Israel is a country of dichotomies. Everywhere I turn, I encounter contradictions that demand my attention, unsettle my assumptions, and invite deeper reflection.
Just outside our hotel stands the brand-new Museum of Tolerance. A striking structure with clean architectural lines, it gives no hints from the outside about what is held within. The irony is hard to miss, it is a museum named for “tolerance,” and yet the focus seems far narrower than expected. Inside, we had to join an official tour to access the exhibitions. One was a powerful collection of photographs documenting the past 75 years of Israel’s statehood; another was a haunting exhibit titled From Darkness to Light, amplifying the voices of women in the aftermath of October 7.
One exhibit was particularly arresting—portraits of Israelis from every walk of life printed on translucent material, layered so that the image of one person was always seen through another. You could see their faces and their expressions not in isolation, but refracted and reflected through each other. That visual metaphor struck a deep chord. It said something essential: that in Israel, identity is always held in relationship to others.
And yet, the “tolerance” being evoked seemed not about Jews and Arabs, religious and secular, or even a vision of global harmony—it seemed focused inward, on tolerance among Jews, tolerance within the tribe. That framing, while urgent in its own right, also felt deeply limiting. It didn’t fully acknowledge that we are not only in relationship with one another as Jews, but also with the broader world around us. We are shaped by, and responsible to, a wider human tapestry. To truly experience this museum was to confront its contradictions, to sit with its silences, and to wrestle with its unspoken questions: Who do we see as part of our collective? Who do we extend our empathy toward? And what might it mean to expand the very definition of belonging?
This is the space I find myself in when I am in Israel: the space between things. Between hiloni (secular) and dati (religious). Between a reverence for the past, our texts, our traditions, and a real urgency to live meaningfully in the present. Between being particularistic, caring deeply for Jews and for the State of Israel, and being universal, believing every life has value and every person deserves safety and dignity. How do we hold these tensions?
It is not easy to live in the in-between. But I’m convinced that’s where the growth is. It is in that fertile tension, where nothing is simple, where values clash, where identity is contested—that transformation happens. That is where empathy is born, and where resilience takes root.
After a challenging Hebrew yoga class, we wandered through Machane Yehuda, Jerusalem’s open-air market. It was unusually empty, some stalls shuttered, fewer vendors in sight, but we still sampled teas and halva and dried fruits. I passed up the marzipan rugelach (not sure it would survive the heat until I return home), but the familiar smells and sounds of the shuk were present. And yet, the eerie spaciousness reminded us: this is not the same Jerusalem I’ve always known.
We then made our way to Hummus Shel Techina, a favorite of Aaron’s, where the all-you-can-eat hummus platter and fresh lemonade never disappoint. The place was alive with energy, hipsters sitting next to Orthodox Jews. It somehow holds the contradictions of Israeli society with ease. There, the in-between feels less like a battleground and more like a communal table.
In Gan Sacher, we walked through a sprawling playground shaded by canopies, children of every age laughing and running freely. The wooded paths led us to a sculpture exhibit outside the new National Library, Hebrew letters carved in stone, their shapes revealed only in negative space. It was deeply thought-provoking. We could only identify a few of the letters, but the concept stayed with me: that meaning sometimes resides in the absence, in the voids, in what is unspoken.
Is that not true of language itself? Of relationships? Of memory?
Each day I wake up to headlines about Israel’s isolation in the world, and yet within Israel, the memory of October 7 reverberates through every corner of society. I keep asking myself, what are we hearing, and what are we not hearing? What happens when we shout so loudly that we can no longer listen? What does it mean for a nation to hold both the noise and the silence of grief?
The National Library is not a quiet reading space, it is a cultural hub, a sanctuary of memory and meaning. Built in the round, it embraces you. Inside are rare books, modern art, archives, and echoes of past and present. It felt like a place of gathering, reflection, and resistance to forgetting.
We tried to view the open plaza in front of the Knesset, but since the 12-day war it has been blocked to visitors. Still, Rebecca noticed two signs standing side-by-side—one pointing toward the Zionist Leadership Fund, the other to the Israel Democracy Institute. Another visual metaphor. Two visions of the country, two narratives, two longings. Coexisting. Opposed. Intertwined.
Later, we visited the Bezalel Institute for its annual graduate exhibition. The school was transformed into a sprawling museum of creative energy. Every room pulsed with innovation, heartbreak, and hope. From jewelry to fashion, photography to industrial design—the students were clearly engaging with the world around them. Their work reflected the conflict, the complexity, the beauty, and the questions of this moment. One artist quoted Claude Debussy: “Music is the space between the notes.” That is exactly how I’ve been feeling. The space between the notes, that’s where I am. That’s where this entire journey lives.
As I write this, I realize how essential it is to give myself the time to rest, to reflect, and to integrate. To learn how to live in the in-between, not just while I’m in Israel, but in my daily life. That’s the work I’m bringing home: to dwell in contradiction without running from it. To listen deeply. To speak honestly. And to remember that even when the world feels divided, there is something holy in the space between.
Halva at Machne Yehuda
Do We Have To Choose?
Can you find the Lamed (and Morah Rebecca!)
Hummus shel Techina!
