Chol Hamoed Pesach. My wife and I joined Shmuel Chaim Naiman for a foraging walk in the hills outside of Ramat Beit Shemesh. He is the son of Rabbi Abba Zvi and Mrs. Rochel Naiman of Baltimore. Rabbi Abba Zvi was my classmate in TA since second grade.
Walking the paths through the
fields, we learned about wild oats, carrots, figs, and other plants. We learned
about spiritually connecting to the physicality of Eretz Yisrael. Around our
group of Anglos, we saw Israeli families, some of them very chareidi, also trekking in the hills. Is
there a better way to spend Chol Hamoed?
The finale of the tour was the
story of David and Goliath, who fought it out in the Elah Valley below us. Also
visible dotting the surrounding hills were rising apartment complexes. Here was
Israel – history, nature, and rebirth – all in one foraging walk.
*
* *
Sunday, April 27. I picked up my friend Danny from
his home in Katamon to visit the Nova Music Festival site in the Gaza Envelope. (This is the common name for the settlement area in the southern part of the coastal
plain and the western part
of the
Negev.) After Danny put his bike in the back of the car, I opened
WAZE and typed “Nova Festival Memorial.” It was 106 kilometers (66 miles) away
and would take us 1 hour 35 minutes to get there from Jerusalem.
I have gone to that area of the
Envelope many times before. It is one of the most relaxing, “lazy day” places
in Israel for me, where I can unwind. Israel can be a pressure cooker, but when
I visit Beeri, Alumim, and the sprawling wheat fields around them, with their
wide blue sky, I am in seventh heaven. It is so quiet, so chilled out. There is
very little traffic, and when you bike on the designated bike paths, all you
can hear is the rustling of the wild oats and the tree branches. From the
distance you can see the dim, gray outline of Gaza. Heaven and hell are
neighbors here. But Gaza seemed so far away, so remote. And besides, we have
the best intelligence and best electronic border protection, right? That all
ended on October 7, 2023, Simchat Torah, when Hell invaded Heaven. That area
will never be the same to me.
We took the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway,
Route 1, and exited at Latrun, going west on Route 3. We passed Yesodot and
Kibbutz Chafetz Chaim, then drove south on Route 40, eventually getting to
Route 232, the road to Sderot. At each major junction on the way, once we
passed Kiryat Malachi, we saw many yellow ribbons, pictures of hostages, and
placards and signs calling for a deal to get them home. Sometimes, the signs
indicated that they prefer a deal with Hamas still standing if that’s what it
would take to get them home. Occasionally, we saw signs begging the government
to finish off Hamas, so that the soldiers who gave their lives would have not
done so in vain.
We came to the outskirts of the
community of Re’im. It was there, in the parking area and grounds, that the
music festival took place. We saw bus after bus in the parking lot, plus many
cars. There were staves with pictures of individuals who perished. Sometimes,
there was a memorial, indicating that the person in question died in the very
spot of the marker. We saw an open structure called the “bar,” where many were
killed. We saw the stage and the place where an ambulance was firebombed.
People were killed everywhere.
Nearby were bus stop shelters with names and pictures on them. There were
people guiding small groups explaining the various clashes that took place
there. The vast majority of visitors we encountered were seniors, Ashkenazi,
and secular. I saw one group of chareidi
Jews – a family from outside Israel being led by a guide who spoke to them in
Yiddish. There was a guy seated at a table waiting to put tefillin on people. He told me that there were very few takers.
There was a picture of a participant at the festival who came from a chareidi (Breslov) background. He “went
off the derech,” but never stopped
putting on tefillin. There were many
other testimonials of people’s bravery and self-sacrifice to save others.
I tried to picture in my mind the
horror and the mayhem: dam va’eish
vetimrot ashan – blood, fire, and columns of smoke – the stunning turn of events
from blissful joy and camaraderie to panic, chaos, and terror.
We left the site to go biking. It
was five kilometers from there to Kibbutz Be’eri. We heard a lot of booms in
the distance. The Israeli air force was conducting many attacks on Hamas
positions. We rode past eucalyptus trees and tall grasses, then past an avocado
orchard. We had reached the outskirts of Be’eri. After riding down the main
road that crosses the wheat fields of Be’eri, we arrived at the perimeter of
the residential area. Through the chain-link fence we saw burnt-out homes. I
was horrified. I imagined house to house fighting, families cringing in
basements of ma’amads (bomb shelter rooms), struggling to keep the door
shut as terrorists speaking Arabic were pulling from the other side.
We drove further to a bike rental
shop and store, untouched by the invaders. I bought an ice cream bar from a
woman in her 30s who had survived the massacre that day by fleeing from house
to house. I was surprised at how calm and collected she was. We then rode to
the entrance gate of the residential area but Israeli soldiers wouldn’t allow
us in.
*
* *
Wednesday, April 30. My wife was in Tel Aviv that day,
working as a caretaker. That evening, her friends from the Jewish Filipino
community were having a barbecue get-together and (sort of) a Yom Ha’atzmaut
celebration. She wanted me to come from Jerusalem and join them and to bring my
12-year-old stepdaughter. So far, so good.
