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Jessica Ovadia

To Be The Light They Cannot Find

Part of a content series on reflections and actions after 10.7.23

Written January, 2024

 

A part of me was always in Be’eri

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of visiting Kibbutz Be'eri - one of the kibbutzim in southern Israel gravely impacted by the events of October 7.

 

As a Jew, living in Israel, I am among the many who have spent the past few months mourning, activating, volunteering, crying and hoping. 

 

And I am one of the lucky ones. I live in Jerusalem, about 70 miles from Be’eri. My family settled in Jerusalem when we moved here 8 years ago and we have since built our life here.  

 

Prior to October 7, this “choice” of where to live was the only difference between me and the woman whose house I walked through. The woman and mother who died with her son, as her daughter and husband defied the odds, fought for their lives and survived. 

 

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Jews as a people have a connected fabric running through their core. It doesn’t always feel strong or thick - but in times of chaos, it emerges with force. Today, I live in a country tightly wound by this rope - all of us mobilizing various armies to fight the emotional, physical, and spiritual war waged against us. 

 

Never has Israel felt more connected. Never have Jews globally felt so intertwined. 

 

And yet, I was safe on October 7. And Kibbutz Be’eri - just 90 minutes away - was not. 

 

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As I walked through the remnants of a home once full of love, I saw myself everywhere. 

The cheap toys from max stock my kids have in their playroom

The bins from Ikea under our TV

The school roster on the fridge I reference often 

The dishes in the sink because “I’ll wash them in the morning”  

The highchair my children cover in yogurt   

The mess in the kitchen after hosting a meal of 20 

The children’s books I have on our shelf 

 

Each step over burnt, rubble uncovered a part of me I didn’t know was in Be’eri. The darkness was suffocating and their desperation engulfed my soul; not because I, too, was Jewish or Israeli. Though, that’s certainly part of it. I felt connected to their despair because their life was my life - just somewhere else.  

 

It could have been me. It felt like me. A part of it WAS me. 

 

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Shortly after my visit was Chanukah - the Festival of Lights. On Chanukah, we celebrate the power of hope and remember the miracle of an unlikely victory against those who want to destroy us. 

 

Initially, after October 7 and at the start of the war, I naturally clung on to hope. It was my power source to wake up, be a parent, check in on a friend and mobilize. As time went on, though, and the darkness deepened, manufacturing hope became even more challenging. 

 

And a walk through Be’eri, so close to Chanukah felt more purposeful and timely than I could have imagined. 

 

Each night during the week of Chanukah, despite the darkness, I was forced to light a candle, sing with my family and relinquish just a bit of the hold darkness had on me. Each night, I also thought of all those who couldn't light or those who could and did, but whose darkness grew deeper each moment. 

 

If their darkness became my darkness, then my light could become their light. This is what I thought each night. And now, as we enter our fourth month of war – and haven’t even had a chance to mourn and honor those we lost, this is the source of hope I continue to hold on to.

 

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A part of me was always in Be’eri but on October 7, in Jerusalem, I was sheltered. So then, during Chanukah and now, for as long as it takes, I will hope in moments they can’t. I will be the light they can’t find…until WE are all home. 

 

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