Much Has Changed on the UCLA Campus Since October 7

For many Bruins, a conflict taking place 7500 miles away in Israel still strikes remarkably close to home. Since October 7th, our school has come to life with the political and social activism that seemingly dominates universities today.

Thus far, it’s been a Fall Quarter unlike any other. In campus corridors and classrooms alike, emotions among the community are running high. Intense feelings of grief, outrage and fear are palpable. It’s clear that students of varying backgrounds are impacted in numerous ways.

Such sentiments have been channeled into tangible action. In recent weeks, pro-Israel organizations have hosted several vigils and rallies, while pro-Palestinian groups have held demonstrations and walkouts of their own. Posters and leaflets, meanwhile, blanket our campus.

Due to an elevated physical threat, extra security measures have been implemented to help protect the school’s Jewish institutions. Last weekend, for example, I ate Shabbat dinner together with the campus police officers at our table. Still, many students say they feel generally unsafe and alienated during this time.

But, despite all these recent changes, what has affected me the most on campus since October 7th is actually something much less prominent. It’s probably something that perhaps only ten or fifteen people at my entire school may know about.

It’s an extra prayer, Avinu Malkeinu, that we have added, based on a halachic decision from Rav Herschel Schechter, to our daily prayers at the UCLA Hillel. Normally recited only between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and on fast days, saying Avinu Malkeinu each day has had a significant impact on how I’ve coped since the attacks that took place on Simchat Torah.

Inherent in the phrase Avinu Malkeinu (Our Father, Our King) are two seemingly contradictory aspects of the religious experience. As individuals, we dually relate to Hashem as both a Father and as a King. On one hand, we feel inexorably drawn to our Father out of an immense love. Yet, we recoil from Him, fearfully, as we would from a King.

Avinu Malkeinu thus encapsulates a dialectic of both expansion and contraction, an experience relatable on both a personal and a national level. In the present moment, our yearning to extend ourselves outward and contribute to the Jewish people is simultaneously accompanied by a painful and paralyzing process of introspection.

In the wake of the terror attacks of October 7, I have been truly inspired by the numerous stories and anecdotes of heroism and valor—of the brave people heeding the national call, flying into Israel to serve on the battlefront or to volunteer behind the lines. I remain in awe of the generosity of so many, the extraordinary mesirat nefesh among the Jewish people, and of people’s selfless efforts to help others in any way possible.

These courageous actions are propelled by an intense ahavat yisroel, and are a testament to the extraordinary achdut and solidarity among the Jewish people in the present moment. This inclination of extending outward is the epitome of the “Avinu,” Our Father, aspect of the dialectic.

Yet, following the October 7th atrocities, we have also become aware of a gaping wound afflicting us internally. As individuals and as a collective, we are reeling with a sense of feeling spiritually bereft that has made us recoil, retreat and look deep inside ourselves.

As individuals and as a collective, we are reeling with a sense of feeling spiritually bereft that has made us recoil, retreat and look deep inside ourselves.

“Let us search and examine our ways, and turn back to Hashem,” reads the verse in Lamentations. In the aftermath of this tragedy, we’ve been prompted to reflect, atone for our mistakes, and analyze our deeds with microscopic precision. Feeling like we are in the presence of a King, “Malkeinu,” we consider ourselves unworthy and flawed.

In the wake of the October 7th attacks, I’ve been experiencing the full extent of this dialectic. On one hand, I feel connected and bound to the Jewish people like never before. Yet, I feel compelled to atone, much like I did on Yom Kippur several weeks ago.

As I process the recent tragic events in Israel, I find myself reminiscing about the considerable time I’ve spent in Israel and the experiences I’ve had in the Holy Land. Since 2020, I have been to Israel on several occasions: for a religious gap year program, summer programs with professional opportunities, and also for vacation to visit family and friends.

Each time I went, I fully enjoyed all that Jewish sovereignty and freedom had to offer. I explored the land, I felt the warmth of Israelis, and I took comfort in the relative peace and prosperity of the country. I was blessed with opportunities that my ancestors could only dream of.

Upon further reflection, I’ve realized that the massacres of October 7th have changed my relationship to the Jewish state.

Looking back at the time I spent in Israel, I realize I was naive then. I failed to recognize that it was because of the sacrifices of many courageous Jews and Israelis that I was gifted with those very opportunities. Perhaps I expected the Promised Land to be served to me on Natan Alterman’s “silver platter.” I took my experiences for granted.

Looking back, I realize I had primarily celebrated Yom Ha’atzmaut and all that the day represented. But in doing so, I had put Yom HaZikaron on the periphery.

October 7th, 2023 now serves as my solemn reminder that the struggle and sacrifices for Jewish sovereignty, Jewish life and Jewish existence endure to this very day. These concepts are not distant historical phenomena; on the contrary, they are living realities.

The atrocities have taught me that, as a Jew, I am part of a collective that is greater than any one individual. Our fate as a people is one. We now feel this viscerally: An attack on k’lal yisroel is an attack on all of us.

It is certainly true that the events of October 7th are forcing us to introspect and reflect like never before. But as we proceed through this difficult chapter of Jewish history, I take comfort knowing that these reflections will be a powerful tool as we slowly rebuild.

So for now, as we continue to recite Aveinu Malkeinu each day in this time of distress, I hope to draw solace and strength from the prayer’s powerful entreaties.

Our Father, our King, raise up the might of Israel, Your People.

Alex Rubel is a third-year student at UCLA