This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
In collaboration with the Jewish Book Council, JBI is recording these pieces to increase the accessibility of these accounts for individuals who are blind, have low vision or are print disabled.
Salty sea breeze tickles my nose as I
inhale air swirling with ancient atoms that once
filled the lungs of Rabbi Akiva. Here, down this
well under Herod’s palace. A prison. Tunnel, dark &
humid. Surely the imprisoned scholar could smell
the big blue sea, hear gentle waves lapping as sooty gulls
perched on white stone aqueducts cry over his fate, sealed
by enemies intent on Israel’s erasure. Perhaps his
students etched “bring him home now” on stone
tablets; his wife donned a yellow ribbon, scratched a new
number on her tunic each morning with ink made
painstakingly from pomegranate peels.
Tears sting my sunburnt cheeks, tasting their salt as I
surrender to a sadness, so deep and fresh at this festival site
dotted with faces of the fallen
murdered in their quest for joy & love & unity in
music, with faces of hostages still trapped in tunnels
bereft of hope, I pray not. A familiar tune fills the air
filling me with solace, reminding me that light
always follows darkness. It is my faith in God, in the
Jewish people, in this group of American teens standing a few
feet away singing what’s become our Jewish anthem
over these past nine months, Acheinu, for our
siblings in captivity. The singers form a human chain, hands
touching shoulders, as if to stretch back generations. They sway
in rhythm to the feather leaves of the eucalyptus trees, that
survived the destruction & still provide beauty & shade &
their magical scent.
My faith tells me that every moment we live is
Jewish history and that history doesn’t end
with us.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Deborah Kotz is a former journalist who has written regularly for the Washington Post, US News and World Report, the Boston Globe and the Jewish Telegraphic Agency among others. She has an MFA from the University of Baltimore, and her fiction has been published on the literary site JewishFiction.net. Find her collection of short stories at deborahkotz.com, or follow her on X @debkotz2 or Instagram debkotz.