It’s been an excruciating 11 months of the Israel-Hamas war and the devastation it has wrought. For nearly a year, we here at Hey Alma have felt our sorrow over October 7 compound into anxiety, anger, frustration and hope. We’ve celebrated when hostages escaped or were rescued, grieved news of hostages being killed by Hamas as well as the innocent Palestinians that have been killed, injured or displaced by the IDF, felt empowered by those advocating for an end to the conflict and agonized over the fate of the remaining hostages.
This past weekend, the news broke that the bodies of six hostages — Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Eden Yerushalmi, Ori Danino, Almog Sarusi, Alex Lubnov and Carmel Gat — had been recovered after being murdered by Hamas. And despite the near-constant complex emotions over the last year, this tragedy has felt like it was too much to bear. Perhaps you feel similarly.
Last year, in the immediate aftermath of October 7, we asked our community how they were feeling. “Maybe reading through them, you will see that you are not isolated in feeling the way you feel,” Hey Alma editor Molly Tolsky wrote when we shared some of those responses. “And maybe we will see that while we’re all coming from our own unique blend of backgrounds and views, there’s really so much we have in common, and the same goals — peace, safety, hope, understanding — that we want in the end.”
Yesterday, in the face of more pain, we posed similar questions on our Instagram account. You can read through a sample of the responses below. We hope you’ll remember that none of us have to bear this pain alone.
Does this moment feel like a turning point for you?
This moment hasn’t necessarily felt like a turning point. I have been very attached to Hersh’s family and updates, and I think I was holding out hope he would come home. I keep looking at the photo of his room with the empty desk and chair and hoping that I can imagine him sitting in it strongly enough that he’ll just materialize.
It feels like the stakes and the horror are just constantly being raised. If I felt torn back in October, I feel ripped apart today. The actions of Hamas, the actions of Israel, the rhetoric and opinions from everyone and anyone — it just grows and grows worse.
This feels like a turning point because I now hate Bibi more than ever before and want a hostage deal more than ever before, even though I felt both of those things for a long time.
Every moment so far has felt like a turning point.
I do feel differently in some ways than I did right after it happened, and in other ways not at all. I’m a fairly progressive person, and firmly believe that the Israeli government’s actions have been abhorrent. The response has not been proportional, especially with the recent revelation that this could have ended months ago. But at the same time? Am Israel Chai. I will always believe that Israel should exist and that it does have a right to defend itself. But at what point does it stop being defense and become offense? I’d say many months ago, unfortunately.
Things feel worse, not better. It feels like the world has gone all in on antisemitism instead of condemning the attacks. I’ve lost friends because they won’t educate themselves on why this feels so scary right now.
As a mother, seeing Hersh’s mother’s pain has taken me to a new place of grief. Her hopefulness kept me hopeful. Now, I feel hopeless.
It does feel like a turning point, but I hope it is not… I can’t help but feel like the hope of the hostages getting home alive is diminishing. Like they’re being forgotten or not prioritized. And it breaks my heart because this is all about them. It should be all about them.
Do you feel differently today than you did in the immediate aftermath of October 7?
This past weekend, my heart was crushed again. These hostages and their families deserved a different outcome, to be freed alive and reunited.
After Oct. 7, I still had hope. I was under no false pretenses about the level of antisemitism in the world around me but I thought that the people I had chosen to surround myself with would at least recognize that Oct. 7 was an atrocity and that they would condemn the actions of a literal terrorist organization. Instead they refused to listen to people who had real stakes in the conflict. They redefined words and ignored history and reality. But I still had hope that they would eventually do the right thing and put the humanity of all people first. This time, I had no hope. I had no false assumptions that people would see this for what it was, six innocent people executed after surviving as hostages for 11 months. I knew that they would eat up the propaganda and lies. That they would not recognize that these are the actions of people who have no desire for peace.
For many months, I’ve been hoping and praying for a ceasefire, but that felt like a dirty word among my Jewish friends and family, with only a few exceptions. I want a ceasefire because I love Israel and Zionism, and not in spite of it. I’ve wanted a ceasefire all along because I knew not only that the current fate of the hostages and Palestinian civilians are intermingled, but because I know that for the long term security of the Israel I love it is the only viable possibility of existence. Now, I see hundreds of thousands chanting for the goal I was too scared to name to my family. I feel ashamed of myself for being too scared to say it then. I feel angry that it took this long, and this much pain, for us all to say it more vocally or for many to arrive at that conclusion at all. But I also feel relieved that the part of me that felt so alienated by many Jewish spaces I love can now live back in them again. Even if we may not agree on all the reasons why a ceasefire is needed, so many more are agreeing that it is the best way forward.
I feel more alone… on Oct. 7 so many of us were surprised by the silence from non-Jews… this weekend just reinforced that even after 11 months the silence remains.
Since Oct. 7, I’ve gradually become more numb to the heaviness of what is happening in Israel. I’m not proud of it, but with the constant turmoil overseas I’ve gradually had to shut off my emotions this year.