Later that day, which coincided
with Israel’s Memorial Day for fallen soldiers, Yom Hazikaron,
fires broke out between Eshta’ol and Latrun, on the
outskirts of Jerusalem. The center of the country was burning. The forests
between Beit Shemesh and Jerusalem were blazing. Kvish (route) 1, connecting Jerusalem to Tel Aviv was closed
because the raging fires had engulfed part of it. Hundreds of motorists were
stranded and needed to be rescued. It was the worst fire in Israel’s history.
All official Yom Ha’atzmaut outside ceremonies were cancelled. A gray sky
enveloped Jerusalem. The air was thick with ash particles.
What was I supposed to do? Kvish 1 was out of the question. The
only other road was Rt. 443, which passes through Modiin. Would it be bumper to
bumper? And there were reports that fire broke out in Latrun and was advancing
towards Modiin. I was afraid that I too would get stranded on the highway. I
looked at WAZE. It indicated that it would take only an extra 40 minutes due to
the redirected traffic. I was skeptical.
My stepdaughter was insistent – she
had to get to Tel Aviv. She
desperately missed her old friends there since moving to Jerusalem. I had two
bad options: dealing with uncertain driving conditions or her hysteria. I
decided that the first option would be less taxing on my nerves.
As I approached the car in the
underground parking lot, I could already detect the soot in the air. The roads
leading to the entrance ramp onto Kvish Begin, which turns into 443, were
clogged. It usually takes only six minutes from my house. It took 20 minutes.
Just to get on the entrance ramp was an inch-by-inch affair. Once on the
highway, we crawled. How could WAZE be right? This would more likely take three
hours to get to Tel Aviv. I told my stepdaughter that we might have to turn
back. She screamed.
After about half an hour, the
traffic started flowing again. We finally got to our destination. It took one
hour and forty minutes. I parked the car, and Shirel jumped out as if she were
sitting on an ejection seat. It was a quiet block of single family, one-story
homes with gardens in front of each house. In the distance I saw soaring
skyscrapers. This is Tel Aviv. The air was grimy here as well. There were about
30 people at the barbecue. Penina, my wife’s friend and host, was grilling pargiot (chicken backs), chicken wings,
and hot dogs. We sat outside until it started raining – a dirty rain, water
mixed with desert sand. When I returned to the car it was splattered with
grime.
The mood at Penina’s home was
upbeat, despite the Houthis, the war in Gaza, and the fires. That in itself
encouraged me. I was also inspired by the sense of community I saw here:
Filipino converts to Judaism, women with tichels
and head coverings, dressed modestly, chatting in Tagalog, their native
language. I was the weird-looking one, but I didn’t mind. I was voraciously
downing the chicken wings in barbecue sauce.
*
* *
May 4.
At about 9:30 a.m., a Houthi missile penetrated Israel’s air defenses and hit
Ben Gurion Airport. My wife was on a train at the time on her way to work in
Tel Aviv, and the train was nearing the airport when the missile struck.
The train stopped a few hundred
meters from the airport train station. Then there was an announcement for
everyone to get down on the floor, as you would when there is a warning siren
for incoming missiles. No reason was given. After they were given permission to
get back to their seats, the announcer said that the train would stay put for a
while as police were investigating a security threat at the airport. After
another amount of time elapsed, they were told that the train was returning to
Jerusalem. All that time, no explosion was heard by anyone on the train. The
train, which left Jerusalem at 9:11 a.m., returned to Jerusalem 11 a.m.
But
that wasn’t all that occurred that day. From the Ynet headlines:
•
“Heavy rains flood parts of southern Israel, leading to closures on
major roads”
• “Entrance to Eilat shut as routes 12, 40, 90, and
204 closed; public urged to avoid affected areas”
• “Desert communities receive year’s worth of
rainfall in one day”
Thirty-five
millimeters of rain in a short time caused severe damage at Ein Gedi. Bridges,
steps, and trails were destroyed, the ancient synagogue flooded, and rare
vegetation was harmed; the reserve will remain closed until restoration is
complete.
My head was spinning. Israel was
burning in the center and flooding in the south, fighting in Gaza, Lebanon, and
Syria. And Ben Gurion airport was nearly hit.
My mind echoed the words of
Joseph’s brothers: “What is this that G-d has done to us?”
*
* *
May 17. My friend Shiya, from the United States, walked over
from his room in the Leonardo Hotel to visit. Shiya doesn’t waste any time, and
I’m embarrassed that he sees important places more than I do. He told me that
he went to the Mt. Herzl military cemetery. Most of the time he just sits there
in reverential silence. There he was, surrounded by those young people who gave
their lives. He wept silently as he saw families and friends approach the
graves of their loved ones. He even saw someone talking to a grave, as if the
person in it were alive and talking to him face to face.
There is a story of a student in the
yeshiva of Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, zt”l,
Kol Torah, who wanted to take a day off to go up north to daven at the kivrei tzadikim (holy graves). Rav
Auerbach asked him, “Why do you have to go so far when you can pray at the kivrei tzadikim in Har Herzl?”
*
* *
May 18. Just came back from shul, where I
davened Mincha, to finish this article. On the way, I saw groups of young
children walking happily in the streets of Jerusalem. They did not need adults
escorting them. They were carefree and secure.
Despite all the headlines, everyday
life here goes on as usual. And I am sorry to say that it is safer for women
and children to walk the streets of Jerusalem than it is in Baltimore.
