The Paradox of Hope

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For nearly 13 months, the word I have clung to is hope.

I whispered it in quiet prayers, sat around kitchen tables yelling into the echo chamber, willing it to be the beacon in the darkness. Hope that the hostages would come home. Hope that the soldiers standing in the face of unspeakable threats would be safe. Hope that the world’s leaders would wake up, that they would see Israel’s fight as their fight. Hope that the waves of anti Jewish hate sweeping across the globe would eventually subside.

But here we are, nearly 13 months later, and the twinkle of hope that once guided me is now a distant flicker, so faint. The word that once brought comfort now feels hollow, elusive—a reminder of everything we’re still waiting for, everything we may never receive.

It’s difficult to hold onto hope when reality lands heavy on our shoulders. 101 remain captive in Gaza, each a soul tethered to families waiting with hearts cracked wide open. The families of those taken or killed continue to shoulder an immense weight of grief, struggling to make sense of a world that seems to have turned its back on them.

For those of us who once saw hope as an act of defiance and resilience, it now feels inadequate, a flimsy shield against the relentless assaults on our people, our communities, our very identity. We are faced with a year of unanswered prayers, of voices calling for peace drowned out by more rockets, more bloodshed, and more betrayal. How do we maintain hope when the landscape around us feels broken and barren?

And yet—what is the alternative?

Do we let despair fill the cracks that hope once occupied? Do we replace our yearning with anger, let rage guide us? Or do we allow indifference to numb us, losing ourselves in a dark apathy that forgets the names, the faces, and the stories of those we’ve lost?

This, perhaps, is the paradox of hope. It can feel fleeting, elusive, even cruel—but it’s also what gives us the strength to keep going. Hope, though tattered and worn, asks us to rise in the face of everything that tells us to lie down. It’s the spark that insists there is still work to be done, still lives to rebuild, still a future we have a role in shaping.

So here I stand, still grasping at hope—not because it feels natural, or even comforting, but because I refuse to let go. I refuse to let the darkness extinguish every last glimmer. We continue to pray, to march, to rebuild. We cling to each other, our voices rising together, declaring that even in a broken world, we will not abandon hope.

Hope may be our paradox, but it is also our promise. And that promise remains.

Let’s remind ourselves that hope isn’t passive; it’s a choice, a movement, and a lifeline we extend to ourselves and to one another. Will you join me?