IDF Sgt. Israel Natan Rosenfeld, who was killed in June 2025 when an explosive device detonated while he was trying to bring the hostages home. The courage it takes for this father to share his son’s story and relive that tragedy is beyond words. Natan’s sister’s boyfriend was also killed defending Kibbutz Sufa during the Oct. 7, 2023 attacks. More than enough for one family.
At the beginning of Avi’s talk, he said that when he cried, he was strong and knew he would get through it. At the end of his talk, someone raised a hand and shared that they had named their newborn son Natan after Avi’s Natan. Tears came quickly, and Avi gripped the podium rail to steady himself. We all waited and watched. As promised, Avi got through the moment. He said, “I heard others had also named their newborns Natan.” Then he added, “Where there was one Natan, now there are many.” What an amazing perspective.
When Avi opened the talk by telling us that if he started crying, he would be okay, he was teaching us a profound lesson from his own experience: if he can get through this tragedy, then perhaps we can get through whatever life may deal us. One can only hope.
I knew from our synagogue flyer to expect difficult moments, and there were more than a few. Still, I felt, as did the other people present, that it was essential to show up and let Avi know he was not alone. Like making a shiva call, we can’t bring the soul back, but we can listen and bear witness to who that soul was. If I truly believe we are all brothers – and I do – how could I not show up?
There are many events I can’t attend, but the ones I can, I do. What right do I have to not pay attention? If Avi had come and only two people had shown up instead of the 40 or so who did, I can only imagine his pain. A broken heart beats in real time; it cannot be put on hold. Life is lonely enough. Add a tragedy of this magnitude without friends, family and others willing to listen, and it’s a recipe for disaster.
According to the Torah, two of Aaron’s four sons, Nadab and Abihu, died suddenly after the inauguration of the Tabernacle. After their deaths, Moses spoke with Aaron. The Torah then says simply: “And Aaron remained silent.”
Avi’s words touched all of us, yet there was somewhere in his heart a silent place that nobody except God and Avi knows about – a place only God and Avi can enter. We all have that same place. At certain times, there are no others, and there are no words.
Whenever I attend a talk, I make a point of approaching the speaker to thank them for coming. When I approached Avi before he began and introduced myself, I didn’t know he would say, “I was at a few of your shows in Israel.” He then sat down next to me, and we chatted and shared a few light laughs. We both agreed that laughter was important. Avi has a beautiful smile. I’m sure his son had the same.
By approaching Avi before his talk, I felt like I got to know him a little and learned something about him. Because we shared those moments, I was able to connect more deeply when he spoke. When he asked for questions, I asked, “Has anyone tried to stop you from speaking?” He said yes, but that he would never be stopped – that nothing could stop him – and that his daughter was even more adamant than he was.
When Avi finished speaking, I went up to thank him again. He told me that when I am in Israel, we should get together. Then he leaned in, touched my arms and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. That is a hug and kiss I hope to never, ever forget. It was Avi’s gift to me for showing up. That kiss went to my silent place.
Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer and hosts, along with Danny Lobell, the “We Think It’s Funny” podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”
