For the nameless body of a Palestinian woman.

As if horror could become more horrifying.

Yesterday, in blatant violation of the ceasefire agreement and every basic principle of humanity, Hamas delivered the body of a Palestinian woman instead of Shiri Bibas.

This was no mistake. No accident. It was a deliberate act of terror—calculated and executed to inflict the deepest level of psychological warfare.

Yes, the terror comes from wondering where Shiri Bibas truly is and what impossible price will now be demanded for her return. Yes, the terror is in the unbearable agony of her family. Yes, the terror is in the sheer depravity of Hamas—in minds and hearts twisted beyond recognition.

But for me, the terror is also in the corpse they discarded.

Handed over like refuse, as if it were nothing more than a meaningless pawn sacrificed to protect more valuable pieces. Checkmate by death.

I know I am not supposed to care. But I do.

I do not wish to romanticize her life. Perhaps she was a terrorist. Perhaps her children are. Perhaps, in this world of binary labels, she was my "enemy." Perhaps she was just a woman, living her life, caught in the crossfire of war.

Whoever she was, I am horrified by what they did to her.

Her body, packed into a coffin. Nameless. Tossed away—because, clearly, they never expected anyone to claim it. It made no difference to them.

The ultimate desecration. Profiting off the dead.

A woman who, in life, may well have been a victim of Hamas’ brutality (let's be honest—they are not known for their respect for women), only to be used in death as a disposable bargaining chip.

And yes, she likely died in an Israeli attack.

I know I am not supposed to care. But I do.

I care about her, and about what this reveals. I care because no matter how furious I am these days, no matter how hopeless this situation feels, my humanity will never erode to the point where I can see this as normal. I will never accept the commercialization of human bodies as mere “collateral damage” in the machinery of terror.

That coffin, containing a false body, exposed one of the starkest differences between Israel and Hamas: the reverence for life—even when life is gone.

Israel trades living prisoners to recover the bodies of its murdered citizens. Hamas martyrs both the living and the dead in pursuit of whatever warped goal they serve.

And once again, I ask—where are the feminists?

Their silence grants Hamas the freedom to do whatever it pleases to women of all religions. Their silence enables the vilest desecration of a woman’s body. Where are their voices?

Unlike them, I—a Jewish woman, on the other side of this conflict—will say it aloud:

You, nameless Palestinian woman, I do not know the words Muslims use to bid farewell to their dead with dignity. So I will say it in Hebrew, the language I know, the language in which I find solace:

Baruch dayan ha’emet.