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n Israel, every day is still Oct. 7. 
It has been that way for me, too. 
That is why I had to go to Israel.
Every morning, and countless 
times each day, I check the news 
from Israel. It is not enough, but 
in some ways, too much. So much 
tragedy. So much suffering. So many 
unknowns. 
On top of that, I find myself 
disgusted by the lies and extremism 
of those condemning Israel, 
frustrated by the media that doesn’t 
challenge them, and with the lack 
of action to set the record straight. 
Though following every political 
twist and turn, I felt far away. I 
wanted to be there for my Israeli 
family and friends, and for the 
country and people. It might seem 
counterintuitive, but, for me, being 
in Israel during a war would be less 
stressful than being here.
So, on March 12, coincidentally 
the 52nd anniversary of my bar mitzvah, I 
went to Israel for a two-week visit. I went to 
see, support and learn. I lived in Israel for 
two years and have been there nearly two 
dozen times. I’ve been there during war 
before, but this time was unlike any other.
Two experiences stand out, and I can 
relate both to Rod Serling’s often-disturbing 
’60s sci-fi classic, The Twilight Zone. 
My first full day in Israel, I found myself 
in downtown Kfar Saba, about 20 minutes 
north of Tel Aviv. Wandering the main 
shopping area, it appeared normal, but it 
didn’t feel normal. People were more curt 
than usual. No smiles and little eye contact. 
Stores were open on Weizman Street, the 
city’s main drag, but there weren’t many 
shoppers or others on the street. Signs with 
pictures of the hostages taken by Hamas 
and calls for their release were everywhere, 
as were signs promising (hoping?) that with 
unity there would be victory. A woman at 
an art gallery suggested I move to Israel 
quickly, as antisemitism was on the march 
all over the world. 
It reminded me of the Twilight Zone 
episode where everything seems normal 
- until you realize it isn’t. That there is 
something going on that you can feel but 

not see. 
Days later, I was on the Gaza border in 
Kibbutz Nir Oz, and things again were 
surreal. On Oct. 7, one-fourth of the 400 
kibbutz members were either murdered 
or taken to Gaza as hostages. The kibbutz 
was not open, but we were able to visit 
because my friend had relatives there, 
including one who was murdered and 
one who was taken hostage (she was 
released during the ceasefire). We walked 
among the destroyed and burnt homes 
of the kibbutz. Personal items, furniture 
and children’s toys were strewn across 
the ground. Posters of those murdered 
or abducted were on many of the houses. 
There were piles of stones and sand that 
had been sifted by ZAKA units in their 
search for human remains to bury. 
Unlike Kfar Saba, it was abundantly 
clear that things here were not normal. 
But still, the scent of flowers and plants, 
birds chirping, and a gentle wind made it 

appear pleasant and welcoming. It was still 
a beautiful and lush setting, but something 
was missing: There was nobody there. It 
was as if everyone was somewhere else 
on the kibbutz and would be coming out 
momentarily. But they weren’t. 
Rony, my friend’s cousin who lived on 
Nir Oz, has been cleaning up the kibbutz 
almost every day for four months. When I 
asked him why he was there every day, he 
said, “My heart is closed. I work because it 
helps. I work because I don’t understand.
”

ABOVE: This calendar sold at Hostage 
Square creatively shows how every day is 
overshadowed by Oct. 7. 
RIGHT: This artwork by Yael Yeffet 
displayed at Hostage Square expresses 
how the author and Israelis he spoke with 
often feel when asked how they are doing.