Finding Our Why
Finding hope in impossible questions
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.
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.
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.
Being Jewish now means asking, and being asked, impossible questions. And it means that, whatever happens, we still believe obsessively in love and life.
Rachel Caplin, originally from Australia, has called Israel home since 2015. Married to Eitan, she is the proud mother of two little girls, with a third child expected at the end of 2024. A tech executive with a chronic writing habit, her debut novel The Spoon and the Sea was a finalist for the Vogel Literary Award.
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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