When Life Suddenly Becomes Precious
Yesterday, I watched two videos I couldn’t stop thinking about.
In one, a group of Israelis was sitting on an airplane, singing:
“Veha’ikar — lo lefached klal.”
“And above all, not to be afraid at all.”
In another, Israelis were singing:
“Hashem yitbarach tamid ohev oti, v’yihyeh li rak tov.”
“Hashem always loves me, and it will be only good.”
There was nothing remarkable about the setting. They were not in a synagogue. They were not at a wedding. They were not celebrating a holiday.
They were on an airplane.
But just hours earlier, they had been flying from Dubai to Tel Aviv when a violent attack erupted in the cockpit. The co-pilot stabbed the captain and attempted to bring down the aircraft. Passengers and crew intervened, and the plane eventually made an emergency landing in Saudi Arabia. The passengers then spent hours waiting before boarding a rescue flight home.
Israeli authorities have described the incident as a terrorist attack aimed at bringing down the aircraft.
And we know what the passengers did.
They acted.
Several Israelis entered the cockpit and helped subdue the attacker. One passenger, Yaniv Hayun, took hold of the controls during the emergency and helped pull the plane out of its descent until the crew could take over. Another passenger helped restrain the attacker. A dentist on board helped treat the wounded captain.
And then, after all of that, they went home.
Singing.
As the rescue flight arrived at Ben Gurion, passengers were filmed cheering and singing.
That is what struck me.
They had just confronted death, fought for one another, and survived.
And then they celebrated being alive.
There is something deeply moving about that response.
We should be careful not to romanticize trauma. People respond to terrifying experiences in many different ways. But there is something remarkable about seeing these Israelis respond with courage when danger came and with joy when it passed.
It is a quality we have seen again and again among our people: people who run toward danger, rescue strangers, treat the wounded, and fight for one another.
Our people have developed an extraordinary instinct to protect one another.
And there is another dimension to the story.
Human courage and Divine providence do not have to compete.
We can look at the passengers and say: What courage.
And we can look at everything that had to go right for 174 people to survive and say: What a miracle.
The captain, despite being seriously wounded, managed to open the cockpit door. Passengers reached the cockpit. People with relevant skills happened to be on board. The plane was stabilized. A safe landing was made. Medical help was available.
Human beings acted.
And somehow, everyone made it out alive.
Perhaps that is precisely how miracles work.
God does not necessarily save us by removing human beings from the story.
Sometimes He saves us through them.
But the story does not end with survival.
It ends with singing.
They sang.
Why?
Why, after an experience like that, would their response be music?
Perhaps the answer is found in Kohelet, which we read every Sukkot.
At the heart of Kohelet is a word we usually translate as “futility” or “meaninglessness”:
“Hevel havalim, hakol havel.”
But hevel literally means vapor or mist.
Something fleeting.
Something that appears and disappears.
Perhaps that is what Kohelet is really trying to teach us.
The problem is not that life has no meaning.
The problem is that life does not last.
Shlomo Hamelech, the author of Kohelet, has everything: wealth, power, wisdom, accomplishments, a kingdom, and the Beit HaMikdash. Yet he recognizes that even the greatest achievements are temporary.
Hevel.
Not necessarily worthless.
Fleeting.
And once we understand that, the preciousness of a moment becomes clearer.
A sunset is beautiful in part because it disappears. A conversation with someone we love becomes more precious because we know it cannot last forever.
The same is true of life itself.
Only hours before those videos were taken, these passengers were on an ordinary flight. Suddenly, their lives were in danger.
And then they were given another moment.
What did they do with it?
They sang.
One song said:
“Veha’ikar — lo lefached klal.”
Above all, do not be afraid.
The other said:
“Hashem yitbarach tamid ohev oti, v’yihyeh li rak tov.”
Hashem always loves me. It will be only good.
In those two songs, there was courage, faith, and gratitude for being alive.
And perhaps that is why those videos are so powerful.
They had just experienced hevel in the most terrifying way: how quickly life can change, how suddenly an ordinary moment can disappear.
And when they were given another moment, they did not take it for granted.
They sang.
You don’t appreciate a moment because you know it will last forever. You appreciate it because you know it won’t.
