Sarah Milgrim was from Prairie Village, a small suburb of Kansas City, the same place I’m from. More than ten years younger than me, I never knew her personally. But she was deeply rooted in our shared community: active in her synagogue, involved in local Jewish institutions, and a leader at her Hillel at the University of Kansas.
And yet, the truth is, she is no more distant from me than you are. Just as we all felt the pain of the Jews in Pittsburgh, in Poway, or at the Nova Festival, her loss is our loss. This is what it means to be part of a people, to feel grief that is not bound by geography.
Sarah and her soon-to-be fiancé, Yaron, both worked at Israel’s Embassy. But that wasn’t why they were murdered. That night in Washington, D.C., they were attending an event at the Jewish Museum, focused on how faith-based groups can collaborate to deliver humanitarian aid to regions devastated by war, including Gaza. Both Sarah and Yaron were engaged in peacebuilding work. They believed in a vision of a better future for all who call our Holy Land home. They believed in the promise of everything Israel can be.
And their lives were cut brutally, tragically short. Taken by hatred. Taken by antisemitism. Taken by the delusion that hurting Jews in America somehow eases suffering in the Middle East.
Whenever Jews are harmed anywhere in the world, our global Jewish community feels the pain. And especially this time, there is also a deep, burning anger. How can this be what “Free Palestine” has come to? How can a movement that purports to speak the language of liberation end with the murder of two beautiful, idealistic young people devoted to healing and the building of a better future?
This is not resistance. It is desecration, a perverse inversion of morality.
Did he know who they were? Did he know how much Sarah and Yaron had to give? That they were already building bridges, already pursuing peace? Of course he didn’t. Because he didn’t care. All he saw was that they were Jews. (Yaron wasn’t Jewish, but the gunman thought he was - and that’s what mattered to him.) All he knew was that they were attending an event at the Jewish Museum. It’s a story we know all too well, a story of hatred of our people.
And even in the face of such violence, we do not let go of our vision. We mourn, and we rage, and we also hold fast to the truth that Sarah and Yaron lived by: that the work of peace, of justice, of love for our people, is sacred. Hatred may destroy lives, but it cannot destroy purpose.
We honor their memories not only by naming this loss, but by continuing the work they believed in. We carry their light forward, in our actions, in our compassion, in our commitment to uplifting our people, and in our relentless hope for a world redeemed.
May their memories be a blessing. And may we be worthy of their legacy.
