Three years later, and at times, Oct. 7 still feels like yesterday.
For the families of those murdered, for the survivors, for the hostages who returned and for the first responders who entered the abyss that morning, time has not moved forward chronologically. The days, months and years that have followed have, at times, been interrupted by time loops. Flashbacks. Moments of déjà vu.
So while the calendar tells us that three years have passed, our memory rejects that fact.
Across Israel and throughout the Jewish world, people are still trying to pick up the pieces. At all levels of society, there are conversations trying to make sense of what happened.
Some conversations focus on how such a catastrophe could have befallen the sovereign Jewish state protected by our Jewish army. Others focus on the painful realization that our enemies, both near and far, still seek our destruction. And then there are the stories of sacrifice, selflessness and survival. Stories that reveal not only what was done to us that day, but how people chose to respond.
So how will we remember Oct. 7?
The horror must never be diminished—the murder, the kidnapping, the rape, the torture and the destruction must remain part of the historical record and our collective memory. But that is not the entire story.
On the morning of Oct. 7, groups of men and women across the country made a decision not to stand by and watch the suffering. Among them were hundreds of United Hatzalah volunteers.
There was no sweeping order directing them south. For many, the decision was instinctive. They heard the calls for help, grabbed their orange vests and medic bags, and began driving toward communities under attack.
Many didn’t know what awaited them, but they went anyway. One of those volunteers was United Hatzalah medic Yuval Schlafman.
Schlafman reached the area of Kibbutz Kfar Aza and spent the day moving between emergencies, treating wounded soldiers and civilians, and helping evacuate them from places where gunfire still echoed. At one point, he helped load a critically wounded officer into a white pickup because no ambulance was available. The objective was simple: Get him to a helicopter evacuation point before it was too late.
And then another siren sounded.
By Saturday evening, United Hatzalah EMT Shalom Avitan was stationed outside Kfar Aza, treating casualties emerging from one of the communities hardest hit that day.
Then several soldiers appeared carrying two babies. They were twins, only 10 months old. Their parents had been murdered. The babies were hungry, dehydrated and crying. A soldier handed one of them to Avitan. The child grabbed him and would not let go. Avitan gave the baby something to drink and held the child against him—one simple act that saved the day for that baby.
And then there was another siren.
Awad Darawshe was a 23-year-old Israeli Muslim and a United Hatzalah paramedic from the northern Arab village of Iksal. On Oct. 7, he was working at the Nova music festival.
As terrorists swept through the area, Awad treated the wounded. He had an opportunity to leave. Instead, he stayed.
“All Awad was concerned with was the injured person in front of him,” United Hatzalah founder and president Eli Beer later recalled.
Awad continued providing care until he was killed. Later, when his body was found, the medical supplies and bandages he used to protect life were found lying beside him. His final moments were marked by kindness and lifesaving.
These are the profound stories of hope we can cling to. While terrorists invaded Israel that morning determined to destroy, United Hatzalah volunteers responded with compassion and camaraderie.
Nothing else mattered.
Three years later, and Oct. 7 has not really ended. It remains with the bereaved families, the recovering survivors, and the brave first responders who still see faces when they close their eyes.
The entire nation carries these memories not as a crippling wound but as a declaration. We are still here, and we will always remember.
