By Lior Zisser-Yogev
On October 7, 2023, I was invited to Simchat Torah celebrations in one of the synagogues in our area. It was the last evening of Sukkot, after a busy few weeks of chagim, during which we hopped from synagogue to synagogue, prayed, talked, and ate—and were hosted for so many lunches and dinners by so many wonderful people in this new community we were just getting to know. For my family, this was two short months after arriving here in Michigan for a three-year term of Shlichut (emissary work), and we were slowly getting to know the lay of the land.
Simchat Torah, the last day of Sukkot, was symbolic in that sense – the last day of the chagim, the high holidays, which for me marked the end of the adjustment period to my new role as a Shlicha, and the first day of אחרי החגים (“after the holidays” in Hebrew)- that symbolic time in Israel when everything actually begins, that time you push everything to the side, because you’re too busy and occupied to do it in between RoshHaShana, Yom Kippur and Sukkot.
But that morning, my plans changed.
אחרי החגים brought on a disaster. We spent all day glued to our phones- talking to family and friends at home, following the headlines that tried to bring some certainty in an impossible situation, and watching the news as horrific documentations of the Hamas terror attack kept coming. By the end of that day, a reminder popped up on my phone about the Simchat Torah celebrations I was planning to attend. It seemed like a message from a million years ago. How can I go and celebrate now? What is there to celebrate?
I remember being torn between my desire to stay home and fall apart, and my need to be around people — a part of something bigger, feeling joy even in such a dark and devastating day and so I went to Shull and witnessed as people danced with the Torah, smiled and hugged — we were all sad and happy at the same time, and we were together.
Every year, on the Shabbat of Sukkot, we read the words of Ecclesiastes, or Kohelet in Hebrew:
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn,
and a time to dance.
Ecclesiastes 3- קהלת ג’
Personally, this past year taught me that this is simply not true. There is no distinct and defined time for everything under the heaven- everything takes place at once, in an overwhelming whirlwind of feelings, sensations and experiences.
On that morning of October 7, 2023, 6 hours after the devastating terror attack began in southern Israel, I was in my home in West Bloomfield feeling so many emotions all at once. I was terrified and shocked, worried and scared for my family and friends, heartbroken over the loss of so many. But at the same time, I was determined and full of purpose, I was motivated to DO something, anything, and to find strength in the togetherness of the community. This was before I learned about the heavy family disaster that had befallen us, which I found out about only two days later, when the official announcement was received that Ilay, my younger brother, was killed in battle in Kfar Gaza on the morning of that cursed day.
A year ago, standing in my brother’s funeral over his freshly dug grave, I asked in tears how can our lives go on when his had ended? How can we keep on living without him?
Now, a year later, I feel like I’m beginning to understand.
We’ve been through so much pain and trauma in the past year. But alongside all that, there were also some good things. Even great. We lit menorahs on Hanukkah, dressed the children in costumes on Purim, and sat together around the Seder table in Passover, asking the four questions: how is this night different than all other nights? Even though it is clear to all of us that so much have changed. We celebrated birthdays. Children were born, people got married, started new jobs. Life happened, without even asking us. In an unbearable way – our life did not stop on October 7th, the day Ilay’s life ended.
The sun shines every day, and we get up and out of beds. Then we get dressed, eat, drink, and go to work. And during the day we also deal with other things, everyday things like sitting in meetings, writing emails, organizing, initiating, planning. Sometimes we smile, sometimes we even a laugh. And we go on vacations and trips and take pictures in beautiful places, that later I need to think twice if it’s appropriate to send in the family text group. Because how is it possible? How can we be happy, smile and travel and enjoy life- when Ilay is gone? When our hostages are still in captivity in Gaza? When missiles fall all over Israel and so many are forced out of their homes to keep them safe?
I didn’t believe I would make it. But I don’t have much choice. And neither do any of us. Life happens in an array of emotions: sadness and joy, grief and growth, hope and despair, all at once under heaven.
Following the national disaster of October 7, and within it my personal family disaster, I learned that it is possible to laugh while crying, to love while mourning, to look up even when we break down. and I try to remind myself that this was not only the worst year, it was also the best year.
This past year, alongside the pain and heartbreak, I got to experience some of the best moments in my adult life. I got to travel with my family and experience all the great things Michigan has to offer. My girls acquired a second language, and they are exposed to a new culture and learn something new about the Jewish identity every day that they are here. My work as a Shlicha in the Jewish Federation is a platform for such meaningful and impactful work. I was privileged to be involved with community leadership and take part in educational programs, despite, and perhaps precisely because of, the terrible crisis my people are going through. Putting together these programs to educate, connect and support Israel, gave me a sense of fulfillment, and there was nothing that filled me with more hope than seeing the Jewish community come together in uncompromising support of Israel.
Since that solidarity event on October 9, the horrific day when I received the news about Ilay and my world fell apart, this Jewish community has not stopped showing support and love for Israel and Israelis, and I am so lucky to have been a part of it, during the most difficult period that Israel has known since its establishment. I will never forget the uplifting sensation I felt at the Yom HaAtzmaut event, Walk the Zoo in White & Blue, when thousands of Detroit Jews gathered and called in one voice, “Am Yisrael Chai”. This moment captured so much beauty, love and hope, that managed to encourage and strengthen all those who were there, including me.
So, as I look back on this passing year, I remember not only the devastating parts, but also the great ones. It was a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. It was all the things at the same time. It was life.
This year it seems like the phrase “Terrible Days”, used to describe the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, receive a different meaning. It’s almost one year to our national tragedy, and for so many- it is the end of their first year of mourning their loved ones. But it is also the beginning of a new Jewish year, one we only pray will bring more peace than war, more love than hate, more building up than breaking down and more healing that pain. As we celebrate this new year, let’s remind ourselves of what we’ve been through, and how we found light even in the darkest times of our Jewish history. Together we can turn our sorrow into action, our grief into resilience, and be a source of comfort and strength for one another, as we stand united as a community.
Shana Tova