All These Things

It’s September first. It’s the day that everyone here usually inundates each other with pictures of their kids on the first day of school. Sometimes, for a joke, I took a picture of myself (a teacher) on the first day of school. Some of those pictures stand out in my memory, like the day it was my daughter’s last first day of elementary school, and we both took a picture. She was our last to leave that school. Then there was the year of Covid, where I had a picture wearing a mask. 

Today should have been full of pictures of smiling young people, going off to their first day of first grade, or 6th, or 10th. Instead, many of us shared pictures of the same six young people- and yes, 40 is still a young age to be brutally murdered. We posted pictures of these smiling young people who were kidnapped from a music festival, or their homes, or going back to try and save one more person. We posted these pictures with broken hearts, with heavy souls. 

Sometimes when you pray, the answer is no. That is hard to hear on a day like today. 

I was dreading today for the past few days, thinking how it would mark 7 years since a former student took his own young life, and what a tragedy that was. His mother once said that she disliked when people said they couldn’t imagine what she was going through, losing him like that, when really, it was that they didn’t want to imagine it. We can imagine these things. We can imagine, with building horror, the terrible torture these young people were subjected to. We can imagine, because in some small part, we share it, the pain of their families who waited all this time, only to have that hope crushingly blown apart at the last minute. We share their pain, anger, sadness, frustration. Not pain- agony. Not sadness, heartbreak. Not anger- outrage. Not frustration- helplessness. These people, unlike other ones lost whose bodies were recovered, weren’t killed months ago, but just before they were saved. The absolute monstrousness of such actions brings to mind, as with much of the events of the last 11 months, the Holocaust. I vividly remember a story about a camp that was about to be liberated, so the Nazis gave out rolls to the inmates. They made it seem as if they just wanted to look good in front of their enemies, that the Jews could say their last meal was good, but their actions were so much more reprehensible than that. One man had his roll stolen by another in a fight, and went to bed cursing god. Yet in the morning, he found that those wonderful rolls were actually full of poison, as he was the only one left alive. This is the mentality of our enemies. They rejoice over every one of theirs that we kill, because they get world pity while we are condemned. I have no more words for the world. If they don’t understand who we are by now, they are not likely to change their minds, empty of active thinking as they seem to be. We are the people who warn civilians, the people who try so hard not to create collateral damage, despite how difficult our enemies make that goal. We are the ones who take their sick and bring them over to get treatment- while they kidnap and murder those same people who have done them this kindness.

I am tired, I am tired down to my bones of the hateful world, of the waiting and hoping and praying. I have tried so hard to have faith this year, amidst all of the turmoil and tragedy, insanity and pain. Hope can sometimes be a four letter word.

I haven’t published anything for over a year. I was just beginning to heal from Lucy’s loss, to accept it and get back up again. I wrote something on an erev shabbat, erev chag, that I know was somewhat positive and upbeat. I wrote this piece but wanted to look it over again before publishing it, so I decided to wait until after that chag was over. That shabbat was October 7th, 2023. I have not even reread what I wrote then yet, because I didn’t write it; that was someone else. 

Ever since then, I have been treading water, and if you’re a swimmer, you know that that is something a person can only do for so long. I was plagued by thoughts, words floating in and out, but never really able to put something down. Mostly, it was because I process my feelings and thoughts by writing, but nothing ever felt finished. How could I write under fire? This Matzav just keeps going and going. There have been some ups, some days when just being here felt right- where else would I be? And even some amazing moments, like recovering Noa Argamani so she was able to reunite with her mother before her mom passed. But there is still so much awfulness…I remember going to the Kikar Hachatufim- Hostage Square, back in November, with my daughter. We spoke to some families- I spoke to the uncle of one of the young people brought back today, in fact. And we looked at the “art”- the crib, empty but for a teddy bear and red splotches. The long, set, empty table, waiting for its shabbat guests to arrive, a number of whom now never will. My daughter said something which has stuck with me; she said that it was like going to Yad Vashem while the Holocaust was still happening. Living here this year has been like that. The intense agony of all those we are worried about, while dealing with the barrage of indifference (preferable), insensitivity, and downright hatred of the world at large. In Hostage Square, I bought a necklace that says Bring Them Home. I have worn it even on days when I haven’t wanted to bear the burden, because who am I to set aside some minor discomfort, when they are enduring terrible torture every minute?

But I keep asking- why should we have to Bring Them Home?? The responsibility shouldn’t be on us, it should be on the murderous kidnappers to Send Them Home. And the words- oh, the words. I long to have it say “Let Them Go,” because that would at least imply that the hostages could get back on their own strength, and not have to be carried back to their families.

These words are not words. They are screams and tears. The other part of my necklace, in Hebrew, says that our hearts are imprisoned with them. This is true.

One thing that has gotten me through this year is music. We have learned how to “Latzet Me Dikaon” together- to get out of depression. We lean on each other, have deep conversations, think of each failure as a medal, and remember that sometimes what we are looking for is right here. This is the army choir singing it together- it’s a very powerful video.

We are the “Aluf Haolam”- the champions of the world. It is not as arrogant as it sounds- we are the champions at making mistakes, failing, but then getting up again. 

I keep thinking, though, of the song my friend’s father used to sing to her. It was “Ani Mavtiach Lach”- in which the singer promises his little girl that this would be the last war. That song is from the 1970s, or possibly earlier- when, when will it come true? We have waited so long. (The full lyrics here are heartbreaking)

This evening I went to a gathering at the Gush Junction, because one of the six recovered today is Hersh Goldberg-Polin, from Gush Etzion, where I live. I went hoping for some strength, or shared grief, or something. But all I could think of was how we also gathered there just over ten years ago, singing and praying for three young men to return home, who never did. The words of Vehi Sheamda rang hollow in my ears this time. The only thing that did help was seeing an old friend, who allowed me the space to say that I had been praying today- but my prayers were yelling at Hashem, saying How could you? Why?? And she said that’s understandable, and she hugged me. 

The song that has most been on my mind this year is one I learned in grade school. I learned it, but I didn’t understand it fully until I was an adult. It is “Al Kol Eleh”- Over All These Things. This link explains the history behind it. It is more of a prayer. Actually, I am noticing that many songs, especially Hebrew ones, are really prayers when you look closely at the words and meaning. The song is asking God to watch over and protect All these things- her home, her family, the man returning home from afar. There is a paragraph in this song that asks God not to uproot that which was planted, and not to forget the hope. The line that I only understood later, or maybe someone explained it to me, was the one about fruit that had not yet ripened and been picked. This year, we lost so many young people, both on October 7th and in the following months. All of those who had yet to blossom, and were picked too early. And yet the main chorus of the song is that God should watch over “The honey and the bee sting, the bitter and the sweet.” We are thankful even for the difficult and bitter parts of this life. For how can we see the light if we don’t know darkness?

But still my heart hurts- our hearts hurt. Broken over and over, yet still we have signs saying Hope is Mandatory. Because we are the people of Hope- Hatikva is our national song. Hope, that four letter word, has also kept us alive.

I will finish with two songs that both break my heart open, allow me to cry, and yet to heal. One is for all of the young people we have lost this year- May these be the last! 

The other is a beautiful tribute to allowing ourselves to understand that sometimes, the answer is no, and we have to accept that, even while crying and screaming and railing at God, and then get up the next morning and keep going, because we are still here, and that’s what we do.

Wishing us all healing and better news tomorrow.