Am Yisrael: 1,000 days of memory, mourning, and resilience
1,000 days ago, on October 6, 2023, my family and friends told stories in a sukkah, enjoying each other’s company. We did not expect time to tragically stop, for normalcy to become a foreign word, for our faraway family to be torn from us by monsters.
That same day in Israel at 6:30 AM local time, Hamas and Palestinian factions coordinated a deadly onslaught from the Gaza Strip by land, air, and sea. 251 individuals were taken hostage and 1,200 were murdered by savagery.
Not by coincidence, the single deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust took place on Shemini Atzeret, following the seven days of Sukkot. Shemini Atzeret is a meaningful day of rest and connection to the transcendence of God. After this day follows Simchat Torah, a day of joy and celebration when the Torah-reading cycle concludes and restarts. This expected festive transition of laughter, song, and study fractured into disbelief, emptiness, and endless mourning. For 1,000 days, innocence has been irrevocably shattered in my young heart’s comprehension.
I find myself connected more deeply with Judaism on a spiritual level. Almost every day became marked by silent suffering for individuals whom I did not know, yet to whom I felt a resilient and broken connection. When I stepped into a synagogue, attended a Jewish event, talked proudly about my faith, or simply wore an Israeli pin, I experienced solidarity with my people. We all carried an unimaginable and undefinable grief for those we could not save, because of a faceless terror that left a widening gap in the ground beneath us.
As Jew-hatred surged with atrocious rapidity across the world, I have lost friends and have lived with novel suspicion. In the United States alone, the Anti-Defamation League’s (ADL) 2024 audit documented an 893 percent increase in Jew-hatred over the past decade.
My mind still travels to that fateful, solemn, and long-departed evening in the sukkah with those whom I love. As our voices layered over one another, our conversation became the final version of “before.” It is in that moment, in the joy of “before” and disrepair of “after” and its tragedy, that I continue living.
After 843 horrific days, all 251 hostages were brought home and 85 were murdered. And those who did survive terror also suffered atrocious physical and psychological torture. Victims included the elderly, Holocaust survivors, babies, children, teenagers, and adults, stolen across military installations, 20 communities, and the Nova music festival.
Today, I carry two worlds with me. One is marked by inexpressible sadness for the victims of October 7, for the infiltration of monstrosity into a world that is supposed to be civilized. My other existence is one I have always carried, but never fully seen: it is a life defined by devotion, community, pride, gratitude, love, kindness, celebration, and unbridled confidence and soulful connection to my Jewish community.
The sacred Jewish text The Book of Zohar perfectly describes what it means to be Jewish, a people who live by the greatest miracle of survival: “Weeping is lodged in one side of my heart, and joy is lodged in the other.” To be Jewish is to honor humanity, because every life is embraced with respect, dignity, and justice.
I do not know how to dwell with 1,000 days of traumatic recollection, but I do know how to live with intention. And I will continue to do so by fighting for morality, preserving memory, defending truth, and choosing life, hope, and compassion in the shadow of grief.
If sorrow lives in one side of my heart and joy in the other, perhaps resilience is not choosing between them, but remaining anchored in a single, rooted identity. And so I continue forward, with memory, community, and the enduring heartbeat of a people who remember, remain, and thrive: Am Yisrael–“The People of Israel.”
