It feels like when a yoga instructor tells you to unclench your toes and only then do you notice how tightly you’ve been gripping. For two years, we’ve carried the weight of a stone on our hearts, grown used to its heaviness, to the way it changed our posture.

Today, it lifted and we have to relearn ourselves without it.

That night, we lit a yahrzeit candle on Simchat Torah, the Hebrew date of October 7.

At Jewish weddings, we break a glass just before we shout mazal tov. In our most joyous moment, it becomes intertwined with memory. The words we recall “If I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy” are a promise to hold grief and happiness in the same breath.

Lighting that candle on this day felt like that.

So yes, today, hope returned.

But it’s not the naïve kind that forgets. It’s the kind that of hope from our anthem Hatikvah, that knows loss, walks hand in hand with memory, and can disappear again if we don’t learn from how we got here.

Hello hope, my old friend. Stay a while.

Hummus? Eggplant? Something spicy?

I just couldn’t choose.

And then I found myself walking the aisles picking out the most random items, tossing things into the cart like a woman told they have hours left to live. Heck, how have I gone 33 years and never had this… weird biscuit thing?

Blinking into the sunlight as we emerge from twelve days of war with the Iranian regime, everyone is feeling the whiplash in different ways.

It’s the aching legs.

The argument about nothing.

The unproductive hours of ‘work’.

Still waking up at night.

Should I shower or will there be a siren? Oh wait…

The gravitational pull away from the news and onto Ginny and Georgia.

There’s a unique kind of whiplash for parents. We spent those twelve days shielding our kids from the scary and bad things outside.

We absorbed it all and smiled through bedtime stories, quickly turning down the phone alerts before they heard it. We hid tears behind kitchen counters and checked the news while they were busy playing.

And now, as the dust settles just enough to see, our nervous systems are catching up and letting out the stress and fear we absorbed for them, and didn’t let ourselves feel in real time.

As I unpack the items from the shopping bags (and wonder what I was thinking), I wonder if this is part of the resilience everyone talks about.

Is this just the part of ‘bouncing back’ that’s closer to the floor than the sky? Maybe that famous Start Up Nation spirit takes a minute to unwind and eat weird biscuits.

As I place the challah on the table, I’m reminded that while the twelve days ended with a ceasefire, it’s far from over. For some families, this is the first Shabbat with a chair left heartbreakingly empty, their son or husband killed in battle this week. The number of families with someone missing at the Shabbat table continues to grow. And for those whose loved one is still held hostage in Gaza, every Shabbat is another unbearable wait.

So if you ask me, what is the real essence of our resilience? It’s knowing that we would run back into the shelters again and again (and again, and again) to bring them home.

We would do it all over again, in a heartbeat.

My five-year-old sat up, blinking in confusion.

“I thought I slept all night in my own bed,” she said. Her face fell. “Now I won’t get a sticker.”

My middle daughter asked why she wasn’t having her third birthday party. I promised her she would still get a purple Tinker Bell cake.

Each evening begins the same surreal routine, soundtracked by alerts on our phones:

Stay near shelter.
Iran has launched a barrage.
GET TO SHELTER NOW.
It’s over for now, but don’t go far.

We watch the news on mute and text our friends throughout the night, checking that this round of Iranian roulette didn’t land on their homes.

My oldest lies on a mattress on the floor, clutching her pink lion. My middle daughter sprawls across our bed, arms around her Dumbo. How much of this will they remember? I wonder. The baby sleeps in her bassinet, chest rising and falling, blissfully unaware.

I lie under the steel window shield with the white noise machine on full blast, hoping to keep the sound of the explosions at bay. Will they remember the weird night they still got a sticker, even though they woke up in our bed? Will they remember that their third birthday party got canceled?

When these thoughts began to spiral, I am comforted by the thought of the bag in the cupboard of the mamad. I packed it after October 7, when the threats began to pile on top of each other: Hamas, Hezbollah, the Houthis. And, always in the background, Iran. We didn’t know if we would be sent to the shelter for an hour, or a night, or a week—only that we had to be ready.

