Selected Pieces - Nonfiction

by Gabrielle Siegel, Georgia

“We will only have peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us.” - Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir

Three steps forward. Spin. Two steps back. Clap?

I am following Simran’s mother in these endless circles. She dances with freedom, turns around and spins in sync with the dozens of other women in our line. Durga dances with a similar level of grace, and I stumble into her. Again. Simran struggles to keep up with the other women, and I’m worse than her. Somehow, we manage to stay dancing and minimize casualties. Everyone is barefoot, so no loafers step on my Naot sandals even when I lose my footing.

Around me, Indian—mostly Bollywood—music blasts. I cannot hear myself think.

At garba, we celebrate life.

I laugh as I remember how joyous the night before was, when I danced for the celebration of Simchat Torah. The Joy of Torah. I haven’t danced, really danced, since summer camp two years ago, and it is freedom.

Freedom, like 239 brothers and sisters do not have.
~~
We celebrate life. They celebrate death.
~~
They celebrate death. We celebrate life.

Some know today as October 7th. I knew it as Shabbat and Simchat Torah. My clock says 14:32 because my older sister once convinced me 24-hour time was Israel time.

I am walking downstairs to acquire a book. After all, today is Shabbat.

“Have you seen the news?” my mom asks.

“Not on Shabbat. What do you mean?”

She hesitates. “Israel is at war.”

Oh.

It’s okay, right? Just another round? They were fighting a few months ago. It’s the same, right?

“Hamas attacked. They’re saying it’s not another round. It’s war.”

War.

~~

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

~~

I know today as September 22nd. Durga texts “Wanna go to garba together on October 7th?” I am confused. What is garba? I check my calendar. October 7th is the night after Simchat Torah. I do not have plans. I love her, and I want to learn.

“Okay. Sounds fun. What did I just agree to?”After all, I grew up around a large diverse Indian community, but until Durga, I was always the outsider. I am excited to immerse myself in my friend’s tradition. Garba is a Gujarati Indian celebration of femininity observed with dancing in a large circle, and one of the goddesses honored is my friend’s namesake. I want to experience Durga’s tradition.

I know the previous night will be Simchat Torah. We will dance, and we will celebrate, and we will honor our Torah. How perfect: I will celebrate another beautiful tradition after I just celebrated my own!

I can’t wait to dance.

~~

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

~~

If you are Jewish, you know that crushing terror. You come from survivors. You are a survivor. You remember.

Perhaps you are Sephardic and you always have a suitcase packed. Perhaps you are Mizrahi and you remember traversing the deserts of Southwest Asia to reach your homeland. Perhaps you remember the friends who betrayed to the Nazis. Perhaps, like me, you remember hiding during a pogrom as cossacks raid your ghetto.

You remember.

I cannot explain it. I cannot explain the feeling in my soul that screams for me to run, that screams to fight, that screams to stand my ground. I cannot explain how I will never feel complete again. A part of me has been lost. I can touch it some days, when I am surrounded by Jewishness, but it is always haunted by echoes of pain.

Do you know what today means?

~~

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

~~

Some know today as October 6th. I know it as the night of Simchat Torah. I walk into synagogue wearing a simple black shirt and gorgeous flowing pants I got in southern Israel last summer. I grab poor gentile Jamie’s hands and guide him through the confusing service.

Finally, the Torah is brought out, in all its beauty. We dance. We dance to “Sweet as ho-o-ney, sweet as honey, sweet as honey on our tongue…” and “Am Yisrael chai, od Avinu chai, od avinu od avinu od avinu chai!” and “Tel Aviv ya habibi Tel Aviv.” We dance to words we respect and adore, and we laugh, and I carry the Torah—millenia of wisdom and life—and I explain to Jamie that if I drop it, some say we’re supposed to all fast for 40 days.

We spin; we dance; we fall into dance movements from Zionist pioneers; we laugh; we keep dancing.

Simchat Torah.

Literally “rejoicing in Torah.”

We choose life.

~~

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

~~

A lifetime ago, I stand on a military lookout post in Sderot, a city bordering Gaza. My phone case is stained by its artificial sand.

I look behind me, to Sderot, a land without carousels because no one could get to a bomb shelter in time and with bomb shelters built into playgrounds. I look at the graffiti art, modest houses, and thriving society.

I look in front of me, to Gaza, a land without bomb shelters because there is a tunnel network twice the size of the London Underground. Without gorgeous greenhouses because they destroyed them as soon as Israel disengaged from Gaza. Without water pipes because they are rockets. (I held a Hamas rocket once. You can still see the threads on the inside.)

“They chose poverty,” our guide, a Sderot resident who was forced out of Gaza by crying IDF soldiers during the 2005 Gaza disengagement, says, his voice heavy. I understand the heaviness; how can anyone choose poverty? How can anyone hate their enemies more than they love their children? My heart hurts. I don’t understand. I know there are Gazans who fight against this ideology—Gazan iman Mohammed Mushtaha was arrested and released in January 2024 due to international pressure—and I admire them, but it’s hard. I cannot fully understand how difficult it must be, and so, I treasure my Judaism even more.

