The Power of Not Knowing: My Journey with Uncertainty Since October 7th

It was the first Friday night service I attended after October 7th, 2023. Chairs filled with linked-hand congregants, blue ribbons on every lapel or collar. Communal mourning was palpable, but so was everyone’s opinion. At the oneg after services, we gathered in clusters, my mentors, teachers, relatives, people who shaped my Jewish perspective and identity, and discussed our views on the conflict, each one unique.

My temple community represented an array of opinions and ideas, many of them in tension with each other. Was this historically warranted or unprecedented? Should I feel pride in my religion or shame for its destruction? Am I supposed to react with anger, sadness, or something else? That service, filled with 40 people, gave rise to 40 different answers. Yet each person had one thing in common: everyone seemed to know exactly what they believed, only days after a major shift in history. That night, people kept coming up to me, asking what I thought. And the only answer that felt genuine for me was, “I don’t know.” I felt an overwhelming guilt for my lack of a stance. Suddenly, the communities and relationships that I once found safety in felt heated. During every conversation I had within my Jewish community, the common ground felt like thinning ice, developing hairline cracks, and each of us was tiptoeing around buzzwords and polarizing beliefs. 

Questions swirled in my mind: How could I not have the guts to support something? Why did everyone else know what they believed, while I didn’t? What would people think of me if I didn’t say what I stood for? 

Instead of creeping closer to the scary, raw, yet real truth, I had no idea what was happening or what to think. I changed the subject, pivoting to my favorite babka on the oneg table or the temple events that month, hoping politics wouldn’t come back up. 

As the conflict abroad continued, these kinds of conversations became a pattern in my life. From history classes to dinner parties and even text messages, I was met with bold, concrete opinions and expected to return with my own. Instead of responding, I changed the subject. I felt ashamed that I didn’t understand. Consequently, I tried to educate myself; I read books, listened to podcasts, and kept up with the news because I thought education would offer a clear picture of what I should believe. Still, my opinion kept shifting and changing, traveling across a spectrum of contrasting ideas. With every new piece of information, my opinions only became more elusive.

Walking into the Student Diversity Leadership conference on a chilly Denver weekend in 2024, I worried that this lack of an opinion would negatively impact others’ opinions of me. I was attending as a spokesperson for equity and inclusion at my school, and I couldn’t even figure out what inclusion looked like for a community so deeply linked to me personally.

When I entered an affinity space for Jewish people, the subject of Israel and Gaza eventually surfaced. My hands grew clammy. I was ready to look like the uninformed, incompetent person in the room. Instead, I was met with conversation after conversation with student leaders who felt the same uncertainty I did.

Seeing this trait of uncertainty in our future diversity leaders, whom I looked up to and respected, made me reflect: Was there some hidden power in not claiming to have all the answers, even when you were expected to? 

At that moment, when we shared our uncertainty, we all felt a little safer with each other. I realized that maybe my willingness to reconsider my own perspective is what has allowed me to truly listen to each disparate opinion about the conflict. After opening up with my fellow student leaders, I felt proud and secure in my Jewish faith and hopeful for the future, seeing who our leaders would be. Outside of the conference’s bubble, I see my generation exhibiting this same willingness to let their opinion ebb and flow at school, work, and even in the Rising Voices Fellowship. My generation is learning that there is power in not always knowing the answer.

Now, I feel better equipped to walk into my temple next time with an open mind, ready to talk honestly about how I feel, even if I don’t yet fully know my emotions about Israel and Gaza. I am better able to listen and absorb the thoughts and feelings of those around me because I don’t have my own stagnant beliefs clogging my ears. I respect my temple members’ developed ideas and opinions on the conflict, but I hope they hold these opinions because they are truly their own and not because they feel pressured to take a stance, as I did. And maybe, by simply admitting that I don’t always have an answer, no matter how “taboo” it may be, I can help my community members feel a little more okay with not knowing as well.