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KU Hillel

With profound sadness, KU Hillel mourns the loss of our beloved alum Sarah Milgrim (Class of '21), who was tragically killed with her boyfriend, Yaron Lischinsky, in the attack last night at the Capital Jewish Museum.

Sarah's bright spirit and passion for the Jewish community touched everyone fortunate enough to know her. Those closest to her describe as 'the definition of the best person.' During her time at KU Hillel, she exemplified the values we hold dear. She worked as an intern, travelled to Israel on Birthright, and served as a member of KU Hillel's Board of Directors, making meaningful contributions that continue to resonate today.

In the face of such hateful violence, we come together as a community to support one another and to honor Sarah's memory. In this difficult time, if you are seeking mental health and wellness support, please reach out to us for a full list of available resources and benefits.
We are here for you, always.

May Sarah and Yaron's memories always be a blessing.
Baruch Dayan Ha'Emet


KU Chabad

It is with a broken heart and unimaginable sorrow that we share the tragic news of the murder of our dear alumna, Sarah Milgrim, who was killed in a terrorist attack Wednesday evening alongside her beloved partner, Yaron Lischinsky, during a peaceful event at Washington’s Capital Jewish Museum.

Sarah was a proud Jewhawk, a graduate of the University of Kansas, and an active, deeply loved member of our KU Jewish community. She joined us often for Shabbat dinners, holiday celebrations, and countless Jewish programs, always bringing her warm smile, gentle spirit, and deep passion for her Jewish heritage. She was not only a joy to be around but a true embodiment of grace, empathy, and purpose.

After her time at KU, Sarah went on to pursue graduate studies at American University’s School of International Service and worked tirelessly to promote peace between Israel and its neighbors. Most recently, she joined the Israeli Embassy in Washington, D.C., continuing her mission of building bridges and bringing light into a world that too often feels dark.

Her life was a beacon of hope and humanity. Her loss is a devastating blow to all who knew her and to the values she stood for.

We strongly condemn this act of terrorism and the rising tide of antisemitism that has no place in our country or our world. At a time when Jews across America are facing increased hate and threats, we must respond with unity, pride, and an unwavering commitment to stand together.

While we are shocked and in disbelief, at the same time we must not give in to panic, bitterness, or self-pity. We, the Jewish people are a collective affirmation of life. Our existence and achievements are a living testimony to one of Judaism's greatest messages to humankind: the principled defeat of tragedy by the power of hope. Because that’s what we Jews do.

As we pause to consider the enormity of the tragedy and ponder the question, "what can I do about it?" In the face of this darkness, let us look to illuminate the soul of another. In the face of such tragic death, make a difference to one other life. We fight darkness with light. We fight hatred with love.

Let's have Sarah and Yaron in our prayers while actively bringing more light, more goodness, and more kindness into the world. Please pray for those injured in this terrible attack and do a Mitzvah in memory of the deceased and may G-d send comfort to those who mourn and healing to those injured.

AM YISRAEL CHAI – We the Jewish people have, are and will live on forever more.


Mariam Wahba, My Friend Yaron

I first met Yaron Lischinsky almost two years ago, at McCormick & Schmick’s steakhouse on K Street in Washington, D.C. I was new to the city and looking for new friends when we connected on X. I ordered a gin and tonic. He got nothing.

In typical Washington intro-meetings fashion, we began that awkward dance of “So what do you do?” I launched into the usual spiel about my work covering the Middle East for the Foundation for Defense of Democracies. But soon enough, the conversation veered, sharply and inevitably, toward my favorite subject: Christians in the Middle East, a community we were both members of.

Yaron sat quietly, listening more intently than most people ever do. “Then there was the First Council of Nicaea in 425 AD. . . ” I began. “325,” he gently corrected me, with a small, amused smile. Then he ordered a drink too.

That moment told me all I needed to know about Yaron. He was precise, but never performative. He loved truth, not triumph.

He told me how his family lived in Israel before they moved to Germany, about moving back when he was 16, and knowing, early and without hesitation, that he wanted to be a diplomat and peacemaker. Language came easily to him: Hebrew, Japanese, English, and of course, his native German. He moved through the world with care and thoughtfulness, as if everyone and everything he touched might break.

We became fast friends. A month later, he came to my birthday dinner and quickly smoothed over a heated debate between two friends without anyone realizing he’d done it. That was Yaron’s way—you could feel him, but never notice him.

We often talked about how strange and wonderful it must be to live in Jerusalem as a Christian, something he knew intimately and I still dream of. I once mentioned how much I loved the famous chocolate cake at the Austrian Hospice, a Christian hostel along the Via Dolorosa in the Old City. He made a face and said he’d never tried it, that he preferred the Apfelstrudel. “More subtle,” he claimed.

After any attack on a church or Christians in my native Egypt—and there are many of them—I’d get a message from him. Nothing long. Just “Are you okay?” or “I saw what happened.” He never forgot to do it.

In the days after October 7, we checked in on each other frequently. “If you can spare a prayer, please pray for the families of the victims and those being held captive,” he wrote to me on October 12, 2023. His sorrow was steady, even if unspoken.

Late last year we ran into each other at a policy roundtable. He made his way around the table saying hello to everyone, then slid into the seat next to mine. As the discussion went on, we passed notes back and forth like bored schoolkids, only our notes were critiques of talking points or stats we knew were off. My last note read, “That was so stupid.” Yaron read it, smiled, then quickly scribbled over it, as if he were protecting the speaker from a judgment they’d never hear.

Yaron was the kind of person who knew the exact year of the First Council of Nicaea and never made you feel small for getting it wrong. His murder leaves a wound in many hearts, one that may never fully heal, for he was the healer. Yaron was sharp, but more importantly, he was kind.

He didn’t just want to understand the world. He wanted to mend it. Quietly and gently. Thoughtfully. Steadily.

May his memory be a blessing.