The Music Never Stopped
On Tisha B’Av I watched one of the permissible films, Just Tell Me If You Are Alive.
The producer interviewed the parents of seven soldiers and hostages, and the memories of October 7 reemerged like a body unearthed from its grave. After those terrible days, I had promised myself never again to watch these glimpses of horror. But on the anniversary of the destruction of our Beit HaMikdash, it felt right to break that promise.
Each story left an ache on my neshama, but one of the released hostages, Agam Berger, touched me in a particularly profound way.
On Shabbat, family and friends gathered around our table and discussed the psychological impact that nearly three years of war have had on soldiers and their families. Everyone agreed that post-traumatic stress has become an overwhelming reality, one that Israeli society must confront day in and day out.
Since Agam Berger was released, I have watched recordings of her singing and playing the violin. Every performance reveals another layer of strength. It became clear to me that music is one of Hashem’s greatest gifts for healing an injured body and soul. The intensity of the sound seems to rise from somewhere deep within her. I could almost feel it as my own body responded.
That is how Agam is helping others who have been scarred by this war. She continues doing what she was meant to do before she was dragged into hell. But now her music carries an even deeper purpose. It no longer merely entertains. It comforts, restores, and gives hope.
The next day, I found myself once again at Yitzhak Navon Station.
A young man beat rhythmically on white plastic buckets and battered cymbals, creating surprisingly beautiful music. A few steps away, just before the escalator leading to the security check, a man with a knitted kippah, a beard, and payot strummed his guitar. Farther down, deep in the station, another young man sat at the public piano, its surface covered with stickers bearing the names and faces of fallen soldiers.
As I walked through Yitzhak Navon Station, each musician seemed to be telling the same story in a different language. One used plastic buckets and worn cymbals, another a guitar, and another the public piano.
Agam Berger tells that same story with her violin and her voice.
The instruments are different, but the message is the same: the Jewish spirit has been wounded, but it has not been silenced.
THE MUSIC NEVER STOPPED.