Today we close a journey that has been so much more than a trip. Thanks to the generosity and vision of the UJA, we have been given the gift of seeing Israel not just with our eyes, but with our hearts, our minds, and our souls. We have walked through moments of beauty and moments of pain, through joy and tension, through history and the present day. We have seen resilience made real.
This morning we visited a community garden in Ra’anana, a project that began eight years ago when the municipality entrusted a piece of land to the community to work together. What has grown here is more than an edible forest. It is a living symbol of sustainability as an engine for growth, of collective responsibility and energy. Here Olim are welcomed, elders find a cure for loneliness, and people choose to see the light and the good in everyone. We are all a little bent they reminded us but that is okay because we all bring something.
Success here is not measured by money but by how many people you can bring into the process. There is no politics only the shared language of planting, tasting, and building something together. Cinnamon leaves, lemon-tasting herbs, and unique fruits became part of the day. We learned about the bird community, about planting with displaced persons, about the delicate awareness required to truly meet someone’s needs. We saw how a garden can be made wheelchair accessible and become a place of dignity, healing, and connection.
It is not a comfortable vacation nor was it meant to be. This journey has made us vulnerable. It has challenged us to be open to each other and to the people we have met. And in that openness we have found friends. We have been reminded that building a better society means empowering communities that have nothing and believing that we can make a difference.
At our closing circle we asked hard questions. What has been hard to hold? What tensions are we carrying home? How has this trip changed our role as Jews in the diaspora? What questions will continue to live in us? What responsibility do we feel now? These questions do not have neat answers. But in asking them together we have made something sacred.
We bless each neshama, soul, who has traveled this road:
Liza, who tries the hardest thing first and carries deep gratitude.
Karri, who embraces every experience with open heart and open hands.
Rebecca, who seeks hard conversations and listens with care.
David, who holds community and family close while learning always.
Jonah, who brings fresh eyes and youthful insight.
Aden, who asks the big questions with courage.
Matt, who bears witness and weaves joy into our people’s story.
Brooke, whose energy and openness bring connection.
Ellen, whose love of tradition grounds her listening.
Pam, who advocates and supports with steadfastness.
Gaby, whose joy and welcoming spirit carry strength.
Julian, whose warmth and humor knit communities together.
Together we have lived a l’dor v’dor experience, feeling the call to invest in each other, in the next generation, in the unfolding future of Am Yisrael.
We ended with a visit to the Carmel Market, letting the sounds, tastes, and colors wash over us one last time. Then to the airport, where I had a final small challenge. I was placed on standby and waited in uncertainty only to end up in the exact seat I had originally booked. No explanation, no clear meaning. Just a reminder that sometimes the best we can do is let go.
We leave with full minds, perhaps heavier hearts, and a deeper understanding not only of Israel but of ourselves. The journey home will be long but the work of carrying these lessons into our communities begins now.
May the seeds we planted here literal and spiritual continue to grow. May they bear fruit in acts of justice, kindness, and peace. And may we never take for granted the gift of being here together.
With gratitude.
Community Garden
Community Garden
Community Garden
Community Garden
Final Dinner
This Shabbat morning began a little slower than the rest of the week. Some in our group took advantage of the beautiful Tel Aviv morning with a walk along the beach or a run by the water. I joined a wonderful yoga class, and our hotel breakfast, complete with fresh breads, cheeses, and fruit, was an absolute delight. It felt like a gentle pause before another day filled with meaning.
Our first stop was the ANU Museum – The Museum of the Jewish People. Many of you may remember it as the Diaspora Museum. In the past, visitors entered at the top of a staircase to see pillars representing Torah, Avodah, and Gemilut Hasadim as the foundations of Jewish survival. Now, instead of pillars, the first thing you encounter is the stories of real people. It is a striking shift, from focusing on abstract concepts to showing the living, breathing individuals who carry our heritage.
ANU means us. The exhibits ask: Who is the “us”? What is our journey? What are the parts of your identity that connect you to Jewish life? The diversity on display makes it clear that we all have an entry point, different, personal, yet tied to the same story. Walking through, I felt reminded of my own connection to Judaism and the ways we each help keep it alive.
We met for lunch at the Sarona Market with someone very special to our community. Nine years ago, we welcomed a young Israeli through the Shinshinim program, a year of volunteer service before army duty. She brought us Hebrew songs, stories, and energy, but most importantly, she brought herself. She became our friend.
This week, sitting across from her, I realized just how enduring those connections are. Her life has taken her in many directions, yet she remains deeply connected to Jews abroad. This fall she is getting married and has asked me to officiate. In Israel, however, progressive Jewish weddings are not officially recognized. She will have to have another rabbi, sanctioned by the Chief Rabbinate, present to sign the documents. Still, she wants a Jewish ceremony in the spirit of what she experienced with us. I believe her time in our community, seeing an open and inclusive Judaism, helped shape that choice.
