It’s been five long, excruciating months since Hamas launched their heartless, brutal terrorist attack on Israel. They murdered 1200 men, women and children. They raped and looted and pillaged. They’re currently holding over one hundred hostages. Their goal was to take the heart and soul of Israel and mercilessly squeeze them dry with the ancient tools of fear and unspeakable violence.
Israel’s war, launched to erase the name of Hamas like Haman’s name on Purim, has been relentless. With awful, stone-hearted resolve, the IDF has marched through Gaza, searching out the enemy, entering the subterranean tunnels where they hide. The Israeli air force has dropped bombs, strafed homes, and fired missiles, essentially transforming cities and towns to wastelands reminiscent of Europe after WWII. And in the rubble, there are innocents, large numbers of women and children with no place to go, no place to hide.
The Holocaust is, of course, for all Jews, an eternal source of pain and trauma. For we who live in the Diaspora, over time, some of the sting has dissipated, though not the essential truth of abandonment subjugation and genocide. Our younger generations still learn about the Holocaust and experience its bitterness and angst. But it feels distant, a part of history. They don’t know the names of the perpetrators or the places of mass death. This is what happens over time. Is that a sad truth? I don’t know, but it’s something for us to consider over and over again.
In Israel, the Holocaust lurks right below the surface. It is a shadow that never quite fades. It is mentioned all the time, referred to in political addresses, at demonstrations, in IDF training, in primary school curricula. When American Jews say, “Never Again”, we are thinking more historically and metaphorically about violence and genocide. When Israelis say, “Never Again”, it has an immediate reference to the present and the horror they promised each other to never have to endure again.
When Hamas murders innocent people, burns bodies, and decapitates children, they break down the wall between the vulnerable past and the strong, resilient present. And that is unbearable. The terrible trauma of October 7th has ripped open the hearts and the hopes and assumptions of Israelis.
This terrible wound of October 7th connects so deeply to the Israeli psyche. It contradicts the standard assumption that Israelis will never be so vulnerable to the enemy. And this fact, this trauma, has made many Israelis feel like the war in Gaza, with all of its violence and the loss of so many innocents is regrettable, but necessary.
Out here in the Diaspora, we try to understand this. We want to stand with Israel. We want to do whatever we can to come to the aid of our stricken brothers and sisters. But we also see what those who are traumatized may not. We see the grief of Gazan women and children, true innocents. Our hearts break for their suffering. We seek some means by which to ameliorate their misery.
We are also experiencing the corrosive effects of the war on Diaspora Jews all over the world. We who love Israel are feeling hostility and condemnation: on campuses, on city streets, on social media. The binary judgment: Israel bad, Palestinians good, based in ignorance of history, is bleeding into our lives, making us feel vulnerable and alone. The most frightening aspect of all of this is how it now, around the edges, certainly looks like and feels like antisemitism. It’s not just Israel is bad – it’s now the Jews are bad.
It is with enormous humility and respect for our Israeli brothers and sisters that I say, as a Diaspora Jew: we must redefine what we’re doing in Gaza. We must shed a ray of light to see that continuing to bomb and destroy Gaza is ultimately counterproductive. For every Hamas fighter killed or captured, ten orphaned children of Gaza, tired and sick and slowly starving are filled with hate and revenge. They are the next generation of recruits.
After the smoke clears, Jews and Arabs will still be living in the same neighborhood. We won’t leave our homes and neither will they. How do we begin to stitch together that which has been torn asunder? What are we to do? The occupation of the West Bank and the blockade on Gaza must end – not only because it is brutal and oppressive for Palestinians – but also because it does not guarantee any long-term safety for Israelis. We know that a negotiated peace agreement is the only way to ensure freedom, equality, and safety for both peoples.
I may not talk about October 7th as much as I did. I’ve had to learn how to navigate through the pain and the sorrow. I must get through the days, weeks and months ahead. But the Israel-Hamas War plays in the background of my life every day.
Before Shabbat 