A visit with my friend Rabbi Dalia Marx today took me for the first time to the new building of the National Library of Israel. It’s a marvelous place - the world’s largest collection of Hebraica and Judaica - and a must-visit on a trip to Jerusalem. (It’s across the street from the Knesset, and the 24-hour non-stop demonstrations against this government are particularly intense on the streets out front.)

But even in this quiet place of reflection and intellectualism, the trauma of the war pervades. There is a profoundly moving exhibition near the entrance to the main hall of the library. A chair is set for each and every person still held hostage in Gaza. And on each seat lies a book, custom-selected to reflect the interests or passions of that unique individual:

Some of the books are history, or sports, or classic literature; each has been selected by a family member, or loved one, or by volunteers in honor of that person. Everyone is just waiting for each of them to come home (now!) to claim their book.

My eyes gaze from one seat to the next, as I read the names and ages and the books that have been selected: fiction, non-fiction, hardcovers, paperbacks, old books, recent books…

And then I get to the end of the row, and I see this - and the tears come again: