In June, my youngest son and all his friends held their prom. School was over, exams finished, and they all dressed up smartly to celebrate their last party at school, just like regular 18-year-olds all over the world.

Before they went, the parents in our village arranged a photo shoot for the kids in the garden of a neighbor. It was boiling out, but the kids lined up laughing and let us take as many photos of them as we wanted.

It was such a happy event, and for the first time in an awfully long time both parents and kids were all together and enjoying a seemingly normal rite-of-passage moment.

For all the happy smiles, however, it was obvious the moment I looked at the photos that there was nothing normal about the kids, this year, or even their lives ahead. Behind each of those smiles was a story of loss and grief.

No one is the same

Since October 7, everything has changed. No one is the same. A deep vein of grief runs through us all, and no matter how resilient we are, how determined to go on, when you scratch the surface you soon find profound sadness.

I live in a tiny village of around 300 or so families near the border next to the West Bank. We are a 120-kilometer drive from the southern communities, which in a tiny country like Israel, can sometimes seem like thousands of miles.

But even here, in such a small place, we were all intimately affected on the very first day.

The 19-year-old sister of one of my youngest son’s friends – a near neighbor – was killed on the morning of the attack, defending a base in the south. This beautiful, smiling girl I watched grow up, was killed as she fought to save new recruits who had no training in war.

The grandparents of another one of the boys in the photograph were shot as the army tried to evacuate them from Kibbutz Be’eri, which had been overrun by Hamas terrorists. The grandmother later died of her wounds.

Another child in the village got caught in the Supernova attack and took 24 hours to finally make it home.

A boy in our village and a girl in a neighboring one were kidnapped and are still in Hamas captivity, their fates uncertain and unknown. Every day when I go in and out of the village, their faces on the banners tied to the gate are a constant and painful daily reminder.

And then there were the young people who were called up, boys like my middle son who had already left the army but were told to drop everything and come immediately. My husband drove him to his base next to Gaza that afternoon, with Hamas gunmen still on the loose, and massive rocket barrages going off over their heads.

The fear in those early days was that all sides – Iran, Hezbollah and terrorists in the West Bank – would join the attack and that it would come at us from all directions.

As a seamline village, that meant us. Soldiers, like my oldest son who also entered the reserves immediately after October 7, were stationed here. Local residents began 24-hour patrols and the village handed out planks of wood designed to help us lock our secure rooms from the inside.

After three or four weeks of training, my middle son went to fight in Gaza. At the very end of his service, four of his friends and teammates were killed in an explosion.

I don’t want to think about this period now.

A year of funerals and memorials

It’s been a year of funerals, a year of memorials. My sons and their friends around them have experienced loss that most people their age have not had to face.

Not long ago there was a report that 10,000 soldiers were injured in this war. That’s 10,000 people, mostly young, mostly men, now facing difficult and sometimes traumatic recoveries that in many cases will completely redefine their lives.

I look at these generations of young men and women in their late teens, 20s, and early 30s, and know that the burden of this year will never leave them. Nor their parents.

I used to joke that you weren’t really an Israeli until you had a child in the army. I don’t joke about this anymore.

Sometimes, I will be sitting on the sofa in the evening, and a young face will flash up on the TV news, and either my middle son or my oldest one will say, “I knew him.”

Today, when anyone hears that I have three sons, all of army age, they look at me with compassion.

The trauma of the last year will never leave some people here. All those hostages and their families, the dead and wounded and their families, the families who lost their homes and livelihoods and communities in both north and south.

We will overcome. Israelis do overcome. This, of necessity, is a tough and resilient society that loves and embraces life.

But it’s not going to be easy. Israelis talk a good game, but inside we are all hurting. And that hurt won’t even begin to go away until this war is over, and our people are home.

Sadness and anger

For me, this year has brought so much sadness and so much change, some of which I’m still digesting.

But perhaps the biggest, and most unexpected feeling, is anger. Anger against Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran, yes. Anger against the ignorance around the world, the knee-jerk demonstrations against Israel, and the growing anti-Semitism, oh most definitely.

But most of all, anger at what is happening within.

Given all that we are going through, it’s glaringly obvious that some sectors of Israeli society have given more and suffered more during this conflict. The fact that ultra-Orthodox men declare that they’d rather be dead than serve in the army, while other men of the same age – friends of my children — are serving and dying to protect them and the country, fills me with rage.

Since January 2023, Israel has been on a long and difficult road with leaders who are trying to change the fundamental nature of Israel, to make it less democratic, less egalitarian. The internal struggle started then, and even in the midst of this war, it still continues as extremist leaders fight to protect their own narrow interests, while the citizens fight to protect the country.

So yes, today, one year after October 7, I am furious.

Extraordinary individuals

When I think back now to what has got me through this awful time and what will continue to pull me through, it is people.

My friends, my family; even strangers who would suddenly and unexpectedly offer me warmth and support just when I needed it most.

But it is more than that too, it is the people volunteering all over the country, the people going out to support others with every type of service imaginable, whatever their own circumstances.

Israel is a complex country, and the people in power, who most outsiders only see, do not reflect the goodness and heart of a country that is bursting with extraordinary individuals. People here help one another in a way that I have never witnessed before, and on a scale that I have never seen either.

When I take my dog for a walk in the evening, I often meet my neighbor, who lost her daughter on October 7. They are planning a memorial garden for her in the area near their house, and once a week she volunteers in the south, driving down to the communities destroyed on October 7, to help clean the houses of families who are planning to return.

And then there’s another friend, who lost her daughter and son-in-law, also on the first day of the war, though it took several days for their deaths to be confirmed. Now she is setting up a place of refuge and rehab for soldiers hurt in the conflict.

What strength is that in both these women. What extraordinary courage in the face of such deep grief. How can one fail to be inspired?

There are countless stories like this, in every village and town and city across Israel. And when I see this, I take heart that we will prevail – against our enemies who hate us, for sure, but also against our own internal divisions, and the extremist elements that have risen so unexpectedly to hijack our leadership, and who do not reflect the people here.

We are still at war now, a war that is getting bigger day by day. Our children are still at risk. Those smiling faces from the prom photo in June are now going one by one to army units.

I put my faith in family, friends and all the extraordinary ordinary people of Israel.

And I hope, I really hope – naively, I know — that as Golda Meir once said, Israel’s enemies will one day love their children more than they hate us.