MHFA Israel Blog

In the months following the October 7, 2023 attacks, Israelis faced not only physical devastation but a profound psychological rupture.

When rockets fall, survival instinct kicks in. People run, hide, protect. But when the sirens stop and the smoke clears, what remains is often harder to see.

Israel has long been a leader in physical preparedness. Bomb shelters are built into apartment buildings. Air-raid drills are routine. But emotional preparedness has lagged behind.

Grief is often thought of as a private experience—something mourned in bedrooms or at gravesides. But in Israel, grief is collective, echoing through city squares.

Listening sounds simple. We do it every day. But true listening—the kind that heals—requires far more than ears. It requires presence, patience, and a willingness to sit with discomfort.

In the immediate aftermath of October 7, many survivors appeared remarkably composed. They evacuated calmly, answered questions clearly, helped others. Then, weeks later, they fell apart.

In the months following October 7, many families faced an unbearable reality: their loved ones were not confirmed dead or alive. They were taken—vanished into an unimaginable void.

Not everyone can articulate their suffering. Children lack the vocabulary. Elderly survivors may be disoriented. Some trauma is simply too vast for language.

Trauma can push the mind toward despair. In the months following October 7, mental health professionals across Israel have reported a rise in suicidal ideation—not only among direct survivors, but across communities.

Children are not small adults. They process trauma differently, often without words. A child who witnessed violence might seem fine—until the nightmares begin.

When schools reopened in the weeks following October 7, teachers returned to classrooms filled with questions, fears, and silence. They were expected to educate—while still processing trauma themselves.

In the days following October 7, synagogues filled not only with prayers but with raw grief. Rabbis found themselves acting as both spiritual guides and emergency counselors.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is no stranger to Israel. Generations of wars, attacks, and collective memory of survival have normalized resilience—but sometimes at the cost of recognizing real struggle.

Police officers, soldiers, paramedics, firefighters—they arrived at the scenes of October 7 and found horrors beyond description. They carried out their duties. Then they went home.

"Why did I survive when they didn't?" This question haunts many survivors of October 7. It is both irrational and deeply human.

There's a saying among mental health workers: "You can't pour from an empty cup." In the months since October 7, thousands of volunteers, therapists, and community leaders have been pouring.

Trauma recovery is not a sprint—it's a marathon. Mental Health First Aid Israel prepares communities for the long haul, offering strategies for sustainable healing.

Trauma isolates. It tells us we're alone in our pain, that no one understands. Mental Health First Aid Israel counters this lie by rebuilding social connection.

Healing doesn't mean forgetting. It means learning to carry what happened as part of who we are—without being crushed by its weight.

In a nation grieving together, it might seem impossible to feel alone. And yet, for many Israelis in the months after October 7, loneliness became an invisible epidemic.

Grief, for most of history, was thought to be deeply personal. But science now reveals that when trauma strikes an entire nation, grief itself changes shape.

Not all healing comes from professionals. Sometimes the most powerful support comes from someone who has walked a similar path—a fellow survivor, a neighbor who understands, a friend who doesn't flinch.

Trauma can wound more than the psyche—it can wound the soul. Mental Health First Aid Israel is increasingly addressing a phenomenon known as moral injury.

In the weeks following October 7, galleries and community centers filled with something unexpected: children's drawings of rockets and shelters, paintings of fire and rescue, poems scratched into notebooks.

The guns may fall silent, but the internal battle often intensifies. Suicide rates historically rise in the aftermath of conflict—not during it.

When a community loses someone to suicide, the grief is compounded by stigma, confusion, and fear. Mental Health First Aid Israel addresses this critical phase through postvention.

Children are not immune to trauma. They absorb what they cannot understand. And after October 7, tens of thousands of Israeli children faced experiences no child should witness.

For many Israelis, faith is not only personal—it is national, woven into identity and history. But after October 7, that faith, for some, was deeply shaken.

Loneliness kills. It is not a metaphor. Research shows that chronic isolation is as damaging to health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day—and it is one of the strongest predictors of suicidal ideation.

"What do we do with our pain?" This question, asked across Israel in the aftermath of October 7, lies at the heart of trauma recovery.

