October 7 in English

A year ago, it seemed like an ordinary night. The kids were already asleep, Chen had put them to bed, and I was deep in sleep. It was a little past three, New York time. Suddenly, Chen got into bed, mumbling something half-asleep: “A bus with terrorists entered the south.” I jumped out of bed immediately, my heart pounding. Nine months pregnant, yet my instincts were still sharp. I quickly turned on Channel 12, the screen coming to life with the confused face of Danny Kushmaro, grappling with the voices of families crying for help: “Help! There are terrorists here!”

From that cursed night, I couldn’t let go of my phone. Every piece of news, every update—I was thirsty for information, ready to jump into the screen and do something, anything. I had never watched the news like that before—news with nothing to say—just pain and confusion. Danny Kushmaro, the anchor, suddenly became a comforting figure as the entire country stood bleeding, shocked, and shaken.

A year has passed, and we are still in the same existential war. A war for our lives, for the citizens and soldiers who won’t return. Terror attacks, assaults, and the pain only deepens. Entire families are being torn apart, soldiers are kidnapped, and over time, horrific reports continue to emerge, each one worse than the last.

It was also a night of celebration and freedom. At the Nova festival, under the open desert sky, thousands of people danced joyfully, singing for freedom, for enjoyment, for life. Their dancing symbolized everything we, as a people, cherish—life, the moment, the right to live in this world with dignity and joy. Then, that moment of freedom and hope turned into a bloodbath, as a terrible massacre struck. The people who came to celebrate life were murdered in unimaginable cruelty, as they sought shelter in the midst of chaos and terror.

Galgalatz has always been the soundtrack of our lives, playing in the background from morning till night, accompanying us through every little moment. It was always there, like an old friend, connecting us to music and to life. But today, after October 7, it plays differently. The music, which once was just routine, has now become something deeper, more emotional, with new slogans echoing again and again: “We won’t get used to it until everyone returns.”

These words resonate in the house, mingling with the melodies, and my little daughter, Emma, keeps repeating them. As if she understands the power behind them, the hope and the heartbreak intertwined with every note. It has become part of us, part of our new reality, a reality that still hasn’t healed.

Every day, I think about the nightmare we are living through, and if there’s one thing that keeps me going, it’s that I’m proud. Proud to be Israeli, proud to be Jewish, to belong to this people, our people, despite all the pain and heartbreak. Jews are known for their respect for life, for our ability to fight for every soul, to live for life itself. Judaism teaches us the value of life, the sanctity of every breath, the need to protect every person.

Every day, I carry immense pain, a pain I know I will learn to live with, because that’s what we do—we learn to live with the pain. But there’s no people like ours, and there’s no country like ours. The State of Israel is the state of the Jewish people, and there’s no place like it in the world.

Every day, I close my eyes and imagine—all the hostages, all of them, coming home. The State of Israel won’t be whole without them. Without them, my people have a gaping hole in the heart. A hole we will have to learn to live with, but we will never learn to live without the 101 hostages still in Gaza. They must return. We are waiting for them, and they—I am certain—are counting the seconds until they can once again feel safe, in the arms of their families.

We owe this to them. We owe it to ourselves.

And when I think about all this, about the pain, about the hope—I love you, my Israel. I miss you with every fiber of my being.