A melody of connectedness

When my phone rang on Tuesday morning, I didn’t expect the phone call to derail my day — or transform my week.

“It’s Tzvi,” said Tzvi Zussman, father of fallen soldier Ben Zussman and a tireless social activist. “Would you be willing to speak at Hostages Square tonight?”

I’ll be honest: I panicked. Hours earlier, the ceasefire had collapsed and the IDF was attacking Hamas. The rumble of airplanes had filled the air all morning, accompanied by the old familiar tension: Is anyone hurt? Will our soldiers come home safely?

Worse: a widespread sense of distrust in our leadership’s motivations had already swept through the country, fueled by the prime minister’s decision to fire the head of the Shin Bet hours earlier, and leading to protests against the resumption of active combat. Angry statements filled the news sites and social media. “They’re abandoning the hostages to serve their own political ends,” many posts declared — angrily, confidently, and yet somehow less devastatingly than the simple broken heart emojis posted on social media by Noa Argamani and Lishay Miran Lavi, whose loved ones are in Gaza still.

I didn’t want to stand on a stage surrounded by angry people, say words that would not slake their thirst for rage, and risk turning myself into a target for derision, all while alienating my listeners.

“Will it be political?” I asked Tzvi.

“Tuesday evenings never are,” he assured me. And then I recalled what I had heard about Tuesday evenings at Hostages Square: Genia Tzohar, aunt to hostage Omer Neutra z”l, murdered on October 7, his body taken captive to Gaza, had turned them into a space where everyone is welcome, regardless of political opinion. Togetherness is the order of the day.

Tzvi went on to share more details, but I was already convinced. I realized that he had given me a gift: on a day of pain and rage and conflict, I would be able take action instead of wallowing in my distress. On a day of harsh divisions, I’d have a chance to use my words to bridge and to connect.

* * *

By the time I stood on the stage at Hostages Square a few hours later, all my worries proved unnecessary.

Was there tension in the air? Yes, there was. We could clearly hear the angry voices of the protest mere streets away, the shouting and the honking.

Was there judgment in the air, anger at the resumption of active fighting? Yes, there was. Before the event, released hostages Sasha Troufanov, Iair Horn, and Keith Siegel spoke at Hostages Square, expressing their deep fears for those still held captive, and protesting the renewal of active combat. During the event itself, Sigi Cohen, mother of returned hostage Eliya Cohen, read powerful words to the same effect that were written by her son.

But what was absent from the air entirely was judgment of each other.

I felt that, thanks to Genia’s dedicated work and the good will of so many people, there was space for all of us — with all our diverse opinions — to simply be together and connect to the deep longing we all feel beneath and beyond our disagreements.

This longing, as I said in my speech, stems from the ancient melody of brotherhood that ties us all together. It was this melody that moved countless Jews to fight for my father, Natan Sharansky, when he was in the Soviet Gulag. It was this melody that made his release — and my existence — possible. It is the same melody that plays within us all today, regardless of our opinions about how best to help the hostages, and it is the melody I pray to see shaping our shared future in this land.

* * *

I left Hostages Square with renewed dedication to seeking this melody everywhere. The toxic discourse that exploded into prominence this week threatened to overwhelm it, to drown out the shared notes that thrum deep in our collective DNA. But just as we had to sing louder on Simchat Torah of 2023, for our prayers to be heard over the sirens, so we need to sing our melody of kinship louder and louder, if we want to hear it through all the divisive noise.

Hearing this melody is a choice, and like any choice, one pays for it. When I choose to look at protests that cross lines — in my opinion — and focus on the protesters’ love for Israel, a love we share, I choose to set aside my own opinions and convictions.

When I choose to look deeper into the rhetoric of people who excuse away our leaders’ behavior and focus on the values that motivate them, values we share, I choose to hold back my own opinions and convictions.

Those opinions and convictions don’t go away. My judgement does not go away. But I actively choose to decentralize them, to let other priorities shape my internal and external responses to reality.

It is difficult to live like this. It requires constant vigilance, a constant exercise of mental self discipline. And it does mean that I take a step back in expressing my convictions, instead of pushing them to shape reality in any way.

Ultimately, however, I believe that this approach is the better way forward. We’re not really going to convince each other to abandon our dearly held opinions just because we think we’re right. But if we make the effort to hear the shared melody of brotherhood and love and values underneath our differences, perhaps we can create a shared reality where something good — trust, collaboration, victory — can grow.

Yehuda Amichai once wrote:
“From the place where we are right/ Flowers will never grow/ In the spring.”

Let us be better than right, in this moment.

Let us be connected.

And through this connection, from the depths of the shared melodies that play within us, may we usher in the spring.