By Jamie Geller
I did not expect to hear the word joy so many times while making a film about grief.
In 2025, twenty Jews were murdered in antisemitic attacks outside of Israel. More than 800 severe antisemitic incidents were documented around the world. It was the deadliest year for Jews living outside Israel this century, and so I started working on a film to document it. When I began, I assumed I already understood the shape of that year. I did not. It took sitting across from the people who lived through it to see the pattern that had been there all along.
They did not come for us at random moments. They came for us on our holidays.
A terrorist attacked Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year, while worshippers prayed and fasted. Melvin Cravitz and Adrian Daulby were murdered that morning. Melvin was the first Jewish man killed in the United Kingdom for being Jewish in 80 years. Gunmen opened fire on a Hanukkah celebration at Bondi Beach in Sydney, killing fifteen people, among them a girl who had just turned ten, a Holocaust survivor, and a rabbi. And during the war between Israel and Iran, a ballistic missile struck a residential building in Haifa on the fourth day of Passover, killing four members of the Gershovitz family.
Yom Kippur. Hanukkah. Passover. While we were praying. While we were lighting candles. While we were celebrating. This has been something that has happened in Israel several times: the Yom Kippur War, October 7th, now it is spreading to the Diaspora.
As the person behind Aish’s Tisha B’Av documentary While We Were Celebrating, I traveled to three continents this year to sit with the people who lived through each of these attacks, and with the families they left behind. I went in bracing myself for grief. I have made enough films and sat with enough loss to know what to expect. What I found instead has not left me since.
Karen Cravitz told me she was the one who encouraged her husband Melvin to leave for synagogue early that Yom Kippur morning, because that is simply what you do on the holiest day of the year. She has spent every day since turning that decision over in her head, a decision made entirely out of love and faith. Yoni Finlay was holding the synagogue doors shut to keep the terrorist out when a police bullet struck him in the chest and passed through his body into his friend Adrian, who was standing right behind him. And Rabbi Daniel Walker described his congregation to me as a reserved, quiet English crowd that does not usually dance on Friday nights. That next Friday, they danced.
In Sydney, Sheina Gutnik told me about her father, Reuven Morrison, who ran toward the gunmen at Bondi Beach and used his own body as a shield, saving dozens of lives before losing his.
Through the grief, through the funeral, through the memorial service that followed, Sheina lit Hanukkah candles. All eight nights. She told me she was not going to be the one to let the light go out. That message really moved me in ways I cannot explain.
Chavi Israel recounted how she threw herself over her baby, Meir, the moment the shooting started, trying to protect him and trying somehow not to suffocate him at the same time. She told me it was Reuven who saved both their lives.
Yonatan Frank, a soldier who had come to Australia from Gaza days earlier, and wanted to go to the beach, found himself unarmed in the middle of a massacre and ran toward it anyway. Yonatan helped Chavi’s sister-in-law and her baby reach a waiting car that had arrived to rescue them. Eleven people ended up crammed into a car built for five. Chavi, Meir, Yonatan, and eight strangers who were suddenly not strangers at all. Once they were safe, they lit Hanukkah candles to keep the light alive.
In Haifa, Professor Lena Sagi told me about her neighbors, the Gershovitz family, who were found after an eighteen-hour search through what had been their home. Lena had lost everything but her life that night, the Gershovitz family weren’t as lucky. Lena told me that she later danced at her daughter’s bat mitzvah. Alex Gershovitz, Vladimir’s brother, still cannot speak about his family without his voice catching. In the same moment that he described himself to me as a secular Jew, he looked me in the eye and said that he believes God has a plan.
I sat with each of these people separately. Different continents, different languages, different circumstances. None of them knew what the others had said, yet every single one of them told me the same thing, completely unprompted.
They did not want to talk to me about their pain. They wanted to talk to me about joy. Not in spite of what happened to them, but because of it.
They chose to speak now, ahead of Tisha B’Av, because they understand what that day means to the Jewish world. It is our most reflective moment, the day we sit with our losses across history. None of these people are asking to be pitied. They are asking to be heard; they are asking us to understand our mission to live.
This is nothing new for us. It runs through our history like a current, from the Inquisition to the pogroms to the Holocaust to October 7th, to Manchester, to Bondi, to Haifa. Our enemies have tried to extinguish our flame in every generation, and in every generation, the answer has been the same.
Live more Jewishly. Live more joyously. Celebrate again. That will be the ultimate victory over our enemies.
This Tisha B’Av, as we sit on the floor and mourn what we have lost, I am sure that I will keep hearing Karen, Sheina, Chavi, and Lena in my head, asking this of me. I did not write their message. I am only carrying it, but now I am not making simple assumptions; I too am listening.
————————–
While We Were Celebrating, the Aish Original Tisha B’Av documentary film, premieres worldwide on July 22. It is free to watch. Register at aish.com/9av. To arrange a community screening, visit 9av.aish.com/groupscreening. For more information email [email protected]