It’s 4.15 a.m. as I sit at my computer and write this. I haven’t slept a wink. I knew I wouldn’t. My head is filled with horrible visions of the bloody carnage of the Hamas-led massacres on October 7, 2023, and my thoughts are swirling with wildly oscillating emotions: anger, sadness, defiance, despair, and, overwhelmingly, admiration.
You see, last night I had the privilege of bringing to my community a remarkable – no, that adjective isn’t sufficient – an unbelievable, almost superhuman woman: Iris Haim, mother of Yotam Haim, who was tragically shot by IDF troops after escaping from captivity in Gaza in December 2023.
The centerpiece of the evening was the showing of a not-yet-publicly-available film, Looking for Yotam, describing the life of Yotam, who battled bravely with physical and mental health difficulties, overcame many of them, though not all, and became a talented and hopeful musician before that dreadful day.
The film begins with real-time footage of the insane events of October 7. It spares no detail and demands that we see what no human being should ever have to see, but what every human on the planet must see. Terrorists shooting defenseless women and children at point-blank range, scenes reminiscent of grainy black-and-white footage of Nazi murderers.
Dozens of bodies are lying lifeless and stripped of dignity. No wonder I can’t sleep.
And yet...
I came away from this meeting with this extraordinary woman inspired.
Inspired by a mother who fought so hard throughout her son’s short 28 years to help him overcome physical and mental struggles, who clung with every fiber of her being to the hope of his return from captivity, who then suffered the ultimate cruelty of seeing him come within a hair’s breadth of freedom, only to be mistaken for a terrorist and killed.
Yet she could still stand before an audience and say, with complete sincerity, that she harbors no anger toward the soldiers who fired those fatal shots.
She blames only Hamas.
She embraces, both metaphorically and literally, the young soldiers forced to make impossible decisions in the fog of war.
Most bereaved parents would have been forgiven for retreating into anger. Many would have spent years searching for someone to blame. Nobody would have judged Iris had she directed her grief toward the soldiers whose bullets ended her son’s life.
Instead, she made a distinction that much of the world seems incapable of making. She understood the difference between an accidental tragedy committed in the chaos of war and the deliberate, calculated barbarity of terrorists who set out to murder civilians. She refused to confuse the two.
By doing so, she not only honored Yotam’s memory but also reminded the rest of us that moral clarity is often forged in the deepest personal pain.
Lehayim: Iris Haim chooses to build up, rather than break down, IDF soldiers
During Shiva, she made a decision that most of us could scarcely imagine. She would not spend the rest of her life imprisoned by grief. Instead, together with her older son, Tuval, she would build something in Yotam’s memory: Beit Yotam, a place where those struggling with anxiety, trauma, and psychological wounds – especially our soldiers – could find healing through therapy, music, and human connection. Music was Yotam’s passion.
Now it has become his legacy.
As a doctor, I have spent decades breaking bad news. I have learned that tragedy does not so much change people as reveal them. It strips away pretense and exposes character.
Some people emerge from suffering angry at the world. Others emerge determined that nobody else should suffer alone.
Iris Haim belongs firmly in the second category.
One answer she gave has stayed with me all night. Asked how she could forgive, she replied that if she filled herself with hatred, Hamas would have claimed another victim. They had already taken Yotam. She would not allow them to take her soul as well.
Think about that for a moment. In Israel, we speak constantly about resilience. We celebrate our reservists, our volunteers, and our innovators. But perhaps resilience is something quieter. Perhaps it is a grieving mother choosing compassion when bitterness would have been easier.
Perhaps resilience is refusing to allow evil to dictate the rest of your story. Iris has answered hatred not with more hatred, but with humanity. There is something profoundly Jewish about that.
Our tradition has never promised us control over what happens to us. It teaches us that we control how we respond.
Every day we make that choice. We can become smaller because of suffering. Or we can become larger.
Iris Haim has become immeasurably greater.
The film ended. The audience sat in complete silence. Nobody wanted to be the first to move. There were tears, many tears. Mine included.
But they were not only tears of grief. They were tears of hope.
Iris shared something Yotam had written 10 years ago, when he was 21. It was not a long, philosophical essay. It was simply this: “Look the other person in the eye. Don’t judge. Say a kind word. It will help.”
Those few words contain more wisdom than many books.
How different would our families be if we truly looked at one another instead of through one another or at a screen? How different would our politics be if we judged less and listened more?
How different would our society be if we realized that a single kind sentence can change the course of someone’s day, perhaps even someone’s life?
Yotam never lived to see those words become his legacy. That responsibility now belongs to us.
If we leave stories like this feeling only sadness, we have missed the point. If we leave determined to be kinder, slower to judge, quicker to encourage, and more willing to embrace those carrying invisible wounds, then Yotam is still changing lives.
As dawn begins to break outside my window, I still have not slept. The images of October 7 remain unbearable. They always will.
But alongside those images now stands another.
A grieving mother who refused to hate. A mother who transformed personal devastation into national healing. A mother who reminded me that the greatest victory over evil is not revenge – it is refusing to allow evil to define who we become.
Perhaps Yotam understood something that the rest of us are still struggling to learn.
Look the other person in the eye. Don’t judge. Say a kind word. It will help.
Donations to support the vital work of Beit Yotam can be made at: tinyurl.com/25hrnpdf
The writer is a rabbi and physician. He writes and teaches on Jewish ethics, leadership, and resilience. His work appears on rabbidrjonathanlieberman.substack.com and youtube.com. @rabbidrjonathanlieberman