We choose life. Hamas never will.

I stare at Gaza for some time.

He tells us more about his “neighbors that don’t like us very much.” He tells us about the hostages already in Gaza, two living and two dead. He tells us how he isn’t sure what will happen when Israel has to fight on the ground with all the booby-trapped tunnels. He tells us, and all I can remember is this: “They chose death. We choose life.”

I walk away from Gaza.

They chose death. We choose life.

~~

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

~~

Some know tonight as October 7th. So do I.

I find my modest skirt, the one I wore at the Western Wall. I will not look too out of place around lehengas. Last time I wore it, I was in Eretz Yisrael. I hesitate. I almost say, “I’m sorry, Durga, I can’t, not tonight.”

How can I celebrate while my people are dying?

I go. Hamas will not stop me from living. Life is resistance.

I park by the wrong building, but I find a random Indian family—a boy, a mother, and a grandmother with a pink lehenga—who made the same mistake. They are nice. Funny. Kind. The address is wrong, and I’m confused, but we work together. We walk together.

I am afraid. I am so afraid.

Is little Emunah safe? She is only eight. The children don’t deserve it.

I am a child. I am suffering.

I arrive. My British friend and I wait outside for our chronically late Indian friends. An hour later, we enter garba.

It is beautiful and amazing and fun and exceptional and free.

We dance in a circle over and over and over again. I stumble into friends and strangers, but it is joyous. I hold myself to high standards, and it can be suffocating. Here with so many interlocking circles, so much organized chaos, so much joy, I am free. I don’t know what was happening, and I am trying, and I am that American girl, and it was fun.

It reminds me a lot of carrying the Torah last night.

It reminds me a lot of what one Sukkot music festival must have been like.

My people do not dance tonight. They are dead.

~~

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

~~

I know today as October 7th + 2. Some know it as October 9th. In Australia, protestors gather around the Sydney Opera House. I see the videos, their chants of “Gas the Jews.” Gas the Jews. Israeli bodies are still warm. There are still terrorists inside Israel.

Israeli bodies are still warm.

In a few weeks, a Christian Zionist influencer with three million Instagram followers will interview a young woman named Shirel. She scolded me for heating up a blowtorch too much at summer camp. She hid under dead bodies at that music festival. A young man threw his body on a grenade to protect her.

I know what her smile used to look like.

She’s a kid. They all are.

I fear for the lives of friends, mentors, and cousins. Israeli bodies are still warm, and privileged Westerners scream “Gas the Jews.”

~~

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

~~

I know today as October 7th. At garba, I take joy in femininity and power because faith is beautiful, no matter how it manifests. I’ll take “idol-worshippers if you squint Hinduphobically” over “Kill the Jews” anyday.

I am free.

Where is Amit? Where is Dahlia? Where are my cousins? Where is Rabbi Mike?

I am useless. I can dance, though, and I celebrate life alongside my friends.

While my Hindu brothers and sisters pray, I step aside because a Jewish friend calls. Ben is suffering; where he sees news of this massacre, he sees its celebrators. I try to find the words to protect him, just a little, from this pain. I wish I could protect myself, too.

I return to the dance. I hope G-d understands my joy is a plea for Am Yisrael.

While they celebrate death, we celebrate life.

~~

We will always celebrate life.

~~

I know today as October 6th. So do you. The Kutz family in Kfar Aza, a community bordering Gaza, is planning their annual kite festival. From Gaza, they send balloons filled with explosives. In response, the community of Kfar Aza flies beautiful kites with messages of peace beside the border.

Aviv Kutz, father of three children, organizes these dozens of kites and dozens of families.

The families of Kfar Aza are excited for what Aviv would choose as his theme. They were excited to wake up in the morning and make their message clear: we will love you more than you will hate us.

Hours later, Aviv, his wife, and their three kids were murdered in one bed.

Aviv loved the people of Gaza more than they could ever hate him. The more bombs they sent, the more beautiful kites Kfar Aza created. The more they hated him, the more he loved them.

We celebrate life. They celebrate death.

“They” doesn’t mean Palestinians, Arabs, or Muslims. It means the Islamic Republic of Iran. It means ISIS. It means the Houthis and Hezbollah. It means the corrupt United Nations Relief and Works Association. It means the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. It means Hamas. Yes, it means the Jewish terrorist–and his modern-day successors—who killed Yitzchak Rabin. It means all those who hate more than they love their children.

Alone, we celebrate life. Our “allies” fall to hate, but we celebrate life.

We celebrate pluralism. I celebrate a beautiful and joyous garba. I dance, and my feet hurt, and I am alive. Yes, my people do not have this luxury, but when we were slaves in Egypt, Jewish women did not give up hope or joy. In diaspora, after pogroms and expulsions and mass rapes and mass murder, we celebrate, dance, and honor our Torah. Our joy is defiance, a dream, a hope of 2000 years.

Hamas celebrates death.

Today, like every day, I celebrate life.

This essay is dedicated to Sergeant Rose Lubin, Z”L