October 7th came at the close of my second week of college. I was fresh into my political science studies, full of idealism and passion for liberal-progressive values. I had formed friendships with like-minded individuals who seemed to share the same sense of purpose. In those first days, I spent countless nights discussing everything from policy to philosophy, feeling grateful to have found such a strong community so early in my life at UCLA. It was everything I had hoped for in this new chapter– inclusion, laughter, and camaraderie.
But my once-ideal utopia was shattered on October 8th, 2023, transforming into a dystopian nightmare.
That day, as I scrolled through Instagram, I stumbled upon a story posted by one of my closest friends at the time. It was a graphic that read, “Resistance is not terrorism.” My heart dropped. Someone, who I had considered a friend, celebrated this heinous act of terror. Thousands had died, hundreds taken hostage, and the violence unleashed by Hamas was incomprehensible. In disbelief, I typed out a response, thinking it was only logical to say what anyone with a sense of basic morality would: “Murdering over a thousand innocent lives and taking hundreds hostage is not resistance, it is the worst evil that humans are capable of. Hamas wants to kill every Jew, including Jews like me in America.”
The response I received shocked me. “Lol well I didn’t know you were a Zionist rat,” she wrote.
That’s when it hit me—I had never once mentioned that I was Jewish. Not to her, not to anyone in my new circle of friends.
Why would I? Judaism wasn’t central to my identity. I hadn’t received a formal Jewish education and never had a Bat Mitzvah. The closest I came to embracing my heritage was lighting the Menorah candles with my mom and sister during Hanukkah each year. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed about being Jewish, but it simply wasn’t a significant part of my everyday life. I had more or less let it fade into the background among my other identities.
But suddenly, with the weight of October 7th hanging over me, I felt a stark shift. The political discussions I once thrived on felt empty in the face of the massacre. I felt alone, isolated in my beliefs and my identity, and even more so when I realized how little my new friends truly understood about who I was. My Jewishness had suddenly become the most important thing about me—the thing that defined how others saw me.
I found myself grappling with an evolving sense of fear, something that felt unfamiliar to me. It wasn’t the kind of fear I had ever experienced before—the quiet fear of being misunderstood or judged. It was something deeper, born from the weight of centuries of Jewish history, of suffering and survival. My sense of Jewish identity, once dormant, began to shape my worldview in ways I couldn’t have predicted.
But, in this chaos, something profound also began to emerge: a new connection to my Jewish roots. I started to explore my faith and culture in ways I never had before. The search for understanding and solidarity became a journey that I hadn’t planned but was now deeply compelled to undertake. I began reading more about Jewish history, traditions, and customs—something that felt both foreign and incredibly intimate at the same time. I reached out to older family members, asking questions I had never thought to ask before. I lit candles on Friday nights with renewed reverence. I felt, for the first time, a true sense of connection to my heritage.
The term “October 8th Jew” has emerged in the wake of the October 7th attacks, often used to describe those who, like me, began to embrace their Jewish identity more publicly after the events of that day. Some have criticized these individuals, labeling them as “performative” or “attention-seeking,” but I couldn’t disagree more. The truth is, the “October 8th Jew” is someone who may have been disconnected from their Jewish community before, but who, after the events of October 7th, felt an urgent, almost spiritual call to reconnect—to rediscover what it means to belong to a people whose survival has been threatened time and time again throughout history.
The pain and suffering of that day cannot be understated. The loss was immeasurable, the grief unfathomable. But for me, and many others, it also became a defining moment—a catalyst for change. It was a wake-up call that shook me to my core and forced me to examine my identity with new clarity.
Through the fear and the sorrow, I discovered strength. I found myself standing with my people in a way that I had never experienced before. I realized that being Jewish is not just about religious observance or cultural tradition; it’s about a collective history, a shared struggle, and a commitment to standing together in the face of adversity.
Being an “October 8th Jew,” is a label that I will proudly claim. And as I stand with my people, I do so with a newfound sense of purpose and pride. We are stronger and more united than ever before, and together, we will endure.
