Finding Hope Amid the Empty Strollers: Reflections on UCLA’s “Bring Them Home” Rally

Walking into the Hillel building at UCLA on November 7, I saw something that both moved and distressed me, which could only be understood in the context of our post-October 7 world. 

It was the sight of dozens of strollers being stored in the building’s lobby. 

The strollers weren’t there because children were learning or playing at Hillel that day. On the contrary, they were there because of almost 40 missing children, who were captured by Hamas terrorists on October 7 and have been held hostage in Gaza ever since. These empty strollers would be displayed at our on-campus “Bring Them Home” rally later that day, marking the one-month anniversary of the atrocious attacks against the Jewish people and the State of Israel.

At that November 7 rally, I was deeply affected by the presence of those empty strollers as well as our immaculately decorated yet desolate Shabbat table – with empty chairs for the hostages of Hamas. To me, those objects served as the concrete manifestations of our heavy hearts, of our acute feelings of loss, and of our shattered, incomplete worlds. 

Their symbolism brought to my mind the famous verses in Chapter 31 of Jeremiah, which describe our matriarch, Mother Rachel (Rachel I’manu), weeping for the Jewish people. “A cry is heard in Ramah — wailing, bitter weeping — Rachel weeping for her children. She refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are gone.” 

Since October 7, we’ve found ourselves stuck in a harrowing new reality — Israel is fighting for its survival while the world grapples, once again, with the Jewish Question. After restless nights, we’ve been waking up to news reports of terror attacks, rocket sirens and infiltration alerts. We’ve formed an anxious routine of constantly checking in with our loved ones in Israel to see if they are safe. 

The media updates are a daily reminder that Israel is now in Week 6 — and counting — of this war. Still, hundreds of innocent hostages remain held in captivity in Gaza. The IDF’s forces, meanwhile, are actively operating in harm’s way in the terror-ridden enclave. The casualties keep mounting; there remains no clear end in sight to the conflict.

During the rally that afternoon, while I fixated on the empty strollers and the deserted Shabbat table, and contemplated the unimaginable plight of the hostages and their families, I could also imagine Rachel I’manu weeping for her children, who are gone.

I could hear Rachel I’manu weeping for the men, the women and the children taken hostage on Simchat Torah, as well as for their families and loved ones. Rachel I’manu weeps for the victims of the massacres, for the fallen soldiers, and for the brave warriors protecting the State of Israel. She weeps for the plight of the Jewish people, both in Israel and in the diaspora. 

Even though November 7, 2023 marked the formal completion of the shloshim stage of the mourning, our intense suffering and national grief persists. Now more than 40 days later, Rachel I’manu continues to weep bitterly. Her children are in danger and distress; there remains no consolation.

Will there ever be consolation? 

At the “Bring Them Home” rally that afternoon, after reflecting on those conspicuous and poignant symbols of loss, I took a fuller look at my surroundings. Beyond the empty strollers were hundreds of students, faculty, alumni and community members, all rallying together in the heart of UCLA’s campus in support of Israel. 

I saw magnificent Israeli flags waving softly in the breeze under the powder-blue Southern Californian sky. I thought of the Israeli national anthem — “Hatikva,” “The Hope.” Then I felt something that has eluded me for most of the war: I started to feel, perhaps, an inexplicable sensation of hopefulness. 

I felt the mood described in the very next verse of Jeremiah’s Chapter 31. “Thus said GOD: Restrain your voice from weeping, Your eyes from shedding tears; For there is a reward for your labor — declares GOD: They shall return from the enemy’s land.”

During the rally, I could feel, in a most tangible way, the unity and the resilience of the Jewish people. Observing the passionate yet peaceful crowd, I could sense our nation’s indomitable spirit. We are indeed the “nation that has survived the sword.”

I could also relate to the prophetic words in Jeremiah: “I will build you firmly again, O Maiden Israel.” I became convinced: after October 7, the Jewish people will indeed rebuild. In both Israel and the Diaspora, we will build houses, we will establish synagogues, and we will found schools. We will raise families and we will develop our communities. 

And yes, the citizens of Israel will return to those very towns and communities along the Gaza fence that were pillaged and marauded on Simchat Torah, and they will rebuild them, too. 

But then I wondered: how could I be so sanguine? Admittedly, the feelings of hopefulness couldn’t be based on any empirical evidence I had. 

Why was I optimistic?

After all, the rally was held at my school, UCLA, which, in recent weeks, like many other college campuses, has become an epicenter of a torrid wave of spiraling anti-Semitism in America. At universities nationwide, pro-Palestinian groups and their demonstrators — students and faculty members alike — regularly delegitimize the State of Israel and call for armed resistance against it. 

In their bravado, pro-Palestinian activists claim that their rhetoric is not even anti-Semitic. 

For Jewish students, it is now clear as day that our campuses are not, in fact, “safe spaces” for us. Each day, we can feel our Jewish identities and attachments to Israel under attack. 

And on the more macroscopic level, the Jewish people are in a most precarious state. Across the world, our enemies are emboldened to an extent not seen in decades. The mainstream media, too, hardly attempts to disguise their bias. Human rights groups have now largely forgotten the atrocities of October 7. Israel, the “nation that dwells alone,” is blamed squarely for the suffering of the Palestinians in Gaza. 

So, given these local and global developments, how could I have felt hopeful on a college campus during our November 7 rally? Did this even make sense?

Upon further reflection, I have come to accept that my emerging feelings of hope weren’t based on any logic, reason or any specific evidence I had.

Upon further reflection, I have come to accept that my emerging feelings of hope weren’t based on any logic, reason or any specific evidence I had. 

Instead, my hopefulness emanated from my intuition, and from an innate conviction that, despite the current situation that has set us reeling, the nation of Israel will live on. It was a hopefulness rooted in faith, in emuna, and trust in the power of the timeless Jewish spirit. 

Even while we mourn this ongoing tragedy, I have unbridled hope in the Jewish people and their resolve to rebuild. I can reconcile the majestic Israeli flags in that lively crowd, with those nearby empty strollers and the deserted Shabbat table. There is no paradox here. 

I now reflect on the timeless verse in Exodus, which describes how the Israelites responded, thousands of years ago, to the Egyptians’ stubborn attempts to oppress them through forced labor.

“But as much as the Egyptians would afflict them, so did the Israelites increase and so did they gain strength.”

After October 7, 2023, why would this time be any different?

Alex Rubel is a third-year student at UCLA.