Yom Kippur In the Shadow of October 7

I was in Israel on October 7^th, 2023, two whole years ago.

Like so many others, my family and I had traveled to Israel for the holiday Sukkot. We were in Jerusalem and were jolted awake by sirens that Shabbat morning. My hands trembled as I rushed my five children — from ages two to 16 — down the hallway and into a stairwell.

We huddled in the bomb shelter alongside Jews, Muslims, and Christians, trying to distract our frightened kids with games like “I Spy.” The sirens stopped and we naively attempted to begin our normal morning routine. Moments later, the sirens blared again. And again... By the third or fourth time, we were sheltering with card games and snacks ready, whispering reassurances we ourselves barely believed.

Inexplicably, we made it back to Los Angeles on our original flight. When we landed, I expected compassion — instead, I was met with coldness, confusion, and even hostility.

How could the world turn against Israel, against our people, in our darkest moment? I was in shock. I am still in shock.

People did not want to hear about the atrocities. Many were indifferent, others openly antagonistic. Some were just lost in a sea of misinformation. Falsehoods spread faster than truth, hatred louder than heartbreak.

So I picked up my pen — and have not stopped writing since.

As a journalist, I have spent the months since October 7th interviewing people whose lives were forever changed by that horrific day. Survivors of the Nova festival. Righteous non-Jews standing up for Israel. IDF soldiers. College students attacked for being Jewish. Parents grieving their murdered children.

I want to tell you just a few of their stories.

Peter Tsadilas, a non-Jewish diner owner in the U.S., raised an Israeli flag outside his restaurant. The next day, his property was vandalized and defiled. He kept putting that flag back up.

Oz Davidian, a farmer near the Nova site, used his knowledge of backroads to rescue 120 partygoers — risking his life again and again to save strangers.

Shlomi Stock, a lone soldier, was shot three times in the head. One bullet lodged into the foam of his helmet — miraculously, he survived.

Itay Shabi survived the massacre at Kibbutz Be’eri by hiding behind a palm branch, just centimeters from terrorists who murdered his neighbors.

Then there are the stories that do not have happy endings — but are no less holy.

Jen Airley lost her son in the war and now travels the world urging Jews to pray and unite.

Alon Mesika, a diamond dealer, lost his son Adir at Nova. In his grief, he gives free diamond rings to any Israeli soldier who wants to get engaged — turning pain into eternal love.

There are 22-year-old IDF heroes who went house to house in Kibbutz Be’eri, clearing out terrorists with unimaginable courage. Who does this? Who stands in the face of such evil and chooses life, hope, and light?

We do. Am Yisrael Chai.

But I also carry the weight of these stories. I have looked these brave souls in the eyes. I have seen their tears, their strength, their broken hearts. I have typed their stories word by word, letter by letter.

After October 7th, I heard a Rabbi ask: “When your 120 years are up, what will you be able to say to God? That you woke up? That you acted?”

We must not simply say, “What a tragedy.” We must do something. We must stir something deep inside ourselves.

And so — my husband and I decided to do something.

We commissioned the writing of a Torah scroll in honor of our daughter’s bat mitzvah, and in memory — and elevation of the souls — of three young men murdered at the Nova Festival. One of them was Adir Mesika, Alon’s son.

Why connect our daughter’s joy to their unimaginable sorrow?

My husband helping to complete the writing of a new Torah Scroll, in LA before sending it to Israel.

Because at every Jewish wedding, at the height of our joy, we break a glass — to remember that God’s House is not yet whole. We remember that our joy cannot be complete while others mourn.

To the hostages and their families, to those who lost loved ones, know this: You are not forgotten.

We insisted that the Torah be sent to Israel before Yom Kippur — specifically to the synagogue that Alon Mesika is affiliated with — so that it could be used for Kol Nidrei This is the holiest moment of the year, when Jews from all walks of life pour into shuls and cry out to God. Our desire was for the very letters of this Torah to ascend to Heaven and plead for the release of the hostages.

Completing the Torah Scroll in Israel.

Just days ago, we watched over FaceTime as Alon, along with other parents who lost their children, filled in the final letters of the Holy Torah Scroll. We saw the faces of three sets of parents — forever mourning, yet standing tall — filling a Torah with ink, with tears, and with eternal light.

This Torah is for all of you.

To every hostage, every soldier, every Nova survivor, every grieving parent — your stories are woven into this scroll. When it’s opened and read, your voices rise up with every letter.

This is the story of our people — from Sinai to today.

No matter what the world says or does to us, the Jewish nation is eternal. Just like the Torah.

This is your Torah. This is our Torah. To every reader of this letter — this Torah is yours, too.

On this Yom Kippur, let us stand as one people with one heart.

Together, we are one.

With love and tears,
Sarah Pachter