The cupboard door jams because the bag is so big—stuffed with supplies and memories. This war, like every war, pulls memories to the surface. Not just our own, but the ones we’ve inherited. Some are passed down like unwanted heirlooms. Others are sewn into our minds before we even understand what we’ve lived through.

Throwing tins of fruit and chocolate biscuits in the bag, I think of my grandmother. She grew up in London during the Blitz, sleeping in underground tube stations as bombs fell overhead. She used to tell me about the whistling of the Doodlebug just before it hit. Even into her nineties, living in Australia, she kept a laundry cupboard stocked for the next Blitz: tinned fruit and chocolate biscuits, just in case.

My husband adds to the bag a spare light and a battery-powered generator. He was five years old, in Israel, during the Gulf War. He remembers the gas masks, the sealed rooms, the rolled-up towels pressed under the door. He remembers his baby brother, too small for a mask, being placed inside a plastic box with holes punched for air. He remembers long hours of darkness when the power went out. He packs all of that into the bag.

I feel triumphant as we pack diapers, wipes and formula. In April 2024, during another Iranian attack, I sat in the mamad, preparing for an embryo transfer. We survived, and so did the embryo. In October, Iran attacked again. This time, I was pregnant, and could feel the baby kicking. Now, in June 2025, that baby is here, sleeping peacefully in a bassinet. Despite everything, we have brought new Jewish life into the world.

I don’t know if this war will last days, weeks, or months. But I do know this: there’s a bag in the cupboard, packed with reminders that we have been here before and have made it through. If my kids remember anything from these terrifying nights, I hope they remember this too.

Am Yisrael Chai.

There’s an elephant on our roof

having a party.

Boom, boom, boom.

My big sister is asleep.

My baby sister is asleep.

But I’m not.

I’m listening.

“Whooop! Whooop!”

They call it an Azaka.

But I know it’s an elephant.

having a party.

Maybe the elephant is eating cake

like the hippopotamus on the roof.

I love that book.

Daddy takes me out of bed.

“The elephant is turning three,” I tell him.

It’s a loud party.

I think she has sisters.

There’s an elephant on our roof

having a party with her sisters.

Mummy and Daddy take us to their room.

They call it “the mamad”.

I bring Dumbo.

Dumbo loves birthday parties.

I can hear the elephants dancing

and stamping their feet.

They don’t come in.

It makes me sad.

I want to see them.

Maybe they have balloons.

But Mummy says, “We stay inside.”

She doesn’t like the elephants.

So I listen,

because I’m a big girl now.

After a few minutes,

the elephants go to sleep.

So I do too.

I then saw the image of a helicopter flying above the fires.

A relief, it was also impossible not to wonder, “Where was this on October 7th?”

It’s on days like this that I’m reminded just how small this country is. I live in Raanana, a town about twenty minutes north of Tel Aviv. We’re considered “far” from the fire, just as Raanana was considered “far” from the Gaza Envelope on October 7th. In such a small country, a forty-minute drive can feel like a protective buffer, enough to convince us we’re out of harm’s way. But coming originally from Australia, I know what real space and distance look like. Everything is close to home, literally and emotionally.

A third layer is speculative and this must be emphasized. Immediately circulating formal and informal networks were whispers and shouts that these fires were intentional. Time will tell if there is a case of arson in the Yom Hazikaron fire and, if so, whether it is driven by nationalistic intentions. Whether this is true or not, Israel lives in a complex reality where a devastating fire comes with these added questions and possibilities, inevitably inflaming the discourse further among ourselves and with our neighbors.

For now, we feel immense relief for everyone living near the fire zone, those almost caught in its path, and the firefighters doing everything to contain the flames.

On Being Jewish Now

The Fire on Yom HaZikaron

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here…

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a year ago · 1 like · Rachel Caplin

We chose the name out of respect for gvura - for the courage that has become so present since October 7 - and for the faith that sustains us: faith in God and faith in one another.

