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This piece belongs to a series of op-eds and columns to be published throughout this week reflecting on the one-year anniversary of October 7th.

—Tommy Barone ’25 and Jacob M. Miller ’25, Crimson Editorial Chairs

Last year, on October 7th, I took the SAT.

I was visiting Seoul at the time. I planned to apply to Harvard, and though I knew my chances of admission were slim, I was determined to try. After finishing the test, I walked to where my parents were staying, feeling relieved because I thought the test had gone well. I was already thinking ahead to my planned travels through Southeast Asia.

In an instant, everything changed.

I powered up my phone to find dozens of missed calls and hundreds of messages from my friends and extended family back home. Strange, given the six-hour time difference between Seoul and Tel Aviv, where it was still early morning. As I scrolled, the first images and videos appeared. Trucks filled with armed terrorists streaming into Israeli cities. Men with guns attacking innocent civilians in their homes. I was shocked. I understood that something very bad was underway, though I couldn’t yet grasp the full scale of the horror unfolding before me.

I called a close friend who was on his way to Ben Gurion Airport. We were supposed to meet in the Philippines for a surfing trip, but he had been called up to his army unit. We tried to salvage our plans, naively suggesting that we could postpone the trip by a week or two. Neither of us knew that as we spoke, a massacre and mass rape was underway in the south of Israel.

We ended the conversation as we usually did — “take care of yourself,” I told him. But something felt different as these words came out of my mouth — they had real implications. “Take care” was no longer just a phrase. It was an insistent request that he do his best to stay alive, while still doing his duty. I didn’t know if I would ever speak to him again. I can’t explain it but I felt it in my bones. Now, I end many of my conversations with friends and family using these same words, and I’ve grown accustomed to the feeling that this may be our last exchange.

I called my friend again to see how he was. He had already arrived in the south, before the media could document the carnage. He told me that the situation was much worse than anyone knew, and he described what he had witnessed: bodies scattered across the streets, houses turned to ash, whole communities destroyed.

I decided then to cancel my travel and rejoin my army unit, but it proved nearly impossible to get home, as rockets fired by Hamas and Hezbollah led to airlines canceling flights en masse. Every Israeli that I knew abroad was trying to make their way back, hoping to help in whatever way they could.

I finally secured a ticket through Switzerland, and found myself roaming the streets of Zurich, confronted by the contradictory nature of my reality. Around me, people sipped coffee at sidewalk cafes and shopped in gleaming stores, enjoying themselves on a beautiful October day, while my world crumbled. I was thinking about the months ahead, about what I was headed for, about the prospect of death.

At the airport in Zurich, in order to prevent further attacks on Israelis on their way home, there was no sign indicating where I could find my check-in, and a heavy security presence policed the area. There must have been at least a hundred people from the Swiss Jewish community who had come to show their support. They had organized suitcases filled with donations to send to their loved ones in Israel. As I was standing in line, they asked if my family was safe, wished me safety, and thanked me for what I was doing. It felt like the apocalypse, but I also felt a strong consolation in this expression of Jewish solidarity.

In the following weeks, while serving on reserve duty, I went through a period when I didn’t want to answer phone calls. Too often, the ring brought devastating news — a friend from work killed trying to save people from the massacre at Kibbutz Beeri, a friend’s brother murdered in his home, and more. I attended enough funerals for a lifetime. Two boyhood friends who were at the Nova music festival managed to survive, and that was a ray of light.

Then came the news about the hostages taken into Gaza, and I couldn’t stop imagining the horrors they must be going through. Unfortunately, Israelis have some experience with hostages, and we understand well that when Hamas captures an Israeli hostage, getting them back will be extremely difficult. No one was able to grasp the magnitude of the number of hostages, when it was announced. Two-hundred fifty-one hostages, seized from their homes. Among the hostages taken were children, grandparents, and even a baby. Twelve of the hostages were American citizens. As of today, a year after their abduction, at least 97 people taken hostage on October 7th are believed to remain in the hands of Hamas in Gaza.

When I was admitted to Harvard, I was hesitant to come. I love my home, and I’m proud of my heritage, and I was bothered by the idea of being in a place where the anti-Israel sentiment is so strong, and where people might judge my morals and values before knowing anything about me. However, when I came for Visitas, I met incredible, open minded people. My gut told me that I should come here, and that it would be okay.

In my short few weeks as a Harvard student, I’ve discovered how complicated and incredible this place is. I’ve experienced discrimination purely based on my identity as an Israeli. I have also met many students who are sincere and curious. Several have become close friends, and I’m looking forward to getting to know many more of my classmates.

It’s been a year since October 7th, and Israel is still at war. As I walk through Harvard Yard to class, I am constantly reminded that I live two realities. In front of me, students go to lectures, solve problem sets, and relax on the grass. Back in Israel, my family is in bomb shelters, my friends are serving on the front line, and my home is under attack.

As we continue to suffer, we mark one year since we lost the first victims of October 7th, one year since our neighbors, friends, and family were dragged into captivity in Gaza.

May the memory of the 1,195 victims of October 7th be a blessing, and may the hostages return home safely and soon.

Yehudah Tor ’28, a Crimson Editorial comper, lives in Hurlbut Hall.