Israel's soldiers carry more than weapons—they carry weight. The psychological toll of combat, loss, and moral complexity can linger long after the battlefield quiets.

When a parent becomes a full-time caretaker of a wounded soldier, or a teacher absorbs the grief of a classroom, trauma doesn't stay in one place—it spreads.

In the aftermath of October 7, some Israelis discovered an unexpected refuge: movement. Running, swimming, dancing, or simply walking became acts of survival.

Trauma can unite—but it can also divide. In the months following October 7, Israel has grappled not only with external enemies but with internal tensions.

"Israelis are resilient." It's a phrase heard after every crisis—a compliment and, sometimes, a burden. But what does resilience actually mean?

A siren sounds—a car alarm, not a rocket—but the heart races anyway. A news headline flashes, and suddenly you're back in October.

Suicide is rarely a solitary act. It happens within a context of relationships, communities, and environments. Mental Health First Aid Israel promotes a village approach to prevention.

For many Israeli children, the threat is not past—it's present. Sirens may still sound. Schools may still close. Parents may still leave for reserve duty.

Grief is not static. It shifts, ebbs, and surges in unexpected ways. For families who lost loved ones in the October 7 attacks or the war that followed, grief has become a constant companion.

Sleep—that quiet refuge—has become elusive for many Israelis since October 7. Nightmares, hypervigilance, and racing thoughts turn nights into battlefields of their own.

Suicide thrives in silence. The more it's whispered, avoided, or shamed, the more powerful it becomes. Mental Health First Aid Israel is committed to breaking that silence.

Behind every paramedic, soldier, and social worker on the frontlines is often a family waiting at home. Mental Health First Aid Israel recognizes the invisible toll on the children of helpers.

"Is it okay to laugh?" After months of grief, some Israelis have found themselves hesitating before moments of joy—guilty for feeling anything but sorrow.

Some of the most distressed people appear to be thriving. They work long hours, care for others, and rarely complain. But underneath, they're drowning.

There is something profoundly healing about being understood by someone who has been there. Mental Health First Aid Israel trains peer supporters to harness this power.

Suicidal thoughts rarely announce themselves. More often, they hide in offhand comments, dark jokes, or sudden changes in behavior.

In the chaos following trauma, small routines become anchors. Mental Health First Aid Israel encourages daily rituals as tools for emotional regulation.

Every week, new cohorts of volunteers enter MHFA Israel's training rooms. They come from all walks of life—teachers, taxi drivers, retirees, students—united by a desire to help.

You don't have to experience trauma directly to be affected by it. Witnesses—those who see violence, hear stories, or view images—carry their own wounds.

In the weeks following October 7, communities across Israel gathered around tables. Some were formal: shiva visits, volunteer dinners, Shabbat programs. Others were spontaneous: neighbors sharing soup.

The window immediately following a suicidal crisis is critical. Research shows that the first 72 hours after an acute episode represent both the greatest risk—and the greatest opportunity for intervention.

Adolescence is already a time of upheaval. Add collective trauma, and the result is a generation grappling with adult fears in still-developing minds.

Older Israelis have seen much. Wars, loss, rebuilding. Yet the October 7 attacks reopened wounds many thought healed—and created new ones.

Even when the sirens stop, the nervous system doesn't always get the message. Hypervigilance—a state of constant alertness—is one of the most common symptoms of post-trauma distress.

The men and women who rush toward danger often carry it home with them. First responders—soldiers, police, paramedics, firefighters—face elevated suicide risk worldwide. In post-October 7 Israel, this risk is acute.

Trauma is not just psychological. It lodges in the body—tight shoulders, racing heart, shallow breath. Mental Health First Aid Israel incorporates body awareness into its training.

"Stay strong." It's a phrase Israelis hear constantly—an affirmation, a command, a national slogan. But what happens when strength becomes a mask?

Months after October 7, many Israelis report a pervasive, bone-deep tiredness—not just physical, but emotional. Mental Health First Aid Israel calls this collective fatigue.

In Israel today, the word "normal" has changed. It used to mean simple things: children walking to school without glancing at the sky, parents planning vacations months ahead.

For most people, anniversaries mark milestones — birthdays, weddings, holidays. For those living with trauma or grief, they mark absences. The calendar becomes a quiet trigger.

