October 7 and the heroism cover-up

In Israeli schools, the official day this year for marking the disaster of October 7 was actually held on October 5. When our kids — ages six and 10 — came back from their school observances, we asked them what they saw and heard. Tales of heroism, they responded.

It’s not that there weren’t heroes on that terrible day — there were incredible acts of fierce courage in the face of impossible odds. But as an educator I have to ask myself what the educational goal was of choosing to focus on heroes instead of on the grief? Instead of on the pain? Instead of on the incredible acts of caring for each other in the weeks and months afterwards, including all our efforts to bring the hostages back? Instead of on our failures. Instead of on our guilt?

Yes, guilt. Because I, for one, certainly feel a mountain of guilt about it. Even though I was nowhere near any of the attacks, I still feel guilt. I had no security role anywhere, but still I failed. We all did, in my view. We all had a failure of imagination, of conceptziah, of over-relying on weak assumptions. While I always believed that Hamas wanted to kill as many of us as it could, I assumed that they were incapable of doing it. I assumed the IDF would respond quickly and effectively — with overwhelming force — to any attempted incursion from Gaza. My assumptions prevented me from listening to the few voices out there that were saying we had to do much more to keep Hamas in check. I didn’t want to initiate a war with Hamas, to put our soldiers’ lives at risk. So I put my “head in the sand”. And people died because of that. I am ashamed.

It’s become fashionable to think that feelings of shame, and even guilt, are always bad, should always be tamped down in the name of preserving good mental health. But guilt can be a great teacher. Guilt can motivate us to change our ways, especially when change is difficult. It can inspire us to do better, to prevent horrible disasters from occurring again. So, why would we try to deprive our children of access to that teacher, why would we try and cover up our pain and our shame by only focusing on heroism? What do we think we’re protecting them from?

My children were old enough three years ago to be conscious of what was happening, even though we live in Jerusalem, quite far from Gaza. They saw the first terrible images on a giant flat-screen TV in our neighbors’ apartment, and they heard the air raid sirens. They felt, in their guts, the feelings of fear and confusion and helplessness we all experienced on that day. They know that there were not just acts of heroism then. They know they are being, in effect, lied to when they are presented with only heroic tales about October 7.

Shouldn’t we also be trying to teach them something else, something about what it means to try and recover from failure? About how we can turn our feelings of shame and guilt and helplessness into an imperative to do better? To take action? To reach out to our fellow human and try to help them?

Although in their classrooms it seems the teachers only focused on heroic acts on October 7 itself, there was a little bit of a forward-looking approach in the school-wide ceremony that was held. They played a song that honors the reservists who have been fighting heroically to protect us, interrupting their normal lives, these last three years — Giborei Al by Hatikva 6.

In this video of the song, the singer strolls along the Tel Aviv beachfront, listing a bunch of ordinary types of Israelis and their work. Then he bursts out into song:

נכון כולם נראים רגילים אבל

אנחנו עם של גיבורי על

בכל אחד תמיד מסתתר חייל

מוכן להציל את העולם

True, everyone looks ordinary, but

We are a nation of giborei al (superheroes);

Within everyone a soldier is concealed,

Ready to come out and save the world.

The song brings to mind the heroes of FlyDubai 1073, who one moment were just ordinary vacationers, and the next were lions fighting for their lives and the lives of their families against a co-pilot turned terrorist. I admire their heroism so much, and see a kind of Israeli educational genius reflected in it. I believe in honoring and celebrating this kind of heroism.

But choosing to do that on a day set aside for remembering the October 7 disaster is also a kind of cover-up. It covers up our failures. It stifles our grief. It closes the door to considering how we could have done better, how we can — collectively — work to prevent such a disaster in future.

There’s also the question of whether we should be trying to teach lessons at all on a remembrance day. On a recent “The Promised Podcast” episode, the educator guests suggested that maybe we shouldn’t be trying to teach any messages during the one day a year we mark out for memorializing October 7. We have the whole rest of the school year available for seeking to find meaning and messages. Maybe on this one day we should be willing to just be — to just be with the grief.

I’m reminded of what is the most powerful secular ritual for me in the Israeli calendar: the short moments of silence we have collectively — with cars stopping in the middle of the street for people to get out and stand — while the air raid sirens blare on Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZikaron. No one tells me what to feel in those moments. No one tries to tell me what the message is, or what I should do as a response to these disasters. 

Maybe that’s what we should have for our children during the moments set aside for a remembrance of October 7. I love the Giborei Al song they played at my children’s school at the ceremony, with its reminders of the ways we Israelis are strong, the ways we can amaze the world with our responsiveness and resourcefulness like the passengers of FlyDubai 1073 did.

But don’t we have the rest of the year for that?