When Grief and Resilience Coexist

October 6, 2025 Guest Contributor

At a rally in Northwest Washington, D.C., attendees wave Israeli flags during a speaker's call for support for the Jewish state. (File photo by Robyn Stevens Brody)

By Lynne B. Kahn

It has been two years since the horrors of Oct. 7th, yet the images, sounds and feelings of that day are never far away.

Like so many Jews around the world, I carry the weight of that moment daily. I have traveled to Israel twice since the attacks, walking the same streets where life continues with resilience, and standing in places where grief still hangs heavy in the air.

Through the Baltimore-Ashkelon Partnership, I have formed close friendships with people whose lives were forever changed by the attacks. Since Oct. 7th, our conversations have taken on a new depth. They share their fears, their exhaustion and their heartbreak, but also their determination to keep going.

Our bond is not abstract; it is personal. When I check in on them, I am reminded that the events I watch unfold on the news are lived realities for people I know and care about.

As a Jew, I have learned that I can hold many truths in my heart at once. I can be devastated by the murders of innocent people, and furious at the world’s inability or unwillingness to unequivocally condemn such brutality.

I can mourn with the families who lost loved ones in Israel, and at the same time, feel heartbreak for the families in Gaza whose lives are also shattered by war.

I can cry for the hostages who remain captive, pray for their release and despair at the silence of too many global voices.

I can carry rage, grief and sorrow alongside gratitude, faith and pride.

Another truth I carry is my anger and sadness at the rise of antisemitism around the world and here at home. What was once subtle has become more open on our streets, in our workplaces, in our schools, and online.

Too often, Jewish people feel singled out or unsafe for simply living their identity. It is painful to see how quickly hate spreads, and how often it is excused or minimized.

As a mom, it is especially hard to think of the environment my children and their generation are inheriting. We owe them better. We owe them a world where being Jewish is a source of pride, not fear.

And still, I choose hope.

I wear my Jewish star more visibly than ever; not as defiance but as affirmation that I belong to an ancient people who have survived hatred and destruction before, and who remain committed to life, community and hope.

On Friday nights, when I light Shabbat candles, I include an extra one for the hostages. That small flame feels fragile and fierce at the same time, like the Jewish spirit itself.

My greatest hope comes from my children. I want them to inherit not only the memory of Oct. 7th, but also the beauty and strength of Jewish life. I want them to know that our identity is not defined by tragedy but by resilience, tradition and the belief in a brighter future.

I want them to celebrate our holidays and take pride in being part of a people who continue to choose life in the face of loss.

What Oct. 7th has taught me is that there is no single way to respond to tragedy. It is a time in our history when grief and resilience coexist, when love and anger live side by side, when faith is both tested and renewed. My heart is both heavy and full. Heavy with sorrow, but full of connection to Israel, to the Jewish people, to my faith and to a future I still dare to believe can be brighter.

Two years later, I still mourn, I still rage, I still pray. But I also continue to live fully and proudly as a Jew.

That, perhaps, is the most powerful response of all.

A Baltimore native, Lynne B. Kahn is the founder and director of the Baltimore Hunger Project, a nonprofit which removes the barrier to learning by providing food and resources to food insecure children in our community.