It has been almost 700 days since October 7, 2023 — the worst massacre against the Jewish people since the Holocaust. But for me, it isn’t just a date on the calendar. It’s a morning that will never leave me.
That morning began with my youngest daughter. We were sitting outdoors, enjoying the quiet of Simchat Torah, when we heard the first booms in the distance. She looked at me, her eyes wide, and asked what it was. I forced a smile and told her, “It’s probably just someone slamming a car door.”
But the booms didn’t stop.
And even though I am shomer Shabbat, I broke from everything I believe in and picked up my phone. The pit in my stomach told me I had to. What I saw on that screen was worse than any fear I could have imagined — messages of horror, videos of terror, and the dawning realization that we were witnessing something far bigger than a “security incident.”
I felt fear. I felt pain. I felt confusion.
But I also knew one thing: pain could not be allowed to rob us of Simchat Torah. So I gathered my strength, swallowed my dread, and went to shul. I took the Torah in my arms and tried with all of my might, with every ounce of resolve, to dance.
At first, the dancing felt normal. The singing echoed as it always had. But then — the circles began to shrink. One by one, my friends left. The father of three slipped quietly out the door. A mother of young children handed off her baby and disappeared. A doctor, a teacher, a lawyer, a neighbor. All of them gone.
Back to their uniforms.
Back to their units.
Back to protect our country.
In that moment, I understood in a way I never had before: in Israel, every man and woman is a soldier for the Jewish people. On Simchat Torah — a day meant for joy — we became an army of grief, of resilience, of survival.
Almost 700 days later, that morning still lives inside me. The sound of those first booms. The look in my daughter’s eyes. The shrinking circle of dancers. The knowledge that everything had changed.
We say “Never Again.” But on October 7, it happened again. And the world, as always, rushed to forget. They talk of “proportionality,” of “restraint,” of “context.” But for me, there is only one truth: babies were burned alive, families were slaughtered in their homes, women brutalized, entire communities erased.
I cannot forget. I will not forget.
Almost 700 days later, I carry both the pain and the fire. The pain of what was stolen from us, and the fire of what cannot be stolen — our spirit, our faith, our survival.
Because that morning showed me something else too. As the circles grew smaller, as my friends ran out to fight, the Torah kept moving in our hands. The song did not stop. The circle never fully broke.
This is who we are. We are a people who feel the pain, who carry the scars, but who dance anyway. Who pick up the Torah anyway. Who fight anyway.
Almost 700 days later, I still hear the booms. But I also still hear the song.
And I know — we will not be broken.