Why I named my newborn son after Hersh Goldberg-Polin
‘It wasn’t only that I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to be a mother like Rachel.’
Danielle Berrin with her newborn son, Moses Tzvi, named after the late Hersh Goldberg-Polin. Photo by Aimee Ginsburg Bikel
I was not yet a mother the first time I encountered Rachel Goldberg-Polin.
But I remember the interview she and her husband Jon gave to ABC’s David Muir a few days after Oct. 7, recounting how their eldest child and only son, Hersh, was kidnapped from the Nova Music Festival and taken hostage by Hamas to Gaza. Rachel said “we haven’t slept” in a way that sounded like a plea. She shared her son’s last text message to her. “I love you. I’m sorry,” he wrote.
And I remember thinking how intimate their bond seemed, this deep knowing between Rachel and Hersh, mother and child. Hersh was the one who was dismembered and kidnapped, but he was sorry for her pain. He knew how fiercely she loved him.
Unable to leave her child unanswered, Rachel confessed that in her quiet moments at night she’d speak to Hersh, who was trapped somewhere underground in Gaza.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” she whispered to herself, certain that somehow her comfort could transcend the distance between them and that wherever he was, he would hear her.
Although I was not a mother when Rachel’s agony began, I longed with every fiber of my being to become one. And every time I saw her anguished face or heard her speak about her son, it unleashed some deep, unarticulated grief in me. It wasn’t only that I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to be a mother like Rachel.
In late December, about two months after the Oct. 7 attack, I became pregnant. And two months after that, I went to Israel and visited the Nova site, which by now had become a memorial. As the ground shook beneath me from bombs exploding in Gaza a few miles away, I stared into the cardboard faces of the murdered and abducted children who were no longer with us.
It was there, on that hallowed ground, the last place Hersh Goldberg-Polin was free, that my pregnancy took on new meaning. Having a child was no longer only about me and my dreams: In a year in which we had lost so many Jewish souls, I felt chosen; I was given the great blessing of bringing new Jewish life into the world.
My own mother died more than a decade ago, so Rachel became my guide. How many of us fear that when the worst thing happens, all we’ll be able to do is curl up in a ball, sink to the ground and wish for death? I was astounded by Rachel’s courage to contain her pain, cleave to her mission and insist the world learn Hersh’s name.
And not just Hersh’s name: Did Rachel ever give a speech when she did not mention all of the hostages? Was there ever a time she failed to remind the world it wasn’t only Jews and Israelis who had been stolen from their families but also Christians, Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists? That the “treasured human beings” taken hostage hailed from 23 different countries?
Who was this woman, I wondered, this gifted messenger, this leader among our people?
Without touting any other credential but her role as a mother, Rachel made her way onto the international stage and into the most powerful political offices in the world. She was armed with nothing but her poetic and prophetic voice. Again and again she told Hersh’s story, rescuing him from the flatness of victimhood and reanimating him as a flesh-and-blood human being that strangers the world over came to know and love.
Sometimes, while addressing crowds in the tens of thousands or posting a daily missive on the “Bring Hersh Home” Facebook and Instagram pages, Rachel would choke up, pause mid-sentence or drop her head in anguish. Lest anyone think of her as the perfect public figure, this authentic emotion exposed her deepest, truest identity: mother first.
And yet, her secret superpower isn’t confined to motherhood alone. From what I can tell, what enabled Rachel’s almost superhuman strength when cast from her cherished life into a living hell is her faith. She has spoken often about her prayer life, her shul community in Jerusalem and how much comfort she derives from her religious devotion. Biblical references often spill from her lips. Over the many months of Hersh’s captivity, even as her hair grayed and her eyes shone with sadness, Rachel glowed with the inner light of a woman who knows God.
Perhaps it is that spark of divinity she carries within that inspired so many others to look to her in awe. Because it is awesome, what she did this year: During a time of moral confusion, in a world with few clear heroes, enter Rachel, who in her darkest hour lit the way for me and countless others, modeling the power and terror of motherhood – the most meaningful role there is.
Who will ever forget the almost biblical vision of Rachel camped out next to Gaza, microphone to her mouth, hand raised towards the heavens, calling out to Hersh and bestowing him with the Priestly Blessing: May God bless you and keep you. May God shine His face upon you and be gracious to you.
And then a blessing of her own: I love you. Stay strong. Survive.
On Aug. 31, as the Shabbat sun faded into the starry night of Havdalah, I gave birth to a baby boy, or as Rachel described Hersh, “the child who made me a mother.” I lived on another planet that night, flooded with hormonal highs, feeling every joyous emotion and overwhelmed by this consuming, total, bursting, blissful love I was experiencing for the first time.
It wasn’t until the following morning that I looked at my phone and learned of the worst news: Hersh, along with five other hostages, had been found murdered. An IDF forensic report cited evidence that Hersh and the three other men — Alexander Lobanov, Ori Danino and Almog Sarusi — struggled with their captors and tried to defend the two women, Carmel Gat and Eden Yerushalmi. This is the legacy of our sons of Israel. I looked over at my precious 6-pound boy sleeping beside me and I sobbed. My heart was full and broken.
Eight days later I brought my son into the covenant of the Jewish people, and gave him the name Moses Tzvi, in honor of Hersh. Tzvi means deer in Hebrew; Hersh comes from the Yiddish for deer. To me, Tzvi simply means Hersh. It means Rachel. It is tribute to a woman who showed me what it means to be a mother, the terrible power she has, the infinite capacity, the Herculean strength, the unending love.
So to honor Rachel, and the life of her precious child who was stolen from her, I share a part of mine. May my son emulate Hersh’s best qualities – his radiant smile, his intelligent argument, his love of people and music and exploring the world. May Moshe Tzvi recover in Hersh’s memory — in all of their memories —a little bit of what was lost.
Correction: The original version of this essay said Hersh Goldberg-Polin’s Hebrew name was Tzvi. It was not; he used Hersh in Hebrew and English. Tzvi and Hersh both mean “deer.”
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