After tragedy, joy can feel suspicious. Laughter sounds too loud. Music feels misplaced. Even a moment of calm can trigger guilt.

Every day, Israel's police officers, border guards, and security personnel face what most people only glimpse in headlines — violence, loss, and the constant pressure to remain composed.

In Israel, the smallest sounds once brought comfort — the hum of morning traffic, the chatter in cafés, the laughter of children walking to school. After October 7, those same sounds became reminders of fragility.

Athletes and soldiers share more than discipline and endurance — they share silence. Both worlds prize toughness, sacrifice, and pushing past pain. Both reward stoicism.

After months of noise — sirens, shouting, headlines, funerals — Israel is slowly rediscovering the sound of silence. Not the empty kind. The kind that listens.

They came back when called — again. They left their jobs, their families, and their routines, returning to bases that felt both familiar and foreign.

Since October 7, Israel has seen extraordinary compassion in motion — volunteers packing food for evacuees, therapists offering free counseling, teachers comforting children through sirens.

They are the ones everyone turns to — the listeners, the counselors, the psychologists, the social workers, the crisis-line volunteers. They hear the worst and hold it quietly.

When the rockets fell, they left more than rubble. They took away the most basic human need — a sense of home.

When the missiles stopped, many assumed the danger had passed. But for thousands of displaced families across Israel, the hardest part began after the silence.

In Israel's classrooms, the voices of children once filled the air with chatter, songs, and arguments about soccer scores or homework. After October 7, those same classrooms became quieter.

In classrooms and youth movements across Israel, there's a quiet many adults don't notice — a silence filled not with peace, but with pain.

When the school bell rang again after October 7, many children returned not to the classrooms they left, but to new ones — in temporary buildings, different cities, or with unfamiliar teachers.

Teachers are trained to manage classrooms, not catastrophes. Yet since October 7, they have carried both.

In the months after October 7, Israelis began to gather again — not in stadiums or concert halls, but around tables. Folding tables in community centers, wooden ones in borrowed halls.

There are no words for the loss of a child. There are sentences — funerals, memorials, condolences — but no language wide enough to hold the silence that follows.

In neighborhoods across Israel, something remarkable is happening. Where there were once empty lots, parking strips, and abandoned courtyards, small groups of residents are planting seeds.

For most of the world, the day hostages returned to Israel was a moment of national relief — flags waving, tears streaming, prayers answered. But behind those scenes of jubilation were homes where silence replaced celebration.

When the evacuations began, many of Israel's elderly didn't pack much — a few photographs, a prayer book, medicine, maybe a favorite shawl. They had already lived through wars and relocations.

They are the quiet backbone of Israel's recovery — the mothers, spouses, adult children, and neighbors who care for the wounded, the elderly, and the emotionally scarred.

In a country where sirens, explosions, and shouting once filled the air, music has slowly returned. Not the loud kind of music that demands attention, but the quiet kind that sneaks back into life.

In the first weeks after October 7, artists rushed to help. They sang at funerals, performed for evacuees, painted murals of unity, wrote poems of mourning and hope.

In trauma's aftermath, words often fail. People know what they feel, but not how to say it. They carry images too heavy for language.

In the months following October 7, Israel's artists and art therapists became quiet heroes. They painted murals in shelters, guided children's hands trembling with fear.

In the months after October 7, many Israelis found themselves surrounded by silence — a stillness that followed sirens, loss, and fear. For some, the quiet felt unbearable.

For months after October 7, the fields of Israel told a different story. Crops stood untended. Tractors rusted. Irrigation lines curled like veins through soil that had seen too much.

There is a phrase that has begun to appear again in Israeli conversations — chozrim leseder yom, "returning to the daily order."

Long after the explosions fade and the news cycle shifts, the body continues to keep score. In homes, classrooms, shelters, and workplaces across Israel, countless people are living with physical symptoms.

In the days and weeks after October 7, tens of thousands of Israelis stepped forward to help. Some cooked meals for displaced families; others coordinated aid deliveries.

In Israel, helping is more than a value — it's an instinct. When tragedy strikes, people run toward it. Soldiers, medics, volunteers, teachers, rabbis, and neighbors all step up.