Bereaved families
Personal request
The magnitude of the loss, pain, and sorrow you are experiencing, and the journey you are going through, no one can understand.
We work to provide personal support and assistance on various levels – emotional, legal, and bureaucratic – to make it even a little easier for families in their daily struggles.
Letters from families who have experienced loss
Oria's Mother
Our Oriya, a smart, beautiful, sharp, and funny boy. All mothers think that way about their children, but when he passes away and those are the words everyone repeats like a single, unified mantra, you realize you’re not the only one who thinks that way. He was 9 years old when he died of brain cancer. November 10, 2017 will forever be a date when the world missed a beat, but my heart was split in two, before his death and after his death. Oriya lived with cancer from 7/9/2016 when, just after school started, he had a headache, but we are in warm weather. … So who doesn’t have a headache? But children aren’t supposed to have headaches, so the slippery slope begins here. A check-up with a family doctor immediately followed by a hotline claiming it’s viral. But I think every mother knows when her child isn’t exactly herself, so I insisted and we went to the emergency room. We stayed overnight for observation and I was told: Mom, if the pain doesn’t wake him up from sleep, there’s nothing to worry about… So the pain woke him up and the morning after the MRI scan, Uria was put into emergency surgery to remove the tumor, two weeks and a little later, after at this point we became Doctors why is it medulloblastoma (brain tumor) and after a thorough investigation that there are proton radiation treatments in the US that would be exactly suitable for this, my husband and I packed up my mother-in-law who left everything to help with the children, Oriya Yahli and a son who was only 4 months old at the time with all that this implies, 4 months after birth I was When Oriya was diagnosed with cancer, which led to postpartum depression, it could have been at least avoided by our family, and so we moved to the US for a period of 4 months. Months ago, funds were donated for us from Neot Ashalim, the neighborhood where I live, and Maor Akiva, the city where I grew up, and many other good people from all over the country helped us finance our stay in the US for the treatment. ,We returned to Israel and after 9 months of chemotherapy in Israel, Oriya finished his last treatment, but… fate would have it, and on that terrible date, September 7, the cancer returned again. 7/9/2017 The cancer returned and Oriya was no longer laughing. He was hospitalized and underwent experimental treatment that was unsuccessful. After that, he was hospitalized in intensive care, and then on that day, 11/10/17, his heart stopped beating. And his last tear fell. I was told to tell about Uriah, but this story cannot be summarized. A summary means closing something, which for us bereaved parents in a civil bereavement is never possible. I can only say that Uriah, the late, passed away but lives and breathes and laughs with every person who met or meets me.
Tell us about your feelings on the day after the Shiva
So everyone around takes care of the food, cleans, takes care of things, even the children at home, for 7 days, and then on the 8th day, there is that person who wants to make sure you are not alone all the time and decides to babysit you and your family, and all I want is for someone to ask me what I want? What do I need? How can I help? Without complicated bureaucracy where I have to start fighting with a hospital clerk over a death certificate at the hospital, choosing a grave… Where do you choose? What’s right? How do you pay? I don’t have money! Do we go to the hospital to pick up his things? Who handles this? Who does all the things I have questions about except what you want to eat, how you feel, and you know that the children ask questions, but they’re fine…What does that mean, okay??? What do we do with their questions?! There is no guiding hand, no one to save us from the abyss of questions, because all we want to do is get into the blanket, close our eyes, and hope that when we wake up, it will be a huge nightmare that we woke up from.
Tell us about the first period: Did you return to work? Did you function at home? How did your siblings react? When was the moment of change, if any?
During the time that Oriya got sick, I stopped working. My husband worked but didn’t work… The job continued to pay him a salary but he didn’t work. It’s not really possible to work because at the hospital for children with cancer there is a very long line (4-5 hours). Not because they don’t work, but because there are too many sick children, so one has to sit in line and one has to make sure the child doesn’t sit in line for 5 hours. Because his life is chemotherapy, radiation, vomiting, pain, and everything else, so a hospital appointment can be avoided… Of course, the brothers at home don’t see mom and dad because right now we’re busy taking care of Oriya, so when Oriya passed away and we were both at home with our children, we didn’t know how to go back to being parents. How are we supposed to be happy at all? Is it allowed to be happy? Who has the strength to prepare food!!! What is it to run a washing machine? To clean… But there is a saying that says that life is stronger, unfortunately and fortunately, it is true.
Did you receive treatment, what was the cost? How did it affect you?
