Survival Not Surrender

Forgiveness is not forgetting. It is freedom. It is a choice we have to make every day, to live with truth and allow us to carry on.

I originally wrote this in the days leading up to Yom Kippur, I had been thinking a lot about forgiveness. Not the kind we ask for, but the kind we offer; especially when it’s undeserved. I benched it at the time, unsure if it fit. But now, in the wake of recent events: the hostage release, the fragile ceasefire, the deafening silence from others, and the hate that continues, I fear it matters more than ever.

What does atonement mean when the world won’t acknowledge its own sins? I’m not required to forgive, but I can still choose to let go. Not for them, but for me. In this choice, I find a form of resistance; an act that says the actions of the world, or the silence in some cases, will not define who I am. The harm is real and painful, yet I refuse to dwell in it endlessly. I refuse to be a victim, or at least to only be that.

I want to be more. I want to do more.

Forgiving those who still deny your pain feels like going above and beyond. It’s not just about forgiving what has been done, but forgiving what continues; the ongoing waves of hurt. Forgiveness won’t stop the tsunamis crashing over me, but maybe it gives me the strength to keep my head above water. Antisemitism is not new, and I am not naive enough to believe it will vanish. So I need to find a way to live with it, or at least not be consumed by it. The idea that pain and harm might simply roll past me, without settling into my heart, feels like a small comfort. Of course, forgiveness is not denial. It is not erasing truth or pretending that nothing has happened or is happening. It is survival with dignity.

Forgiveness is a mitzvah, a divine command. The Torah forbids revenge and holding grudges. But irrespective of whether you believe in a greater power or not I feel the sentiment holds true for us all. True strength is shown in overcoming the instinct to retaliate, to balance the score. The Talmud teaches that forgiveness is a merit even if the other hasn’t repented, because forgiveness frees the forgiver.

There are two ways to forgive. One is to act against the desire for revenge, slowly starving resentment until it fades. The other is to reframe the cause: to see that everything, even pain, unfolds within divine providence. Nothing can touch me that isn’t part of a greater plan, whether that plan is a test, a chance to grow, or a call to strength. I don’t know how I feel about the latter, but I do know that I cannot not decide what happens to me, or the actions of others that would concern me. But I do know that it is up to me to decide how I respond.

Into the deep silence of this moment, I carry an immense grief, one born from feeling hated. As a Jew, as an Israeli, as someone whose voice is drowned out by the noise of the world. I grieve for a world that might have been, a world where people of all faiths and backgrounds could live in peace. Not sameness, but respect. Not erasure, but celebration of difference. Conflict may always exist, but violence and hate need not be the answer. I long for a world where love is louder than fear, where respect overcomes rejection.

Reconciliation with the world is even less simple. Mechilah (forgiveness) is not the same as trust, you can forgive without reopening the door. Yet when the harm is vast, constant, and systemic, I don’t want to live outside the world, as a stranger looking in. I sometimes joke about escaping to live off the grid. But the truth is, that feels like a loss. Instead, I want to share my small light, to shine it where I can. I may not change the world, but that does not make what I do meaningless. Tikkun olam, repairing the world, is as much about the smallest acts as it is the greatest.

So here I am, seeking reconciliation on my own terms. Without the world’s full acknowledgement or atonement, it will be incomplete, fragile, and costly. But I’m willing to meet the world halfway, even if it refuses to meet me at all. Maybe along the way, even in the smallest ways, I’ll help open the door to change.

How do I live this? Through this space, Shtetl Scribe, and through my daily interactions. By showing up with truth, naming harm, even when it’s denied. Refusing to gaslight myself even when my voice feels alone. Standing by my truth, even when it feels like an island in a sea of silence.

I am offering the world a relationship, but not erasing who I am to do it. It would be easier to blend in, to silence my identity and become more palatable. But I won’t. I am Jewish. This is not simply a fact about me; it’s a part of what I love, a sacred bond to a people and a history. I refuse to be ashamed of it or to hide it away. I will engage, yes, but not at the cost of my dignity or my true self.

I think that in itself is something special.