The morning of October 7th began like any other Saturday for me—coffee, news updates, planning my day. Then my phone lit up with notifications. Friends in Israel sending messages to our group chat: “We’re under attack.” “This is bad.” “We’re in the safe room.”
I sat frozen, thousands of miles away, watching in horror as the unimaginable unfolded. The distance between us felt both immeasurably vast and painfully close. I could do nothing but watch, refresh news sites, and check that green dot on messaging apps indicating my friends were still online, still safe.
In those initial days, sleep became a luxury I couldn’t afford. What if someone needed me? What if there was news about my friend’s cousin who was at the Nova festival? The guilt of my safety in contrast to their danger became a weight I carried everywhere.
Three weeks later, I learned that my former Hebrew teacher’s nephew had been killed defending his kibbutz. I remembered how proudly she had spoken of him — his intelligence, his kindness, his commitment to building peace through understanding. Now he was gone, one more name in an ever-growing list of losses.
That’s when I decided that witnessing wasn’t enough. Distance could no longer be my excuse for inaction.
I began organizing care packages for soldiers—practical items like moisture-wicking socks and high-protein snacks, but also handwritten notes from people around the world. Each package included a QR code linking to a website where soldiers could send a quick “received and appreciated” message, creating a small but meaningful connection.
The first response I received was brief: “Thank you for remembering us. Your words traveled further than you know.” It came from a young woman serving near Gaza who had lost four friends on October 7th. She wrote that she kept the note I had written taped inside her helmet.
I coordinated online gatherings where families of hostages could share their stories with international audiences. In one session, a father spoke about his daughter’s birthday passing while she remained in captivity. “We still baked her cake,” he said. “We still sang. Because to stop celebrating her life would be to surrender hope.” There wasn’t a dry eye in that virtual room.
These months have taught me that solidarity isn’t just about grand gestures; it’s about consistent presence. It’s about saying “I see you” in a world that too often looks away.
Yesterday, I received a package from Israel. Inside was a small stone from the Nova memorial site and a note: “You asked what you could do from far away. You’ve already done it. You refused to let us feel alone.”
I keep that stone on my desk now. When the news cycle moves on, when others forget, it reminds me of my responsibility to remember, to witness, and to act—however I can, from wherever I am.
The distance remains, but the connection grows stronger. In a time of iron and fire, perhaps that’s its own kind of miracle.
