October 8th Symphony

A Symphony in Prose

I. Waking Up

(Allegretto tragico)

It was hard to wake up.
News of the impending “deal”,
A new show was released about the events of that day,
“Red Alert”.
I watched the trailer.
I was filled with tears.
What way is it to start the day?

II. The Bus

(Scherzando, doch mit Schatten)

As I entered Line 62 to work,
A lady warned me,
The AC drops water,
I moved.
There I saw a Childhood friend,
It’s been years.
We grew up together,
He lived one floor below me.

I asked him how he’s been.
Where is he going…
He told me he is going to Lebanon.
“To Lebanon?”
I said in a high-pitched voice.
Then another man joined the conversation.
He recognised me.
I didn’t recognise him.
He said he’s on his way to a conference.
It’s about turning Israel into a canton federation.
He’s giving a talk.

The bus cut our conversation short.
I wanted to hear more.
But the moment collapsed into a forced goodbye.
And I went on to work.

III. Before The Concert

(Vivace moderato)

An hour before the concert,
I sat in Habima Square.
A place with some trees,
Children were playing.
One child made the remark that a woman,
At whom he pointed,
”She looks just like Pinocchio!” one child said.

My friend Jack appeared.
We chatted a bit about a party we are planning.
“We’ll get it sorted later tonight,” I said.
My mind was already deep inside the concert hall.

After saying goodbye to Jack, I marched forward.
The wooden temple awaited me.

Inside,
A man approached me with his wife.
He said it was good to see me.
He was apparently a neighbour of my father.
I didn’t recognise him.
I wished them well.

IV. At The Concert

(Langsam, schleppend, wie ein falscher Sieg)

The hall was full.
Packed.
Two thousand people.

Silence.

The orchestra entered.
They began with Hatikvah.
Everyone stood.
Two thousand voices in silence.
It felt like a triumph.
But not really.

Then came Beethoven.
The Emperor Concerto.
Played with great virtuosity.
Majestic.
Radiant.
Every note—a declaration of life.

Life as it used to be.

Intermission.
The hall breathed again.

An elderly woman beside me turned.
She asked what that big instrument was.
“The tuba,” I said.
She smiled.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Are you a musician?”
“No,” I said, “I’m a writer.
I write poetry.”

She looked at me for a moment.
“You look like you don’t belong here.
You’re dressed too well.”
I smiled.
“People used to dress much finer than I do now.”
I asked,
“Where are you from? Tel-Aviv?”
“I am from some place…” She said,
I nodded.

Silence.

Then she said, quietly,
“I haven’t left my home in two years—
Not since October 7th.
My friend convinced me to come.”

I said,
“Music heals.
Music heals everything…
I’m so glad you came.”

“Enjoy the music.”
I said.
“This one is a very special piece.”

Then Lahav Shani returned.
The lights dimmed again.
The orchestra settled.
He waited.

Silence.

The first movement began,
Heavy and alive.
Painfully beautiful.
Every note trembled with weight.
The second, graceful and uncertain,
Like memory walking barefoot.

Then the third.
The march.
It was electric—
Alive with fire.
Power.
The sound of a triumph.
But not really.

The audience burst into applause.
Some even stood up.
Some walked out.
Thinking this was the end.
A few left.
I don’t think they came back.

But the conductor didn’t rush.
He waited.
He waited a long time.
He let the noise fade.
He let the silence return.

Then the fourth movement began.
Slow.
Restrained.
Almost unbearable in its honesty.
In its nakedness.
No glory.
No victory.
Just pain.
Resignation.

And then it came.
The gong.
A muted metallic whisper.
It whispered through 2,000 silent bodies.

Silence.

Perfect.

Final.

I could hardly breathe.
I whispered, “Wow.”

When the last note faded,
No one dared to clap.
Silence filled the air like smoke.
The hall breathed as one body.

It was October 8th.
Exactly two years and one day after.

And I thought—
What a genius Tchaikovsky was.
A true genius.
Almost an evil genius.

V. After the concert

(Adagio lamentoso—scherzando cubistico)

I was so excited.
I was filled with goosebumps.
I wanted to go behind the podium.
To thank the great players,
The great conductor.
But I couldn’t dare.

I stepped out slowly.

I passed the place where I met with Jack,
Just below the tree.
I saw that woman sitting at the other end
with her friend.

I looked at her.
After such a concert,
One cannot just go immediately.
One must
Let the silence linger.

I sat there for a moment.
Looking.

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I grabbed my bag and continued.

I walked towards where I grew up.
Just next to my former school.
On Rothschild Boulevard.
A young soldier passed from behind me.
He hummed the melody from the first movement.
I sat on an orange chair.
And I started writing.

After I finished,
I decided to take line 63.
It wasn’t the fastest option.
But it’s what I took here every morning.

As the bus neared Kaplan Junction,
It became stuck for long minutes.
We were surrounded by buses on every side—
Huge rectangles of glass and steel,
Each is trying to move,
Each is blocking the other.

The junction was clogged.
From all four directions,
A frozen composition of motion—
An eruption of geometry and noise.

People stared ahead.
Expecting chants,
Signs,
Something.
But there was no protest.
Just buses.
Too many buses.
An accidental masterpiece of paralysis.

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-8/10/25
Rothschild Boulevard, and Line 63, Tel-Aviv

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