No one would call me an observant Jew, or even award me a small gold star for effort, but I definitely used to go to shul sometimes. Not just for High Holy Days and yahrzeits. Not only to keep The Husband company. In the past, we sometimes went on Friday nights simply because we felt like it but of late it has become something of a rare event.

We are not motivated by faith because we don’t have any; we do not like to go as a habit as that seems to devalue it. Our reasons for going are not clearly delineated so they are all too easily lost in the press of busy lives and competing distractions, but perhaps it is something to do with a yearning for that feeling of belonging, the opportunity to feel connected to something bigger than ourselves, or even to know that, in dark times, at least we have each other.

Before The Husband retired at the end of last year, going to shul on Friday night often felt like a perfect way to reset, to draw a line under the relentless demands of his working week and set the tone for a slower pace. As the music began and the congregation came together in song, I could see his shoulders start to descend from being scrunched up to his ears, and by the time we reached kiddush, he would have left the stresses of the week behind him and I would have a brand shiny new husband, all relaxed and ready to enjoy the weekend together. I’d be somewhat less relaxed trying to chivvy him to hurry up and stop chatting to everyone after the service as otherwise the chicken would be overcooked.

But then came the pandemic and, even though we tried to participate in services online, of course it couldn’t recreate the atmosphere of being there in the flesh, so we joined in only occasionally. The first time I attended in person post-Covid after a huge gap was unexpectedly affecting; when I walked in, to be greeted by our rabbi and the chair of the synagogue, tears sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t quite understand why – could it be that going to shul meant more to me than I realised? But still, instead of hanging onto that feeling, I found I was attending less and less often.

And then came the horrific massacres of October 7, and the ensuing war on Hamas in Gaza, and now Jews are back as everyone’s go-to favourite target of hatred. Solidarity has been thrust upon us, no matter how many differing views there may be in our tent.

Friday night. This time, we are going to mark the yahrzeit of the death of Yonatan, my husband’s young cousin. Aged just 22 and a member of the IDF, he was shot by a sniper in Gaza.

Like many people, I have been having to ration keeping up with the news as there is only so much death and despair I can manage. And that’s just what we’re being shown. There’s Gaza and Ukraine, and then all the other horrors across the globe mostly going unreported – Sudan, Syria, Chad, Myanmar, the Yemen, the treatment of women in Afghanistan, and many others barely meriting a mention. It feels as if the world is teetering on the brink of a precipice and all I can do – a tiny, powerless speck – is watch and wait for it to fall.

This evening during the service, there are to be two guest speakers, New Israel Fund Human Rights Award winners Eran Nissan (from Mehazkim, an online campaigning organisation) and Rawyah Handakalu (National Forum to Combat Violence in Palestinian Society). Eran talks about the importance of hope, of how the first step is being able to imagine the possibility of things being different. I realise that one of the challenges of watching the news is that it feels as if there is no end in sight, that even daring to be hopeful about any kind of end to the horrors seems naive and Pollyanna-ish, and so I habitually squash any thoughts about peace as soon as they emerge.

He speaks of how brightly the flame of a single candle can glow in the darkest of spaces, the bleakest of times, how vital is it to allow ourselves to believe in the possibility of hope and resolution because it is only then that we can work towards it. And even I, gloomy pessimist that I am, start to see that we mustn’t give up and say it’s all hopeless; we have to envision a future in which eventually out of the rubble there might emerge tentative steps towards peace.

And, as we shake hands with the speakers and thank them for coming, then zip up our coats to head out into night, I feel glad we came this evening and it is with slightly lighter steps that we turn towards the prospect of warmth and supper and home.