This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
She isn’t a close friend, just someone I was friendly with, who I occasionally saw when I used to be out and about before the demands of motherhood. I would see her unrolling her mat at yoga classes, back when going to yoga seemed important.
She seemed fine. Not someone I was close to, but someone who seemed pleasant. Benign.
I was so very wrong.
She was the first Facebook acquaintance I unfriended and blocked after October 7, 2023.
She was the first one I saw to be posting vile, cruel, misinformation about Israel and my people. She was the first one I saw supporting Hamas after October 7, saying the resistance justifies the means.
I have lost friends, both online and in real life, since then.
I have faced isolation and despair; I have felt consumed by hopelessness and powerlessness.
And yet, there were also blessings. A strengthening of my innate Jewishness, an awakening of what being Jewish means to me, and a renewed desire to visit Israel soon.
I started working at a synagogue and strengthening my convictions, even when I feel alone in the deafening noise of the pro-Palestinian support. (I fully support Palestinian liberation, but I am against the brutal tactics of Hamas against Israelis.)
And then last week, I saw my acquaintance sitting in a waiting room.
The hallway to my therapist’s office is long. After closing the heavy door to the parking lot behind me, I started walking down the interminable length.
Simultaneously, my therapist emerged from the bathroom a few steps ahead of me and I followed her.
Seconds later, I watched my therapist give a wave into the waiting room. I turned my head, following her gesture. And I saw the acquaintance there, sitting on a coach.
I expected her to be waving a Palestinian flag or draped in a keffiyeh from all that she shared prolifically online. She wasn’t.
I felt something tighten inside. I felt a familiar, aching smallness, as if I was somehow caving in, rounding my shoulders inwards over myself.
She waved at me.
I waved back, automatically. And I smiled.
But inside, I was seething.
She is an antisemite, I am pretty sure. Or she at least hates Israel. And I think she hates Jews. Lately, it seems like there isn’t a difference between the two
Why did I smile?
Why couldn’t I tell her I don’t want to see her or be near her?
Why couldn’t I tell her that it’s been scary in Vermont and beyond? Why couldn’t I tell her that she is part of the problem. That she doesn’t understand the whole narrative. That Israel never asked or wanted this war. That it could end as soon as the hostages are released.
That so many so-called helping organizations (UNWRA/Red Cross) are doing nothing to support the hostages.
That while many people know who Khalil is, few know who Eden Alexander is.
That when my car got broken into again, someone thought it was because I am Jewish as I recounted the story to them. (I am pretty sure it was just a random break-in).
That when the antisemitism on the left and the right meets and when the antisemitism is used to justify detaining students — even one from my alma mater — it’s chilling.
It’s chilling that No Other Land is playing all over Vermont, but October 8 isn’t showing anywhere in my state. The nearest location I can watch the film is in Albany.
The heaviness is palpable. We said “Let my people go” at Passover, tasted bitter herbs, and watched another holiday come and go while fifty-nine innocent bodies are still, still trapped in a hell.
I don’t know where we go from here.
I don’t know how to stand these horrible hostage deals or how to bear the trauma that must be seeping out of Israel.
It’s a heavy thing being alive, my mom texted me recently.
How do we lighten that heaviness? How do we feel less small? How do we honor joy, when so much of October 7 is still ongoing?
How do I remember that we are whole and worthy and empowered to choose hope — even when the heaviness is overwhelming? How do I begin to honor myself with pride?
Perhaps it starts in the small moments, in remembering in those moments that I don’t have to smile at everyone. That I can stand firmly on my own two feet and keep walking.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Molly Ritvo is a writer and author living in Burlington, VT. She has been writing for her whole life, beginning when she was selected as the class poet in the 1st grade. Her work has been published by Upstreet Literary Magazine, the Jewish Writing Project, Tiny Buddha, Elephant Journal, Mother.ly, PJ Library, At the Well, and more. She holds a BA from Tufts University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Molly has worked as a freelance writer, a communications specialist for many different organizations, and a journalist. She is currently writing her debut novel, a collection of Jewish themed poetry, and working as a communications consultant and grant writer. Her most important role is being a mom to her daughter, Jimi. Find out more about Molly and read more of her writing at mollyritvo.com.
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