וּבְכֵן תֵּן כָּבוֹד יְיָ לְעַמֶּךָ, תְּהִלָּה לִירֵאֶיךָ, וְתִקְוָה טוֹבָה לְדֹרְשֶׁיךָ, וּפִתְחוֹן פֶּה לַמְיַחֲלִים לָךְ, שִׂמְחָה לְאַרְצֶךָ וְשָׂשׂוֹן לְעִירֶךָ, וּצְמִיחַת קֶרֶן לְדָוִד עַבְדֶּךָ, וַעֲרִיכַת נֵר לְבֶן יִשַׁי מְשִׁיחֶךָ, בִּמְהֵרָה בְיָמֵינוּ.
So grant honor, Lord, to Your people, praise to those who revere You, hope to those who seek You, clear speech to those who yearn for You, joy to Your land, and gladness to Your city. May the offspring of David, Your servant, flourish, and may the lamp of the son of Jesse, Your anointed one, be prepared swiftly in our days.
– Rosh Hashanah liturgy
When I wrote on erev Rosh Hashanah last year, I never imagined that the black chasm that tore open on October 7 could grow deeper still, nor did I foresee that another year would pass—713 days since that bitter, breathless morning—a year in which grief has only deepened its roots, tightened its unrelenting hold. A year in which the shadows of the living, our hostages still trapped in Gaza, will mark their second Rosh Hashanah in despair, with no dawn breaking through their darkness. A year in which our soldiers were summoned once more to duty, leaving families to celebrate the holidays alone, while they place their lives at risk for a cause that fractures our people, divides our very soul.
The eve of Rosh Hashanah arrives heavy with sorrow. The joy that should herald our season of renewal feels muted, almost apologetic. As we prepare our traditional meals and anticipate the sweetness of apples dipped in honey, the hostages fight for each breath in boundless anguish, knowing they must bear the cost of hatred, the price of war, and the burden of our divisions.
Once again, empty chairs will stand as sentinels at our tables, bearing witness to those absent. Once again, our prayers will be salted with tears and pleas for their return. Once again, the shofar’s cry will pierce the heavens, ascending with the eternal question: How much longer?
On this eve of Rosh Hashanah 5786, our darkness feels deeper than ever before.
Against rising tides of hatred toward Israel, the alarming surge of antisemitism, and mounting criticism from much of the Western world, Prime Minister Netanyahu declared this week that we must steel ourselves for global isolation—to become like ancient Sparta. An isolation that brings economic, cultural, and academic boycotts. An isolation in which Israelis abroad feel cast out, unwelcome. Yet isolation is not strategy—it is the consequence of failing to tell our story.
Alon Ohel is a gifted soul, a pianist whose fingers once danced across keys with the grace of a child prodigy. He began playing at 9 years old, dreaming of music school and a life devoted to art. On October 7, he came to celebrate life itself—to sing, to dance at the Nova Music Festival. This young man who embraced life was torn from it with savage cruelty, alongside Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Or Levy, and Eliya Cohen, in what became known as the “shelter of death” in which they sought refuge as a massacre swept through the celebration. Taken to Gaza, Alon has likely lost the sight in his right eye, while his remaining vision hangs in peril. His spirit breaks under unimaginable weight. Alon longs for home.
Rom Braslavsky lives now in our collective memory through a haunting image—the horrific footage released by Hamas that shows him reduced to sinew and bone, bent and hollow, clutching at the threads of life itself. At just 21, this security guard at Nova proved himself a hero, helping others escape the terror while he himself fell into the monster’s grasp. Since that day, testimonies of his courage have reached his family, yet he remains suspended between the living and the dead, caught in the predator’s claws.
Inbar Haiman, the sole woman among those still held in captivity, was both victim and healer. A renowned and gifted graffiti artist, she came to Nova not merely to celebrate, but to serve—offering herself as an emotional anchor for those who might struggle even amid the sea of dancers and pulsing music. She understood that even in joy, souls sometimes cry out in pain. Inbar was there to catch them when they fell. Yet no one could catch her. Murdered with unspeakable brutality, her body now waits in Gaza’s depths, yearning for rest in the homeland she cherished.
Inbar, Alon, and Rom are not the villains in this story—they are its light, dimmed but not extinguished. Nor are the 1,200 innocent people murdered on October 7, including infants who perished in flames while cradled in their mothers’ arms, fused together in love’s final embrace. The hundreds of thousands fleeing their homes, from cities under fire, from kibbutzim turned to ash—they are not the aggressors of this tragedy.
The 904 fallen soldiers of this terrible war were willing to risk their lives for our nation. They are heroes. The thousand children they orphaned bear no guilt—only the weight of loss that will shape their souls forever.
The world has forgotten—wilfully, completely forgotten.
It has forgotten that Israel, a nation that has always reached for peace, that never struck first and always offered its hand in reconciliation—not merely words but land and resources in exchange for peace—was set upon with unprecedented savagery on a holiday morning, without provocation, without cause.
The world has let fade the images of horror, the echoes of screams, the acrid smell of burning flesh. But we cannot forget. We dare not forget.
The world often has a short memory, swayed by passing trends and a tendency to move on quickly, letting details fade away. But we, the Jewish people, carry a long and enduring memory. We’ve faced baseless hatred, endured boycotts and exile. We don’t forget. Our collective memory has shaped our identity and sustained our resilience through generations.
The world now denies Israel what it would grant any other sovereign nation defending itself—understanding, support, the right to survive. Somehow, by twisted moral metrics, only Israel must humbly turn the other cheek.
This war and its wounds are seared into our being forever. Even as hatred rises like a tide around us, as protests multiply and boycotts spread, we must all—every one of us—tell the story, or better yet, cry it out loud. We must all remember and remind the world who were the hunters and who the hunted. However our opinions may differ on the conduct of this war, we must never lose sight of the enemy that faces us, what it desires, and what it aspires to complete, if given the chance.
Beloved Rom, Alon, Inbar, and all 45 of the others in captivity—don’t give up.
Come home to us, for our tables wait dressed in white linen spread in your honour. Abba and Ima have prepared your favorite dishes. Calming melodies drift through rooms adorned with flowers and flickering candles. Even songbirds gather at our windows, waiting.
Just come home to us. Come home.
Remember us for life, O King who delights in life, and write us in the book of life—for Your sake, O God of life.
– Rosh Hashanah liturgy
Together, united, we will overcome.
Shanah tovah.
Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.
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