Tomorrow is Purim, a holiday of Jewish women’s bravery.

In the past few weeks, this has become even clearer.

The return of Liri, Naama, Karina, and Daniela, who refused to speak in Hamas’s parade and came home with their heads held high.

Agam, who was held alone for an entire week and, on the helicopter, wrote to Am Yisrael: “I left through faith, and I returned through faith.”

Shiri Bibas z”l, the lioness who endured at least a month in Hamas’s dungeon, protecting her two small children.

Yuval Raphael, who survived Nova and will stand tall, wrapped in the flag, representing us all.

The heroines of Nahal Oz, like Shir Eilat z”l, who refused to leave her post and continued reporting the approaching danger, knowing she was in the line of fire. Eden Nimri z”l, who drew her weapon to protect the unarmed soldiers and divert the terrorists’ attention.

How is it that only now I realize - gvura (heroism) is a feminine word.

Because the bravery of Am Yisrael has a feminine side.

What an honor it is to live among the women of Israel, to be one of them, to raise them and to call Gabriella by their names, in their honor.

Am Yisrael Chai.

If you’re a parent, you’ll always remember the moment your child starts asking, “Why?” My oldest daughter, Leora, is five years old. Almost as soon as she began to talk, she began to question.

Why don’t grown-ups have a bedtime?
Why did God make crocodiles?
Why do I have to wear shoes?
Why does Grandma have short hair?
Why does Daddy like cooking more than you?
Why is Eliana allowed to eat with her hands?

She asked about the sun and the moon, and where they went when she couldn’t see them. She asked about the candles we light, and about why the iPad disappears on Friday afternoons.

With each sunrise and sunset, I tried to explain. I could barely keep up: Leora’s curiosity expanded with a string of new, tiring, and delightful questions.

And then came October 7. Suddenly, she wasn’t the only one in our household bursting with unanswerable questions.

Why do they hate us so much?
Why did we think antisemitism was a relic of the past?
Why are good people so silent?

Leora’s questions changed, too.

Why can’t I lie on top of you when there’s an azaka (siren), instead of you lying on top of me?
Why is Itai’s daddy a chayal (soldier)? Is that his work?
Why is there a yellow ribbon on the door handle?

Being Jewish now means searching for an age-appropriate way to answer questions that feel inappropriate at any age. It means asking yourself questions that were once reserved for the Holocaust. It means a return to our roots, deep in the mud.

Judaism has always been a religion of questions. On Seder night, we pose four of them. The children—our innocent, youngest participants—ask why we eat, sit, drink, and behave differently.

Being Jewish today means being caught in a pendulum swing. I’m proud of my daughter’s critical observation skills, but I also want to cover her eyes. I praise her resilience and courage, while wishing that she didn’t need them.

We are forever changed by October 7, and our children notice. Their “whys” help us find our own.

Why is our mezuzah gone? ask Jews in the Diaspora. Why do we stay here instead of moving to Israel?
Why do we have a mamad (bomb shelter)? ask Jews in Israel. Why do we stay here, instead of moving someplace quieter?

The pursuit of our “why” is both individual and existential. There is no one-size-fits-all. My own answers emerged in the space between two dates.

On April 13, I sat in the bomb shelter as Iran sent hundreds of missiles toward Israel. We shuttered the window shield and the explosion-proof door and held our little girls close as the Angel of Death passed over. Between checking the news and trying to sleep, I took medication for an embryo transfer that would take place five days later—if we made it through the night.

On October 1, I sat in the bomb shelter again as Iran sent hundreds more missiles toward Israel. Again, we shuttered the window shield and the explosion-proof door, holding our little girls close as the Angel of Death passed over. With one hand, I scrolled the news. With the other, I felt the kicks of a new, beautiful life growing in my belly.

Being Jewish now means asking, and being asked, impossible questions. And it means that, whatever happens, we still believe obsessively in love and life.

