It is an average Tuesday. Just like any other Tuesday – the ones before and the ones to come. Except that for so many – for the hostages, Nova survivors, and bereaved family members – it is far from normal.
Today marks 464 days since October 7, since 1,200 men and women were brutally murdered, raped, and kidnapped.
Yet as I wander through Jaffa Road in Jerusalem, coffee cup in hand, it appears almost as though it never happened, as if no one knows. Restaurants are packed, the streets are swarming with vacationers and tourists, there are the usual buskers at the corner of Jaffa and Ben-Yehuda, and mothers scurry along pushing double strollers, with multiple kids in tow. Aside from the additional police cars lined up along the sidewalks and the reinforced security, there seems to be no awareness that 464 days ago, mass-scale tragedy struck our nation.
Of course, this is not the case – far from it. Since that fateful day, there is not one moment, not one second, in which we have forgotten. No one will forget.
And yet – life goes on.
As I gaze pensively among the crowd, sipping my coffee, I consider the picturesque scene painted before me. People meander about their daily lives, chattering, gossiping, and laughing. I myself participate in this facade of normality, of an idyllic existence – which couldn’t be further from the reality.
After all, how could life possibly go on as normal, when some 80 km. away from us, our brothers and sisters are being held hostage in unbearable conditions in Gaza, while our soldiers fight tooth and nail to bring them home?
Yes, upon observation, everything looks idyllic – that is, until you take a closer look.
With keener eyes, you can see the undercurrent of trauma in the subtleties of people’s mannerisms; the lines on their faces; the bags beneath their eyes; in their hollow gazes; and in the half-hearted laughs. Yes, people are smiling and going about their daily lives – indeed, they have no choice. But behind the smile and sallow complexion of each employee, each student, each citizen, each mother and father; behind their shield of resilience, lies an earth-shattering reality of trauma, inexplicable pain, loss, and uncertainty. Because nothing is the same, and it never will be.
Witnessing the devastation
LAST FRIDAY, I had the opportunity to experience this dissonance firsthand on my first trip to the South. As we drove past Be’eri, the devastating destruction before me struck me speechless and quickly brought me back to reality. Whilst we all return to our daily routines, going to work, shopping, and making dinner, this horror is a stark reminder of what happened and continues to happen not far from the comfort of our homes.
I did not have the opportunity to go into Be’eri, but I hope to in the future. However, just passing through it, seeing or hearing about it, is enough to render anyone speechless. Now consider the individuals who lived and survived this real-life nightmare, and the bereaved families and relatives of hostages, who are still living it – every day.
Wives whose husbands have been in reserve duty for over a year; men who have returned home physically or mentally wounded; parents whose young sons and daughters, barely out of school, have died on the battlefront; entire families that have been evacuated, involuntarily ripped from their homes; children who have been orphaned.
We are a nation still reeling from missile and drone attacks from every angle. Streets, buildings, homes, schools, and individuals are permanently marked and disfigured where our enemies struck us. A nation of amputees – literally and figuratively – with the loss of a loved one as painful as the loss of a limb.
It is enough to make anyone sink into a pit of despair. How can these people ever experience joy again? And how can I, a mere bystander, even consider being happy while they suffer so tremendously?
I know that I’m not the only one stricken with guilt post-October 7. This survivor’s guilt is all too common. Thoughts of “Why not me?” or “I could have been there” plague us all. Personally, I would never have gone to a festival in the South or have been in the area on that day, so I am less conflicted with these questions. And yet how can I watch TV or go to parties while my brothers and sisters suffer? I can only imagine how survivors feel: Why am I one of the lucky ones?
Survivor's guilt
Indeed, are they “lucky?” Living with such trauma is unimaginable. As we have seen, PTSD is rampant, while the suicide rates of survivors continue to skyrocket.
On the drive back, these thoughts and guilt continued to plague me. But several hours later, we were back in Jerusalem and a sense of calmness settled over me again. Here I felt relatively safe. Here I could return to the comforts of my life and pretend that everything was normal... at least with a newfound perspective and insight as to what had happened, so that I could do my part by continuing to share the truth, the legacy of the fallen, and advocate for my country’s right to exist and defend itself.
And still – I get to go home. My life goes on. But for so many others, it doesn’t.
WHEN THE war started, I remember feeling especially guilty, and I still feel so now at times (despite volunteering more) – for not doing more, for not watching the news or advocating enough, or even for going to work. At the time, my schedule was very packed, and I didn’t want to volunteer just to clear my conscience; I wanted to actually be helpful.
I remember when a former colleague of mine returned to work from reserve duty. I had confided in him about this guilt, and the feeling that I should be miserable, as though my misery would somehow counteract or alleviate the suffering of others.
I’ll never forget what he told me: “We don’t want you to suffer. We want you to be happy and to continue living your lives. Because if you don’t, and if you are miserable, – what are we fighting for?”
Of course, I will never forget what happened on October 7. No one will – or should. Striking the delicate balance between joy and suffering is never going to be easy. But the two are not mutually exclusive. It is possible to experience both sensations at the same time; indeed, the Jewish nation demonstrates this ability, this tenacity and resilience, every day, simultaneously celebrating life whilst mourning the fallen, and doing everything in our power to demand the hostages’ release.
There is not one Israeli who wasn’t affected by October 7 – yes, some far worse than others – but everyone knows someone who was killed or taken hostage, or has a family member fighting on the front lines.
Everyone responds to trauma differently. There are those who heal through talking. Some prefer to stay silent and avoid the news (as it is too painful), choosing to remain disconnected or reclusive, while others revert to humor, travel, or other forms of escapism. I know people who left the country the day after October 7. No response is better than the others. Each is a coping mechanism, each an act of self-preservation.
But how do we reconcile this dissonance? How do we stay connected while still preserving our mental health, experience joy while carrying immense sorrow and respecting the fallen?
Personally, I believe it is important to be aware of what is going on around me but to preserve my mental health by not watching graphic videos. This is my balance.
Although I don’t have enough expertise on the intricacies of the Middle Eastern conflict, I understand basic justice, right and wrong (whereas most don’t, unfortunately), and I will still combat antisemitism and advocate for Israel and for human rights in my own way.
So before we judge or critique someone’s apparent indifference, consider that they may be fighting an internal battle. We never know what is going on behind closed doors.
Life must go on, not in spite of what happened, but precisely because of it. And the Jewish nation’s tenacity will prevail.
Because if not – what are we fighting for?
The writer is a copy editor at The Jerusalem Post. She is a native of London, now living in Jerusalem.