Bringing Hadar Goldin Home for Burial

It was an ordinary evening—laundry tumbling in the dryer, a podcast humming softly in the background—when I first heard the name Hadar Goldin.

An Israeli soldier, killed during a humanitarian ceasefire in Gaza. His body—still held hostage, all these years—denied the dignity of a Jewish burial.

I froze. The world kept spinning, but I couldn’t move.

How could this still be happening? How could parents wait—day after agonizing day—for the chance to lay their son to rest?

That night, something shifted in me. What began as a shock became a mission.

For five years, I’ve carried Hadar’s story in my heart. I’ve walked the streets of Jerusalem with his mother, Leah. I’ve written, prayed, and spoken his name across continents. Each conversation, each candle lit, each act of remembrance has been a small protest against forgetting.

Our campaign crossed continents and faiths. We wrote thousands of letters to leaders in Washington. We saw videos reach millions online. Leah spoke before Congress, met with the Pope, and every time I looked into her eyes, I felt the same simple truth: we are all one family. What hurts you, hurts me.

In a world numb from headlines and statistics, Hadar’s story reminds us that behind every conflict is a human face, a father's voice, a mother's tears, a family’s pain.

This isn’t just about one Israeli soldier. It’s about justice, closure, and the Jewish belief that every soul deserves to be brought home. To bury our dead, to say Kaddish, to stand by the graveside and whisper words of comfort is not just a religious duty, it’s a human one.

Leah Goldin, Hadar’s mother, giving a eulogy at her son’s funeral at the Kfar Saba military cemetery.

Recently, I started a Shabbat initiative in Hadar’s merit and for all the hostages—living and deceased. Every candle lit, every blessing whispered, every act of faith adds light to this long night. Shabbat, I’ve learned, is our weapon of peace. It’s a declaration that even in darkness, we choose light.

And now, as I have landed in Israel for Hadar’s long-awaited burial in Kfar Saba, my heart feels heavy and full at once. The family has waited 11 long years for this moment to finally come. And when it did, I knew I had to be there.

I go not just as an activist, but as a mother, a Jew, a sister. To stand beside Leah and her family. To stand beside all of Am Yisrael.

Because bringing Hadar—and every soul—home is what Jews do. It’s who we are and how we heal. It’s how we turn mourning into meaning, and exile into return.

Simcha Goldin, Hadar’s father, giving a eulogy.