07.10.2024 - One Year Reflections
It has been a year of living in constant heartbreak, under the shadow of terror and threat. It’s hard to believe that 365 days have passed since we woke up to this nightmare—because it feels like time itself has stood still, trapping us in a moment of endless grief.
When the war first began, I found myself unable to do anything but stay glued to my phone, absorbing every piece of devastating news, watching as the world I thought I knew unraveled. I remember sitting in my apartment in Tel Aviv thinking, “How can the world do anything but stand with Israel?” But that thought was quickly shattered. I watched, horrified, as many defended a terrorist group that kidnapped, raped, tortured, burned, and slaughtered—men, women, children, the elderly, babies—innocent civilians.
For 22 years, I had lived with an innate optimism, trusting in the goodness of humanity. But in that moment, I felt that optimism ripped away, replaced with a profound loss of hope. I remember asking myself, “How do we move forward? How can we?” It didn’t feel possible. It was as if I had woken up from a dream, and the rose-tinted glasses were shattered, exposing a brutal reality—a reality I thought had ended in 1945. The violence, the hatred, the cruelty—things we thought were relics of history—were not behind us. They are right here, staring us in the face.
One year has passed, but it feels like we've aged five or more. And yet, despite the passage of time, it’s as if we are frozen in the horrific moments of October 7, 2023. We live in the shadow of that day, unable to fully step into the present because the pain and fear still cling to us. Just when we think the world cannot possibly become more cruel, we are proven wrong. Time and again, we are reminded of the depths of hatred that still exist. We learn that there's no limit to how many times a heart can break.
It's been one year, and just this past Tuesday, we found ourselves back in bomb shelters as terrorists roamed the streets of Tel Aviv, murdering innocent civilians, while Iran launched the largest ballistic missile attack in history. On October 7, 2023, we woke up to sirens and missiles, the entire country under attack. And here we are —one year later, on the anniversary of that day, with Hamas once again firing missiles at Tel Aviv for the first time in months. A year has passed, but 101 hostages -including babies and elderly-remain in Gaza, and we are all eagerly waiting for their return.
One of the most chilling realizations has been seeing the kind of propaganda I once read about in history books—those from the 1930s—resurrected in our modern world. To witness people march through the streets in 2024, praising Hamas and Hezbollah, waving ISIS flags, terrorist organizations responsible for unspeakable atrocities, is beyond unsettling. It’s terrifying. The hatred aimed at Jews and Israel has grown louder, bolder, more unapologetic, as if history has taught us nothing. The world has forgotten its promises of "never again."
A year later and there are no easy words to offer, no hopeful platitudes that feel authentic. I wish I could offer a silver lining, a reason to believe that everything will get better. But right now, that feels impossible. All I can do is pray—for a future that holds even a flicker of hope, for a world that chooses peace over hatred, for a time when we can feel secure in our homes, in our identities, and in our lives.
I pray for our soldiers, who stand on the front lines of this battle, carrying the weight of our collective safety. I pray and pray for the hostages who remain in captivity, that they will return home to their families. I pray for the countless lives shattered by this conflict, for the mothers and fathers who lost their children, for the communities torn apart by violence, and for the generations that will bear the scars of this moment.
In the midst of this pain, all we have is each other. And even though hope feels distant, I will continue to pray for a future where we can once again look at the world with optimism. Because as long as we’re here, together, there is still something to fight for.