And sometimes, like today, it is just a typical day in a country I have long considered my second home. Yes, there are hints of change—subtle shifts that rise up at unexpected moments and catch me off guard. But today, a calmness prevailed. A quiet sense of connection and ease settled.
The morning began with yoga at an Israeli studio led by a remarkable teacher who moved seamlessly between Hebrew and English. It made me think: this is how I’ll improve my language skills. Rebecca and I were easily thirty years older than the rest of the class, but we kept up with the young Israelis. We held our own.
The weather was gorgeous. Julian had warned us that the heat might be intense and that we’d need a parasol, but compared to New York’s oppressive summer, it felt easy. We wandered through the narrow paths of Yemin Moshe and passed by the shuttered shops of the artist colony. We kept going—through the First Station, along the old train tracks that wind through Baka and Katamon. We stopped for fresh-squeezed juice, then strolled back through the German Colony, where I had lived during rabbinical school. From there, we made our way to Ben Yehuda Street, in search of the waffle lady I used to visit with students, my kids, and friends. I kept walking up and down, saying to Rebecca, “I know it’s there.”But it wasn’t.
That’s the undercurrent I noticed all day—so many shops empty, some permanently closed. The streets felt quiet. Yes, it was a workday, but even that couldn’t explain it. There were no Birthright kids. No roving packs of teenagers. No tourists at all. Israelis, moving with purpose, not resting. And yet, there is also life pushing through—film festivals, music, art. A whole culture determined to shine despite the weight it carries.
What I love about this place is exactly that: Israelis hold onto culture like it’s a lifeline. But still, the restaurants felt slow, and the stores mostly empty. And my waffle lady was gone.
Her absence hit me harder than I expected. It felt like a small loss, but also a deep one—the loss of a time in my life. A sweetness, quite literally, that connected me to memories of college, rabbinical school, of bringing congregants and my own children to this place. If the waffle stand is gone, did those moments still happen? The doors were closed. The taste was missing. And in that absence, I felt the ache of memory and change. If this brief moment stirred such feeling in me, how much more must those who built this country carry?
Later in the day, we swam in the rooftop pool that overlooks Independence Park. We were alone most of the time; the hotel, too, seemed mostly empty. We met Rebecca’s nephew Isaac, who lives in Jerusalem, and he shared his experience during the recent 12-day war. Hearing his story felt like a true gift—a living narrative of what it means to be here now.
As the sun set, I felt pulled to walk. I needed to visit two places: Rav Kook’s house and the Anna Ticho House. They sit just a short walk apart, but they represent a profound tension—and beauty—in Jerusalem. Rav Kook’s home holds the spiritual past, steeped in a sense of divine purpose and religious continuity. The Anna Ticho House, filled with art and light, reminds us of new ways to see, of creativity and quiet reflection. The two places reflect Jerusalem’s soul: anchored in tradition yet still reaching, still experimenting with how to live, how to feel, how to heal. That contrast is not a contradiction, but a conversation. And standing between them, between memory and imagination, is where I found inspiration.
I ended the night back in the square where I stood just weeks after October 7, when families of the hostages brought their loved ones’ beds into the public space. I remember the crib. The toddler bed. The glasses of an older person. So much absence, made visible. Tonight, the square was empty. But I still saw them.
I’m holding the whole day. The ease and the ache. The sun and the silence. The memories that rise up in unexpected places. And the question that lingers beneath it all: how do we keep building, holding, remembering—when so much has changed?
Coffee To Start The Day
Water Park
Empty square where the beds were
I arrived in Israel with Rebecca after a safe and uneventful flight, sleeping on and off for about ten hours—you know I can power sleep on planes. The last time I was here was just a few weeks after October 7th, when everything felt empty and silent. Now, there’s a return of hustle and bustle. Mentions of the hostages were woven into the announcements on the plane—“May they return home safely”—a foundational undertone that continues throughout: at the airport kiosks, lining the walkway, in casual conversations. The atmosphere feels more observant than I remember—more kippot, more tzitzit.
We took the train from the airport to Jerusalem—a first for me—and it was impressively efficient. The weather is spectacular: sunny and mild. Rebecca is spending today and tomorrow visiting her nephew, so I set out from our adorable boutique hotel near Mamilla Mall, which is bustling with people. Needing to get grounded, I walked through the German Colony, past HUC, the YMCA, the King David Hotel, and the Windmill, and as I turned onto Emek Refaim, I started to feel that familiar sense of connection to place.
There’s construction everywhere. I stopped at my favorite restaurant, Caffit, and ordered my favorite halloumi salad, sitting outside in the sun. What a gift. Then a siren went off. Most people calmly filed into the safe room, though plenty just stayed at their tables. People were friendly, kind, and reassuring—telling me that Jerusalem is safe. When we returned outside, others had taken tables, food had gone cold, but people just moved forward. One person said to me, “This is not our first siren.” It all felt communal, comical, and disorienting at once.
Things are the same, and yet there’s an undercurrent of difference—more insular, more self-protective. Or maybe I am the one who’s different. I’m feeling the strain, the pull of knowing that Gazans are starving just miles away, while life continues here. So for now, I walk the streets and observe, trying to hold the narrative of Israel alongside the narrative of home.
