A Tale of Two Gatherings

In the last two days, I attended two large gatherings here in Israel. Both were a blend of Chareidi, Modern Orthodox, less religious, and non-religious individuals. Both were non-political—no protests, no yelling, no fighting, and no sides to choose. Both created a sense of unity and a feeling of togetherness with everyone there. But that is where the similarities end.

On Wednesday morning, my son and I stood along the highway in Ra’anana to pay our last respects to Shiri, Kfir, and Ariel Bibas. Wrapped in our Israeli flag, we watched as the van carrying their bodies passed, followed by the countless cars and motorcycles escorting them to their final resting place. The road was lined with a sea of orange—orange balloons released into the sky, a symbol of the Bibas children. There were tears everywhere. In that moment, for that hour, we were one.

Less than forty-eight hours later, I was with that same son and my two other children in Jerusalem, immersed in the music of Hanan Ben Ari. He is more than a performer; he is a voice that transcends differences. The crowd was a mirror of the funeral—Chareidim, Modern Orthodox, seminary students, and secular Israelis—united in song. For two hours, we danced, sang, and surrendered ourselves to the power of music. And yet, even in celebration, we did not forget. Through his stories of hospital visits and friends still in captivity, we remembered those still being held hostage, the injured, and the fallen. But for those two hours, we were one.

In Israel, we do not dwell on the past or worry too much about the future. We live in the now. When I moved here five years ago, I quickly learned that no one leaves voicemails. If it’s urgent, you send a WhatsApp. People here prioritize what is important now. The shift between joy and sorrow, between fear and relief, happens in an instant. One morning, we are crying over the bodies of murdered hostages, and the next, we are celebrating the new month of Adar with music and laughter.

It reminds me of the famous story of the king who sought a phrase that would make him happy when he was sad and sad when he was happy. After many failed attempts, a poor jeweler presented him with a ring inscribed with the words: “This too shall pass.” It became his reminder that no matter the moment—joy or sorrow—nothing is permanent.

Such is life in Israel. We are always just seconds away from another tragedy, like the car ramming in Pardes Chana yesterday that left 20 injured. But we are also moments away from miracles, like when bombs meant to explode on buses during rush hour were delayed, detonating in the evening when the buses were empty, sparing lives.

From the start of the war, my organization, Smiles for the Kids, has been dedicated to helping families affected by the conflict. The ability to transform a frown into a smile, even for just a few moments, is what drives me and the work we do.

This is life in Israel. We move from funerals to weddings, from watching hostages return to seeking shelter from rocket sirens. But we focus on the present—on mourning and celebrating together. And when we stand as one, no matter our backgrounds, we are a powerful nation, bound together, destined to endure in our eternal homeland.