As we near Simchat Torah, the Hebrew anniversary of the October 7th massacre approaches. I usually try to anchor myself in positive things – like kitchen hacks, chickens, and yarn – but right now, I can think of little other than the day two years ago, when our world got turned upside down.
I remember it perfectly. I was sitting and schmoozing with some other moms at the playground. It was Saturday, Simchat Torah, and as Shabbat observers, we were blissfully unaware that anything was going on.
Then a panicked-looking lady ran past us, swinging her phone, and snapped at us, “What are you doing sitting here? (Would it help if we started running?) Don’t you know there had been an attack?” (How would we know?)
I would be away from my phone until the evening of that day, but as we walked home, I caught snatches of buzzing conversations: “army taken by surprise… 300 people killed… how is this possible?”
Hours later, the full extent of the horrifying pogrom became known to us. A horde of bloodthirsty barbarians had invaded from Gaza and proceeded to slaughter around 1,200 innocent people (we’d learn this number later, as bodies were gradually uncovered and identified). As if we didn’t have borders, intelligence units, and a tech-whiz army. As if we were back in the shtetl, at the mercy of invading Cossacks.
The IDF rallied within a few hours, but any illusion of personal safety had been snatched away. We were afraid to leave the house. My children were speculating on whether a terrorist would think to search the attic if we lived through a similar invasion in our town.
I would get up in the middle of the night to check the door and windows. I’d experience a moment of relief once I ensured that everything was locked, only to figure that a hand grenade would probably enable a terrorist to break in.
This was nothing new, of course. We were, and are, part of a nation that had long carried generational trauma of countless expulsions, pogroms, persecutions, and, of course, the Holocaust. But October 7th drew a clear line in the sand: life before, life after. Things would never be the same.
In the months following the massacre, my mental health suffered. I continued working and carrying on my daily routine, but it was mostly on autopilot. I would forget simple stuff. I’d open the refrigerator and struggle to remember why. Things I enjoyed seemed to lose their flavor. I’d want to have my children within my sight, always, which of course wasn’t possible.
The recommendation of mental health services seemed disingenuous. No amount of counseling could obliterate a REAL danger. I began feverishly exploring different possibilities of getting our family out – to some remote corner in the world where we could hide and be safe. Until the rising tide of worldwide antisemitism convinced me that there probably is no such a corner anywhere anymore.
Today, two years after the massacre, and with the elimination of Mohammed Deif, Ismail Haniyeh, Yahya Sinwar, Hassan Nasrallah, and the Iranian nuclear facilities, I have achieved some measure of balance. Life will still never be the same, but I strive to be a worthy link in the chain of Jewish resilience through the ages.
May we get to celebrate a joyful Simchat Torah despite the black cloud of trauma that has now settled over this holiday for all of future Jewish history.
Domestic Felicity 