Later, we met a woman serving in the IDF’s Sapir Unit, part of Yahalom’s elite aerial ordnance disposal team. Her work involves neutralizing bombs and missiles at Air Force bases. When asked about breaking gender barriers, she said simply, “It’s not my job to convince male commanders to choose women. My job is to do the work well, so the quality speaks for itself.” Her quiet determination and focus on excellence were deeply inspiring.
In the late afternoon, we walked through Jaffa and met Rachel Korazim, an extraordinary educator. We read poetry from her anthology Shiva, each piece a window into how this war is shaping Israeli society. One poem wrestled with the absence of God, shifting the blame to the absence of government. Another confronted the lie we tell our children, that they will be safe, that there will be no need for an army. Some poems were deeply ideological, others personal and raw. They did not offer easy comfort, but they held truth, and sometimes truth is the most sacred offering we have.
Our final dinner together was at Hazakan v’hayam, “The Old Man and the Sea.” This Arab restaurant was filled with life, music, and joy. We were the only non-Arabs in a vast, bustling space, yet the welcome was warm. Plates of colorful salads, breads, and seafood filled the table as music and singing rose around us. Before long, we were singing too. In that moment, culture was not an abstract concept, it was shared, lived, and celebrated together.
It was at the end of this joyful meal that we said goodbye to our guard and medic, Yonathan. He had been a wonderful addition to our group—fully participating in our experiences and offering a different lens through which to see them. His presence enriched our journey, and we will miss him.
We ended the day in Hostage Square and Democracy Square for the Saturday evening demonstration. This week, the crowd was larger than last week. The feeling of standing there, not as tourists, but together as a community, was powerful. In a place where grief, hope, and determination mix, our presence was both witness and prayer.
Shabbat here is always layered, moments of joy alongside moments of deep reflection. Today held both, reminding me once again that Jewish life has always been about holding the fullness of our experience in one heart
Our Shinshin 10 years later!
Outside Sarona
Today was a powerful and deeply moving day, one in which history, heartbreak, and hope seemed to meet at every turn. We spent the day in the company of Shmaya Berkowitz, a bereaved father whose son Eyal Meir Berkowitz (Z”L) died fighting in Gaza. Shmaya did not simply tell us his son’s story. He took us with him into the places that have shaped his grief and his strength: Sderot, the Nova Festival site, and the Tekumah memorial. In each place, his own loss was held alongside the losses of so many others, making the day feel at once intensely personal and profoundly collective.
Our journey began tracing Route 4, the derekh hayam, the “road of the sea,” stretching from Rosh Hanikra in the north all the way down to Egypt. The land here carries many layers of history. We spoke of 1948, when Gaza came under Egyptian military rule but those who fled there were never given Egyptian citizenship. They became stateless, caught in the currents of regional politics, a pawn in a game far larger than themselves. At Nativ HaAsara, the closest Israeli community to Gaza, we saw a giant flag mounted as a beacon to soldiers just across the border. These residents had already been uprooted once from the Sinai after the peace treaty with Egypt, and even here they still live with the feeling of not having returned to anything “normal.”
From there, we drove Route 232, now known as the blood road, the same route terrorists took on October 7. We spoke of the years before the Iron Dome, when rockets rained down on Sderot without pause, of the Jewish communities evacuated from Gaza in 2005 after decades of debate, and of how many here now view those decisions through the lens of that terrible day. Sderot’s population has grown from 22,000 in 2001 to over 60,000 today, an act of courage in itself when daily life is shadowed by sirens and shelters.
6:29 a.m. A moment seared into memory. The first distress calls from the Nova Festival reached Magen David Adom. At the very same time, 26 terrorists stormed the Sderot police station. We heard of Yossi, the ambulance driver who stayed at Nova when others were called away. The terrorists, realizing the festival was underway, targeted the crowd and even the ambulance. Out of 18 missing, 17 were found and buried. The last, medic Eli Akim Leibman, was discovered only months later, buried with another victim.
At Tekumah, 1,400 burned-out cars from that day stand in a haunting pile. In the center is a blue car placed there intentionally as a statement of hope. Yes, we were struck down, but we will rise again.Nearby stand captured terrorist vehicles, placed here deliberately to challenge any future attempt at “October 7 denial,” just as we once had to confront Holocaust denial.
We stopped at the shelter where Ilay Nachman was killed protecting others. We listened to the testimonies of the three women who survived and called his mother, Ifat, so that she could feel our presence and support from afar. At the site, barcodes allowed us to save the voices of survivors to listen to again later, ensuring that their words will not be lost.
