When I wrote “The long shadow of Hamas” in The Jerusalem Post in January, I pointed out the massive psychological fallout from the war and suggested an action plan. At that time, the wounds of October 7 were still very raw, open, and barely beginning to scar.
We were only weeks past the first hostage releases. The nation was oscillating between joy and dread, hope and despair, a thousand emotional fragments blended into a single, overwhelming national trauma.
Ten months later, as I sat this week among more than 150 mental health professionals, frontline responders, bereaved parents, and brave lone soldiers at the Trauma, Resilience and Unity conference in Jerusalem, the brain-child of Dr Nachum Goldwasser and Mrs Susan Cohen, I was struck by one overwhelming truth: the shadow is still with us - but so are thousands of rays of light.
The conference was a portrait of a nation hurting, of a people with a huge psychological need, but also a nation mobilizing. A people that refuses to let trauma have the final word; a nation determined to ensure that no one suffers alone.
The gathering brought together an extraordinary range of voices:
• Veteran therapists with decades of clinical experience treating trauma both in the civilian and military arenas.
• Bereaved parents whose sons and daughters fell in the war against Hamas speaking with heartbreaking honesty, but also startling strength.
• Lone soldiers suffering from PTSD who stood before us with trembling vulnerability and astounding courage.
• Volunteers, social workers, rabbis, educators, and community activists.
• And hundreds more joining by livestream, wanting only one thing: to help.
To sit in that room was to feel the spiritual weight of a country that has endured too much, and yet somehow continues to stand tall.
Rabbi Doron Perez, whose son Daniel fell heroically in Gaza, declared:
“It’s really not OK, but I am learning that it’s OK not to be OK.”
A young lone soldier suffering from deep scars and obvious PTSD shared:
“Therapy [in his case EMDR] has saved my life.”
And a senior clinician reminded us all:
“Trauma is not weakness. Trauma is the price of caring.”
In January, I warned that the psychological fallout of this war would be profound and long-lasting. I called it a “long shadow” that would stretch across families, generations, and communities, much like the multigenerational trauma documented among Holocaust survivors and their descendants. That warning has only become more urgent.
Every speaker confirmed what many of us already knew:
• Rates of PTSD among soldiers and their families are unprecedented.
• Anxiety and depression among children have risen sharply.
• Bereaved families are navigating uncharted emotional territory.
• The national sense of safety, so integral to the Israeli psyche, has been shattered.
• And the official mental health workforce, already stretched thin a year ago, is now drowning.
However, that was not the dominant message of the gathering.
THE DOMINANT message was resilience and hope. Not naive hope; not “everything will be fine” hope. Rather, it was pragmatic, grounded, fiercely determined hope, that comes from an increased resilience.
The experts at the conference kept repeating this mantra of “building resilience” over and over until we all felt we knew what needed to be achieved – and that there were many different ways to achieve it.
What struck me most was the breadth of those responding to the crisis.
There were established mental health centers, military clinics, trauma specialists, and therapy teams who have been carrying impossible caseloads for over a year.
There were soldiers who, even while dealing with their own trauma, have become peer counselors for their friends and set up support groups.
Israel has been politically and socially divided in recent years. Yet trauma, paradoxically, has the capacity to unite. Traumatic injury forces us to recognize our shared humanity; it strips away labels, politics, and categories.
The conference name – “Trauma, Resilience and Unity” – was not a slogan. It was a description.
Secular therapists can and do help religious soldiers.
Bereaved parents console one another without ever asking, “Who did your son vote for?”
Clinicians from left-leaning NGOs counsel reservists from elite combat units.
Trauma is not partisan.
It knows no hierarchy.
PTSD cares not a jot about ideology: It is universal.
As I listened to one speaker describe the long-term neurobiological impacts of trauma, I felt again the echo of the metaphor I used in January – the “long shadow of Hamas.” That shadow is indeed long: it falls across children waking at night from nightmares, across parents wondering if their children will ever feel safe, across families grieving unimaginable loss.
Still, walking out of the conference hall, I realized something important:
Shadows only exist where light is present.
And at the conference, the light was blinding.
Israel's helpers, professional and volunteer, religious and secular, young and old, are vast in number and extraordinary in dedication. Their skills vary, their methods differ, their backgrounds diverge, but their shared purpose is unmistakable.
They are determined that no one will walk this dark road alone.
If there was one message every speaker wanted the nation to hear, one message that rose again and again above the tears, statistics, theories, and stories, it was this: You are not alone.
Help exists.
Real help.
Immediate help.
Compassionate help.
Free help.
No one, absolutely no one, needs to suffer alone.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out.
The first port of call could be Tikvah’s 24-hour helpline: 074-775-1433.
They will listen.
They will guide.
They will connect you to the right support.
They will stay with you through the darkness.
As I wrote in January, we continue to pray for the healing of the soul and healing of the body.
This week’s conference reminded me that prayer is not only words; it is also action. It is also kindness. It is also holding one another up when the world feels too heavy.
The long shadow remains.
Yet we are walking through it together, holding hands with those who really care.
That is how healing begins.
The writer is a rabbi and physician. For more of his work, visit: rabbidrjonathanlieberman.substack.com and youtube.com/@rabbidrjonathanlieberman.