It was a moment I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
This past Simchat Torah, hundreds of young Nova survivors gathered at a Jerusalem hotel to celebrate the holiday alongside bereaved families and families of hostages. Everything in their world had changed since the previous Simchat Torah — Oct. 7, 2023. They talked, hugged, danced with the sifrei Torah. But one guest, a young man, sat off to the side, withdrawn and heavy-hearted.
Eliyahu Libman, whose son Elyakim was murdered at Nova after saving dozens, approached the young man with his wife, Avishag. I stood nearby, listening.
“What’s your name?” Eliyahu asked.
“Nachman Dahan,” came the tearful reply. Then, shaking, Nachman began to speak — about the friends murdered right beside him, about those kidnapped, about how he escaped, and how hard it’s been since to function, to return to anything like normal.
Eliyahu Libman shared his own pain. “I’m Elyakim’s father,” he said. “He was a security guard at the Nova festival. He saved lives and was killed doing so. And you, Nachman — you survived. Tell me, why did you survive?”
Nachman had no answer.
Eliyahu continued: “Today is Elyakim’s first yahrzeit. But it’s also the anniversary of your salvation. You were granted life. I ask that you be happy today, also in memory of my Elyakim.
“And I want to ask something else. You didn’t answer me, and that’s OK. Take your time. But ask yourself: Why did I stay alive? How do I give meaning to this life I’ve been given again? What do I do with the gift I received on this day?”
I often wondered what became of Nachman.
Recently, I found out: He’s begun working, studying Torah, slowly rebuilding. This week, in the Nova survivors’ WhatsApp group, a photo appeared — Nachman and his bride, Daniella, under the chuppah.
The next day, the group held a festive sheva berachot for the couple. So many blessings. So much joy. So much life.
From the Syrian border, where he’s serving in reserves, Eliyahu Libman sent a heartfelt blessing.
“Mazal tov, Nachman and Daniella. You’re answering the question more powerfully than words ever could.”
A new awakening
We are living in a new Jewish era.
Here’s a sentence that not long ago would have seemed impossible: A member of Kibbutz Kfar Aza was the keynote speaker at the national conference for Chabad women.
That speaker was Anat Elkabetz, mother of Sivan Elkabetz, who was murdered alongside her boyfriend Naor on Oct. 7. Last week, Anat addressed thousands of women at Jerusalem’s large convention center, Binyanei Ha’uma.
“On Simchat Torah, we were trapped in four separate safe rooms for 22 hours,” she said. “And we came out changed. Sivan and Naor were murdered — along with 1,200 other Jews — simply for being Jews.
“My daughter died as a Jew, and ever since I’ve been asking: What does that mean? Is it enough that I was born Jewish? What does it mean to be part of a people? What does that demand of me, of all of us?”
She’s beginning to discover an answer.
“We saw where hatred leads. It’s their language, their childhood curriculum — hatred, ingrained. So let us respond with our own strength: with love, Jewish identity, faith, joy and unity — from infancy.
“Our justice and our morality are the truth. I’m learning Torah now — chassidut and the weekly Torah portion. How did I not know about this treasure until now? You shouldn’t have to lose a child, or turn 57, to begin asking who you are and why you’re here.”
Thank you, Anat — and mazal tov. Just days after speaking about a new generation of Jewish children, her husband, Shimon, was the sandak at the brit milah of their newborn grandson: Ori.
An American hug in a Bat Yam apartment
Sylvia is an elderly woman from Bat Yam whose home was damaged by an Iranian missile during the war with Iran in June.
Last week, dozens of Jewish women from the US met her when they came to Israel for the first time with Birthright on a volunteer mission.
They arrived in Bat Yam, armed with cleaning supplies and boundless energy, ready to help the city on a rehabilitation mission. For an entire day, these American women dedicated themselves to making Sylvia’s apartment habitable — scrubbing and cleaning as they deciphered labels on Israeli cleaning products.
The work was conducted in English mixed with Hebrew, a lot of hand gestures, laughter and hugs.
Then came the moment when Sylvia exclaimed: “The floor! The floor! I can see my floor again — it’s clean!”
The women looked at each other, confused: “What is ritzpah [floor]?” And just like that, they learned a new Hebrew word.
They watered Sylvia’s dried-out plants, took photos and promised to stay in touch. It’s hard to say who benefited more. That night, Sylvia’s daughter sent them a message:
“You brought back the smile my mother had lost. I’ve never seen her this happy. A million thank-yous wouldn’t be enough. I’m in tears.”
Every day of the week, the group volunteered in a different location. “This isn’t a retreat — we came to sweat,” one woman told me.
In the south, they worked at Rimon Farm, where trauma is treated through agriculture and sheep herding. They helped out in a new vineyard named after Eliahu Kay, who was murdered in a terror attack.
What else did they do? They packed food with the Latet organization, visited patients at Shaare Zedek hospital and at Sheba’s rehab department, spent time in a nursing home, and more.
Netivot. Sderot. Tiberius. Jerusalem. Tel Aviv . . . In every place, they supported small businesses and lifted spirits — sometimes by simply showing up.
And these missions keep coming. After Oct. 7, the country was flooded with donors and visitors. Now, almost two years later, their presence carries even greater significance. Throughout the week, the organizers tried to get this story into the media. No one picked it up.
So I’m writing it here. Because more groups are coming. Sometimes, in the middle of our everyday chaos, a chance encounter with them reminds us of our shared story — and just how beautiful it really is.
Rebuilding the Temple: between the kitchen and the living room
It’s remarkable how our sages draw a parallel between the ancient Holy Temple, the Beit Hamikdash, and our own homes. Since the destruction of the Temple, the Divine presence ( Shechinah) has found a dwelling place in our synagogues, yeshivahs and Torah centers, and also within the walls of our homes. Between the kitchen and the living room, holiness resides.
After having mourned the destruction of the Temple through fasting and prayer on Tisha b’Av, we enter one of the most challenging times for our “private temples”: the month of August, the height of summer vacation.
Our sages teach that the home is the place where we are truly built. It is here — in the relationships between children and parents, and between spouses — that our character is forged. Judaism calls this avodat hamiddot — the work of refining our character.
This doesn’t happen in Instagram stories or through likes from strangers, but in the daily interactions with the people closest to us.
Through every action in the home, even the smallest tasks, we can remember: This is where G-d has placed us, and this is our greatest mission for now.
May we, with G-d’s help, merit to see blessing in the coming month as we continue building our private temples.