At the Nova site, the grief was overwhelming. Each sign told the story of a young life, full of music, friendship, and joy, cut short. Fighter jets roared overhead and artillery rumbled in the distance, reminders that the war these victims never returned from is still being fought. Yet among the visitors, strangers walked quietly together, reading, remembering, and honoring — threads of connection holding us as one people.
Shmaya’s voice faltered when he spoke of the price of bringing home the dead, not only in resources but in risk and pain. He asked the questions that have no easy answers: What does it mean to be part of a people? What is the glue that connects us? What happens if we lose our ability to feel that connection?
Our day ended far from where it began, in Tel Aviv, where we joined Kabbalat Shabbat with Beit Tefillah Yisraeli, followed by a joyful Tu B’Av Shabbat dinner near the beach. After the heaviness of what we had seen, the sound of singing, the ocean breeze, and a walk along the sand felt like a blessing — a reminder that even in the darkest chapters, there is light. We are still here. We are still connected.
As we enter Shabbat, we carry with us the stories of this day, the personal and the national, the ancient and the unfolding, and the reminder of how essential it is to hold each other close.
Shabbat Shalom.
Landscape of the south
Shelter memorial for Ilay Nachman
Sderot
Tkuma
Nova
Services
Today we experienced the resilience of Israeli society in places filled with intense meaning, deep pain, and perhaps a pinch of hope.
We began at ADI Negev–Nahalat Eran, “The Jewel of the Negev,” a rehabilitation village founded by Major General (Res.) Doron Almog in memory of his son, Eran. Originally known as ALEH Negev and built by the ALEH organization, the community was inspired by Eran’s experiences and shaped by Almog’s vision and leadership. Here, 170 residents live full time, 200 patients attend daily programs, and outpatient and inpatient services, including specialized treatment for PTSD, are offered to some of the neediest members of Israeli society, those with severe developmental and physical challenges. On the wall is the phrase תמיד אני שווה, Tamid ani shave, “I am always worth your effort.” This is more than a slogan, it is the moral foundation of this place. Plans are already underway to create a fully accessible residential community in the next decade where people with and without disabilities will live side by side in full inclusion.
We left ADI Negev and traveled along Route 241, knowing it was the road terrorists used on October 7 to reach and decimate the city of Ofakim. That awareness shadowed our arrival at Kibbutz Nir Oz, where we met one survivor and came face to face with the devastation of that day. She told us, “We know how to live in a war zone. We know how to talk to our kids. But this is different.” On October 7, seventy six people from Nir Oz were taken hostage. Until 10:30 a.m., the terrorists kept capturing people, then, after being told they had “enough hostages,” they began killing. She described how her husband became “the lock” for their safe room. She spoke of feeling abandoned, knowing that four and a half hours before 6:29 a.m., those in power knew something was going to happen, yet no one warned them.
The dining hall, once the vibrant hub of kibbutz life, is now a memorial. In front of some homes, signs read, “Netanyahu, the blood of my family is on your hands,” “Murderer,” “Traitor,” “Do not enter,” “Do not stand,” “Do not make impure.” The grief here is tangled with frustration and political outrage. The kibbutz faces complicated choices, dealing with the needs of many families, deciding whether to rebuild, leave, or start anew. For years, only “old timers” wanted to live here, and before October 7 young families were beginning to buy in, thanks to kibbutz movement incentives.
As I walked through, I wrestled with the tension between voyeurism and bearing witness. What information do I need to truly bear witness? Walking through others’ homes and sifting through their lives is uncomfortable. Yet by standing by the mailboxes or seeing the flags, I could take in the devastation as a whole. Who has the right to do this? How do we mourn as individuals and as a community? Ultimately, we were reminded that we visit not only to tell a terrible story, but to commit ourselves to work for good, for peace among all people, and to insist that what we share as human beings must outweigh what divides us.
Our final stop was Sderot, where we met George Stevens, a young American immigrant and youth movement counselor who lives in an “urban kibbutz” through the Dror Israel movement. Sderot was first settled by North African and Yemenite Jews who were sent here by the government without choice and without recognition for building the city. Once politically aligned with Labor, it has become more right wing, shaped by decades of rocket fire from Gaza. Every bus stop is a bomb shelter, and the government now requires safe rooms in all new homes. George wants people to settle here and reclaim the pioneer spirit once reserved for kibbutzim.
Central to his work, at least before October 7, was partnering with Palestinians in Gaza who still believe in peace and work toward a shared truth. He described the “10/7 narrative” that Israel’s best air force would arrive to save them, and how that faith was broken. He spoke of how, for some, if the person approaching is Israeli, they are coming to save you, and if they are not, they are coming to kill you. He named the “PR of victimhood” and the way each side projects foreshadowing of danger. His belief is that Hamas cannot remain in charge, but that moderate Palestinian voices must be supported.
