(RNS) — The events of Oct. 7, 2023, mark the darkest day in recent Jewish history, leaving an indelible mark on the Jewish collective psyche. Since Hamas’ brutal attacks in southern Israel, the passage of time has become warped: For many Jews, it feels as if the attack happened yesterday; for others, the last 18 months have felt like an eternity of pain. Either way, Jews around the world now live in “an Oct. 8 world.” Jews’ sense of safety has been shattered, and with hostages still in captivity in Gaza, the trauma is ongoing.
Studies have consistently shown that the attack resulted in a sharp rise in post-traumatic stress disorder, stress and depression among Israeli, American, Australian and German Jews, as well as Arab Israelis. Among Holocaust survivors, two-thirds reported that Oct. 7 rekindled traumatic memories; a third noted a decline in their health since the attack.
I have shared this powerlessness myself. A proud American Jew with family and friends living in Israel, and a Ph.D. student in psychology, I wanted to understand from a human perspective what had happened to a country I love. In the summer of 2024, I traveled to Israel to see firsthand the area that had been devastated and to look for opportunities to volunteer and help broken communities. What I dreaded most was confronting the pain I expected to feel going to the site of the Nova music festival, where more than 380 people were killed while dancing simply because they lived in Israel.
Our guide, a middle-aged man with a thick Israeli accent, said he used to enjoy the kind of music that played at the festival. “If I were younger, I would have been here,” he said. His voice faltering, he added, “But my best friend’s son — he came. He was so excited, following in his father’s footsteps, embracing the freedom of it all.” Leading us to a memorial fixed with a portrait of the young man, he said, “This is where he last called his father moments before Hamas terrorists killed him.”
I knew no one on the trip, so as we wandered the site I walked alone among the other memorials, taking in the wreaths, flowers, faces frozen in time. I read about their music, their volunteer work, their dreams of peace.
Then, a sudden “boom.” A shiver ran through me. My breath hitched. Someone reassured me, “It’s not near you, they aren’t bombing us.” I trembled uncontrollably, flooded with images I had seen on social media of people desperately trying to escape terrorists, running aimlessly and yelling in terror. My eyes darted, searching for the bus — an exit. Panic swelled. Why had I come here?
A woman approached me and in a South African accent that reminded me of my own parents’ accent and origins, she asked, “Are you OK?” The simple question broke through my panic. “No,” I whispered, and tears began to flow. She enveloped me in a warm embrace.
That moment of kindness helped me realize that, while I had gone to the Nova site to feel the pain of those who had been killed, remembering the victims’ terror would not honor the dignity of their life. The woman’s humanity reminded me that emotional safety, by anchoring you in the present, is more helpful in processing trauma.
In my psychology practice, I treat patients who have experienced numerous traumas, personal and collective, and have learned the importance of determining a patient’s current level of physical and emotional safety before delving into their trauma. Helping people to differentiate between the past and the present and to distinguish individual from collective traumas is part of the therapeutic process. Patients who can’t find emotional and physical safety can’t begin the process of trauma recovery.
Jewish tradition recognizes this. The Jewish holiday of Passover, which begins Saturday evening (April 12), is focused on the Seder, the ritual meal that transforms the memory of slavery into a narrative of redemption. It is a powerful example of how trauma can be reframed through ritual, turning horror into a story of hope and renewal.
The Haggadah — the Seder liturgy that guides the ritual — connects past and present by stating, “In each and every generation, a person is obligated to see himself as though he had participated in the Exodus from Egypt.” Its structure balances the Jewish people’s pain and resilience. Eating bitter herbs recalls the suffering of slavery, while matzoh, the unleavened bread, represents the haste of their escape. Drinking four cups of wine and reclining on pillows signify newfound freedom.
These traditions are meant to evoke a range of emotions, allowing modern Jews to connect with the experiences of their ancestors in a controlled, communal space. Observed only once a year, the meal acknowledges that constant remembrance of past horrors is neither healthy nor sustainable. It reminds us that healing requires defined reflection, not perpetual mourning. It creates safety by allowing participants to perform specific rituals together to make the pain bearable.
In offering a form of spiritual narrative therapy, the Seder serves as a model for healing from contemporary trauma, and those traumatized by Oct. 7 would do well to look for narratives that balance pain with resilience. Books such as “One Day in October,” by Yair Agmon and Oriya Mevorach, are beginning to emerge, highlighting the acts of bravery and loss on that day, allowing us to glimpse hope and humanity amid tragedy.
The Austrian psychologist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl wrote: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and freedom.”
The space between trauma and healing is now. While the pain of Oct. 7 will never vanish, the way we heal will shape the Jewish spirit for generations to come. Let us choose to find glimmers amid the darkness, honoring those lost by strengthening the Jewish spirit.
(Talya Gordon is a Ph.D. student in clinical psychology (health emphasis) at Ferkauf Graduate School of Psychology. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of RNS.)