I was raised on Israel. My parents held Israel Emergency campaigns in our living room. My first trips overseas with my family were to Israel, traveling on many “Family Missions” with the United Jewish Appeal. I remember fighting jet lag to stay alert as the guides revealed the secrets of ancient buildings, gushing springs, towering mountains, newly planted forests. I spent ten summers at a Reform movement overnight camp run by a proud Israeli, serving alongside Israeli co-counselors and infusing programing with modern Israeli experiences. Our sports coaches came from Israel’s premier Wingate Institute for Sports Excellence. Even Tisha B’Av became a day for remembering modern Israel’s traumas as much as the traditional lamentations. As parents, my wife (whose Israel experiences paralleled mine and has devoted a 35 year career to Israel and the Jewish community) and I sought to convey the same Israel diet to our children. Our connection as a family is deep and robust.
So, when Israel suffered the most painful stab into her heart on October 7th, quickly followed by an enduring war and continued loss of life, I knew I had to return. I seized the advantage of the waning days of my sabbatical and planned a personal pilgrimage to my beloved, and sometimes exasperating land and its people. Because of my abiding connections to so many who live in Israel and devote their lives to her wellbeing; I planned a trip around visits to their homes and the organizations they have created.
Even these months later, Israelis are lonely and traumatized—and it was clear that my visit was deeply appreciated. The few airlines serving the country are empty of tourists. The planes are filled with Israelis returning from trips abroad, human rights workers, and a smattering of volunteers. The usually chaotic airport is quiet. And yet, life goes on. Restaurants are filled in Tel Aviv and cultural events abound, although they are somewhat sedated. The ever-growing skyline of Tel Aviv sparkles in the sun. Its massive skyscrapers in all degrees of construction, from concrete shells to completed works of architectural wonder, are draped with banners calling for the return of hostages. Their pictures are everywhere. Yachad N’natzeach (together we will prevail) appears on cars, buses, balconies, and the windows of stores. Kikar ha-Chatufim (Hostage Square) has become a months-long impromptu exhibit outside the Tel Aviv art museum. It is a display of a nation’s pain, sorrow, and vigilance. One cannot be unmoved by spending time there.
Israel remains a nation at war. Sadly, it is a nation all too familiar with that condition. So, even in the shadow of the worst body wound the nation has suffered, there is resilience. The next few days of kavanot will be the stories of people I’ve met and the resilience they show in the face of this latest trial.
— Rabbi Ron Stern