Balancing October 7th

I can only truly experience Oct. 7 in retrospect. Yes, I was in Israel when Oct. 7 transpired, but Baruch Hashem I was safe in my seminary, Midreshet Lindenbaum. Besides spending the day in our school miklat [saferoom], nothing happened. I did not feel eminently threatened, I was simply confused. After all, this was Israel. Sirens go off frequently enough. Also, for the most part, my teachers kept their composure. It’s like when a plane is having turbulence: when the flight attendants are calm, the passengers are too. My Simchat Torah until Havdalah was just a good story to tell after the fact. It was hilarious how I was still in my pajamas when we had to go down to minyan. It was a wacky experience saying hakafot in a basement. It was just like being in pre-K again when we had to have buddies when we napped, so one of us would be sure to hear a siren.

When we blew out the Havdalah candle it was like we turned on the light to the rest of the world. Our em bayit came down looking like a ghost version of herself. “Things are worse than we thought, and we do not really know what is happening right now,” she said. It was like being sent back in time to experience what happened that day, but with a different pair of eyes.

The worst part about it was the lack of knowledge. We did not know if everyone we loved was okay because we still had no clue which areas had been infiltrated. I remember there being a rumor that Migdal Oz was attacked and taken over by terrorists. Everyone was scrambling to get in contact with the students there. I was picturing my friends in a dark room praying, listening to the sounds of terrorists yelling outside the door. 

On top of the lack of information, there was a lack of communication, half of the Jewish population was still keeping chag, so there was no way of getting in touch with our families back in the States. My cousin was keeping two days in Israel, and I did not know where he was. I was frantically texting random people I knew to see if they could somehow get in touch with him. He was okay.

However, I almost feel selfish, immature and small-minded to complain about my experience because it was not even a sliver of what others went through. 

On Oct. 9 the news of Aner Shapira’s death came out. Aner’s father had been the chazzan for Minchah on Yom Kippur. Aner lived across the street from us. Aner enjoyed reading poetry. Aner wrote and produced music. Aner loved his family and friends. Aner died protecting two dozen people in a highway bomb shelter. Hamas terrorists were throwing bombs into the shelter, and he kept throwing them back out. The eighth grenade exploded in his hand. 

I stood there, with the rest of my midrashah, and the rest of the neighborhood as Aner’s family walked to the bus that would take them to his hesped (eulogy). I watched the kids hold up their parents on the walk to the bus. Then, I listened to them say Kaddish for the first time in the same basement we took shelter in the day Aner gave his life to protect our people. 

Jews are foolish if they believe that they are simply individuals. Jews are born with the beating heart of 15.7 million other people. Aner Shapira knew this. I learned this. 

I know that I am far from the pain that a lot of people have experienced since Oct. 7. However, in Israel, I felt like I could do something to help. I felt like I could cry with them.

Now, like many other seminary and yeshiva students, I’m here. I’m not so sure how I feel about it. There are times when all I feel is guilt for being here and not in Israel. If I'm being completely honest, I almost joined the army last year, but I ended up coming to Stern instead. I stayed in Stern for a lot of reasons, and even though I know I made the right decision for myself, it doesn't take away from the guilt and longing I feel to be back there, living and breathing the pain and joy and deep love with the rest of Israel. I think that is probably the hardest part about being in America, and I have learned that I’m not the only one who feels this way. I think every Jew outside of Israel feels the same pain that everyone in Israel feels and a secondary pain of longing for Israel, and feeling (to a certain degree) helpless from thousands of miles away.

As Oct. 7 comes around again this year, I will be here. I will have to learn to balance this pain and this longing just like everyone else in America. I’m just glad that I am not going through it alone.

I pray for the hostages to be returned safely. I pray for this war to be over soon. I pray for the safety of our chayalim and chayalot.

Photo caption: As Oct. 7 comes around again this year, I will be here. I will have to learn to balance this pain and this longing just like everyone else in America.

Photo credit: Cole Keister / Unsplash