October 5th
It started two days before October 7th, to be completely honest. I’d like to say I was completely attuned to the passing of time, that I had been anticipating the day for weeks before it came. But in truth, the weight of the upcoming day only hit me at— of all things— an MUN social event.
A boy with shaggy, dirty-blonde hair from London was one of the many friendly faces I met that night, who shocked me with his candid, outgoing attitude in the moment he said, in the middle of conversation: “I’m Jewish, by the way.” I’d blinked, taken aback, and perhaps he read the disconcertment on my face at the abrupt revelation as something else because he hurriedly added, “I’m not Zionist though! Not really?”
The anxious look that passed over his face, one that had been open and friendly to me all night, finally tore me from my startled thoughts and made me (of all things) laugh, shaking my head. “Was adding that really necessary?”
I pretended not to notice the brief way his gaze flicked to my hijab. “I think so,” he shrugged sheepishly, “I’m sure everyone’s a bit on edge: October 7th is only in a few days, after all.”
And that was the first time I really thought about it.
It was enough for a boy I’d known two hours to spill something that made him inherently vulnerable, had I been someone else. I’m Jewish, by the way. It warmed me that he saw some semblance of trust in me to confide something so personal, especially in the context of the time, especially with the hijab on my head and the way I’d slipped away unabashedly a while ago to pray.
And yet maybe, it was just because he needed to talk to someone who could relate to what he was feeling in that moment, as the day inched closer with every second that slipped by.
“I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. Jewish or otherwise.”
My response was almost too quiet to hear, because my thoughts were louder. “Me too.”
.
October 6th
My roommate’s older sister invited us to her apartment for a barbecue with her friends, because they’d both come home from Fresno only that day with a surplus of food their dad had flame roasted for them.
It was dark by the time we were walking there, and my conversation from yesterday rested uncomfortably in the back of my mind. It seemed to facilitate the unease that grew in me with every step I took on a sidewalk I could only see from the dim glow of far in between streetlights.
We probably shouldn’t be out here. The thought raced across my brain, louder than usual. As a woman, I always heard the little voice in my head that told me to flock to places with more people, that told me to stay out of the dark, that told me to walk faster and with purpose, that told me to keep my keys in between my fingers. But today, that voice was louder, and the silence with which I walked with my roommates seemed only suffocating now. Every shadow had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, a feeling like spiders skittering up my spine causing me to shiver.
I played it off as the cold.
”Are you okay?” one of them asked, peering at me curiously. I knew why she was asking: I was usually the loudest of us, the most outgoing, the most unabashed and unafraid, always with a laugh and joke on my lips. I suppose my silence was enough to set alarm bells off.
I didn’t say anything, though. Not yet, not now. “All good,” I murmured.
The food when we got there was excellent. It almost made me sick, how much it reminded me of my family. How much everyone made me feel like there was a family around me, like there were people here who cared. Like just for a moment, here, my feelings mattered, because everyone else was feeling them too.
It culminated when one of the seniors took advantage of a brief lapse in conversation, and suddenly my cheerful, reinvigorated attitude seemed to sour on my tongue, replaced by the worry that had been plaguing me all day. “October 7th is tomorrow.”
The room grew silent and somber. The freshmen in the room, including myself, tensed, and we all seemed to perk up at the same time. Attention angled, nerves frayed, and all of a sudden, I could see I hadn’t been the only one with anxious thoughts on my mind. The seniors, on the other hand, were less so: they almost seemed defeated, worn, and sad when the topic came up.
“Just stay inside,” one said quietly, shaking her head when we all immediately turned to her, hungry for any morsels of advice or words of comfort she could provide, “walk in groups if you have to go out.”
”Yeah. Text someone as soon as you get out of class so you can walk places with another person,” another chimed in, “actually, I’m making a group chat right now. If you’re alone, just text one of us. We can coordinate.”
“Even in broad daylight?” I blinked, taken aback. Then vigorous nods from everyone else set the tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife.
“You weren’t here for the encampment last year,” one said firmly, “you think the school will protect you, because you didn’t see it with your eyes. They won’t. A couple days ago, one of my friends saw masked men on Bruin Walk just creepily scoping out the place. Last spring, there were Zionists with knives around the dorms. Just… don’t take the risk.”
”Vibes have been off at UCLA,” another crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head, “it just doesn’t feel the same anymore. And, I don’t know, it sounds stupid but a couple days ago, someone literally threw a cookie out of their car and shouted at us as they drove by. And yeah, it’s just a cookie, but aside from the laughs, what if it had been something else? I just… I don’t want to let my mind go there.”
”Everyone has pepper spray?” someone else hopped in, looking around. “If you don’t, I have extras. Don’t let go of it tomorrow. And if someone is bothering you, don’t be afraid to show them you have it. A friend of mine was on call with me the other day because when one of us is out at night, we always call someone so we know they’re okay. A guy approached her, and I heard her turn on her taser. He left, even though everyone else with him started booing her for taking it so seriously. Guys, take it seriously, no matter what anyone else thinks.”
There was a long moment of silence before the lecture resumed. “Your hijab puts a target on your back,” someone sighed, “if you need to, just wear a hoodie when you go outside. It might make you feel a bit safer.”
I left the apartment with my nerves bundled into a tight, anxious knot, but also a feeling of warmth in my chest. We were driven home; everyone here cared about us; we had people to turn to if we needed; and yet, why should we need this?
I went to sleep with a resolution in my heart, encased in anger and frustration. No matter what happened tomorrow, I would wear my hijab proudly, because no one should have the power to bully me into taking an alternative.
.
12:12 PM, October 7th
I started the day by waking up late, nearly falling off of my top bunk in a hurry to get down, haphazardly getting ready, and running out the door with a protein bar in hand to get to my class on time. It wasn’t my fault I’d momentarily forgotten everything we spoke about last night: waking up late tends to do that to you.
