It's Been Over a Year
Reflections on being Jewish after October 7
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.
Since October 7, 2023, I have vacillated among so many emotions: despair, grief, agony, disillusionment, anger, frustration, sadness. Amid this never-ending nightmare, I have become alienated from communities I cared about. A dear childhood friend has been posting anti-Israel content on social media. A casual acquaintance shared explicitly pro-Hamas propaganda. A teacher at my daughter’s school accused Israel of genocide.
Last fall, I had to resign from my women’s coaching group. After I expressed my anguish over October 7, it became clear that I was no longer welcome. The facilitator said that politics had no place in the group, while another member let everyone know she disagreed with me. There was a place for politics in the group, I realized—just not my politics. Meanwhile, my anger with the left—a side I long identified with myself—grew and grew. On the night of October 7, 2024, when elected officials wore keffiyehs to a city council meeting, I felt it overflow, like milk boiling over on the stove.
It’s not my responsibility to educate these people or change their minds, but it feels personal. I tend to assume that anyone who posts anti-Israel content wants me dead. I know that’s a stretch, but it’s hard not to feel the generational trauma pulling out of its seams.
“There is always hate,” my mom says. “People always hate Jews.” Until this year, I never really believed her.
This year, I have also felt a renewed connection to my ancestral roots, and a deep gratitude for my Jewish community. I have started proudly wearing a Star of David around my neck. When I made challah with my mom this year, it was even more meaningful than usual. As the dough softened beneath our hands, I felt the weight of our history soften, too.
I have accessed a small, still voice within myself. I’ve joined a support group for Jewish writers and gotten to know local Jewish activists. At an October 7 commemorative event at my synagogue, I shared a poem I wrote for Rachel Goldberg-Polin.
On the day that her son Hersh (z’l) and five other beautiful hostages were murdered in a tunnel, my stepsister got married. Celebrating her wedding while honoring the innocent lives lost was a brutal balancing act.
Participating in normal life in America while an all-too-deadly war rages in Israel is a brutal balancing act.
It’s been hard for me to look away from social media. I know it causes me pain, but it also connects me to something hopeful. Following the work of Jewish and Israeli activists and writers has been a balm—giving me a sense of belonging in a stormy sea.
Since the U.S. elections, everything feels even more precarious. I keep looking for something to hold on to. For something to help us all endure. For something to finally—finally—bring the hostages home. Living in a Jewish body is a massive burden right now. Being alive is a massive burden right now. But this body still holds on to Jewish hope.
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.
Molly Ritvo is a writer and author living in Burlington, VT. She has been writing for her whole life, beginning when she was selected as the class poet in the 1st grade. Her work has been published by Upstreet Literary Magazine, the Jewish Writing Project, the Jewish Book Club, and more. She holds a BA from Tufts University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Molly has worked as a freelance writer, a communications specialist for many different organizations, and a journalist. She is currently writing her debut novel, a collection of Jewish themed poetry, and working as a grant writer. Her most important role is being a mom to her daughter, Jimi.
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