I have never taken my children to treatment. The reason is: Money! Each treatment costs 300 shekels at best. I have three children and only one no longer needs treatment… For example, this question: How many children do you have? 3 but 2 are alive… This is the answer I found without treatment. But that’s me, my children have questions I don’t have answers for, like a son asking me: When did Uriah come down from heaven? Why can’t he? When he insists that Uriah taught him a game. 4.5 year old son Uriah passed away 3 years ago. …Yahli was 5.5 years old when Oriya died. He dug in the school yard with his friends to look for Oriya because he heard that he was buried in the sand… I won’t go into my husband and I’s relationship at all because everyone deals with it differently and no one explains to us what the difference is and how we can bridge the gap between the two.
What was missing for you? What would you like to improve in the community’s care for bereaved families?
I think that in all that is written, there is no doubt at all about the lack of: general, public, legal awareness that there is such a thing as all citizens. I will be very careful in what I say next and apologize in advance that I, God forbid, do not want to offend anyone, but children die for all sorts of reasons, not just from car accidents and terrorist attacks, and it seems that only they have awareness… But how can that be? After all, there are donations for cancer, so when the children die, that’s it?! No grumbling, no diseases? No drowning? No forgetting in the car? So many advertisements, donations, but there is no rehabilitation for the day after.
Life after the attempts to resuscitate your son will never be the same as it was before. You won’t want to sell anything to anyone, and you won’t want to engage in idle conversations with anyone just for the sake of it. Because life has exploded in our faces, the bereaved parents, and also the parents like my husband who is returning to work, who worked before. There is a gap that causes another mental tragedy when a person who worked in a workplace and returned Home to 3 children, he buried his son and returned to work with 2 children as if the world had collapsed, but he is obliged to continue as usual… recognition, psychological treatments, rehabilitation.
R.L. Ruth's mother
Tell us briefly about your daughter who passed away. Please state the date, cause of death, and duration of illness before (if any)
My daughter, Ruth Nechama, was sick with cancer for about four years, from the age of four and a half to eight plus, and passed away in 2009.
Ruth was a truly special girl, a huge soul, who gave and taught everyone around her a lot. She was very connected to the spiritual world, never complained or asked why she was sick, she accepted and accepted that she was going to die. We had a very special farewell process.
Even when she was sick, Ruth always thought about others and how she could give to them. She set up a charity stand at the entrance to the neighborhood grocery store and every Tuesday, no matter what the weather or her physical condition was, she opened it.
Ruth was born with the name Rotem and during her illness she asked to change her name to Ruth. This happened right before a very major surgery she underwent.
During the operation, she lost all of her blood and we almost lost her. After the operation, she was a little different, both externally and mentally, as if she had started a new round here in the world.
Tell us about your feelings on the eighth day, after fasting.
After the shiva, we were broken, we didn’t know how to continue, we just wanted to stay under the blanket, the pain was so great and severe, many people who accompanied us during the illness were unable to bear this pain and disappeared. From our lives, the rest wanted to see us come back to life as soon as possible, there weren’t enough people who understood us who were there to help us where we were, we had three daughters at the time, one a 3-month-old baby, caring for them, along with trying to make room for grief and pain, was very difficult, Family members helped us out of the blue and were with us as much as they could, but there was a lack of support, both for us and for our daughters.
Tell us about the first period: Did you return to work? Did you function at home? How did your siblings react? When was the moment of change, if any?
In the middle of Ruth’s illness, we were both fired from work because we were away for many days to take care of her and her sisters. We had nowhere to go back to and no strength to look for something new. It took us about a year to start looking for a new job, and then my mother got sick…
Ruth’s sisters had a hard time. A few months after her death, we realized that they needed treatment and a place for themselves, and we sought private treatment for them, even though we had the means to pay. Both of them were in treatment for a certain period of time. The treatments were in periods, and to this day, 11 years later, they are still in treatment and suffering from the severe effects of Ruth’s illness and death.
Did you receive treatment, what was the cost? How did it affect you?
I don’t remember the costs… The treatments were good overall and allowed each of us a place to grieve the loss and also continue living and functioning.
What was missing for you? What would you like to improve in the community’s care for bereaved families?
We needed someone to take care of the family’s needs and assist us in a place where we didn’t have the strength to do and act, like a case manager. We needed individual and perhaps dyadic or family treatments and help with basic household management.
Additional comments. Write here anything that is important to you to say.
During Ruth’s illness, we were completely wrapped up! After her death, we were left to cope alone. The comfort we had throughout her illness was sorely missed.
