When There Are No Words
Finding meaning in the sound of the shofar
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.
After October 7, there are no words.
Being Jewish has always been central to my identity. I write Jewishly, mother Jewishly, read Jewishly, volunteer Jewishly, give Jewishly, love Jewishly. None of that has changed. My view of the world has changed, but my worldview has not. October 7 and its aftermath cannot change who I am, what I believe, or what I know to be true. And while the world has twisted the meaning of words like “friend,” “liberal,” “progressive,” and “humanitarian,” it has no right to define us or our word—“Zionist,” “antisemitic,” “Jewish.” There is a war on words, and we must hold the line.
Once, I was so-and-so’s “Jewish friend.” I attended all the “liberal” marches. I volunteered at a homeless shelter, threw myself into AIDS activism, cared for a stranger with a terminal illness. I always understood that my activism was connected to my Judaism. And my Judaism is inseparable from my Zionism.
We are left questioning our place in the world. How did we let ourselves pretend that antisemitism was only a fringe moment? Where have the people we marched with gone? How we will rebuild?
Our emotional and physical storehouses are running on empty. Our children are fighting in a war for survival; our people are held hostage. Yet we’ve been writing more, speaking (sometimes shouting) more, and doing more. My old causes may have abandoned me, but I will continue to live by my Jewish values.
This year I, like most Jews, entered the chagim (Jewish festivals) with profound sadness and existential dread. My three oldest children are in Israel. Here in Hong Kong, I went through the motions, prepared the meals, sent the greetings, said the prayers with my younger children.
But in a war on words, how can I express the depth of the pain and pride that I feel?
And then on Rosh Hashanah, I found the answer.
It was loud and clear, a cry that was present yet ancient, endless yet fleeting, communal yet personal, wordless yet profound, earthly yet divine.
This eternal cry—the blast of the shofar—is what it means to be Jewish today. In those bursts are all of our stories, told and untold, a harmony of past, present, and future. It is a cry of joy and sadness, but most importantly, it is a cry of hope. What word or words could be enough after we atone on Yom Kippur? The sounds transcend.
Some of us have returned to our ancestral homeland. Others are still wandering. Some of us have moved closer towards observance; others, further away. We speak in many languages, yet this one sound finds its way into our hearts, unites us, and speaks directly to us. We hear the same sound. Our ancestors heard it too. Our children’s children and their children too will hear it, and it will help them understand what it means to be Jewish.
I’m home now. Yom Kippur is over. I’ve gotten my little girls to sleep, and I’ve spoken to my three children in Israel. Even the incessant city sounds of Hong Kong have quieted, but my heart has not. The note still reverberates. It is loud and clear. It is a continuum. It is our story. We are one people.
Tekiah Gedolah.
There are no words.
Erica Lyons is an award winning children’s book author based in Hong Kong, whose focus is on writing stories found in the footnotes of Jewish history books. She is the kidlit editor for Judith Magazine, the founder of PJ Library Hong Kong and the chair of the Hong Kong Jewish Historical Society. Her most recent books are Mixed-Up Mooncakes (HarperCollins) and On a Chariot of Fire – The Story of India’s Bene Israel (Levine Querido).
Instagram: @ericalyonswrites
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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