The sirens go off and I go into the safe room with my wife. It’s just another Monday.
On October 7, 2023, we witnessed a day unlike any in recent Jewish memory; a massacre so vicious, so unfathomably cruel, that we still struggle to finds words that adequately express the horror. The pogrom unleashed by Hamas upon Israeli civilians on Simchat Torah – a day of joy and Torah celebration – was the worst slaughter of Jews since the Holocaust. Over 1,200 innocent people were murdered in cold blood. Infants, children, grandparents, women, and men – all were targeted simply for being Jewish.
The Sages teach us, “Whoever destroys a single life is considered to have destroyed an entire world.” On that Black Sabbath, we lost worlds. Entire families erased. Communities shattered. Souls extinguished while they slept, danced, and celebrated life.
I think of that as I swim in the Efrat pool, noting the bomb shelter location so I can get to it quickly if, and when, the sirens go off again.
What disturbs me to the very core of my being is not only what occurred on October 7 but what began happening almost immediately after. On October 8, while families were still searching for their loved ones, while the smoke had not yet cleared from burning homes in the south of Israel, protests erupted in major cities around the world – against Israel.
Not even 24 hours had passed. Bodies were still being found. The kidnapped were still being counted. Survivors were in shock, the IDF was still scrambling to assess the scale of the breach. And yet thousands were already marching with signs accusing Israel of genocide, apartheid, and oppression. Social media was flooded with denials, with justifications, and with the perverse glorification of slaughter.
And while protests against Israel continue, later this afternoon I am going to pay a shiva call to the family of a fallen soldier. He was 22 years old and the oldest in his family. The line of visitors to the house of the mourners stretches well beyond the street corner.
Our Sages teach us “Do not separate yourself from the community.” And yet, in these moments where we support our own, we Jews have never felt more alone. Was the world truly unable – or unwilling – to grieve with us, even for a single day?
We know from our long history that antisemitism is a virus that mutates. In Egypt, Pharaoh feared our numbers. In Persia, Haman feared our influence. In medieval Europe, they said we poisoned wells. In modern times, they said we control banks, governments, the media. Today, antisemitism masquerades as anti-Zionism, and Israel – the collective Jew – is the target.
The prophet Yeshayahu said (Isaiah 5:20): “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness.” What we are witnessing now is the turning upside-down of all moral clarity. The murder of Jews is excused, even celebrated. The defense of Jewish life is condemned; and in this moral fog, truth becomes fiction.
But for me, reality steps in at my home, as I see my wife is saying Tehillim for the latest victim of a terrorist attack – a woman who was shot while on her way to the hospital to give birth.
I think of Kohelet (Ecclesiastes 3:1-4): “There is a time for everything…a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.” October 7 was a time to weep. But we were not allowed to. Not even for one day.
And that silence from so many who we thought were friends – deafening.
In Jewish tradition, when someone dies, we say “Baruch Dayan HaEmet” – Blessed is the True Judge. It is an acknowledgment that some things are beyond human understanding. But this – this demand to justify our own right to exist, to defend ourselves, to mourn our dead – this is not a Divine mystery. This is human cruelty, weaponized against a people still bleeding.
I am heartbroken. I am angry. I am afraid. But I am also awake.
We have been here before. We have seen how quickly the world turns. How Jewish suffering is minimized. How our tears are measured against the political utility of those who hate us.
This is why I turn off the news and attend the talk of a former hostage describing the torture that he went through and reminding us of the other victims who are in captivity, surviving in unspeakable conditions.
But we also know something deeper. Almighty G-d calls us “am segulah” – a treasured people – and we are told repeatedly, “Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid…for Hashem your G-d goes with you” (Devarim. 31:6).
We are not powerless. We are not voiceless. And we are not alone.
In the aftermath of October 7, we saw not only horror, but also heroism. Stories of civilians risking their lives to save others. Soldiers running into battle with faith and determination. Diaspora Jews rallying, donating, praying, and speaking out louder than ever before.
So now, we must hold onto each other tighter. Speak more clearly. Live more proudly.
We must never again be surprised by the speed with which hatred moves, nor underestimate the resilience of our people.
And we must never let our pain be erased.
October 7 was a modern-day pogrom. But here in Israel, we experience and feel in real time October 7 that never ends: as we say Tehillim, as we go into our safe room, as the sirens go off, and as the hostages languish…
We are not the same, though, as the Jews of Kishinev, or of Kristallnacht. We have a home. We have a voice. We have strength.
And above all – we have memory.
Let the world forget if it wants to. Let the cynical rewrite the story. But we will remember. And in remembering, we will find the strength not only to survive, but to thrive.
Because Am Yisrael Chai. The nation of Israel lives.
My son, along with some of my grandchildren, are in the army, fighting in Gaza. I am worried. All our soldiers are a part of our family. But despite all the challenges and hardships, we are still alive and prospering.
For us, It’s just another Monday.
