The flag in our apartment matters more now

Our apartment faces a quiet Upper East Side street. It’s on the first floor of a walk-up, and pedestrians often make eye contact with us or peer curiously through our windows.

Like many observant Jews, our home contains a variety of items that immediately identify us to those in the know: Hebrew books and siddurim, Shabbat candles, Jewish art, kiddush cups, and a havdalah set. Sometimes we notice people smiling or pointing at us when we’re eating Friday night dinner; more than once, someone has stopped to laugh at the “vilde chaya” poster hanging in my daughter’s room.

It speaks to New York City’s current climate that my husband and I debated whether we felt safe putting up an Israeli flag. Because we’re at street level, we wanted to avoid being targeted by people antagonistic toward the State of Israel and her supporters. In the end, we compromised: we placed the flag further back but still visible from the window.

The Israeli flag is a symbol I’ve grown closer to over time. I grew up in the yeshiva world, where I was exposed to a healthy dose of cynicism about the State’s intentions. Until I left at age 17, I still referred to Israel as Eretz Yisroel. At Stern, I tried Zionism out: I celebrated Yom Ha’Atzma’ut, went to rallies for Israel, took selfies wearing blue and white.

I supported Israel — but I didn’t really have skin in the game until October 7th.

***

Monuments have existed for as long as people have. The first men on the moon planted their countries’ flags. We pass down family heirlooms with no real material value.

There’s a powerful human urge to remember. We express it with objects, trying to capture memories in the concrete and tangible.

In this week’s parasha, God acknowledges our need for physical reminders. After Korach’s challenge to Moshe and Aaron’s leadership, God punishes Korach and his followers. Then, God gives two distinct directives:

First, God tells Moshe, they should gather the firepans of the men who challenged Moshe and Aaron, and create hammered sheets out of those firepans to plate the altar. These items would become an “אוֹת” and a “זִכָּרוֹן” — a sign and a reminder — that only the priests should bring incense before God.

Next, God instructs, each of the tribes should pass forward a staff inscribed with their leader’s name. For the Leviim, that meant Aaron’s name. After Moshe placed the staffs in the Tent of Meeting, one staff sprouted, producing blossoms and almonds: Aaron’s. This, God declared, would serve as a “מִשְׁמֶרֶת” and an “אוֹת” — a lesson and a sign — for the complainers of Israel.

Both of these items were to remain visible and accessible. An אוֹת, explains Rashi, is something that people will continually refer to, so they don’t forget.

It’s not always enough to hold values or beliefs. Sometimes, we need a visceral reminder of them.

We forget. 

And our monuments are there to remind us.

***

October 7th was the first time I felt a desire to “wear Israel” on me. It felt like the smallest sacrifice I could make when so many Jews had been killed for being Jewish in Israel. 

I wasn’t alone. In the months following October 7th, others also leaned into physical manifestations of their identity. The AJC reported that “a plurality (42%) of American Jews reported feeling unsafe wearing Jewish symbols in public since October 7,” but “19% said that since the terror attack, they have been wearing signs or items to display their Jewish identity in an effort to feel connected to Israel or their Jewish identity.” In other words, some of us learned that we wanted to wear Jewish stars or hang Israeli flags. 

Physical symbols of memory can remind us of more than one thing. The fire pans and the staff are both monuments that hold layers of meaning: The tragedy of Korach. A warning not to challenge priestly leadership. A restriction of who can offer incense. God’s selection of Aaron as the nation’s priestly representative. A rebuke for the consistent complaints and rebellions against God.

For me, the Israeli flag in our home represents the complexities of Jewish identity. It reminds me of October 7th and the tremendous loss of Jewish life. I think of the war that’s followed and the strain and pain that the entire region’s residents have endured. That small flag reminds me of civilians, reservists, and bereaved families.

And I also remember that the Jewish homeland was a dream for generations. That my ancestors could never have imagined we’d have an Israel. That the idea of a democratic Jewish state is worth defending. That there is still work to be done.

Monuments bring us back. 

But they also remind us of the path forward.