Why do I weep every time I hear the Hatikva

When I was fifteen, our principal walked into the classroom to make an important announcement:

“Next month, we will celebrate Israel Week.”

She gave us the instructions for our project, which included creating a large, bound journal filled with everything we could gather and learn about the State of Israel.

It was just a few years after the Six-Day War, and the world—including the country I grew up in—stood in awe of the tiny nation that, against all odds, had won an extraordinary victory. Israel had captured global attention, and for the first time in my life, so had the Jewish people.

I was appointed the director of the project—partly because I was the only Jewish student in the class, and partly because I had actually been to Israel. I taught my classmates the Hora and a few folk songs, including Hava Nagila. I also taught them our national anthem.

In careful handwriting, I wrote out the Hebrew lyrics to Hatikva and translated them word for word. As I explained the meaning of each line, something happened: I cried. For the first time.

Until then, I had memorized the words to Hatikva without fully understanding them. But in that moment, the weight of our history, the hope in our anthem, overwhelmed me. I was trying to teach my classmates something sacred, while holding back tears that belonged to centuries of suffering—Jews harassed, tortured, murdered, and imprisoned simply for being who they were.

The history books I had access to back then spoke of World War II, but never mentioned Hitler’s true aim: to rid the world of Jews. Not once.

Did I raise my hand and say,
“Hey, Prof. Bohman—you forgot to mention that Hitler murdered my grandparents?”
Did I ask,
“Professor, a few decades before the war, hundreds of thousands of Jews lived in Vienna. Where did they all go?”

No, I didn’t. I was too afraid. I stayed quiet, buried in a bubble where I felt safe.

Until June 1967.

Suddenly, Israel was in the headlines. The Jewish people were seen—even in Austria.

“Rebecca, explain to us…”
“Sing with us.”
“Teach us.”
“Sit next to me.”

All at once, I was noticed.

Around that time, Fiddler on the Roof was being performed at one of Vienna’s major theaters. Our entire class received tickets to attend. A few days later, Lea Tulitzkya, the star of the show, visited our classroom. We danced the Hora and sang Avinu Shalom Aleichem for her.

At the end of the performance, I raised my hand to give a final cue. With my handwritten notes in hand, my non-Jewish classmates stood and sang Hatikva—for our honored Israeli guest.

Ever since that year, I’ve never been able to sing the national anthem of our 77-year-old country without shedding a tear.