October 7th, The Day That Never Ended

October 7th, 2023 is the day that never ended. For the bereaved parents, hostage families, volunteers, community workers, reservists and military personnel in Israel, that one terrifying day has blurred into an endless night. They all hoped to wake and discover they had been in a terrible dream. But the sun never did rise again, and their nightmare continues.

As we approach one year since Hamas invaded Israel and slaughtered over 1200 people and took 251 more hostage, how do we commemorate something that is not yet over?

Jews are regrettably over-experienced at commemorating calamity. We often say of Jewish holidays, “They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat!” But now the calendar is once more scorched by the memory of charred bodies of young Jews just living their lives.

Oct. 7th is the yahrzeit of the victims, most of whom were Jews, but some who were not Jewish who called Israel their home, or the place of their education or work. As we remember all of these victims, we find ourselves at a crossroads of commemoration and continuity.

What was an unstained and joyous celebration of Simchat Torah on 23 Tishrei, will forever carry a shadow, a reminder that no matter how we celebrate the Torah, there are religious zealots whose hatred of the Torah and all that it stands for is so great that they would kill in the name of Allah to prove it. I still hear the cries from the countless videos I watched of “Allahu Akbar!” (“God is the Greatest”) of Hamas terrorists as they shot Jewish families at point blank range.

On the Gregorian calendar, Oct. 7th often falls in the midst of the High Holidays, and will in the coming years coincide with Sukkot and intertwine with the solemnity of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It will be an inescapable part of the holiest time of the year.

Israeli Druze and practicing Muslim Remo Aluzayel describes it as the “Black Sabbath.” He lost many Muslim friends and colleagues that day too. “We are one family,” he reminds me, sporting his large Magen David on his Israeli police uniform. He buried eighteen of his comrades, Jews and Muslims alike.

So how do we commemorate something that is so specifically Jewish, and at the same time is an attack on the universal principles of humanity? “The first person to die was a pregnant Muslim woman,” Remo tells me. “They don’t care. They are after all of us.”

Do we add another day of mourning to our Jewish calendar, or do we hold the world to account, to show that antisemitism is ultimately an attack on everyone’s freedom?

As we have done throughout our long history, Jews turn to our traditions for guidance and strength. In Psalm 113, we find a promise that resonates deeply with our current struggle: “He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap” (Psalm 113:7). This concept of being raised up, mekimi in Hebrew, reflects our ability to rise despite the worst of circumstances. The Talmud builds on that when it says: “All of Israel are responsible for one another” (Shevuot 39a).

The power of this idea became clear to me last week when I spoke with Ayala Puder, a bereaved mother, whose daughter Maya was murdered at the Nova Music Festival a year ago.  A promising film school student with a budding acting career, Maya’s cruel and sudden absence leaves Ayala still living her longest day. She described how she is preparing for her daughter’s yahrzeit, her loss still unfathomable. How do we raise Ayala up?

For the families of the hostages who are still missing, their hopes rising and fading in an agonizing cycle, their lives are suspended in uncertainty and grief. With bodies still to be recovered and families still waiting for news, it is incongruous to commemorate those we hope may still be alive. So how do we raise them up?

The essence of mekimi implies divine intervention, but at its core is that we each lift others in their time of need. When we stand with the families of the hostages and the bereaved, we lighten their grief. When we illuminate the lies and misinformation about Israel, we also elevate the spirits of our Israeli friends and family. When we humanize the spirit of community, we minimize the dehumanizing acts of those who hate us.

The essence of mekimi implies divine intervention, but at its core is that we each lift others in their time of need.

The concept of mekimi as an act of commemoration reminds us that our strength lies not just in our ability to remember or endure, but also to support one another through the most challenging times. It creates space for personal mourning, time for collective remembrance, and the means to raise one another up.

The challenges of our past have taught us how to commemorate our loss, but also not to dwell on its consequences. When Ayala showed me photos of Maya with such love, she raised me up. The light of her memory enabled me to see past the darkness of that long night that never seemed to end, and reaffirm my own commitment to life, to community, and to the enduring spirit of the Jewish people.

Stephen D. Smith is CEO of Memory Workers, and Founder of Mekimi.

https://WeWilRaiseYouUp.org