I am a different person than I was on October 6

I am a different person than I was on October 6 — and I am certainly not alone.

I was not in the army during this war. My days of service ended decades ago. I was not even in Israel on October 7. I was in Florida on a weeklong trip when, at 1:30 a.m. Eastern time, nonstop Red Alerts began screaming from my phone. it was two hours into the war and I called home to understand what was happening. From that moment on, I was glued to Hebrew news and trying desperately to get back.

I was two weeks away from my 40th Aliyah anniversary. Like most Israelis, I had lived through too many wars and “operations.” As always, we assumed this would be short and that life would soon return to normal. That illusion collapsed once we understood the scale of the massacre, the hostage-taking, the total failure of the army, and the abandonment by the government.

I was in constant contact with my family. I was endlessly grateful that my younger daughter had been home that weekend. She lives in Sderot and would not return for nearly a year. It took me ten days to get back to Israel. Only then did my wife sit me down and describe her terror.

We live just outside Jerusalem, near the Green Line. Our home is close to a main road and a primary entrance to our community. If there were an attack, our house would be among the first hit. My wife, Israeli-born, carries childhood memories of the Yom Kippur War and her father leaving immediately for reserve duty. On October 7, she was convinced that she and our daughters would be killed and that Israel would cease to exist. While I was in constant contact with them, I could not fully grasp that level of terror until I was home.

My instinct upon returning was to act — to drive reservists south and evacuated families north. If I were still serving, I would have put on a uniform and gone. This is not heroism; it is Israeli DNA. But once home, everything had changed. Our front door, once left open all day, was locked. Our home office became a safe room stocked with water, food, mattresses, and dog treats. Anxiety ruled the house. Even letting the dogs into the yard was frightening. The idea of leaving to volunteer was no longer possible. My family’s mental health had to come first.

While still in the U.S., people called me constantly for real-time information. I started a WhatsApp group, then posted twice-daily updates on Facebook. Without realizing it, this became my mission. I remained consumed by the need to help, but my contribution became information, presence, and witness. When hostage demonstrations began in Jerusalem, I was there every Saturday night. The hostage crisis overtook my life. Through various circles, we were connected to roughly forty people who were killed or kidnapped. Like for most Israelis, October 7 was painfully personal.

For nearly two years, my entire being revolved around the war, especially the hostages. I was connected to the news 24/7. I woke to it, fell asleep to it, and checked it throughout the night. Every report of fallen soldiers caused physical pain. I could not talk about anything else. Everything I did was haunted by the thought that the hostages could not do these simple things.

From the beginning, I understood that I was suffering from survivor’s guilt. The country — not only the government — had abandoned the Gaza Envelope for years. I was guilty too. I never raised my voice. We all heard empty political slogans claiming Sderot was the same as Tel Aviv. No one believed it, and no one acted on it — until October 7.

After the southern attack, the entire country became the front. Rockets fell everywhere. No one felt safe. Israel, long seen as a refuge for Jews, became the most dangerous place to be one. Everything was personal.

The Nova Music Festival massacre brought the war into homes across the country. Victims came from every background and ideology. I went early to the site and walked among the photos for hours. My daughters and nephews are the same age as the victims; they could easily have been there. I could not speak or think rationally — only cry. As my brother and I left, shattered, he said that even one or two attack helicopters could have prevented the massacre.

I am a glass and mosaic artist, but for most of the war I could not create. When I did, it was only about the hostages, and the pain was unbearable. I was paralyzed.

Every year since making Aliyah, we host a large American-style Thanksgiving dinner. In November 2024, more than a year into the war, I could not express gratitude for anything. I was broken. My family begged me to seek therapy; I insisted I would do so after the war. I knew my condition affected them, yet I could not talk at home — it intensified their anxiety. I watched the news alone in the safe room. Everything was bottled up. My only relief came from talking with my brother and from the hostage demonstrations, where tears flowed freely but grief was shared.

October 7 changed the DNA of this country. It altered our sleep, tempers, relationships, and thought processes. Thankfully, the war has ended (hopefully), the living hostages are home, and all but one of the fallen have been returned for burial. But we are still broken. Healing has begun, yet we will never return to October 6.

I can’t help but think constantly of the hostages, of the 1,200 murdered, the over nine hundred fallen soldiers, and all of the bereaved families, the permanently wounded, and the civilians — including non-combatants in Gaza — whose lives were destroyed. We are all survivors of this war.

All of this happened under the most extreme and self-interested government in our history — one that refuses responsibility and continues to lead the country toward self-destruction. A functioning government would focus on rebuilding the physical and emotional well-being of the nation. This one focuses only on survival and power.

I am changed forever, as are most Israelis. Some wounds will heal; others will not. Alongside the pain is a deepened love for this country — and a deep fear of what it may become if false narratives and failed leadership continue. We cannot live as though it is still October 6.

We must embrace Gandhi’s teaching: be the change we wish to see. That change begins with new elections and leaders worthy of this country — not just on election day, but every day. The Israel we dream of begins with us and we must choose new leaders to choose new paths for Israel to be the country we all dream of.