A new year that begins where the world broke

Israel has been dealing with terrorism for decades. I have vivid memories of waking up to hear of a suicide bombing on a bus or a restuarant or a nightclub. Walking into a sombre school. Sitting in an assembly called specifically to talk about what had happened, sending prayers for those who were injured and for the families of those who were murdered, teachers making sure we were emotionally and mentally dealing with what was occurring. 

I was in Israel during the second intifada. Phones were instructed to be on at all times. Alerts would randomly beep and we’d have to check in with our madrichim within 10 minutes or a search party would begin. We would be told to shelter in place, immediately return to family or start heading back to our group base. Instructions would depend on the severity of the threat. 

Terror was, heartbreakingly, something familiar to the Jewish people. It was something we accepted upon travel to Israel. 

And then on September 11, 2001, the intifada was globalised. And everything changed. Security changed. Airports changed. Travel changed. Hearts changed. 

Now though, a whole generation of people have no living recollection of September 11. They don’t recall watching planes fly into the Twin Towers or hearing of the one crashing into the Pentagon, or of the passengers who revolted against the hijackers, sacrificing their own lives to save those on the ground. 

They don’t remember waking up all the way over here in Australia to witness, in real time, the world changing forever. 

The world seems to have forgotten that day. This new generation doesn’t care to learn. Or if they are learning about it, they’re certainly not listening. And they call to globalise the intifada. 

Which is why the intifada was globalised right here in Australia last year, with the deadliest terror attack in Australian history committed against the Jewish community while we celebrated our most joyous festival, Chanukah. 

It seems fitting – if that’s even the correct word – that we then start our New Year on September 11. The day the world changed.

Perhaps it is time to change the world back. To turn the world back on its axis. 

As we made our way to synagogue on first day Rosh Hashanah, my young son asked me how American Jews could celebrate Rosh Hashanah on the 25th anniversary of the September 11 attacks. If Rosh Hashanah is a “happy chag”, can they really be happy when they’re remembering something so sad?

But perhaps that’s the point. Rosh Hashanah is just as much about reflecting on the year or years gone by and looking to the year ahead. 

Unlike the fireworks and countdowns of December 31, Rosh Hashanah asks something deeper of us. It’s not about resolutions or goals, it’s about reflecting on who you have been and looking at who you want to become. 

We don’t judge. We question. Did you show up for the people in your life? Could you have done better? Were you generous with your time, patient with your family, present when it mattered? Did you fall short somewhere? 

And as the year turns, with it comes the chance to turn too. 

I remember every detail of September 11. I will never forget it. 

I remember every detail of December 14. I remember where I was, who told me, and what I did in the immediate aftermath. I remember what I didn’t do. Who I focused on. Did I do everything right? Probably not. 

Starting a new year on September 11 forces a conversation; not just between us and our past, but between us and our children. This is a generation that didn’t live through it but is living with its consequences. They inherited a world shaped by that day and they deserve to understand why. 

So what did I say to my young son when he asked me how to be happy when commemorating something so heartbreaking? 

I answered with hope. I told him that we remember but we celebrate. We honour but we celebrate. We let our hearts break but we celebrate. We look to our past but then we always look ahead. And if we do that, perhaps we can bring in a better New Year than the last. 

That understanding doesn’t come just through lessons or documentaries alone, but also through the way we talk about it at home, or even on the way to synagogue. We owe them the truth of what happened and we owe them the context of what came after. But we also owe them the forward gaze. 

Because reflection without direction is just sadness. 

And Rosh Hashanah has never been about sitting in sadness. It is about carrying what we know, what we’ve witnessed, what we’ve survived, and walking into the next year changed by it. 

The younger generation doesn’t need us to tell them the world is broken. They can see that.

What they need is to watch us take stock honestly and grieve openly. And they need to see that despite it all, we still choose to build. 

That is what honouring the past while hoping for the future looks like. Not frozen in time. Moving through it.

Jessica Abelsohn is the National Deputy Editor of The AJN.