And anyways, I didn’t forget for long. Not when I stepped onto the upward section of Bruin Walk.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Looking back on the moment, I think my jaw dropped like a cartoon character, my eyes so wide they were basically bugging out of my head, because every inch of the lawn outside Kerckhoff Hall was dotted with over a thousand tiny Israeli flags.
Someone I didn’t know passed me as I stood there, longer than what was either necessary or safe, and I could see the sympathy in his eyes when I met them. “Salam,” he said quietly, and that was enough to shake me out of it.
I could feel the judgmental eyes of the people standing in front of the lawn as I stood to read the erected sign. My hijab suddenly made me want to shrink into myself, but I let myself read. A flag placed for each of the 1,200 Israelis who have died since October 7th, 2023.
Never forget.
I let out a long breath as I kept walking. 1,200 lives. Sadness flashed through me as I thought of just how big a number that was. Did I even know 1,200 people? I’d only ever hit 550 followers on Instagram. 1,200 lives gone, snuffed out, reduced to blue-and-white flags on a lawn for people to remember them by.
That sorrow got my mind wandering. I wonder how big of a lawn you’d need if you placed flags for all the Palestinians who’d died since October 7th. I looked up the number as I sat in lecture for confirmation, even though it was already settled in the back of my mind from the last news article I’d read.
How big of a lawn would you need for 130,000 flags?
How big of a heart would you need to remember 130,000 people?
I sat in my 7A lecture, but all the talk of membrane transport went over my head because all of a sudden, I felt too sick to breathe.
.
6:35 PM, October 7th
The trek up back to the dorm was right before sunset and was taken alone, even though I’d told myself I would try to get there earlier. I got too absorbed with my work in Powell that I didn’t even notice the sun was beginning to drop in the sky.
The group chat of people I play tennis with was also blowing up at that moment; I’d forgotten that I’d made plans almost a week ago to play with them that night, and they were all making sure the game was still on.
I let my watch ring as the messages streamed in, but I didn’t dare pick up my phone to respond; all the advice from yesterday came racing back into my head, and my pepper spray was clenched so tightly between my fingers I was surprised my blood circulation hadn’t been cut off already.
The shadows were long and dark as they usually are the minutes before the sun disappears, and they seemed to jump out at me as I walked. That was why I almost didn’t notice the two men dressed in black standing right at the crosswalk before the dorms. Masks covering their faces, one blonde as the sun and one wearing a cap over his curly brown hair.
I almost didn’t notice— but I did. It was hard not to, when this was exactly my worst fear today come to fruition in front of my very eyes. Before I even knew what I was doing, my brisk pace turned into a jog as I crossed the street. Yes, I know: how criminal. It didn’t stop the voice (from which of the two, I’ll never know) that came trailing after me in a hostile, harsh yell: “f***ing terrorist!”
My heart didn’t stop pounding as if it was about to burst out of my chest until the door to my dorm slammed behind me and I stood in the hallway, fingers shaking. And even then, an ugly sadness reared its head in me, making me just sit on the floor and bury my head in my hands.
I didn’t deserve that.
The thought that hit me next somehow made me feel even worse. You’re ungrateful. Maybe you didn’t deserve that, but 130,000 people didn’t deserve to die, either.
.
8:11 PM, October 7th
My nightly phone call with my mom was over. I glossed over most of what happened today, because she already worries about me as her eldest child, the first off to college and halfway around the world at that, and I didn’t want to make anything worse. She simply told me to keep my head down and be quiet for a little while.
The tennis group chat was still alive; almost everyone was getting ready to go down to the courts. I steadied myself and left a message.
“Hey guys, I don’t think I’m going to come tonight. It’s October 7th, and I don’t want to be out alone.”
I nearly left it at that, but to my genuine surprise, I was met with enough resistance to nearly break my heart.
“Where do you live?”
”We can literally wait outside the dorm for you.”
”We’ll walk with you down there, you won’t be alone.”
(And later, when I told them what had actually happened that night: “Don’t worry next time. We’re your friends. We’ll protect you.”)
I reluctantly agreed, finally, their words having thawed my heart enough to shake the unshakable. They waited outside for 20 minutes as I grappled with all the emotions ripping at my insides. Fear, nerves, anxiety, sadness… I lay on the rug in the middle of my room, taking deep breaths, trying to turn everything off.
I wish I could tell you I was able to, but the words “f***ing terrorist” kept slashing at me. Imagine they call you a terrorist in front of them. Imagine they look at you differently. It’s hard enough being the only hijabi in all of club tennis… I don’t need…
What if they hurt me?
What if they hurt my friends, just for being with me?
I called one of them a few moments later. “I’m sorry,” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “I don’t think…”
She didn’t let me finish, and I didn’t have to. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she said soothingly, and I was suddenly so grateful I met these people who were so caring, understanding, and protective of me— someone they’d met only a few weeks ago. “Be safe, and we hope you’re okay.”
Despite me all but having a panic attack on the floor, a part of me was warm.
.
11:48 PM, October 7th
I lay in bed, unable to sleep.
Today had been long. And rough. Emotions ranging from guilt to embarrassment to fear circled through me like rain on water, creating ripples and waves.
A month into college, and already things were shaping up like this?
I got a text from the boy I met a few days ago.
“We made it through.”
A wry smile curved across my face without me realizing, and I responded almost instantly. His day couldn’t have been any better than mine; I couldn’t help but wonder exactly how it went.
But I didn’t say any of that: I wasn’t ready to share my day, and I guessed neither was he. I simply typed a short sentence before I switched off the phone and closed my eyes.
“I guess we did.”