More love

Sasha and I spent the morning together on the day I interviewed him.

We gathered food for breakfast and sat outside overlooking the sea.

Every few moments, another therapist approached him; telling him how often they thought of him when he was in captivity in G*za, how they prayed for him. One woman told him how surreal it was to see him in real life, after a poster of him sat on her couch for a year and half.

Most people said, "I'm sure you get sick of hearing this, but..." and then showered him with love.

He always responded, "I could never get sick of hearing that."

In the in betweens, he told me quietly that he feels that people should also be giving more love and attention to our soldiers. That not enough support is being given to the people who protect our country. It bothers him deeply.

When we were on stage, he said that he didn't know what was happening in the outside world during his captivity. He didn't know that people in Israel were screaming his name, or that people were fighting for him to come home.

On stage and in our private conversations, he urged us to keep communicating this to everyone. From his perspective, we have all been through so much. We need to interact with more patience and kindness. More empathy. More unity.

More love.

When we were on stage, sometimes I forgot that there were 250 clinicians in the room listening to us.

The room was so silent, nothing but mine and Sasha's voices reverberating through.

He told us about his October 7th in detail. I was hearing much of the story for the first time, alongside everyone else, feeling it land in my body. Reminding myself to keep breathing as air escaped me.

He talked about his experience of isolation, and the relationship he developed with his capt*rs that helped him survive.

About his injuries and the experience of being injured without humane treatment.

About what it was like to be released, and how he mentally coped with it all.

About how his priorities changed. His worldview changed.

How he discovered his spirituality in the tunnels.

What his healing looks like and what we who work with individuals and communities need to know.

He reiterated how alone he felt. How he is acclimating to being home in Israel.

At one point, when he was discussing the pain of feeling forgotten, in my response to him, I simply said, "Sasha, we have thought of you. Prayed for you. We have never forgotten you.

Sasha, we love you."

He held my gaze, feeling my meaning, and we both started when the crowd erupted.

We looked up and the entire room was in a standing ovation for him at that statement. "We love you."

Clapping and cheering and sending waves of love to the stage.

I watched it wash over him.

From the tips of his ears, to his cheeks went red, his smile so sweet. His head bent forward in receiving all the energy we were sending his way.

And I thought, what a miracle this moment was.

I can't describe his generosity in what he shared with us.

How he carefully taught us how to be present for what is happening now in Israel.

How he showed us what it meant to be resilient. To be human. To be in process.

I learned many things from him, but this is the headline from what I took from our time together:

We are a nation of survivors, not vict*ms.

Engage with kindness and compassion with everyone you meet. Always, but especially now.

And keep loving each other.

Deeply.

Fiercly.

Eternally.

We are a people who do not give up on each other.

We've got a long road ahead of us. Don't assume that the work of rebuilding is being done by other people.

Ask yourself, what is my role, responsibility, or opportunity?

Can you donate money, time, voice, or presence?

There are so many needs that are not being met yet.

It will take a nation unified to do this work.

How can you help?

Thank you to Sally Katzin for this image of our interview at the GHI Mental Health Conference.