B"H
A Million Stories Need to Be Told—Now a Million Minus Two
by Rabbi Jack Engel
There’s an old Yiddish saying: “Every Jew is a story, and every story deserves to be told.” Sadly, after October 7th, we’ve inherited more stories than we ever wanted—some miraculous, some heartbreaking, and some so heroic they don’t seem real.
I wish I could share all one million. But for now, I’ll share just two. And if they stir your soul evena fraction as much as they did mine, then maybe, just maybe, the stories will continue through you.
Story One: Aner Shapiro
Aner didn’t fit the mold of the stereotypical “religious Jew.” He wasn’t in yeshiva, didn’t wear a kippah every day—but don’t let appearances fool you. Because when it mattered most, Aner performed a kiddush Hashem of epic proportions.
On October 7th, as Hamas terrorists swept through southern Israel, Aner found himself among 22 people crammed into a bomb shelter that was built for ten. You’d think that would be enough trauma. But when the terrorists started hurling grenades into the shelter—one after the next—Aner made a choice.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t run. He picked up the live grenades—yes, picked them up—and threw them back. Again and again. He saved lives. He confused the terrorists. And eventually, tragically, he was killed.
Aner didn’t die because he was overly pobservant. He died because he was a Jew who understood what it means to be responsible for others. That’s Torah in action. That’s Judaism
not just as ritual—but as sacrifice, courage, and unwavering moral clarity.
And I dare say, the reward for such bravery doesn’t just wait for him in Olam HaBa—it lives on
in every person he saved, every soul he protected, and every Jew who now hears his name and says, “That’s who I want to be.”
Story Two: Atir and the Bedouin Farmer
Atir was at the Nova festival—the site of some of the worst atrocities of that day. He managed to escape, along with seven others, running five miles on pure adrenaline and what I assume must have been a good pair of sneakers. They stumbled upon a farm, desperate, exhausted, and
praying for refuge.
And there they met their unlikely hero: a Bedouin farmer.
This man knew they were Jewish. He also knew Hamas was coming. He had every reason to shut his door, to turn his back, to say, “Not my problem.” But instead—he did what was right.
He took them in. Hid them. Protected them. Not because he was Jewish. Not because heshared their story. But because he shared their humanity. And for that, he put himself—and his children—at risk.
That, my friends, is tsedek. Righteousness. And it lives outside labels.
So Where Does That Leave Us?
You may ask, how can we live with the tension between heartbreak and hope? Between Yom Hazikaron, where we mourn our heroes, and Yom HaAtzmaut, where we celebrate our freedom?
It’s a good question. But I’ll tell you this:
Only the Jewish people could design a calendar that tells you to cry one night and dance the next. Only our nation says, “First remember, then rejoice.”
Why? Because we understand that freedom without memory is meaningless, and memory without purpose is paralyzing.
We grieve on Yom Hazikaron not to feel helpless—but to remind ourselves why our joy on Yom HaAtzmaut is so hard-earned, so holy, so unshakable.
We don’t hide the pain to make room for the celebration—we carry it with us, side by side. We dance with tears in our eyes, because our ancestors dreamed of a Jewish state for 2,000 years. And now we have it—not in theory, not in history books, but in reality.
Yes, we pay a heavy price. And yes, the losses are staggering. But every story, like Aner’s and Atir’s, is a reminder that the soul of Am Yisrael is still burning bright.
We cry so that we remember.
We dance so that we don’t forget why we cried.
May we live lives worthy of the sacrifices made for us.
May we build a future where fewer stories end in tragedy and more in triumph.
And may we always have the courage to choose what’s right—even when it’s hard, even when it’s dangerous, and even when we’re scared.
Because to be a Jew is not just to survive history.
It’s to shape it—with heart, with hope, and chutzpah.
