There is light, but the air is thick with grief

“How dark is it there today?” a friend asks from Australia.

"Strangely the sun is shining,” I say, having expected that somehow there would be a total eclipse on October 7.

There is light, but the air is thick with grief.

Around me, everyone is struggling, inhaling smoke and ash of that day and of this day, in a climate wet with never-ending tears.

I am stunned by the resilience of ordinary people. But are we ordinary?

Grief is encoded in our genes, but these double helix strands are also wired with compassion and hope. And we feel pain for the suffering of the innocent women and children amongst the Palestinian people too.

The DNA of three thousand years of suffering has not extinguished our light. Contrary to the lunacy of the global collective of hatred we face, we are a people for whom peace and love are the centre of every prayer.

The cognitive dissonance of life in Tel Aviv is other worldly. The strong bodies pumping weights and volleyballs on the beach, the laughter of children, and the loud old people debating over coffee – all while helicopters fly overhead transporting the severely injured from countless war fronts.

I sing Avinu Malkeinu with a full heart in synagogue on Rosh Hashana, and fifteen minutes later say farewell to my son as he travels back up north to a base, I don’t know where.