Hope Smouldering in Jerusalem’s Inferno

Photo: Aaron Seitler, Hermon foothills

“The Scent of Fighting is Still in the Air…”
—Ishai Ribo & Natan Goshen, 2019

Across Jerusalem, the smell was unmistakable.
Smoke curled through alleyways, settled on shoulders,
hung low over stone.

At first, I thought: bonfires.
But no—Yom Ha’atzmaut is still a week away.
The smoke bore no celebration.

It came from the hills of Beit Shemesh,
where fire tore through the forests,
consumed homes,
chased families from Beit Meir.

And the flames, hungry and unheeding,
licked at the edge of the Forest of the Martyrs—
a place planted in memory
of those lost to the Holocaust.

Ash falling like memory on the eve of Yom HaShoah.
What do we do with such a cruel coincidence?
Does it mean anything, or is it just nature’s indifference
mirroring our own?

I’ve spent these past weeks back on the Israel National Trail,
wrapped in silence, in sun, in soil.
Each hill feels ancient.
Each path tells a tale of conquest and culture.

And around every bend:
a stranger’s smile, a helping hand—
secular, religious, Arab, Druze—
all offering something simple and kind
to a clumsy ex-Briton
seeking his way across this stubborn land.

We are sickened by the impasse of war, the impasse in government.
Noise pulls at us, every hour.

But today,
we remember the silence left behind
by six million voices.

We remember what happens
when hatred finds no resistance.

And maybe we recommit—
not just to memory,
but to mercy.
To decency.
To the quiet miracle
of getting along.

That, I think,
is the truest fire
we can keep burning
on Yom HaShoah.

I look out the window and see smog and grey. But in my mind’s eye I only see this week’s lush green of Mount Hermon.