Opinion: On Grief

Notes on a visit to Israel and the fog of October 7th

When my flight landed in Israel, we clapped, as one does when they’ve arrived safely home. As I exited the plane, a young man was waiting to escort me through the airport. Together, we navigated customs, getting my visitor visa, and all of the regular requirements that I’ve done before. But this time, it wasn’t like before. This time was different. It was February of 2024, and the country was at war after enduring a horrendous terrorist attack unlike anything I could’ve ever imagined.  

On October 7th, 2023, I was at home in Phoenix, Arizona with my six-week-old daughter. I watched breathlessly, unable to speak or fully define how the images on my screen made me feel. Words can be so wonderful when they can be found, but how easily they can fail us in our darkest moments. I remember the blind rage and the unimaginable grief. I remember the relief of holding my daughter and knowing she was safe, as well as the guilt that came with that safety. As Jews, we feel a deep connection that goes beyond the color of our skin, how observant we are, or where we live. I was safe, but my brothers and sisters abroad were not and there was nothing I could do to change that fact.

Months later, walking through the airport in silence, viewing the posters of hostages that lined the walkway, I thought about the many stages of grief and the waves that they come in. Waves are the right metaphor, as grief is not a linear path, rather, it is an ocean of emotions that all coexist, taking turns reaching the surface and crashing over the shore. Remaking the sand every time they crash, changing everything they touch. 

It’s been a year since that walk through the airport. A moment frozen in time. The next several days were full of those moments. A blur that was clearer than anything in my life. Moments out of a fever dream. Waiting for my luggage, I noticed all of the identical bags lining the baggage claim. “They belong to the soldiers.” my escort told me. 

Ah yes. A nation at war. 

The signs of upheaval and pain can be small yet overpowering. Impossible to miss. Like the driver who took me from the airport to Jerusalem. He was a kind elderly man with warm eyes that seemed heavy. His son was in Gaza at the time, one of those soldiers carrying one of the many identical bags like the ones at the airport. “I pray for him every night.” The driver tells me in broken English. Then we speak of other things, the weather, the food, how things used to be, how bad everyone is at driving. Shock. He’s still in shock. I recognize it. I think he does, too. 

At the hotel, I make the mistake of falling asleep and miss meeting my group at the Western Wall. It’s fine. My first impression wouldn’t be good. I’m too in my head. Imagining the things that are to come. The things I know that I’ll never unsee. I’m determined to document it all. To bear witness. To remember. To share. To put images and faces to the ocean of grief, I’ve felt from a literal ocean away. It’s fine, I’ll see them for dinner. 

My group was small but lovely. Phoenicians from ages 12 to 80 and all with different life experiences. Some of the nicest people you’ll ever hope to meet. Our community is lucky to have them. There is one other person my age, Oran, our security guard. He’s nine months older than me. We become fast friends. He seems fine, but he’s not. No one is. Oran likes our group, and he’s glad that people have come to visit, but he wants to fight and wishes he were in Gaza. He tells me of his time in the IDF, the time he was shot in the back, and his recovery. Shows me pictures even. He tells me all about his country and how he wants to protect his people. I can only imagine what it’s like in his shoes. 

We visit Be’eri, a Kibbutz on the border in the Gaza Envelope, and one of the communities hit the worst on October 7th. Four months later, the community is frozen in time. A physical embodiment of the country. It must still be in shock, too. After the attacks, the country mobilized quickly to secure the border, prepare for hostage retrieval, provide proper burials for the brutally murdered, care for the wounded, and treat the traumatized. There’s been no time for clean up. No interest or reason. There are bigger problems now and more problems to come. No one knows when it will be time to rebuild, but we all know that it’s not now. 

We walk amongst the pieces of normal life: a blender, a coloring book, lego blocks. I think of my own children; I imagine the Bibas boys being held hostage, the youngest only 9 months old. My daughter is at home doing tummy time, and I know that no one is doing tummy time with him. All I want is to weep, but the tears are trapped, much like the people who were trapped in their safe rooms during that early morning nightmare in October. I see the rooms that are burnt and riddled with bullets. In my heart, I can hear the screams, something horrible happened here, something that can never be made better, something permanent. I can feel it all. Visions of a normal Saturday morning, calm and quiet. A day of rest and peace, irreparably shattered. A man tells us that he is grateful the terrorists attacked so early. Every Saturday, the holy day for Jews, his children would walk to their grandparents’ house to play and spend the day. Had the horrifying siege occurred even an hour later, his children would have died in the house that once stood in front of us. Just a burnt-out shell of what it once was. It was once the home of his in-laws. It was where they were murdered on October 7th, 2023. I wonder what his children feel about Saturday mornings now. 

