A Lesson from Lag BaOmer We Still Haven’t Learned
Why Does It Take Tragedy for Us to Become One?
Every year, as we approach Lag BaOmer, we’re reminded of a painful truth.
Rabbi Akiva had 24,000 students—intellectual giants, people of immense Torah knowledge. And yet, we don’t know their names. Not one.
Why?
Because they didn’t treat each other with proper respect.
And then, after that devastation, Rabbi Akiva rebuilt—with five students whose teachings live on forever. The difference wasn’t brilliance. It wasn’t scholarship.
It was how they treated one another.
That lesson feels especially relevant right now.
Living in Israel, you can’t ignore the tension—the divide between Haredi and non-Haredi, religious and secular. It’s loud, it’s present, and it’s especially visible in the Knesset.
And it’s disheartening.
Because leadership isn’t just about policy. It’s about tone. It’s about example. It’s about showing a nation how to disagree without losing respect.
Too often, it feels like our political culture has shifted—where leaders are defined more by who they stand against than by what they’re building together.
And that’s not just a political problem. That’s a human one.
What makes it even harder is that we know how to be different.
After the October 7 attacks, something shifted. For a moment, labels didn’t matter. Haredi, secular, religious, not religious—we showed up for each other.
People cooked for strangers. Soldiers were embraced like family. There was a sense—real and undeniable—that we are one people.
So the question is… what happened?
Where did that go?
It’s almost unbelievable.
Are we really waiting for another tragedy to bring us back together?
To remind us how to act like brothers and sisters?
Because we’ve already seen it. We’ve lived it.
After everything we’ve been through, we know exactly what unity looks like. We know what we’re capable of when we show up for one another.
And we also know the opposite.
When we are divided, when we turn on each other, when respect disappears—we become weaker. Not just spiritually, but as a people.
Our enemies understand that. Sometimes it feels like they understand it better than we do.
History has shown us, again and again, that when it comes to those who wish to harm us, our differences don’t matter. We are seen as one people—whether we see ourselves that way or not.
And if unity is our strength—if it’s what Hashem wants from us—then why is it so hard to hold onto?
Why does it take pain to bring it out of us?
Why can’t we choose it… without being forced to?
Ahavat Chinam—loving one another without condition—isn’t just an ideal. It’s something we’ve already proven we’re capable of.
Which is what makes the return to division so painful.
Because it doesn’t have to be this way.
Maybe the lesson of Lag BaOmer isn’t just about what happened back then.
Maybe it’s a mirror.
A reminder that greatness without respect doesn’t last. That unity built only in crisis isn’t enough. That if we want something enduring—for ourselves, for our children, for this country—we have to choose it, again and again, even when it’s hard.
Especially when it’s hard.
We’ve already seen what we’re capable of when we choose each other.
The real question is whether we’re willing to choose it again—without needing a tragedy to remind us how.
