The Sounds of this Passover are Not the Sounds of Silence
Exiting my home on the first day of Chol Hamoed, I am immediately inundated by the raucous sounds of music emanating from a townhouse that borders the beautiful tayelet (boardwalk) of Netanya. A dozen white shirted, white panted, white kippahed men sit around a cheap white plastic table nodding enthusiastically to songs of a Mizrachi singer. It is not enough for them to enjoy the music. Rather, they have determined that the volume of the music should be such that it enables every single person within a mile radius to “enjoy” and “appreciate” their music.
The tayelet is crowded. Large families are dressed in their holiday best, young couples are holding hands, parents walk with their small children and dog in tow, groups of women chatter among themselves, while oldsters slowly trudging down the path. All are out for a leisurely walk. They want to breathe the fresh sea air and enjoy the pleasure, and the temporary relief of being outside, and participate in a “normal” activity, rather than remaining indoors, or close to their homes awaiting the call of the next siren. They speak quietly between themselves. Boisterous laughter is not heard. Solemnity rules the path.
In contrast to the “ men in white”, a young man dressed in black from head to toe roars the powerful engine of his massive motorcycle as he rides back and forth down the boulevard bordering the tayelet. He displays his prowess as he tries to compete with the antics of Evel Knievel. Round and round he goes, up and down the boulevard, the noise from his bike more deafening than that of the Mizrachi music, and definitely less entertaining. Suddenly, he stops at the end of the boulevard. A woman has engaged him in conversation. Now, will be my opportunity to “ give him a piece of my mind”.
He is handsome in an Israeli way with dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes and thickly rich lips. The young woman was also engaged in trying to persuade him not to have his motorcycle roar back and forth down the boulevard while the walkers are enjoying much needed peace, and real quiet. Then I begin,
“Please, why don’t you ride your bike on another road far away from the pedestrians. By all means enjoy your bike, but not here, not now. It is so loud, and it is disturbing.”
He says nothing. It is hard to judge his age, maybe 18, or 20 years of age.
“How old are you?”
“ I am 23.”
“ So, are you in the army?”
“I just completed my service, and my Miluim. I am now out for three months.”
I nod. Surely, he needs to blow off steam. Is he that different from the men in white and their loud blasts of music?
Thank you for your service to the country. Please ride your bike, but not here, and not now. Maybe later, when the pedestrians are gone.”
He does not nod in agreement, but the somber look on his face speaks a thousand words. As I leave him, I see a tattoo behind his ear which I cannot decipher. I look down, and beneath his black shirt hang a pair of tzizit.
“Chag Sameach!”, I say as I bid him farewell. Thereafter, I do not see him or his motorcycle. I hear no roar of his engine. Maybe he has taken my thoughts to mind, while suddenly I feel guilty denying him a well deserved pleasure.
All of a sudden, another black helmeted, black panted, black motorcycle again begins zooming past, he too with his engine loudly roaring. I try to wave him down, hoping that I can also persuade him not to drive his bike at a roaring speed near the pedestrians.
But no luck. He keeps on zooming away, the roar of the engine clearly disturbing the passersby.
Maybe it’s better that he didn’t respond to my hand motion. Who knows what stress and tension he was dealing with.
Sound has become the most important sense we carry with us day in and day out since the war against Iran began. One must be able to distinguish between a Hatraah, a warning siren, that gives you about ten minutes that something may be coming to a neighborhood near you, as opposed to the fearful Azakah, where you must get to a sheltered spot within 90 seconds. And then finally, there might be the sound of a BOOM! Or it may even be a BOOM BOOM BOOM! Then one awaits the light “ ping” that means, “everything is okay now, you can leave your place of shelter.”
For us in Israel, we appreciate the sound of silence. It has absolutely nothing to do with the famous song of that title. Here silence means quiet, it means peacefulness. It is the sound of early morning Shabbat when all still remain happily relaxing in their homes, or the quietude of Yom Kippur, when silence reigns all day. It is the absence of jet planes flying overhead going on mission after mission that has been heard daily since the War of October 7, 2023 began. It is the silence when no helicopters are propelling overhead as they patrol the coastline. We love silence. We hope and pray for the sound of silence. This Passover, we have not been fortunate to have it. We pray that silence will return to us, to peaceful calm and serenity.
