One year ago, all of our lives changed. Not long after the war broke out, I wrote my first article about the Israel-Hamas war. Shortly after it was published, my mom posted it on Facebook, and then, all of a sudden, almost all of the faculty at my PreK-12 school read it. Teachers, coaches—some of whom I had never had before—and the admin, along with my non-Jewish friends, reached out to me to check on me and tell me how beautiful my article was. This gave me hope for the future; it made me think people cared and were fighting with me. After a few weeks, people stopped checking in on me and asking how they could help.

Now, sitting here a year later, writing this on October 7th, 2024, I still have hope, but I feel like I am missing the non-Jews by my side. Three days ago, it was the first time I had read my original article since I wrote it. Every word that I said, I still believe. I said I was scared to be Jewish, and that is true; I am terrified, but I am also prouder than ever. When I was younger, I never really talked about being Jewish other than when my mom came in to teach my classmates about Hanukkah every year. Now, I tend not to shut up about my Jewish identity. When I meet new people, sometimes I have to say to myself, “Wait, they might not like us,” and not really talk about it until I get to know them better. Whenever I go to my synagogue for services and see multiple cop cars outside, I look across the street to the church where I have never seen one and think how churchgoers never have to think about how safe they are inside. If you know me, you know that I don’t look like the “stereotypical Jew,” and before October 7th, 2023, I was sort of sad about this. Now, while I am out with friends and we see a pro-Hamas protest, I say to my friends, “I am glad I don’t look Jewish,” and I tuck my Star of David away. Before, I would just acknowledge their presence and move on with my life.

Over the past fifty-two weeks, I have felt guilty that I am able to move on with my life while there are hostages held by Hamas. One hundred one were unable to bring in the new year with celebration, and thirty-seven didn’t make it out alive. Three hundred sixty-six days since the music died, every day feeling longer than the last.