600 Days In: Why Telling Your Story Matters More Than Ever

It’s official: we’ve now, unbelievably, passed 600 days since October 7th. We are living through the longest war in Israel’s history. We’ve survived horrors we never imagined, the sound of sirens, and the sight of empty seats at Shabbat tables. We’ve mourned with families we’ve never met, cooked for soldiers, and watched our children carry emotional weight far beyond their years.

And somehow, we’ve kept going.

For most of us who came to Israel as olim, this communal reaction to immense trauma isn’t something we were used to. But speaking for all olim (presumptuous, I know, but hey – I’m Israeli now!), it’s something we’re so grateful to be a part of. We’ve chosen to throw our lot in with this amazing place, and this is now our story too. We are fully in it, fully responsible, fully heartbroken… fully proud.

Lately, there’s a question that’s been surfacing for me, quietly but persistently:

What will our children and grandchildren know about this time we’ve lived through?

Because they’re going to ask, and they won’t want just the headlines. They’ll want to know how it felt, how we coped, and what helped us get through.

In Jewish life, memory isn’t something passive. It’s not just history – it’s a responsibility. We are commanded not only to remember, but to tell.
“Ve’higadeta le’vincha bayom hahu…” — “And you shall tell your child on that day.” (Exodus 13:8)

We say it every year at the Seder, but it’s not limited to one night. It’s a generational mission we’ve been given to transform lived experiences into stories, and stories into legacies.

That’s why I believe, more than ever, that we need to start telling our personal stories.

As the founder of a small memoir-writing agency here in Israel, I know of what I speak. The act of telling one’s story is grounding. It brings clarity, dignity, and meaning to even the hardest moments. And the act of reading the story of a person you love, in their own words, is powerful. It builds a connection across time and reminds us of where we come from and who we are.

You also don’t need to wait until you’re old or “have something important to say.” You don’t even need to be a writer. You just need to begin. Telling your story isn’t about ego, it’s about identity – and it’s one of the most powerful things you can do for the next generation.

Here are my suggestions for how to get started:

Choose a format that suits you.
Whether you choose to write by hand, type on your computer, or record a voice note, there’s really no right way… only your way.

Start small.
Choose one memory:

• A childhood tradition

• Your aliyah story

• What you experienced on October 7th

• How this war has changed you

• What’s kept you grounded during this time

Write like you speak.
Don’t try to be literary, just be real. That’s the voice your family will recognize and cherish.

Break it into sections.
Childhood, marriage, career, parenthood, resilience, faith, and words of wisdom. You don’t need to go in order. Just pick a moment and go.

Reflect on meaning.
What do you want your children or grandchildren to know about you? What values matter most to you? What do you want to pass on?

Keep it manageable.
Try to carve out 15 minutes a week—or even five. One memory at a time adds up. A few lines in a journal, a voice note on your phone – it all counts.

Jewish tradition commands us: Zachor. Remember. Through telling and retelling what we’ve lived, we learn to put our memories into words and give meaning to our survival. This is how we remind the next generation not only of what we went through, but also of what we stood for.

Telling your story is an act of defiance and resilience, ensuring that when your great-grandchildren wonder about this moment in Jewish history, they won’t just know what happened; they’ll know who lived it.

In doing so, we can ensure that the commandment of Zachor is not just recited, but also lived. Our children and grandchildren will remember because we took the time to tell them.

And that matters.