Gabriella Roni Caplin was born on December 23, 2024. Within the first four days of her life, she visited the bomb shelter of the hospital and the bomb shelter of her home in Raanana. Her name is rooted in the Hebrew words for “courage,” “faith” and “abundant joy.” She, and all the children born since October 7, are the ultimate expression of optimism.

A wedding, Hadassa, 23 years old

A funeral, Yaron, 23 years old

Less than a full day

broken glass and gunshots

chuppah and grave

a couple united

a couple torn apart

watching a child grow up

burying their child

dancing with their little sister

burying their little brother

the human heart

is remarkable

it can stretch and bend

to make space

for the peaks of joy

and depths of sadness

in 24 hours

Doors open.

Silence.

None of the

youngsters get off.

Everyone stands still

at what is usually the busiest

station from Raanana to Tel Aviv.

They’re not studying

and moving their lives ahead.

They’re making sure

there is life at all,

dressed in uniform

with big heavy bags

heading further south.

Doors close.

Next stop, war.

It was my daughter’s 4th birthday

It looked like a princess exploded

Leora was Belle, Eliana was Snow White

We got a cake and did arts and crafts

Last week

I spoke to the neighbor across the hall

to ask if we could borrow her kiddie chairs

and to make sure

that if there was a siren

from an incoming missile to Raanana

that we could split the guests

between her bomb shelter

and mine

So this is how we are

Normal isn’t normal

We celebrate the heck out of every occasion

We lean on each other

When someone asks how you are

a standard response is

כמו כולם

“Like everyone”

And if you ask me

that’s the most beautiful

conversation in the world

The hostage deal comes to be on your yahrzeit, 10 Kislev.

5 years since I held your hand and you became my closest guardian angel.

This hostage deal has us all spinning in a strange mixed bag of emotions.

I like to believe a soul has special privileges and power on the yahrzeit. On the first, I went into labor with Leora Miriam, named after you. And each year since, I’ve felt you there with me, one way or another.

But this year, I’m not the one who needs a little sign that everything will be okay.

Grandma, if you can, go to Gaza.

Please be with our people as they cross back to Israel.

Please be with our people still held hostage. When they sleep, tell them they will be home soon. Tell them we are coming for them.

And if you can’t, if Gaza is not good for the soul, wait on that first inch of Israeli soil to welcome them home.

Please be with them all.

Especially the children.

In life, your hugs were home, the warmest and safest place. Let them know, in whatever way you can, they are coming back home, the warmest and safest place.

I’ll see you next year, God willing, on 10 Kislev.

I miss you every single day and love you forever.

🕯️ לעילוי נשמת מרים אסתר בת אברהם ודבורה

everywhere

watch their children sleeping

and we don’t feel

warm and fuzzy

we feel sick

because there are

so many

beautiful Jewish children

held hostage

in fucking Gaza

and the only difference

is that they

fell asleep

a little closer

to the devil

who went hunting

for beautiful Jewish children

just

like

ours

with a black, white, green and red tail

whispering Shema Yisrael

in your child’s ear

before she falls asleep

She puts her hand on her eyes

and you smile

at our act of defiance

Sitting on an airplane

with a blue and white tail

you say aloud

Shema Yisrael

she puts her hand on her eyes

and you smile

as does every person around you

And that, my friends

is all you need to know

What innocent fun that should be

What’s the time Mr Wolf?

One o’clock, five o’clock

What’s the time?

“It’s dinner time.”

The panic sets in

I can’t even watch

My child pretending to run for her life

Stop it, let’s play Twister

Between my stomach is in knots anyway

So why not play Twister?

After last week

I can’t even play

What’s the time Mr Wolf?

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My sweet Jewish child

I watch you eating

I watch you playing

What beautiful oblivion

What monsters did do others like you

Sweet, beautiful Jewish children

You think I’ve gone mad

How many times I look at you and cry

I walk over

And kiss your neck

Because a kiss is the only* thing

That belongs on the neck

Of a sweet Jewish child

*and sunscreen