You do not know me. You do not know my voice, my home, my heart. But the moment you posted the picture of my son — Yona Betzalel Brief H''YD — our lives collided in a way I never asked for and never wanted.
It was 3:39 p.m., Erev Shavuot. A time when the world is preparing for the giving of the Torah, a time to hear the 10 Commandments, and read the story of Ruth, a convert who chose to join Am Yisrael.
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Hazel Brief and her son, Yona Bezalel Brief, who was injured on October 7 defending Kibbut Kfar Aza and died 417 days later in Sheba Hospital
(Photo: Courtesy of the family)
It is also a time when bereaved families brace themselves for the storm of memory, loss and grief that holidays and every weekly Shabbat bring.
At first, your words reached me. You wrote of Torah, of land, of Zionism, of the sacred thread that binds heaven and earth. You wrote that Torah must walk with us everywhere — in the fields, in the streets, on the battlefield.
As someone who chose to make aliyah and raise six children in our precious homeland, the connections you draw came close to my heart as well.
For a moment, I felt you understood something true. For a moment, I felt you were speaking from a place of depth, empathy, and togetherness.
And then — in one breath — you lost me.
Because you used my son’s picture. His holy face. His private moment of learning Gemara in a jeep between missions to hunt terrorists. A moment that belonged to him, to us, to his Duvdevan team, and to the people who loved him and held him and prayed for him for 417 days while he was in ICU at Sheba Hospital.
To the best of my knowledge, no one from your office asked us. No one checked. No one paused long enough to wonder whether this picture — this piece of Yona’s soul — was yours to use and how having that picture appear without notification plastered on your Facebook page would affect me, my family, Yona’s friends and, most importantly, Yona’s memory.
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The Brief family shared the photo of Yona in a social media post ahead of Yom Kippur 2024, asking the world to pray for his recovery
In all fairness, we chose to share this picture when Yona was fighting for his life before Yom Kippur 2024.
Miriam Peretz who was a frequent visitor in Yona’s ICU room, and shared conversations with Yona and us came again just prior to Yom Kippur. She told us that she would ask her shul to pray for Yona’s recovery during the reading of the Book of Yona at afternoon prayers. We decided to take it another step forward and we sent this very picture out with trembling hands. Begging the world to pray for Yona. Miriam Peretz held our hands and told us to let the nation carry him in its heart. That was a moment of hope, of fear, of life hanging by a thread.
At 3:30 p.m. Erev Shavuot, you made your post public and with that our dear Yona’s picture as well. Just hours before we would sit at a table with flowers and wine and food and with the chair that will never again be filled. The chair that screams louder than any words. The chair that forever symbolizes the price we pay to live in Israel.
While I am certain you had no false intentions or desire to hurt me or anyone else, your post shattered whatever fragile balance I had managed to build that day to preserve another holiday without my precious Yona at our table. It broke something inside me that was already cracked and trembling.
No one paused long enough to wonder whether this picture — this piece of Yona’s soul — was yours to use and how having that picture appear without notification plastered on your Facebook page would affect me, my family, Yona’s friends and, most importantly, Yona’s memory
So let me say this plainly, without politics, without spin, without anything but truth:
Before you use a fallen soldier’s picture, ask the family. Ask if they can bear it. Ask if the timing won’t crush them. Ask if their child’s face is yours to share.
Had you asked — had you told Yona’s story with care, with context, with our blessing — this letter would have been one of gratitude.
But instead, I must speak about words. Because words matter.
You wrote “לצערנו.” “Unfortunately.”
Yona did not live, serve, inspire and die “unfortunately.” Yona — and every one of our fallen soldiers — lived and died as giants, lights, holy souls, warriors of spirit and flesh. Their sacrifice is not an “unfortunate” event. It is a wound carved into the heart of Am Yisrael. It is a holiness that burns.
To describe their deaths with a word like “unfortunately” is not just inadequate — it is a misunderstanding of who they were. It is a misunderstanding of what they gave. And it is a misunderstanding of the memories I as a bereaved mother desperately hang on to and try graciously to share with others.
I do not believe you meant harm. But harm was done. And that is why I am writing to you now.
Please — learn Yona’s story. Sit with it. Let it enter you. Let it change the way you speak, the way you post, the way you carry the memory of the fallen.
And when you finish Yona’s story, learn the stories of the 956 other heroes who left their study halls, their homes, their parents, their partners, their children — to defend this land with their bodies and their souls.
Each one is a universe. Each one deserves reverence, accuracy and tenderness. Each one deserves to be remembered not as a symbol, not as a tool, but as a human being whose life was beautiful and whose absence is unbearable.
And so, I say this to you plainly:
I carry Yona every second of every day — in my breath, in my bones, in the empty chair at every Shabbat and every holiday. His memory is not a political instrument. It is not a backdrop for a Facebook post. It is the beating heart of a family shattered and still standing.
All we ask — all we will ever ask — is that those who speak his name, who share his image and who invoke his sacrifice, do so with the same weight, the same care, the same trembling responsibility with which we live every moment of our lives.
Carry him — and all of them — with the gravity they deserve. Carry them as if they were your own. Carry them in truth, in humility, and in awe.
Because we do. Because we must. Because we have no other choice.
Hazel Brief is the mother of Yona Bezalel Brief, who was injured on October 7 defending Kibbut Kfar Aza and died 417 days later in Sheba Hospital