As I write these words, the heavens weep. The bodies of four Jewish hostages—Shiri Bibas and her babies, Kfir and Ariel, along with Oded Lifshitz—are being returned in a grotesque spectacle. Dragged from the clutches of monsters in Gaza, paraded by the hollow puppets of the International Red Cross, they are finally coming home to Israel.

Who can forget the haunting image? A terrified young mother clutching her two red-haired babies, surrounded by men barking orders in Arabic and English as she was dragged into Gaza. The Bibas family became a symbol, their red curls seared into our memory, their fate an unbearable question mark that lingered for months.

For much of the world, the Bibas children personified the nightmare of October 7—the day families were ripped from their homes in their pajamas, some by armed militants, others by mobs of civilians. For months, no one knew what had become of them. A lone video surfaced: Shiri and her children in the hands of the terrorist group “Kataib Mujahadin.” Hamas later claimed they had been killed in an Israeli airstrike but provided no evidence. Instead, they forced their father, Yarden, still held captive, to record a video blaming Israel for their deaths.

The massacre of October 7 did more than steal lives; it shattered illusions. The dreams of Israelis who had tirelessly pursued peace—who sent kites of hope over the border, who envisioned shared industrial zones, who drove sick Palestinians to Israeli hospitals—were crushed. Oded Lifshitz, an 84-year-old peace activist who spent decades ferrying Palestinians to medical care, was among those taken with his wife, who was released last year. His abduction was a cruel irony, proof that to our enemies, no kindness is sacred.

Israelis had grown accustomed to rockets, shootings, and terror attacks. But home invasions, house-to-house slaughter, rape, and mass abductions? No one was prepared. since October 7, homes have become fortresses. Gun license applications have skyrocketed. We discovered that the terrorists carried maps detailing family names, children’s ages, even the names of pets. The information had been supplied by those who worked in our communities, trusted “neighbors” turned betrayers. One chilling phone call released to the world captured a young terrorist, giddy with pride as he told his parents he had murdered ten Jews with his bare hands. Their response? Praise to God. Encouragement to continue.

Standing in the ruins of Kfar Aza, looking across the border, one question loomed: how can people who live so close, whose homes are visible on the horizon, see the world so differently?

And now, the grotesque display of the Bibas family’s remains, paraded with banners and chants of “glory,” is just another weapon in Hamas’s arsenal of psychological warfare. They seek to break us—emotionally, spiritually, mentally—because they know that once a people lose their sense of security, their physical defeat is inevitable. To them, nothing is sacred but death.

Does it even matter how the Bibas family died? No more than it matters whether Anne Frank succumbed to typhus or to the Nazis who sent her to Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. The result is the same: stolen lives, shattered futures, a world dimmed by their absence.

And yet, another terrible truth remains: how do we tell our children that the Bibas babies are gone?

We must face them and add Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir to our lists. This time, not as captives we pray for, but as souls we mourn. We will whisper the ancient blessing for the dead: Baruch Dayan HaEmet. Blessed is the true Judge. Where once there was joy at each hostage returned, now there is only silence.

But their smiling faces will endure. And though our nation bleeds, we will not break. We will continue to pray.

And if I have one message for the other side—for those who need to hear it today, and for those watching around the world:

Dear Palestinian people,

History will judge your past. But today, in this grotesque spectacle, you have made a statement so chilling, so clear, that the entire world has heard it. Today, you have forfeited your future. Not as an organization, as a people, certainly as a sovereign entity on this land—or any other land.

Those who abandon their humanity abandon their rights. Those who cannot govern themselves have no right to rule others.

In what kind of world do you return the bodies of a mother and her two babies to the sound of celebratory anthems? With banners of “glory”? With obscene displays of propaganda? Where is the bowed head? Where is the last shred of dignity? Is this your triumph? After 77 years, is this your pride—the kidnapping and murder of a mother and her children? Is this the strength of the Palestinian people?

Whatever twisted logic drove you to orchestrate this macabre display, you have, in truth, declared something deeper, more damning: the death of the Palestinian dream. Not just of a State. Of any viable existence on this land.

Never, ever, will the monstrosity that you are be fit to rule.

Whether by our hand, by Trump’s, or more likely by your own self-inflicted destruction within the nightmare of your own moral collapse—your end is near. Far closer than you dare to imagine.

Put down the flag. Leave. Scatter into your Arab “brother”, where you can carry forever the shame of this day among your peers and supporters. The ultimate symbol of 77 years of victimhood, weakness, and self-inflicted impotence that has turned you into something unrecognizable.

You are unworthy.