I actually feel worse than after Oct. 7. I had hope and it is gone. I can’t understand the cruelty — it’s mind boggling. I’m starting to fear that there will be no resolution. I took this very badly. I’m not sure everyone understands.
I don’t feel very differently from the immediate aftermath of Oct. 7. The only thing I can do is sigh bitterly and stubbornly repeat, “Am Yisrael Chai.”
Today I woke up singing: “Oseh Shalom” and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” at the top of my lungs in my empty house. Linda Ronstadt in the grocery store. Every song on the radio since then. My soul cries out in song. The grief now is greater, but the fear is quieter.
For my own wellbeing, I have overwhelmingly stayed off social media since October until about a month ago. I’m finding being back on social media really, really difficult. I think sharing information about how to help Palestinians is really important. However, I often see content that is just factually false and/or antisemitic. As a Jew, I feel less than human. It’s especially hard to be a queer Jew and feel as if other queer people (even previously very close friends) don’t hear my pain and suffering.
On Oct. 7 I was angry and my heart bled for Israel. By Oct. 9 I was furious. Seeing the THOUSANDS killed in only a few days, in my name and in my family’s name, made me throw up in my mouth. The Oct. 7 terrorist attack has been turned into the casus belli for a racist, homicidal rampage. What should have been a moment that taught us the necessity of a permanent peace and the end of sectarian violence instead triggered an unprecedented rise in fascism throughout Israel. Seeing the dehumanization of Palestinians by Israelis and others around the world in the ongoing genocide chills me. If the world can stand to watch Palestinian children shoveled into plastic bags, what else will it stand? Look at how they’ve destroyed Jenin this week. Look at how those bastards are expanding the illegal settlements in the West Bank and stealing people’s homes. Look at how they’re attacking Iran, Syria and Lebanon to create more war to justify their power grabbing. I want peace. I want a two state solution. And I want justice against the men and women in the Knesset who have been foaming at the mouth to murder civilians for nearly a year now. I want justice for Hind Rajab and the hundreds of thousands like her.
I feel less tolerant of others which makes me angry and resentful. I want my people home with their loved ones where they belong.
It feels like Oct. 8 over and over and over. While I’ve somewhat made peace with the fact that I cannot fully trust those outside my community who have shown that they refuse to see the suffering of Israelis and Jews, it also hurts more with each passing day. I wish non-Jews and “anti-Zionist” Jews understood the basic history of the region, how Hamas operates and BELIEVE them when they have said for decades that they exist to annihilate Jews and America and democracy. I wish they could put even 1% of the blame on Hamas rather than vilifying Israel at every opportunity. I wish anti-Zionist Jews, especially, had the historical understanding to know how antisemitism flourishes and how they’re contributing to our suffering by tokenizing themselves to those who hate us.
I live in the U.S., my entire extended family lives in Israel. My parents moved here a few years before I was born. On Oct. 7 my cousin was at the Nova Festival and hid in a house in Kibbutz Be’eri — we didn’t know if she was okay for 24 hours. Thankfully she is. The past 11 months have been heavy, painful, confusing, angering, revealing.
I saw a post today that said that “we are sitting shiva around our phones,” which really resonated with me. I am currently staying with my non-Jewish boyfriend’s family, and while they have been supportive, it is hard for them to relate to how I am feeling right now. I did not know any of the six murdered hostages personally, but I feel like I have lost six close friends. When my boyfriend suggested that I should take a break from social media, I couldn’t help but think that social media is not the problem. The problem is that these six beautiful souls are gone, and social media is simply my only way of connecting with the Jewish community around the world who I know share in my grief. Would I be less sad if I took a break from social media? Maybe. But this is a time to be sad. I am mourning; I am sitting shiva around my phone.
My soul is tired. It’s like scaling the depths of the darkest caverns and still not finding the bottom. I didn’t know I had the capacity to feel like this. This is a change I don’t like, or find particularly pleasant. This has made me feel more like an adult than anything else I’ve experienced. The heaviness keeps dragging me further away from the rest of the world who seem to just keep going on with their own lives, unaware of the rest of us screaming for our lives.
I am so tired of being the polite, uncontroversial, mild mannered, Jew. I am sick and tired of having to hold my tongue and listen to a bunch of lies spewing around the community. I’m sick of the leftists I once considered friends telling me that my pain doesn’t matter because 75 years of colonialism justifies Oct. 7. But mostly, I am exhausted and heartbroken and thinking of how unfair it is for parents to have to bury their children. I am thinking of my own 23-year-old brother, freshly graduated from college and in his first job. And I am thinking of Rachel Goldberg’s incredible strength and vulnerability. May their memories be a revolution.
Honestly, as a Jew, I feel defeated. Our governments have failed us. Our friends have failed us. The media has failed us.