I try to avoid walking on the rubble, but it’s everywhere. Eventually, I give up and I walk where my soul guides. I need to see more. I need to see it all. At one point, all I can do is kneel and try to breathe. A small piece of me dies in that rubble, and I leave it behind. I’ll never get it back. I want to cry and grieve, but I can’t. Just like the Israelis we are with, I know that we haven’t the time or the luxury. How blessed we are in the West to have the luxury of time. 

On to the next site. 

“I was supposed to be there,” Oran tells me of the Nova Festival. I can feel the survivor's guilt as he tells me of his last-minute change of plans. I can feel my own relief knowing that he’s here with us instead and my own guilt. Our unique trauma makes our friendship feel old and worn. As we walk around the festival site, he stops at the pictures of the people he knows, the ones he will never see again. He tells me about when they met, little tidbits about their personalities, the family members they talked about, what they were like before their faces were on the posters in front of us and before their bodies bled on the ground where we are standing, the ground where the flowers now grow. 

Ah, the flowers. Bright and vibrant. The Flower of the South, the flower of Israel. A stunning crimson red with a black bud in the middle, like the poppies that remind the world of the second great war in Europe. I think of how it must have been after the hot summer back in October. The land barren and flat, not yet ready for life to grow anew. I see the videos and images from back then as they play in my mind. Nowhere to hide as the attack begins. The screaming, the bodies, the fear. A piece of me dies, and I leave it there. I take the memories of the flowers with me. The sun always rises. The flowers know nothing of our pain, only the beauty of creation. They cannot grieve. What a blessing. They can’t love either, and I know that must be a curse. Still, their beauty feels both hopeful and cruel. A reminder that the world moves on, but we cannot. 

Over the days spent in Israel, we meet with those displaced, those administering care to the survivors of brutal sexual assault, we visit the largest hospital and meet with heroes, and the family members of hostages. I can’t tell you the timing or the details of the itinerary; I only remember the moments, the people, the pain, the humanity. 

One night, after dinner, Oran and I wander to a whiskey bar near the hotel. I have a theory that we were always friends, we just hadn’t met. We use the same medicine, whiskey straight, but I like mine on the rocks. The bartender thinks I’m crazy. Ice will only water it down! I’m very American, and here it shows. We talk about our families. I show him pictures of my kids, my husband, my dog. So much to live for, so much to be grateful for, so much to love. We both know that we’ve been blessed. It’s important to remember that in the midst of grief. 

At the end of our trip, our last dinner, we’re asked to share our takeaways. When it’s my turn, I don’t have much to say and tell them that. I’m honest about how I’m still processing everything and how it’ll be some time before I know what I think, before I know what I feel, and before I share. Everyone nods and understands what I mean. Shock. I’m in shock. I’m grieving. We all are. 


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It’s now been a year, and I guess today, I felt like I could share. We’re all still grieving. The waves keep coming: sometimes anger, sometimes sorrow, bargaining, but always confusion. Today, for me, a reflective melancholy. Many others have been to Israel since I was last there. I can’t speak to their stages of grief, nor do I know where they’re at in the process. I only know that we’re here together. I know that we’re tired and trapped. Grief isn’t like other feelings; it shifts and changes as it melts into the soul, but ours is both unique and collective. We will never be the same. We will forever grieve, as will future generations. 

In the middle of a temporary cease-fire, only our second since this war began, we are still in shock. How nice it would be for the war to end, to mend, to rebuild, to hope again, to know that the page has turned. Though we are all hurt, our family in Israel is frozen. We must be strong for them, advocate for them, love them, and share the pain that they don’t have the time or luxury to feel as they cope with a loss few could even imagine. 

I guess that was the takeaway. 


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