Three years after October 7, Lior Krengel reflects on what it means to belong to Israel, what she feels responsible for, and where she finds hope for the future.

Before October 7, what did Israel mean to you?

Before October 7, I had spent most of my career in Israeli tech. I helped Israeli companies grow, attract investment and build startups that contributed to Israel’s economy. I was proud of that work. In my own way, I felt I was contributing to the country I loved.

Israel was also simply home.

My grandfather survived the Holocaust and came to Israel. My father served the country for many years. I grew up understanding Israel as part of my family story and my identity.

I didn’t know then how much October 7 and the days followed, would change everything.

What do you remember most about those first days after October 7?

I remember the shock. The uncertainty. And a question I could not get out of my head: What do we do now?

I wondered whether Israel, as a country, would survive.

I found myself having imaginary conversations with my grandfather, who was no longer alive to answer me. I would ask him: What do we do now? Do we stay? Do we leave? What will continue for us?

Three years later, I still think about those questions.

But what I could not have imagined in those first days was where I would find the answers: in people.

People who kept showing up. People who cared for their neighbors. People who opened their homes. People who decided that even after everything they had lost, they still had something to give.

That is where my hope began.

How did October 7 change what belonging to Israel meant to you?

It made belonging feel less like something I inherited and more like something I had to take responsibility for.

My grandfather built a life here. My father served this country. I had spent my career contributing to its economy. But if I wanted Israel to remain a home for my daughters, I realized I couldn't simply love the country or hope for its future.

I had to help shape that future. And this is how belonging became responsibility.

What did that responsibility look like?

I started by volunteering alongside the evacuated community of Kfar Aza. Later, I became the founding CEO of the Israeli Children’s Fund, supporting children and young adults who had lost one or both parents on October 7.

That experience changed how I understood what people need after something devastating happens.

It isn't only about a house, a school or a job. It is about feeling safe enough to sleep. Having someone to call. Knowing your children can imagine a future. Feeling that you still have a place in the world.

That is the work that stays with me.

How has that shaped your work at CJP?

Today, my work at CJP is about asking a different question: What does it take for people to believe in their future again—and how can philanthropy help?

Sometimes the answer is very tangible. Sometimes it is an opportunity for a young person to develop leadership skills. Sometimes it is helping a community regain a sense of stability. Sometimes it is simply making sure people know they are not alone.

And sometimes, the most important thing is giving people the space and resources to imagine what comes next.

Where do you see hope?

I see it in people who have every reason to turn inward but choose to show up for someone else.

I think about Ayelet Epstein, who lost her son Netta on October 7. In his memory, she created Team Netta within Jordan River Village, turning her loss into something that could help other children.

I think about Yaron Waksman of HaGal Sheli, who found ways to adapt his organization’s work to support children and families affected by the war.

These stories stay with me because they aren't abstract ideas about resilience. They are people making a choice. To keep going. To care for someone else. To create something out of what has been lost.

That is what hope looks like to me.

What does hope mean to you now?

Hope is not pretending that everything is okay.

It is not forgetting what happened. It is not certainty that the future will be easy.

Hope is a choice—and, more importantly, it is an action.

It is choosing to invest when it would be easier to walk away. It is a young person imagining a future. It is a family deciding to come back home and help make it “home” again as they do so. It is someone who has experienced terrible loss asking, What can I do for someone else?

And it is people saying: This is still my home. There is still something here worth caring for.

What does the Boston-Israel partnership mean to you?

One of the things I value most about this work is knowing that people in Boston are paying attention.

Not just to what happened on October 7, but to what happens next.

Through CJP’s Boston-Israel Fund, we can listen to what people on the ground need, find organizations doing meaningful work, and invest in ideas and initiatives that can help people move forward.

For me, partnership is not about having all the answers from Boston. It is about being close enough to listen, thoughtful enough to invest well, and committed enough to stay.

That matters.

Because people need to know they are not alone.

Three years after October 7, what do you hope people remember?

I hope we remember the people we lost and the families whose lives changed forever.

But I also hope we remember what happened afterward.

People kept showing up.

I think about my daughters.

I want them to grow up understanding that Israel is not simply something they inherited from their grandparents and parents. It is something we have a responsibility to care for and shape.

Three years later, I still don't know exactly what the future will look like.

But I know what I want to do.

I want to help write the next chapter of Israel’s story, together with CJP.

And that, to me, is the work of hope.

Learn more about CJP’s partnership with Israel and the work supported through the Boston-Israel Fund.