CONNECTED

Connected 

Reenie Margulies 

I like to think that our family’s close connection to Israel stems from my maternal grandfather, Rabbi Hillel Yarmove. When he was young, he spent a full two weeks on a boat to visit Israel for a relatively short time.

I visited Israel for the first time during the summer of my bas mitzvah. For three weeks, we toured the land from top to bottom. What struck me most at the time was the feeling of being surrounded by Jewish people. I had always thought Israel was dangerous, but instead, it felt so safe. I felt free. 

One year ago, I began my year of seminary in Yerushalayim. I was excited to make new friends and learn, tour, and experience the land as a student for an extended period of time. Safety was not on my radar; after all, what I remembered most was the sense of security I’d felt in this land filled with other Jews. It wasn’t hard for me to leave my family because I knew they’d be joining me for Sukkos. 

When October 7 dawned, five of my friends, my sister, and I were asleep in a bedroom we shared. We awoke to my mother’s frantic pounding on the door and her shouts to run to the bomb shelter. 

It took a little while for the fear to set in. Initially, I felt like we couldn’t possibly be in any real danger. We had no idea what was happening just a few hours away. There was talk of terrorists in the street, but I didn’t believe it could be true. October 8 was still Yom Tov for us Americans, but that night after Havdalah, I was assaulted by pictures and messages from the moment I turned on my phone. 

I was up all night, unable to sleep. The next day, I couldn’t eat. I felt numb. I couldn’t accept that something like that could happen while I was in Israel – a place that was supposed to be the safest in the world –  and I didn’t even know about it for two days. 

What I recall most about the days that followed was the silence that filled the streets. If you are familiar with Ramat Eshkol, you can easily picture its signature hustle and bustle and the young couples, babies, and seminary girls that crowd its stores. Now, there was no one out. My parents ran out to stock up on groceries because Lebanon was threatening to attack imminently. Many of the shelves had already been emptied by other panicked shoppers. 

Once October 7 happened, we felt like anything could happen. We were prepared for the worst. 

My parents returned to the States on October 11, but I remained in Israel at the advice of our Rav, Rabbi Eichenstein. I wanted to stay, and I’m glad I did — for many reasons. 

When I entered my dorm after Sukkos, everyone was hysterical. We weren’t allowed to leave the building, so we spent our time talking to each other. We rehashed our experiences and speculated about what we thought might be happening in Gaza and up north, which helped us process what we were going through. We had no class; our days lacked structure, and there were intermittent air raid sirens. When the first siren went off, everyone was shrieking and saying Tehillim, but by the third or fourth, we were all calm, walking single file as if it wasn’t a big deal.

Our seminary teachers told us that it was normal to feel afraid but encouraged us to eat, sleep, and go out when we could. Rabbi Menachem Nissel told us that Arabs pray five times a day, and we must counteract that with our koach of tefillah. This thought has stayed with me since, helping me focus on my davening. If evil terrorists were able to carry out their plans, I can only imagine the heights we can reach and the great things we can accomplish with our tefillos. 

My classmates and I made tzitzis for the soldiers, cooked for them, and helped wives whose husbands were called up. I toured the places where horrible things happened. I saw firsthand that Jewish people don’t use trauma as an excuse. We’re not victims, and we build ourselves up.  Things don’t happen in a vacuum; we’re supposed to take things out of them and grow with them. 

The first time I visited the Kosel post-October 7, I saw Jews of every type and stripe singing and dancing in unison. For eight months straight, I witnessed Jews supporting each other no matter what.  

It was incredible to be part of something so much bigger than me — part of our collective story.

I thought I felt connected to Israel before I left for seminary, but October 7 made me feel that more deeply than ever. Israel is my land. It is our land. People died fighting for it. People are held hostage for it.  It’s important for us as Jews to know where we’re from, not necessarily where we were born, but where we belong.  Israel is our home.

It was a good decision to stay for the year. I never doubted it, even when the air raid sirens went off.   

And as for the fear? I still believe that Israel is the safest place to be. I hope to visit this winter. 

I can’t wait to return.