Honoring David Newman: Six hundred days of grief, growth, and advocacy for Israel - opinion

For almost every one of the last 600 days, together with my fellow founders, I’ve had the honor to tell David’s story and to work for the people and the State of Israel.

This is one slice of David’s story – and ours.

Two weeks ago, we hosted an event in Toronto to begin building our presence in that community – hoping to connect with more people, raise money, and continue our mission at Let’s Do Something.

When I got to the exhibition, I’ll admit, I didn’t read much. I didn’t really look at the photos, didn’t watch the videos, or listen to the stories.

I didn’t want to.

I guess I couldn’t.

What I wanted was to get to the end of the exhibit and find David’s picture on the wall. I started walking past smiling faces, one after the other, snuffed-out life after snuffed-out life, scanning up and down, searching for David.

So many beautiful souls were lost. Yet amidst all those faces, I couldn’t find David.

I felt a sense of panic creeping up inside me. I went back. I searched again. Still nothing. Then again – slowly, one by one, scanning, trying to force myself not to freak out. I didn’t know why, but I was getting angry.

I finally found David’s picture – tucked among hundreds of others whose lives were cut short for no reason other than that they were Jews.

Over time, David has become a story. A picture on a wall. A moment at Nova. A statistic. And the scariest thing is, sometimes, it feels like that’s what he’s become to me, too.

I have a hard time thinking back to those days before October 7 – lifetimes ago – when we were just a group of friends living together, cooking together, hanging out, and having fun. Even now, writing this, when I think about those memories, it’s almost like I’ve become an observer. Like it wasn’t my life. Like that wasn’t my friend. That it wasn’t actually David.

But it was.

So I’m standing there at the Nova Exhibition, my palms sweating, about to do something between scream and cry, and I’m just staring at David. And I’m angry.

Why?

Because it wasn’t another life. It wasn’t another friend. It wasn’t just another story. It was David.

And I was so upset that I had such a hard time finding him in that room because that was so unlike him. David was never the guy you had to search for in a room. He was the room. He had a gravitational force to him. An energy that brought everything and everyone into his orbit. It was infectious. You knew when David was there.

He couldn’t help it – that’s just who he was. The world was always a little brighter with his light.

And yet there he was – in that dim room, with only faint, silent light coming from the memorial candles lit for the lives lost.

Before I had time to process, it was showtime. Eighty people were waiting. An incredible event was waiting. I was able to share David’s story with everyone, along with the work of our organization.

I’m eternally grateful for the opportunity to do what I do every day – for the people who make it possible, for those in Toronto who showed up, and for all those around the world who continue to support us.

I’ve been trying to write something about David for a while, but I haven’t been able to.

I called it a mental block. But it wasn’t that.

It’s fear.

I’ve been afraid because, over the last 18 months of running, building, helping, developing – doing all the things I need to do for Let’s Do Something – I’ve tried to weave David into everything. His energy, his light, his why.

Because he deserved so much more.

Because none of this should have happened.

Because part of me still can’t believe that it did. And because it’s easier to bury myself in work than to face that reality.

But what I didn’t realize is that the more I shared David’s story with the world, the more it started becoming just that – a story. A presentation. A routine. Another person’s life.

I’m sorry, David, that I’ve been too afraid to really go back and think about our life together – not just your story.

I’m sorry I didn’t celebrate your birthday properly. Sorry that I was too busy to think about it, and then felt too guilty to write about it.

But David... I miss you. I miss you so much. And it hurts so deeply that you’re not here.

I know that if you were, you’d handle all this better than me. You’d be bigger, braver. You’d face it with a smile.

But I’m not you.

I just wish I could still ask you what to do. Wish we could play frisbee on the beach. Make dinner. Eat some of your tehina. Do any of the thousand little things I took for granted. But I can’t.

I have to live with this double existence – this life before, and this life after. The story of your life, and the parts of your life that I got to share.

I don’t know how to reconcile that. Maybe I never will.

But I’ll try.

They say it gets easier with time, which it does. While at the same time, it also gets harder.

So this year, I’m making myself a promise: I’m going to write more. Because it forces me to stop and feel. And you were never afraid to feel.

Six hundred days. A lifetime ago.