Orange balloons and quiet strength: Why today echoes Bruriah

The air hums with a quiet ache today as orange balloons slip from small hands in Kiryat Gat, drifting skyward like a whispered goodbye. Down the road, thousands line the path from Rishon LeZion to Tzohar near Nir Oz, flags in hand, watching the Bibas family—Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir—make their final journey home. Watching them, a story from long ago tugs at me: Bruriah, the brilliant wife of Rabbi Meir, facing her own unthinkable loss one Shabbat afternoon.

It’s a tale from the Midrash—how Bruriah’s two young sons slipped away while Rabbi Meir taught in the beis midrash, possibly felled by a sudden plague. She didn’t let the grief spill out right then. Instead, she laid them gently on a bed, covered them with a sheet, and waited until Shabbat’s peace gave way to night. When Rabbi Meir came home, asking for his boys, she handed him the Havdalah cup, served him supper, and only then asked a question: “If someone lent me something precious and now wants it back, should I return it?” He nodded—yes, of course—and she led him to their sons, revealing the truth with a steady hand. “The One who gave them to us came to take them,” she said, and he understood, even through his tears.

Today feels like that. Shiri Bibas, with her toddler Ariel and baby Kfir, was torn from Kibbutz Nir Oz on October 7, 2023, a mother clutching her redheaded boys in a moment seared into us all. For 510 days, we held onto hope—orange lights glowing for those fiery curls—until the crushing news: they were gone, taken from her and us in November 2023, their bodies held back until now. In Ashdod, Assuta Hospital let 510 orange balloons rise, one for each day since that October morning. Here in Kiryat Gat, schoolkids—many displaced from Nir Oz—do the same, their balloons floating up as if to say what words can’t.

A little girl in a pinafore clutches a crayon drawing of a family, whispering, “It’s for Ariel and Kfir.” Nearby, a boy lets his balloon go and stares after it, murmuring, “Maybe they’ll see it up there.” Their innocence cuts deep—these are kids who’ve known too much loss, yet they stand here, letting go with a quiet grace that mirrors something ancient. Yarden Bibas, their father, buries them today at Tzohar, keeping it private but letting us in just enough: “We see and hear you, and it strengthens us,” his family says. It’s a lifeline to a nation that wants to hold him close.

Bruriah’s story lingers as I watch. She didn’t crumble when she could have; she carried the weight so Rabbi Meir wouldn’t have to, not yet. Shiri must have done the same, every second with her boys, shielding them as only a mother can.

When Rabbi Meir saw his sons, Bruriah’s words gave him something to hold onto. Today, as Yarden lays his own to rest, it’s the orange balloons and the crowd’s silent presence that steady us, but most of all, it's the words of Rebbi Meir, "Hashem has given, Hashem has taken—may Hashem’s name be blessed forever and ever."

The balloons fade into the sky, and I think of Bruriah waiting out that Shabbat, of Shiri’s fierce love enduring the unimaginable. They’re different women, centuries apart, but today they feel close—two mothers whose strength speaks across time. It’s a whisper on the wind, a truth settling soft as the balloons vanish, leaving us with their memory and a quiet resolve to keep going, but most importantly the knowledge, deep down, that no one could ever take away from us: We don't know why this horrific tragedy happened, and we are struggling to accept that Shiri, Ariel and Kfir are actually gone. We can't bear the agony of it, the senselessness, the vicious way in which their bright lights were snuffed out.

But that can never take away from our trust and faith. We are not in control of any of it, but Hashem is. And He has a grand plan and it's bigger and more intricate that we could ever imagine. So we hold on, we hold tight to our faith and to our G-d, today and every day. And we acknowledge through the tears and the grief that threaten to overwhelm us all, Baruch Dayan HaEmet. Blessed is the True Judge. May Hashem's name be blessed for ever and ever.