This morning, as I prepare food for guests who will join us for a Shabbat meal, I listen to the wistful optimistic music of one of my favorite Israeli performance artists, Idan Reichel, and feel a choking sadness rise in my throat.

I’m constantly reminded these days of the deep belief of the primarily Left-wing residents of the communities near Gazan in the desire for peace shared by the Arabs living close by. In the face of years of rockets flying overhead from Gaza into Israel, voices of terrorists coming from below their floorboards, and violent demonstrations along the fence separating them from Gaza, still they remained steadfast in their conviction that ultimately, at the depths of their souls, if left alone to express their true selves, their neighbors would show their humanity and good hearts.

On Saturday, October 7, just one day after the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, Hamas terrorists infiltrated into Southern Israel after hacking into the observation equipment in the army bases closest to the border with Gaza and slaughtering the young women soldiers in the observation room.

Thousands of Gaza residents joined Hamas forces in a concerted attack from the air with hang gliders, from the sea, and on land with jeeps, small trucks, and on foot.

They caught Israel mostly unaware and unprepared.

Inexplicably, residents of the infiltrated communities called repeatedly for help from the army and police while locked in their safe rooms, but the first troops started to arrive only six-seven hours later.

By then it was too late for many people who were literally slaughtered – men, women, and children – many as they fought with whatever they had at hand to save their children.

Homes were burned to the ground, burning those inside alive.

Over two hundred people were taken captive into Gaza, including many infants, young children, Holocaust survivors, and other elderly.

The stories of the atrocities committed continue to surface, some with photos, videos, or heartwrenching phone recordings of those begging their relatives to come save them.

Scenes of thousands of young people, whose crimes were being Jewish and wanting to dance at a music festival, running for their lives, being chased by gunfire, caught by laughing terrorists who did unspeakable things to many of them.

Scenes burned into the memories of all who saw them.

Entire families in those communities, many of whom adopted a lifestyle combining John Lennon’s Imagine philosophy with the back to the earth movement of the late 60s, were wiped out. Many were slaughtered as they hugged each other on beds, on couches, or on the floor.

I never understood how they could believe in the basic goodness of people who sheltered murderers, celebrated terror in the streets, and expressed pride and joy in the deaths of their suicide bomber family members. I never agreed with their political views, believing them to be naive and with no foundation.

And yet for the past ten days every time I think of them, when I can see past the horrific pictures in my head, I mostly feel a sadness so deep that it knows no limits. The bursting of their dream, the disillusionment of people in their 70s, 80s, and 90s who have spent their lives committed to building a peaceful future with their neighbors.

I so wish they had been right.

Grief for 1300 people brutally murdered in one terrifying day. Grief for a way of life. Grief for a dream destroyed. Grief for humanity that we share our world with people who revel in cruelty beyond words and those who glorify them.

There’s a story told about a small African Blackwood tree uprooted by strong winds in Senegal which, separated from its family, fell to the ground on a rocky mountainside in Eritrea.

Somehow, over time, it managed to force roots into the rocks and began to grow. A pair of birds flying by noticed the little tree struggling to survive on its own and decided to make their nest on the fragile limbs of the tree. Over several years they raised several families of birds on the growing limbs which grew progressively stronger.

One day, the Blackwood asked the birds if, in their travels, they saw others of her kind, and was told that they had, indeed, seen a small forest of Blackwoods but it was several thousands of miles away.

One day a huge storm came to the Simien Mountains and once again the tree was uprooted. She fell to the depths of the valley beneath her mountain peak.

When the birds saw what had happened, they rescued their friend the African Blackwood. But before they could return her to her spot, she asked that they take her to her family in far away Senegal. They told her how hard the trip would be and how long it would take. They told her there was little chance she would survive such an undertaking.

The trip was in fact grueling. Though the birds made every effort to accommodate their friend’s needs, her roots began to dry out, her leaves to wither, and her spirit to falter. But after many days and weeks, they saw the African Blackwood forest below.

The birds lay her down gently on the forest floor. As they flew off, they looked down to see her embraced by several of the large Blackwoods and knew she would flourish.