Dear Friend of APN,

I woke up on what I thought would be just any other Shabbat morning. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I heard my wife coming upstairs. I can’t tell you why, but I immediately knew something was wrong. She walked into the room and said, “something terrible is happening in Israel, but Ana (our youngest child who was there on a gap year program) is ok.” Thus began, for me at least, October 7th.

That day is burned in my memory, as I’m sure it is for many of you. I spent it watching the unfolding horror of the Hamas massacre and reaching out to family and friends, hoping desperately to hear that they were home and safe. And I also spent it trying to understand what was happening and trying to wrap my head around what it would mean for Israelis, for Palestinians, and for all of us. A year later, I think we are all still trying to figure it out.  

We know what has happened since then. The utter destruction of Gaza, leaving a decimated land and a death toll in the tens of thousands. The deaths of hostages, each of whose names we have learned, whose faces we see on posters, and whose families have become our own.

And of course it is not only hostages whose lives have been lost. Israeli soldiers have been killed fighting in Gaza and now in Lebanon. And civilians have been killed in terror attacks, including a horrific shooting and stabbing in Yaffo just last week. And while, thankfully, the number of wounded has been limited, tens of thousands of Israelis remain internal refugees as their homes in the north and the Gaza envelope remain under fire and uninhabitable. 

And for Palestinians, in Gaza and the West Bank, the loss of life and scale of destruction has been even worse. I sat at a meeting this past week in which one of the participants, a Palestinian-American woman originally from Gaza, told us that over 100 members of her family have been killed in this past year. I don’t often cry in meetings, but I did on that day.

We understandably spend so much time thinking about the loved ones that we and our friends have lost. Vivian, Hersh, and far too many more. But try to wrap your head around having lost 100 members of your own family. It is unimaginable.

This year also included two direct Iranian attacks on Israel. Thankfully, in both cases the casualties were minimal, but the possibilities were (and remain) terrifying. And as I sit here writing, the Israeli Air Force is bombarding Beirut and Israeli soldiers are on the ground in south Lebanon.

This, for me and somewhat to my own surprise, has in some ways been the most painful part. The horrific attacks on the 7th and the plight of the hostages were and remain painfully devastating. But there is a different sort of pain that comes from looking back at my own experience of being a soldier serving in Lebanon, remembering the hopes and aspirations that we then held to, and seeing my children’s generation now mucking its way through the failure of those dreams.

This year has been one of great loss and great sadness. For many, the hopes of the Oslo years feel like little more than fleeting dreams. But even in these difficult times, I refuse to let go of the hope for a better future. Herzl first spoke his famous quote “If you will it, it is no dream” about the establishment of a Jewish homeland in what was then called Palestine. That was his dream.

My dream is to see that homeland, the State of Israel, live side-by-side in peace with a sovereign Palestinian state. And yes, many today think that dream is unachievable. They mock even the idea of pursuing it. But it is no less real than Herzl’s dream, and no less achievable.

I cannot tell you when or exactly how we will get there. But there is one thing I know. We will get there together. And the “we” will be made up of Jews, Muslims, Christians, Israelis, Palestinians, Americans, and the many others who believe that we can and must do better and be better. We must write a new story. We must build a new narrative. One that defines and leads to the future that we want to see. For ourselves, for our people, and for the generations to come. 

In solidarity and sorrow,