How a boy’s bicycle, and the example of his family, changed my life.
Jerusalem — How is it possible to eulogize a vibrant, joyful young man whose life has been tragically, sadistically cut short by monsters? In my case, by reflecting on an inanimate object he once owned that exemplified the complete Israeli life — and that just happened to profoundly affect the course of my own.
Hersh Goldberg-Polin, of blessed memory, an American-Israeli, was at the Nova music festival on October 7 when he was gravely wounded and then abducted into Gaza by Hamas terrorists. Last weekend came the dreaded news that his captors had savagely murdered him and five other hostages, their bodies found by the Israel Defense Forces in a tunnel. Hersh’s extraordinary parents, Rachel and Jon, whom my wife and I have had the privilege of calling friends for more than 25 years, had campaigned tirelessly for the release of their son and all the hostages. Though they were not to see their son again, their astonishing efforts will never be forgotten.
Whether at the White House, the Vatican, or, most recently, at the Democratic National Convention — let alone in dozens of synagogues, community centers, and parliamentary committee chambers — the impassioned advocacy that the Goldberg-Polins harnessed to their understated dignity ignited a fervent #BringHershHome movement worldwide. The same character traits that had made them pillars of the several communities they had belonged to (including in my native Berkeley, Calif., where we first met baby Hersh), the same kindness and genuineness that had already touched so many lives, drew many more to their righteous cause.
It was a much more mundane thing, embodying the rich and rewarding life that Hersh’s family lived — the very best Israel can offer — that stirred me to seek out such a life myself.
One summer morning eleven years ago, while my family was visiting Israel from San Diego, Jon invited me to join him and another friend for a mountain bike ride in the forest outside Jerusalem. When I told Jon I didn’t have a bike, he offered me his son’s, since Hersh was away at camp. “It’s a little small,” Jon said, “but we’ll adjust the seat.” And so we coursed down the newly built bike path that paralleled Jerusalem’s old Ottoman rail line, past the zoo, and up into the dramatic hills bracketing the Refaim Stream.
At the time, our family of six was contemplating a move to Israel from beautiful California, where we had lived for ten years. The Goldberg-Polins had made the move — they had “made aliyah,” or ascended, to the Holy Land — several years earlier, when Hersh and his sisters were roughly the ages of our kids, and they had adjusted remarkably well to a new culture, language, and climate.
This all began to click as I struggled to keep up with Jon in the thinning air. Like mine, Jon’s professional career was rooted in the U.S., and he had managed to succeed, exercising and socializing in the morning and working in the evening. Like mine, Jon and Rachel’s parents and siblings lived in the States, but they kept up through FaceTime and transatlantic visits. And, like our family, the Goldberg-Polins were thoroughly American in their mannerisms, food preferences, and educational habits, but they had broadened their entire selves to absorb Israel in all of its glory. If they could do it, I thought, huffing and puffing as I pedaled extra hard on the undersized bike, then so could we.
Of course, such a move entails difficulties. At the summit, we chatted about mandatory army service, language barriers, and what seemed to me like a scary amount of independence afforded to children, as I fiddled with Hersh’s wonky bike seat. Jon extolled the value of overcoming these challenges, without ever minimizing or sugarcoating them. We came up with a kludge for the seat and began our descent back toward the city.
And just as I often try to unravel knotty personal or professional problems during a run or bike ride, I found myself that morning appreciating how the Goldberg-Polin family had worked through their own. It’s not easy, but Americans living in Israel can truly enjoy the best of both worlds. Exposing your family to an effervescent culture, blending American sensibilities with Israeli customs — not only was this possible, the Goldberg-Polins taught me, but it was deeply enriching. The next summer, my wife and I moved our family to Israel. Blessedly, we have embraced the Israeli way of life for the last ten years.
These impressions would later be reinforced by other experiences with Hersh and family, whether dancing raucously at bat mitzvah parties or sharing the exhilaration of a Hapoel Jerusalem basketball game, where Hersh enthusiastically joined the boisterous section of superfans who chanted and jumped around throughout the match. He made friends across the Jewish-Arab divide and in numerous cultures and countries through soccer and basketball networks; he sought coexistence in his own charismatic way. He was proof positive that you could love Israel fiercely and also love peace — a message Jon and Rachel echoed in their profoundly moving DNC remarks.
At the funeral on Monday, Jon recounted asking Hersh, when they first arrived in Israel, whether he’d prefer to go by a more Israeli-sounding name. “I’m Hersh,” he responded. “Israelis will deal with it.” This perfectly distilled both his faithfulness to his American roots and his assimilation of a certain Israeli assertiveness.
For nearly eleven months, I had been hoping to write this essay not as a public column but as a direct message to Hersh and his family, upon his safe return, an expression of my gratitude for the inspiration they provided. Tragically, I never had the chance. But that influence remains. As Hersh — his bike, his personality, his very being — inspired aliyah, may his soul, too, ascend to watch over us all.