What will you tell your children?

One day they will ask you: "Did you say anything? Did you do anything?" What story will you tell?

My kids are blissfully too young to understand the state of the world right now, but it won’t always be that way.

Years from now, they’ll learn about October 7, 2023, and the events that followed. They’ll ask me, “What did everyone do? What did you do?”

I’ll tell them that it was a painful, heartbreaking, terrifying time in our history.

I’ll tell them how we wept and shook with fear and disbelief as we learned of the horrific, unimaginable crimes committed against our people.

I’ll tell them how we had no time to mourn or process the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust, because we had to immediately defend and shield ourselves from an onslaught of propaganda, gaslighting, threats, and thousands of people marching in the streets as they shouted for our annihilation.

I’ll tell them about the conversations we had after they went to bed: Should we remove our mezuzah? Should we send them to school? Is it safe to go to synagogue? What type of security camera will give us the best angle?

I’ll tell them about the people who were silent, the friends we lost, and the isolation we felt as we watched so much of the world turn its back on us.

I’ll tell them how I became suspicious of everyone around me—the man standing next to me in the grocery aisle, the woman walking her dog in front of my house—wondering: Does that person care if I live or die? Does that person want to harm me and my family?

I’ll tell them how I looked for the helpers just like Mr. Rogers told me to, how I was bolstered by their humanity and compassion, and how I cried that there weren’t more of them.

I’ll tell them how our community came together and grew stronger, how we supported and leaned on each other, and how I’d never felt so proud to be Jewish, so proud of our resilience, so proud of our courage.

I’ll tell them how my pulse quickened every time I posted, every time I shared, every time I wrote, and every time I made my voice heard. I’ll tell them that I kept doing it anyway because truth matters, and we matter—even when everyone is screaming that we don’t.

I’ll tell them how all the stories I’d been told as a kid, the words I’d recited at every holiday, all the warnings of it could happen again suddenly made sense, and the crushing, unbearable grief that came with that awakening.

I’ll tell them how I looked away just long enough so that I could sleep, so that I could carry on, so that I could keep being their mother—but never long enough to forget the suffering of all the children, all the families, all the people just wanting to live their lives freely in peace.

I’ll tell them I never stopped praying the hostages would come home, and I never stopped fearing they wouldn’t.

I’ll tell them how I ignored rigid binaries like progressive vs. conservative, left vs. right, oppressor vs. oppressed, and chose to follow facts and history and my conscience.

I’ll tell them how I felt the whispered echoes of my ancestors crying out, pleading: Never again.

I’ll tell them that I stood up for what was right, for what I felt deep in my bones, even though it wasn’t cool or popular or easy.

I’ll tell them that I stood up for us and for all those who came before us.

I’ll tell my children that I stood up for them.

That’s what I will tell my children.

What will you tell yours?