Hillel Fuld stared at his phone in disbelief last week, reading the list of Palestinian prisoners to be released in exchange for Israeli hostages. There, among the names, was his brother Ari’s murderer – the terrorist who stabbed him in the neck from behind while he was grocery shopping. Though mortally wounded, Ari Fuld had managed to chase down and shoot his attacker before he could claim another victim. Now that killer would walk free.
“Is there a user guide somewhere on how to navigate this?” Hillel wrote on social media. “Not sure there’s a word for this emotion.” Most devastating was his teenage son’s reaction: “Abba, I don’t want to serve in this army. All these dead soldiers. For what? For us to release Ari’s murderer?!”
As celebrations erupted across Israel for the return of hostages, Rabbi Shmuel Eliyahu posed a question that cut to the bone: “Where is my heart at this hour?”
While acknowledging the joy of reunited families, Rabbi Eliyahu turned to those still drowning in pain – the families forced to watch their loved ones’ killers walk free to heroes’ welcomes. He wrote of Hodaya Nechama Assulin, just 14 years old, whose parents Eliyahu and Michal must now live knowing their daughter’s killer receives millions in reward money. Of 17-year-old Rina Shnerb, whose parents Rabbi Eitan and Shira must endure not only her murder but also watching her killer released mid-trial. Of Danny Gonen, killed while hiking at a spring, whose mother Devora now sees his murderer celebrated. Of the Dickstein children, who lost both parents and their brother Shuvael to a single terrorist’s bullets.
This ability to feel others’ anguish isn’t merely admirable – it’s fundamental to serving God. When Moses first emerged as a leader, Scripture tells us:
The great commentator Rashi explains that Moses “set his eyes and heart to be distressed over them.” He didn’t merely observe their suffering – he felt it in his bones.
The sages teach us that even at a Jewish wedding, our moments of highest joy, we break a glass to remember Jerusalem’s destruction. This practice isn’t meant to diminish our joy, but to deepen it – to remind us that our personal celebrations exist within a larger context of both triumph and tragedy. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks applied this wisdom to modern Israel, writing that “to be a Jew is to live poised between heaven and earth, knowing both the soaring flight of the human spirit and the depths of the heart’s pain.” This is why, he explained, the same Torah that commands us to “rejoice in your festivals” (Deuteronomy 16:14) also reminds us to remember the stranger, the orphan, and the widow.
The Talmud elaborates on this divine connection between shared pain and heavenly response. It tells of Rabbi Yehuda, who would remove his shoe to walk barefoot on rocky ground during droughts, choosing to feel his people’s distress in his own flesh. The heavens themselves responded to this genuine empathy – rain would fall before he could remove his second shoe.
This raw empathy shaped Jewish leadership through history’s darkest moments. During the devastating Arab riots of 1929, when news reached Jerusalem of 63 Jews massacred in Hebron, Chief Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook physically collapsed. After regaining consciousness, he threw himself to the ground, tore his clothes in mourning, and sobbed uncontrollably. He never again slept with a pillow – refusing comfort while remembering those who died. When later offered a handshake by the British Mandate official who had failed to prevent the massacre, Rabbi Kook refused to touch those “blood-soaked hands.”
Rabbi Eliyahu’s lament continues with today’s victims – the prison guards assaulted by terrorists now walking free, the Taharlev family mourning their son Elchai killed in a ramming attack, Herzl and Merav Hajaj whose daughter Shir was deliberately run down by a truck-driving terrorist determined to kill as many young people as possible.
Finally, he turns to the families of hostages still held in Gaza – parents like Zvika Mor and Ditza Or who don’t know if their children live or breathe, spouses waiting in tormented uncertainty, families of soldiers killed trying to rescue the captives. He concludes with the Psalmist’s cry: “God of vengeance, appear! Arise, Judge of the earth!” (Psalms 94:1-2).
Rabbi Eliyahu’s words capture the full spectrum of righteous response to evil – both the burning desire for God’s vengeance against terrorists, and the deep wellspring of pain for their victims. Like King David in the Psalms, he cries out for divine justice, while his detailed accounting of each family’s suffering shows us what it means to truly bear witness, to refuse the comfort of looking away when others hurt. The prophet Isaiah declared: “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people” (Isaiah 40:1), but true comfort begins with acknowledging pain, with allowing our hearts to break alongside the brokenhearted.
In a world that rushes to move on, to celebrate partial victories while others still weep, this ancient wisdom reminds us that authentic faith begins with a heart that feels the full weight of others’ pain. As Hillel Fuld reminds us, behind every “prisoner release” are shattered families, fatherless children, and wounds that never fully heal. In this hour, as in every hour of trial, God asks each of us: Where is your heart?
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