Our Hersh
My own son shares a name with the American hostage killed by Hamas this week—a name steeped in meaning and Jewish history
Amir Levy/Getty Images
Amir Levy/Getty Images
Amir Levy/Getty Images
“Did you see the name of the American hostage?” I texted my husband on Oct. 7, 2023. “Hersh,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”
As we watched the atrocities in Israel unfold that day, our hearts dropped lower and lower into our stomachs. Both my husband’s family and my family live in Israel. As we checked on all of our relatives to ensure their safety, our minds turned to Hersh Goldberg-Polin. A young man neither of us knew. A young man who shared a name with our son.
When the news broke of Hersh being taken hostage, I imagine most people my age had never heard the name before. Hersh was my grandfather’s name. Hersh was my husband’s grandfather’s name. In fact, my husband’s grandfather’s name was Hersh Goldberg.
When it came to choosing a middle name for our son, we could have chosen Harry, as my grandpa was called in America. We could have named him Tzvi, the translation in Hebrew, which we speak in our home. But no, we chose Hersh—a name hardly anyone used or heard of in years. A name in a language used by only 600,000 people in the world. Even my father-in-law couldn’t believe we chose Hersh as a name for our son. To this day, he calls him by his middle name, and the nickname Hershele.
Based on the analysis of 100 years’ worth of data from the Social Security Administration’s Baby Names database, the estimated population of people named Hersh is 504. Our son is one of them. Over the last 11 months, I’ve followed Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s story, as if it were my own. Why did Rachel name her son Hersh? Why did I feel so connected to her? Was it because we both chose such old, meaningful, obscure names for our sons? Was it because her Hersh and my Hersh both love soccer? Both have curly hair? Was it because our Israeli American identities are so similar, it’s uncanny?
Hersh belonged to every Jewish mother around the world. It felt like he belonged to me, too. But of course, he belonged to Rachel.
Hersh was a name virtually none of my peers had known, let alone considered as a potential for their own adorable children. Now when you type Hersh into Google search, the images and story of a beautiful boy from Berkeley overflow your page. I’ve even seen a few aquantainces announce that they attended brises over the weekend where the children were named Hersh in honor of the brave slain hostage we all prayed for.
We all know boys like Hersh. A handsome, sweet boy who loves soccer. A rule-follower with his teachers, but a mischievous wild child at home. And a sweet, tender, affectionate ball of love when he’s with his mom.
Rachel’s Hersh was who I imagine my son Shai Hersh might be just like one day. I imagine she wanted to tell him not to go to the party. But just like with my son, there really isn’t any telling him what to do.
I imagine he kicked the soccer ball around the house nonstop. I imagine she wishes she could go back and not get angry when the soccer ball knocked over her favorite plant, just to get one more chance to watch her favorite boy play his favorite sport.
For months, I didn’t put pen to paper about this because, I’d tell myself, “He’ll come home.” Of course he will, I knew it. One of my relatives was murdered on Oct. 7, at first believed to be taken hostage, but eventually known to be killed. While I didn’t know Uriel personally, I did know his father-in-law, and prayed for them constantly. The atrocities of Oct. 7 felt too close to home. This, however, hit differently. Hersh felt like he could have been mine. Every time I heard her speak, Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s words stung. Hersh belonged to every Jewish mother around the world. It felt like he belonged to me, too. But of course, he belonged to Rachel.
In all honesty, we chose the name to honor our grandparents first and foremost. It was only after Hersh Goldberg-Polin was taken hostage that I really began to dive into the meaning of the name.
Hersh is a Yiddish name meaning deer; the Hebrew equivalent is Tzvi. Deer are fast, powerful animals. They can run as fast as 40 miles per hour. They shed their antlers and grow new ones each year. They’re known to be swift, and a symbol for spiritual renewal.
I’ve sat at my window nearly every weekend over the last 11 months, often hiding my tears from my children, while staring out at the woods as the deer pass by. I used to avoid deer, fearing the ticks they often bring along with them. But these 11 months have only made me want to see them more. I wake up, and the first thing I do is open our blinds, praying to see a deer munching the grass outside our window. I long to see them, as if spotting a deer, and understanding its characteristics, could give me a glimpse into how Hersh Goldberg-Polin was surviving in Gaza.
Deer are mentioned in the Talmud multiple times. Prophets have even referred to the Land of Israel as the Land of Deer. “Our Sages gave a further reason why the Land of Israel is likened to a deer,” I read. “Just as a deer is swift on its legs, so is the Land of Israel swift to ripen its fruits.”
I pictured Rachel’s Hersh being swift. I pictured him regenerating, and surviving.
On the morning of Sept. 1, 2024, I woke up and ran downstairs to open the blinds and let in the sight of deer. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, my husband was sitting by the window, waiting for me. “Hersh was murdered,” he said. I fell to my knees. He could have been ours. He was ours. But of course, he was Rachel’s.
I spent the rest of that morning alone, upstairs in my bedroom, unable to stop the continuous flow of tears. I thought of the little boy Hersh Goldberg-Polin once was. I thought of the man our Shai Hersh will become. I thought of Rachel and our invisible bond through an obscure, old, Yiddish name that nobody wanted except us.
Hours went by before my husband pried me off of the floor to leave the house. My tears over a young man I never met, and would never meet, were unexplainable to my children. As I buckled my own Shai Hersh into his car seat, I glanced over at my husband and said, “I’m so happy we chose his name.” As we pulled out of our driveway, and on to the road, my husband slammed on the brakes, causing us all to be pulled forward, and then back. With his hand across my shoulders, I looked up and saw a mother deer and her fawn crossing the road. We stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like one hour. She was protecting her child. I could feel their love, just as I could feel Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s love for her son, and my love for mine. We paused to watch each other for a moment before they pranced off into the woods.
Jamie Betesh Carter is a researcher, writer, and mother living in Brooklyn.