I’ve lost so many friends and acquaintances since Oct. 7. I have felt very alone for a while. It has been quite isolating and frustrating, seeing educated and kind people that you thought you knew very well turn like a light switch. It is quite clear how deeply ingrained antisemitism is in our society. Oct. 7 just brought it out into the open.
I’m Jewish-American and Hersh’s story in particular is breaking me. I don’t have personal connections to any of the hostages, but things feel worse than Oct. 7 for me. Not only are there thousands more who have been killed and millions more traumatized, but people who are not Palestinian, Israeli or Jewish continue to fan the flames of hate and violence that keep the cycle going. Governments are not protecting their people and excuses are being made. It’s unforgivable and devastating.
I really thought they would be making it home alive. I feel even more horror and disbelief in the evil of others now than I did on Oct. 7.
Closing ranks around my Jewish people and not advocating for or “checking in on” those outside of the Jewish community anymore as they don’t do that for us. And no I don’t feel bad about it, I feel a clarity like I’ve never felt before.
After Oct. 7 I was very depressed for 3-4 months; it was hard to get out of bed and I broke down crying multiple times a day. I felt helpless and abandoned by many of my “friends” who were acting as if everything was completely normal. This time around, I have unfortunately cut dozens of people out of my life, which is sad, but necessary. Now, after the murder of the six hostages over the weekend, while part of me wants to sink back into a dark place, I am trying my hardest not to. My mantra is “today is a darker day, so we must bring extra light.” I am trying to channel my grief into positivity. It’s hard though, because things feel somewhat hopeless. Having several friends I can vent to and confide in is really important too. We have to remember that, in the midst of these trying and chaotic times, we are not alone. Finally, it helps to speak up and continue advocating for Israel’s right to defend itself and ultimately for peace.
I have to let myself cry. It’s been days but it needs to come out. In October it took weeks for me to stop crying.
I’ve reluctantly become so much more insular within my Jewish community than I ever thought would be necessary. Where once I was a Jew who thrived in a non-Jewish world (non-Jewish school and university friends, work colleagues), now I’ve been forced to actively disengage from that world. I have lowered my expectations of the world and I feel like I’m going through the motions with non-Jewish colleagues who have said not one word to me about Israel or antisemitism or my personal experience since Oct. 7. They don’t get me, they don’t care. The only people who understand are my family, my Jewish friends, my shul community, fellow parents in the Jewish school playground, the Jewish (and ally) activists I follow online. I’ve unfollowed so many — some who were proactive in their attacks, and others who passively watched and said nothing, or posted pointless AI generated images of Rafa. My Jewish world is where I feel safe. The rest of the world is there, but I’m not really part of it. I feel lonelier than ever.
This year has been brutal, yet I never imagined that deep sense of anger, sadness and loneliness would return with such force. And here we are again, reliving those emotions after the murder of six hostages. The same non-Jewish friends who remained silent after Oct. 7 are still silent now, even as my Instagram stories scream devastation, anger and grief. I try to convince myself that I’m not surprised, that the silence isn’t crushing, that I feel supported and connected with my Jewish friends and family, even if that support doesn’t extend beyond them. But I find myself longing to be back in my old apartment with my friends who are like family in Tel Aviv because at least there, I’m among my people — not afraid to wear my hamsa necklace on the subway. I refuse to take it off. I refuse to be anything but a proud Jewish woman with an Israeli passport. I refuse to be silenced. If my circle shrank after Oct. 7 and shrinks even more after six innocent young people were murdered, so be it. We may be small — just 0.2% of the population — but we are mighty, and we will get through this, somehow, together.
This entire year has felt like a decade. The picture of a life I had painted for myself shattered and I’m picking up the pieces in a way that feels true to me. In the immediate aftermath I felt scared as the only Jewish person in my whole company but did not feel like anyone would target me. It didn’t change overnight but eventually I was “othered” and outcasted in a place where I had felt accepted. My heart has only broken more in the almost year since Oct. 7 as the cracks get bigger by the day. I wish people could understand that we are not the government and not all of us agree with how this is happening. The way it’s looked at as a black and white issue is what hurts the most.
After Oct. 7, I was scared. I was devastated. Now, I am only angry.
Today I feel differently to how I felt in the aftermath of Oct. 7. Strangely and maybe wrongly, I feel worse now. When Oct. 7 happened I was in shock and processing everything that was going on. I couldn’t really wrap my head around the gravity of the situation. But now I feel it all. The amount of hate spewing for me and my people (Jews and Israelis) is achingly painful. The lack of support from non-Jewish friends and family is disheartening. I feel like giving up. The world feels vicious and I don’t want to be a part of it. However the unity and bravery of Jews keeps me going.
My grief has turned to anger. Anger at Hamas. Anger at the immense loss of life in Gaza. Anger at our leaders for not working fast enough and at the crowds of people celebrating terrorism in our streets. Anger that the world seems to be turning our backs on us. My community has never felt as small as it does now. When did supporting your Jewish friends, peers and colleagues become political? I wish people understood our pain but it feels like we are shouting into the void. When will real change come?