Our financial situation was also difficult, because we had not worked for a long time and did not have the strength to enter the job market again.
H.B.
Tell us briefly about your son who passed away. Please state the date, cause of death, and duration of illness before death (if any).
The sweet and pure Gil Ad Boneh passed away at the age of 3 years and one month, on the 12th of Nisan 5778.
On Passover Eve, he got into a car, got heatstroke, and died shortly after.
Tell us about your feelings on the eighth day, after the shiva
A community and family that supports us at an incredible level. They really embraced us.
Helplessness in understanding that we need professional guidance, especially for children (we had it), and we didn’t really receive a proper response…
Tell us about the first period: Did you return to work? Did you function at home? How did your siblings react? When was the moment of change, if any?
We went back to work pretty quickly. At one job they really allowed me to go my own way…, at the other job less so. They demanded full functionality…
What was missing for you? What would you like to improve in the community’s care for bereaved families?
The professional envelope was sorely lacking. The inclusion of everything.
The statement of every therapist/educator that only this child (whose framework has been destroyed) is now worth investing in…
In the past, we had 6 more children, and zero strength to provide an emotional response to everyone immediately.
There was a lack of someone to help raise our heads above water, to integrate….
The community really embraced
Additional comments. Write here anything that is important to you to say.
A support group for mothers who have experienced loss can help.
S.P.
Please tell us about your daughter who passed away.
Kindly specify the date, cause of death, and the duration of the illness beforehand (if there was one).
My daughter passed away in 2005, exactly one month after her second birthday. She never got the chance to enjoy the purple bicycle we bought her as a gift—she was so excited about it. Little Mika passed away on Wednesday, the official date being June 1, 2005. The cause of death was medical negligence. At that time, we were living in the United States, and it happened there.
Mika was a completely healthy child—beautiful, full of joy for life, with a sweetness that overflowed like honey. She would easily blow kisses to everyone, and if you asked, you could also receive a small, wet kiss on the cheek. Mika began humming songs at six months old, even before she started crawling. She had an extraordinary musical sense—her musical hearing was truly phenomenal. She would listen to a song she didn’t know, and after just two lines, she would already grasp the melody and the words and sing along. She had a special sense of humor and loved to dance and entertain her two older brothers, who adored every piece of ground her tiny foot touched and treated her like a rare porcelain doll, with such gentleness, exceptional affection, and immeasurable warmth. Mika, for her part, returned endless love and warmth to them.
They looked like the Three Musketeers—just without the mustaches.
Tai, my eldest son, was 7 when Mika passed away, and Ben was 5. I cannot describe the immense heartbreak, the intensity of the pain, or how the entire world collapsed on all of us at once when we were informed of her death. It was sudden and completely unexpected. Mika was a healthy child; she had never even had the flu.
There was criminal medical negligence. The doctors were grossly negligent—almost like a fictional horror story. Six doctors made one enormous, irresponsible mistake and took the life of sweet, pure little Mika—a flower that had only just begun to grow and bloom. They extinguished her smile, took away the sparkle in her eyes, the light. Mika no longer dances, no longer sings, no longer hugs and bursts into laughter, no longer tries to please, make happy, or amuse anyone. She no longer plays, hugs, and kisses her beloved brothers. Little Mika is silent… silent and still forever.
The world crashed into all of us. My eldest, Tai, began developing severe tics and clung to Mika’s teddy bear, sleeping with it every night. To this day, even though he is now 23, he carries her teddy bear with him everywhere.
Ben, who was Tai’s younger brother and Mika’s older brother—and who was so proud of being an older brother—suddenly returned to being the younger child. He experienced regression and began soiling his pants for many months after the sudden death of his little, beloved sister.
Ben, at age five, wrote a song about Mika:
“I love you here, I love you there,
I love you everywhere.
You need to go, I need to know,
You need to go, I love you so.”
Six years after my daughter’s death, my husband and I divorced, and the family broke apart. The gaps that formed between us and the vast voids of grief and sorrow completely eroded the relationship. The family underwent an immense, unbearable upheaval. It is impossible to describe in words the suffering and difficulties that developed within the family dynamic and for each of us individually.
Today, 15 years later, Mika should have been almost 18, about to finish high school. I wonder what she would look like today. I wonder if she remembers me, somewhere in her magical paradise.
