By Betty Khirman
On October 7 2023, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude for being part of a tight-knit Jewish community. Surrounded by classmates who shared the same heritage, in the presence of teachers who showed deep understanding and sensitivity towards the terror unfolding in Israel, and within the arms of a community that fully embraced, supported, and understood my Jewish identity and the struggles I was experiencing.
This sense of belonging was not always the case for me. I was no longer one of the few Jewish students in the room, or at school. Attending a Jewish college wasn’t an easy decision – given my upbringing and past experiences. I was set to attend a secular college in California, but on October 7, and in the days that followed, I am glad to say I felt safe within my own school. I did not have to hide my Star of David necklace beneath layers of clothing, or cautiously avoid anything that hinted at my Jewish heritage. During moments of crisis in Israel, I no longer had to grapple with the unsettling question of whether it was safe for me to attend school. These were the precautions I had grown accustomed to in a secular and public school setting, especially during times of heightened tensions in Israel. Instead, I felt understood within my school community, where my concerns were met with empathy, my tears were met with understanding, and my desire to support Israel was met with encouragement. For the first time, I witnessed the President of my school speaking out, engaging in difficult conversations alongside teachers and fellow students. Together we prayed, and together, we took meaningful action.
Yeshiva University’s Sacks-Herenstein Center understood the emotions felt by students and recognized the fact that we wanted to take action. As a result, thirty-seven students, including myself, embarked on a solidarity trip to Israel, driven by a shared purpose: to bring comfort, strength, and to bear witness to the tragedies unfolding in our homeland.
On the third day of the week-long trip, we bore witness to the worst of humanity—words fail to convey the horror our eyes witnessed. From the first minutes of our arrival in Kfar Aza, we clipped in our helmets, strapped on our bulletproof vests, and linked arm in arm with one another, bracing ourselves for the anticipated horror. It struck me in that moment—realizing that the people on this trip aren’t only here with me for a solidarity trip to Israel but they are also my classmates, professors, and Rabbis. As I adjusted my helmet I questioned: why do I get protection, but the people of the Southern Envelope don’t? Quickly I was startled hearing a loud boom, much closer than expected.
With an IDF spokesperson, the group went through the kibbutzim, learning about the family lives before October 7 and the terror which occurred that morning. As we walked we encountered ashes from houses on the ground, walls riddled with bullet holes, and spray-painted markings of the lives lost inside each home. The number inside the circle varied. These were not just numbers within circles; they were people, families.
At one house we stopped, the IDF spokesperson told us about the family’s Saturday afternoon tradition. The father and the kids would send kites bearing words of peace on it like “shalom” and “salam” and fly them over the fence into Gaza only a few feet away from their home. All they wanted was peace. The family had their kites ready for Saturday, October 7, but terror hit them, leaving their kites remaining on their kitchen table still ready to fly.
Unfortunately, this was one of many heart-wrenching stories we encountered that day and throughout our trip. We continued walking towards the “future generation,” an area reserved for children of the families who become adults and newlyweds. The houses were built like a community, two streets facing each other. Now it’s deserted. We continued to hear loud explosions. We walked through the lifeless streets. Our minds were not prepared for what we saw. The “future generation” had chairs and couches outside their homes arranged for communal gatherings. These homes now stood as memorials. Burned, ransacked with gunshots, they stood frozen in time. There were beer bottles left on the floor—celebrations of Simchat Torah disrupted by terror. Laundry left in washing machines—where gunshots were also seen. I paused to peak inside one of the homes of a young boy, the same age as most of us. A sign above his computer caught my eye: “Life is short, brake [misspelled intentionally] the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, truly love, laugh wildly, never regret, what made you smile.” The walls bore witness to hundreds of bullet holes, the sign remained, a reminder of a life cut short by violence. An innocent young life was taken by Hamas. Life is short but it shouldn’t have ended the way it did.
We gathered in a circle at the end of the street, not understanding why, not understanding how someone can do this, just not understanding anything. We still can’t fathom it. Bringing comfort to one another we began to sing Acheinu. Together we prayed for the lives taken too quickly, grieving families, for the captives, and for the safety of everyone. And together we cried.
The processing continues today. We share their stories, fueling our activism. As students of YU, we don’t have to compromise our values for our education. So we can continue telling their stories, and we can continue our activism. Secure in the safety of our school and community.