On this anniversary of October 7th, I find myself reflecting on how overwhelming the pain we carry is. We’ve lost too many loved ones, and countless others survived but lost a piece of themselves in the process. The hurt is profound, and the weight of our grief is heavy. We think of those who remain missing or captive in the tunnels of Gaza. Each day is a reminder of the sacrifices made and the immense sorrow that lingers in our hearts.
An anniversary is a marker in time. It is a milestone that prompts us to pause, reflect, and acknowledge. We celebrate wedding anniversaries, work milestones and other happy events. But not every anniversary is necessarily a celebration— we also mark the date of a death and tragic events. The significance lies in the act of remembrance.
In Hebrew, the word Shanah carries two meanings: to repeat (Sheni, the number two) and to change (LeShanot, to alter).
This duality is powerful because, on the one hand, we tend to repeat a comforting and soothing set of patterns much like the circannual and seasonal cycles that regulate all beings (e.g., in farming, animal hibernation/migration, our immune response).
But, on the other hand, we are given an opportunity to change, to renew, and to start fresh. As cliché as it may sound, light always follows darkness. This cycle offers us renewal.
On this anniversary of October 7th, I find myself reflecting on what has repeated and what has changed.
What is repeated?
They tried to kill us, but we survived. Just as we have for centuries. We have always risen from the ashes—after Jerusalem was razed in 586 BCE by the Babylonians and in 70 CE by the Romans, after entire Jewish communities were wiped out during the Rhineland massacres in the First Crusade and the Khmelnytsky massacres, and when six million of our people were murdered in the Holocaust. Each time, we found the strength to rebuild, to reclaim life, and to continue, as we always have.
Second, the unwavering truth that we have each other. The solidarity among the Jewish people, both in Israel and worldwide, has been a source of strength. When we face global challenges and rising antisemitism, it often feels like we are all we have. And yet, we are enough because we stand as one. In these difficult times, we have seen incredible generosity from Jewish communities and other friends worldwide—offering support, funding a range of needs, and even coming to visit us, to stand with us in solidarity. This continued kindness has made us feel less alone.
Third, we discovered that we are not alone after all. In a world that can feel hostile, we found allies. Arab-Israelis like Yossef Haddad and Muhammad Zoabi have been using their voices to debunk lies and stand up for Israel, even at great personal risk. Journalists like Douglas Murray and Erin Molan have spoken out boldly, sharing the truth despite the pressure to stay silent. Political figures like Assita Kanko (Member of the European Parliament) and Ritchie Torres (representative for New York's 15th congressional district) have shown unwavering support for Israel. Celebrities like Dr. Phil and Nathaniel Buzolic have used their platforms to advocate for Israel, amplifying the message of truth and justice. Their courage gives us hope in the goodness of humanity.
And yet, much has changed.
We have grappled with the loss of our sense of safety. The comfort we once took for granted has been shattered, leaving us to redefine what it means to feel secure—both physically and emotionally. This redefinition has also sparked a deeper, existential reflection within Jewish communities worldwide. Many are asking, "What does it mean to be Israeli / Jewish / Zionist today? What is my role?" This search for meaning is reshaping our identity and narrative, as we navigate these uncertain times and work to rebuild a sense of stability in our lives.
Second, our understanding of trauma has deepened. We now see how collective trauma impacts not just individuals, but the entire fabric of our society. It affects our nation's health, productivity, and even our own security. This awareness is critical as we continue to find ways to heal and strengthen our resilience.
Third, we have gained a profound appreciation for our country and our soldiers—the heroes who left everything behind to protect us. Over the past year, we have witnessed their incredible bravery and the near-impossible feats they have achieved. They tried to kill us, but we survived—and we will fight back. Our army, the IDF, stands as a source of pride and strength.
And the most important thing that remained constant?
Our resilience and ability to find light even in the darkest moments.
Even with the weight of national trauma, Shabbat meals are still filled with laughter. Weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs go on, with people dancing with joy. We keep celebrating life. This isn’t about ignoring grief—it’s about refusing to let it define us. And still, even as we sit at our tables and celebrate life, we are acutely aware that many of our soldiers remain at the front, standing watch, and our hostages are still held captive in the tunnels of Gaza. Their absence is felt, but their sacrifice and courage fuel our determination to live fully in the face of sorrow.
Finding joy in the midst of sorrow is an act of defiance and our way of saying, "We're still here." And it's not just for ourselves—we also do it for our community. Seeking joy alongside the grief we feel is how we honor the ones we've lost and carry on the legacy of survival.