I can testify about myself that despite the years that have passed, time stopped for me on the day my little Mika fell silent. The dimension of time took on a completely different meaning. To this day, I carry a huge mass of sorrow in my heart—it does not disappear. From time to time, this mass comes back to life, takes shape again, and disrupts and saddens every small fiber of my being. To this day, I have not come to terms with or accepted her death. To this day, my body understands and knows, but my mind struggles to deny her loss.
I can also testify that my joy for life and my ability to be deeply moved by things died and disappeared with Mika. Even today, there are days when it is hard to get out of bed. Sudden sadness takes over and paralyzes me, along with overwhelming feelings of guilt—why is she not here, and I am?
Living with these difficult feelings on a daily basis is a challenge I would give up instantly if I could. It does not become easier with time and passing years; rather, it is the longing that destroys my soul—the longing for my daughter, who stopped growing and will never return to me.
Please describe how you felt on the eighth day, after the shiva.
After Mika passed away, during the shiva, we were living in the U.S. and had a private home in a neighborhood of private houses. After the prayers in our living room, people went outside and were astonished to see that only above our house, two clear, colorful rainbows appeared—like a magical bridge to the gates of Heaven.
During that period, I could not eat, I could not sleep, and one could say I was completely a zombie. Even today, after all these years, I still have days like that.
Please describe the initial period: Did you return to work? Were you functioning at home? How did the siblings react? Was there a turning point, if any?
During that time, breathing was difficult. I barely functioned. I could not work in any way—I simply was not capable. I was in a state of emotional disability.
The only energy I fought to preserve was for my two remaining young children—to make sure they ate, that all their needs were met, that they lacked nothing, and that they returned to routine as quickly as possible.
I functioned like a walking dead person in life. I had episodes of uncontrollable, heartbreaking crying.
Did you receive treatment? What was the cost? How did it affect you?
For two years, I saw a therapist in the U.S. I do not remember the cost. Today, I am waiting to receive assistance through the health fund, but the waiting lists are extremely long—years of waiting. I am almost there, waiting, with no sign of progress.
What was missing? What would you like to improve in the community’s treatment of bereaved families?
More support—mental, financial, and emotional—from every direction. To this day, I am still dealing with the fractures and missing pieces caused by the tragedy. There are simply no words to describe the upheaval and turmoil our family went through and absorbed—blows whose echoes remain to this day. Coping is still very difficult, even now.
Additional comments – please write anything important you wish to say.
A bereaved family, the moment it loses one of its children, undergoes a complete change in family dynamics. The entire world shatters into tiny pieces. Stitching them back together alone is an impossible, ongoing struggle. The chaos created in such a family is beyond definition in its magnitude. Lifelong assistance and guidance are essential in such a situation. Post-trauma becomes a lifelong companion for the entire family, and the damage is devastating.
V.G.
My daughter Noa was 16.5 years old when she passed away. She died from a brainstem tumor after an eight-month illness, on October 17, 2019.
Noa was a caring young girl with a big heart, our firstborn. She fought bravely and was full of hope.
Please describe how you felt on the eighth day, after the shiva. Confusion, anger, helplessness, and pain.
Please describe the initial period: Did you return to work? Were you able to function at home? How did the siblings react? Was there a turning point, if any? We returned to work one week after the shiva. I began psychological treatment immediately so that I could be there for my children. Every day is a renewed struggle; no two days are the same. My son began therapy six months after her passing, and my daughter only began recently, a year later. My husband is not willing to receive treatment.
Did you receive treatment? What was the cost? How did it affect you? I pay 250 NIS per session. 220 NIS per session for each child. I do not think I would have been able to function without it.
What was missing? What would you like to improve in the community’s support for bereaved families? The feeling that you are left alone—the loneliness in this situation is unbearable. The financial burden is very difficult, especially after a long period of medical treatments and leaving work to care for Noa, when you are already starting from a challenging financial position.
Additional comments. Please write anything important you would like to say. Please do not forget us.
Einav
Please briefly tell us about your son who passed away.
Please specify the date, cause of death, and the duration of the illness beforehand (if there was one).
My son, Chen Israel, was only 10 years old when he was killed after being hit by a police vehicle at a crosswalk in the traffic circle near Bnei Akiva, just as he was returning from a youth movement activity during “Chodesh Irgun.”
Please describe how you felt on the eighth day, after the shiva.
A mixture of complete shock, total trauma, deep grief, and helplessness.
Please describe the initial period: Did you return to work? Were you able to function at home? How did the siblings react? Was there a turning point, if any?
I did not return to work. My husband began working from home, and the children barely went to school. After several months like this, we traveled with them on a long trip to the Far East. It was the best thing we could have done for ourselves.
