October 7, Simchat Torah, and Sukkot: Living the Arc of Fragility

October 7 fell on Simchat Torah, the holiday of unrestrained joy. The day when Jews dance with the Torah, celebrating the endless cycle of reading, finishing, and beginning again. The contrast between that joy and the violence of that morning was unbearable. Simchat Torah will never feel the same. For many Israelis, the sounds of song and dancing will forever be bound up with the sounds of gunfire and sirens. The Torah scrolls that were meant to be lifted high became bound with memories of destruction.

And the rupture did not end that day. Two years later, the wounds are still open. Families wait for hostages. Communities remain displaced. Mental health across the country is fragile, and many do not even know where to turn for help. Some days it just feels like too much—the skies closing above us, the isolation of being cut off, the shock of rising antisemitism abroad, the pain of being portrayed as evil or alien. The attack from Iran earlier this year shook us in a different way, exposing a deeper layer of vulnerability. It is not only October 7; it is the accumulation of uncertainty, grief, and fear that makes daily life heavy.

This year, the anniversary falls on Sukkot. The calendar shift is striking: from a holiday of joy torn apart to a holiday that openly embraces fragility. The sukkah, fragile by design, reminds us that life is temporary and uncertain. It reflects where we find ourselves now—as a people dwelling in vulnerability.

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote: “Faith is not certainty; it is the courage to live with uncertainty.” Sitting in the sukkah is exactly that act of courage. We leave behind the illusion of stability and step into a space that is deliberately flimsy, yet we decorate it, we invite guests, we make it holy. Two years after October 7, Israelis are still living in that sukkah space - displaced, uncertain, vulnerable, and waiting for hostages to return. The question is how to move forward from there.

The Arc of Tishrei

The month of Tishrei is not just a collection of holidays; it is a spiritual arc. It carries us from awe, to fragility, to joy, to renewal.

The year begins with awe. Rosh Hashanah places us before the Book of Life, confronting mortality and judgment. The shofar’s cry is raw and piercing, reminding us how fragile existence is. Two years after October 7, that sense of vulnerability is no longer theoretical.

On Yom Kippur we strip away illusions of strength. We fast, we confess, we say we are dust and to dust we will return. It is a day of vulnerability, acknowledging sins and wounds. After October 7, our national sense of safety was shattered; our leaders (some) admitted failures; and our society was forced to face its divisions.

Then comes Sukkot, where fragility becomes a practice. Ramban explained that Sukkot reminds us of the divine clouds of protection that followed the Jews in the desert when they left Egypt. Even in the wilderness, exposed and unrooted, the people of Israel were sustained.

This year, that lesson is all too real. Families from the South and the North are still in temporary housing, unable to return home. Families in the Center, shaken by Iranian missile and drone attacks, also feel exposed in ways we never imagined. The sukkah is not an abstract symbol; it is our reality.

Finally, the cycle culminates in Simchat Torah. The joy of this festival is not naïve. It comes after the awe of Rosh Hashanah, the reckoning of Yom Kippur, the fragility of Sukkot. Only then do we dance, not because life is secure, but because renewal is always possible. We finish the Torah and immediately begin again, declaring that no ending is final, no rupture complete.

But here lies the deepest pain: October 7 occurred precisely on Simchat Torah. The day meant to embody resilience and renewal became the day of rupture itself. Two years later, it is hard to dance, hard to rejoice, hard to start again.

The arc of Tishrei should lead us from awe to fragility to renewal. But two years after October 7, we are still stuck in the sukkah. We remain in a place of impermanence, waiting for hostages, waiting for safety, waiting for healing. We have not yet reached the joy of Simchat Torah.

And yet, Jewish tradition insists that holiness is possible even here. The sukkah teaches that God’s presence rests not in walls of stone but in fragile spaces built together. Emmanuel Levinas wrote that transcendence is found not in escaping vulnerability but in encountering the face of the Other—the human being who calls us to responsibility. In that sense, the sukkah is not just a place of exposure but a place of relationship. It is where we gather, invite guests, and remind ourselves that fragility shared can become strength.

A Fragile Hope

Two years after October 7, Israel continues to live in uncertainty. The wounds of that day remain raw, and the future feels precarious. But the cycle of Tishrei offers us a way to hold this moment: not by rushing to joy, nor by denying pain, but by recognizing that faith itself is the courage to dwell in uncertainty.

The sukkah is temporary, yet we decorate it. Its roof lets in the rain, yet we invite guests. It is fragile, yet we call it home for a week. Our national life today feels like that sukkah: temporary, fragile, uncertain. And yet, we continue to build, to gather, to hope.

If Simchat Torah was shattered, and if Sukkot now feels all too real, perhaps the task is to stay here honestly for a while. To acknowledge that we are still in the sukkah, not yet dancing, not yet renewed. But also to trust that the arc does not end here—that renewal is still part of our story, even if it feels out of reach.

We founded ICAR Collective with this mission: to help Israel move from fragility toward resilience. Just as no family can rebuild alone, no single organization can meet the scale of trauma our country faces. Healing requires what the sukkah itself symbolizes—people coming together in a fragile space and making it strong by sharing it. At ICAR, we bring organizations, experts, and communities into one collective framework, doing together what none could do on their own.

The sukkah teaches that holiness rests not in the walls themselves, but in the connections we form inside them. Two years after October 7, that is the work before us: to weave fragile threads into a fabric strong enough to hold an entire people.