Who am I? That question pops up in our minds countless times, even more so during our teenage years. As a teen, I've been told many times that I have a severe addiction to my phone, that it's an extension of my hand—or so I'm told.They tell me that it seems that I cannot leave it anywhere; it needs to stay with me no matter where I am. If you had asked me why a year ago, I would have said that when I turn off my phone—to go to sleep, take a test, or just because I'm having fun with friends—my worst worry is that my parents will text me something time-sensitive, or a BBYO message will pop up and I won't be part of the decision process. 51 weeks since October 7th is what separates that teen from who I am today: a 16-year-old doing Madrijim training to a 17-year-old Madrija.

51 weeks. Now, as a Madrija, I left my phone for 3 hours and 30 minutes, only to find a map full of red points on a map of Israel. My mind starts racing as if there’s an Olympic gold medal on the line. Instagram is the first app I open, and my stories are flooded with posts, each one more terrifying than the last. My heart isn’t racing for a medal—it’s racing for its life. No image, text, or opinion seems to satisfy my need for information. It feels like I’m fighting a losing battle, alone, and my enemy is inches from crossing the finish line. I pause. I am a 17-year-old girl from Argentina. Why is something happening over 24 hours away by plane making my heart beat so fast? Why am I missing an important moment to write this article? I pause again. There is no longer a race—it’s just me and my phone on the bus.

I’m on the bus, and I can’t seem to celebrate winning, finishing a four-year process, or being with my friends. Reading everything about Israel is the only thing I want to do—nothing else. I search for new sources one by one, then scroll through message app groups, and finally, I call a friend who now lives in Washington, D.C. He’s surely read the news I haven’t yet seen.

I call him; he hasn’t seen everything, and I decide that maybe the race needs to stop. We talk about life, our plans, and Rosh Hashanah. Our call ends, and I’m back to see what’s happening. I decided to post something again. Why am I so concerned about this?

As a Jew who lives in Argentina, but even more as a person, I cannot seem to fathom that this is reality. That Israel just suffered the largest ballistic missile attack in history, that there was a terrorist attack in Jaffa, and that I am watching this unfold. A year ago, as I was writing my most important piece, I said this would be part of a history book like the ones I was raised on—the ones where my grandad heard about Israel’s Independence, where he lived through the Six-Day War, where my dad remembers where he was the day of the AMIA bombing. I know where I was on October 7th and where I was on October 1st. 51 weeks later, still scared, but instead of feeling powerless, I feel powerful. Not because I am older, but because after 51 weeks of living, asking to bring them home, I believe more than ever that we will live; I believe in the power of tomorrow.