Did you receive treatment? What was the cost? How did it affect you?
As a family affected by a road traffic accident, we were entitled to treatment, and I can say that it was essential and vital for us, both as a family and as individuals. Three of our children received individual therapy, and we attended couples therapy, which was also necessary as parental guidance.
Every bereaved family—regardless of the circumstances—needs emotional support, and the discrimination must be corrected so that such support is available to all.
What was missing? What would you like to improve in the community’s support for bereaved families?
There was a lack of involvement and guidance from social services. Home visits and genuine care from the social worker handling our case were missing. There was virtually no presence or support felt.
Additional comments. Please write anything important you would like to say.
It is extremely important that all bereaved families receive recognition from the state and from Israeli society regarding the difficulties they face, and consequently regarding the assistance that should and must be provided to them.
For many families, there is a significant financial component due to loss of work capacity. Recognizing bereavement as eligibility for financial support would save many families. Such support would help both by supplementing income and by enabling rehabilitation through activities such as sports (gym, swimming), yoga, complementary therapies, and similar avenues. All of these are essential for recovery and involve significant financial costs.
N.C. Noah's mother
Noa was 5 years and 10 months old when an aggressive cancer, GBM, was discovered in her body. At first, her neck became stiff, and we innocently thought that ointments, massages, and warm water would release it. After a few days, we realized the problem was far more serious. For one year and seven months, we fought for her life, until heartbreakingly, she passed away. Almost 13 years have gone by since then.
On the eighth day after the shiva, we were left to face our fate alone—by the associations, by the state, and in truth, even our extended family returned to their daily routines.
At first, I did not return to work. I am a kindergarten teacher, and Noa passed away in January, in the middle of the school year. Because of this, I decided to return only the following September, and even then, not to a full-time position, but to half a position. I continue to work this way to this day. In the early period, I functioned at home in a mechanical, monotonous way. Sadly, I gave less space to my eldest daughter, who was left as an only child. I cried a lot and spent most of my time immersed in Noa—her words, the things she left behind, the longing. It took a very long time, perhaps even years, until I felt that she was no longer inside me, but walking beside me.
I did not receive treatment from a professional. However, because it was important for me to document everything we went through, I wrote a book. Once everything was written, I turned to a personal editor, and together we reworked it all. In practice, that was my therapy—and it was not inexpensive.
In my opinion, first and foremost, there must be a supportive hand from the state. I would have welcomed the option for families who wish to use support services to receive emotional care—perhaps through a designated budget for different types of treatment, allowing each family to choose what suits them, at the time that is right for them.
It is unacceptable that the state discriminates between different types of bereavement. Even if one can understand the distinction between children who passed away due to illness and those who fell as soldiers or victims of terror, it is still impossible to understand the discrimination between us and families affected by road accidents, murder, or suicide. How could the state leave us behind, without any consideration of the immense damage caused to families at the moment their most precious loved one is taken from them—a damage that ultimately may fall back on the shoulders of the state itself.
Pini Rabinovitz
I am the father of Dassi Rabinowitz, who passed away from cancer.
Dassi fought for the right of patients to receive a second medical opinion and to be treated fairly, first and foremost as human beings. For me—and for many others—she remains an endless source of inspiration for healing, social responsibility, and action.
Despite the tremendous support and the warm embrace we received from our community, the day we rose from the shiva, we somehow felt… a little alone.
I came to understand that it takes immense strength and real support to put the pieces back together when a child is ill, and even more so after the shiva ends. That understanding led me to establish an initiative dedicated to accompanying families whose children have passed away from illness.
Before creating support systems or organizing retreats for bereaved families, I believe there is a deeper social need: to define and recognize civilian bereavement as a language of its own.
Society expects parents to move on and return to everyday life—but a parent who has lost a child does not continue life in a normal way. There is not a single day when it does not follow you.
First and foremost, I felt it was essential for bereaved parents to know that they are not alone in this story.
This is not about gaining sympathy points or extracting budgets. It is about recognition—about giving a name to what is happening inside the heart. About not having to suppress it or pretend that everything is fine.
The “Yakir Li” association reaches out to the community, its leaders, the education system, and beyond.
It matters deeply to me that members of the community know and recognize bereaved families and reach out to them around memorial dates. It matters to me that neighbors feel able to approach without fear or embarrassment and offer a supportive hand. It matters to me that a teacher knows there is a child in their class who has lost a sibling—and knows to pay attention.
