Three Years Later: We Cried Together — And We Rose Together

October 7, 2026

To the families who lost those they loved, to the hostages who survived and came home, to the wounded in body and soul, and to my Jewish brothers and sisters throughout the world:

Three years. And yet October 7, 2023, can still feel like yesterday. It is no longer simply a date on the calendar; it is engraved upon the Jewish heart. There are families still living with an empty chair that should never have been empty—a mother longing to hear her child’s voice, a father who still has a number in his phone he cannot bring himself to delete, a husband or wife who instinctively turns to share a thought and then remembers, children growing older without the parent who should have been there to watch them grow.

To those families, perhaps the most sacred words we can offer are simply: We remember with you. We remember not only how your loved ones died, but how they lived. They laughed, loved, dreamed, hugged their children, called their parents and imagined tomorrows. They were not statistics. They were worlds. And those worlds remain part of the Jewish people forever.

To the hostages who survived and came home: millions of people who had never met you whispered your names before G-d. We said Tehillim, lit Shabbat candles, put on tefillin and gave tzedakah in your merit. When we watched you finally walk into the arms of a mother, father, spouse or child, we cried as though someone from our own family had returned—because in a profound Jewish sense, you had.

The Rebbe repeatedly taught that the Jewish people are not merely individuals who share a religion or history. We are one people, bound together by one soul. When one Jew hurts, something hurts in all of us; when one Jew comes home, something comes home in all of us. To every survivor: we cannot pretend to understand what you endured. Coming home cannot erase captivity, and freedom cannot instantly erase fear. May Hashem heal what can be spoken about and what cannot, and restore your peace, strength and ability to dream again.

The Rebbe taught us that the Jewish response to darkness is to increase the light. One more mitzvah can illuminate a place that moments before seemed completely dark. And perhaps one of the most remarkable developments of these past three years has been seeing that principle come alive.

Those who sought to make Jews afraid of being Jewish instead awakened something deep within countless Jewish souls. Jews began asking: What does being Jewish really mean to me? Why did my grandmother light candles? How do I put on tefillin? Can I come to synagogue if I don’t know the prayers? Can you teach me Torah?

Across the Jewish world there has been a renewed thirst for Jewish identity, learning and connection. People who had not entered a synagogue in years walked through its doors. Young Jews began searching more deeply for their heritage. Jewish practices once taken for granted suddenly became precious. People who once whispered that they were Jewish began saying with greater confidence: “I am a Jew.”

None of this erases October 7. Nothing can. But it reminds us that October 7 does not get the final word.

The Rebbe constantly reminded us never to underestimate one mitzvah or one Jew. We may wonder what difference our small act can possibly make against so much darkness. Judaism answers: do it anyway. Light the candle. Help the person. Teach the child. Perform the mitzvah. One act can begin changing an entire world.

Perhaps, then, the question on this third anniversary is not only, “How much have we cried?” It is also: “What will we do with our tears?” Can grief become kindness? Can fear become courage? Can memory become action? Can we bring more holiness into this world because someone else’s light was so cruelly taken from it?

That may be among the greatest tributes we can offer those we lost: not only monuments bearing their names, but Jewish lives strengthened in their memory. A child learning Modeh Ani. A family rediscovering Shabbat. A young Jew walking into a synagogue and saying, “Rabbi, I don’t know where to begin, but I want to begin.”

And to the families whose loved ones never came home: nothing we write can fill that empty chair, and no rabbi can answer every why. But your loved ones belong not only to your family’s memory; they have entered the memory of the Jewish people. We will carry their stories and strive to create a Jewish future worthy of their lives.

The Rebbe taught us never to surrender to despair, because despair tells us that darkness is the whole story. It isn’t. The Jewish people have walked through fires that should have consumed us, and somehow we continued walking—not unchanged, not without scars and certainly not without tears, but carrying Torah, carrying faith and carrying one another.

October 7 will forever be part of our story. But October 7 will never be the end of our story. Our answer will be found in how we live: with greater Jewish commitment, greater compassion, greater unity and greater determination to pass our heritage proudly to the next generation.

May Hashem comfort every bereaved family, heal every survivor, protect our brothers and sisters in Israel and throughout the world, and heal every broken heart. May we soon merit the fulfillment of the prophet’s promise: “Nation shall not lift sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.”

Until that day, we carry those we lost with us—not only in our tears, but in the lives we build.

AM YISRAEL CHAI.

Not merely as a slogan. As a promise.