George calls his philosophy peace realism, a blend of what he terms “radical pragmatism” and Yitzhak Rabin’s approach, “Fight terrorism as if there’s no peace process, and work for peace as if there’s no terror.” He spoke of two opposite worldviews in Israel, one believing everything will be fine if enough terrorists are killed, the other believing everything will be fine if violence is abandoned entirely. In his view, both military action and diplomacy are essential tools, and true security will only come through peace, just as peace will only be attainable when security is ensured. Since October 7, however, nearly all of his contacts and cross border projects have stopped.
As the day ended, we each found ways to absorb it. Some went to the beach, others walked. I walked for hours, noticing, breathing, and simply being present. We gathered later for a beautiful dinner, thank you, Rebecca, for finding the place, carrying with us the weight and the meaning of all we had heard and seen.
Nir Oz. Flags outside of hostages house. Blue, returned. Red, Murdered.
Outside of homes at Kibbutz. Anger at government.
Outside of homes at Kibbutz. Anger at government.
Dinner
Today was a day that stretched our hearts in every direction, across joy and sorrow, values and questions, complexity and clarity.
We began the day witnessing love in action at Sunrise Israel Camp, a summer program for children with cancer and their healthy siblings. If they weren’t at camp, many of these kids would be at home, some isolated by illness, others by circumstance. But here, they find joy, laughter, and friendship. The camp is fully integrated, Jewish and Arab children playing side by side, singing in Hebrew and Arabic, rediscovering what it means to just be kids.
It isn’t a theoretical vision of coexistence, it’s real. They live it every day. The camp staff reminded us that they serve not only the needs of the present, but the possibilities of the future. For a few hours, they gave us the extraordinary gift of being part of their world, and it changed us.
Later, we traveled to Even Yehudah to meet Ifat and Eyal Nachman, the parents of Ilay Nachman z”l, who was murdered at the Nova music festival on October 7, 2023. Ilay was just 23. He loved the sea, music, and his closest friends. He wasn’t planning to attend the festival, but happened to be there that morning. When the attack began, Ilay and two of his friends put themselves between the terrorists and three others, sacrificing their own lives to save those of their friends.
Ilay’s story is not just part of Israel’s tragedy, it’s personal to our community. Ilay was a cousin to the Greengrass and McGoldrick families, members of our congregation. When Sloane Stern became bat mitzvah, she dedicated her mitzvah project to Ilay’s memory, raising funds for Dancing Through Tears, which commissions Torah mantels in memory of those killed on October 7th. One of those mantels now lives in our sanctuary. His name is stitched into our community’s heart.
The space where we met Ilay’s parents, a simple, sacred corner near their home, was not built by them, but by a mechina, a post–high school volunteer group. Young Israelis, many of them the same age Ilay was when he died, created the site in his memory. It’s a place of quiet, presence, and meaning. And the message Ilay’s parents left with us was clear and resonant:
We must live lives of purpose.
Not of distraction or passivity, but of intention and love.
That is how they honor their son’s memory, and how they challenge us to live ours.
From there, we continued to Tel Aviv, and visited Hostage Square. This is where the grief and urgency of the country spills into public view. Posters, prayers, and protest blend together here. The square sits beside the Tel Aviv Art Museum, where Jewish and Palestinian artists exhibit side by side. The art, like the square, reminds us of what is at stake, not only lives, but the soul of a nation.
In the background, we carry the ongoing moral struggle of the IDF. Every soldier is given a document called Ruach Tzahal, the Spirit of the IDF, written by philosopher Asa Kasher. It is a code of ethics that insists on human dignity (k’vod ha’adam), responsibility, restraint, and the imperative to never say, “I was just following orders.” One phrase we heard today lingered with us: b’tzelem m’nosh, in the image of humans. A powerful echo of b’tzelem Elohim, the image of God.
We asked ourselves, with honesty: Is this code still guiding soldiers in the chaos of war?
Can it?
What does it mean to hold human dignity at the center of defense, pain, and survival?
We ended the day in Ashdod, with a midway debrief. We sat together as a kehilla, a sacred community of seekers, and reflected on what we’ve seen, what we’re carrying, and what we’re learning. This wasn’t a political conversation. It was an invitation to honesty:
• What moment stayed with you the most?
• What surprised or moved you?
• Where did you feel connected to something larger than yourself?
• What beliefs have been challenged?
• What has been hard to hold? What tensions are you sitting with?
People spoke with courage. Some with tears. Some with silence.
This land is beautiful and complicated. It opens you, confronts you, and doesn’t let you remain unchanged. And tonight, we let that change begin to take root, through listening, feeling, and simply being present with one another.
We’ll wake up tomorrow and continue our journey.
With deeper questions.
With fuller hearts.
And with the sacred commitment to say again:
Hineni. Here I am.
Here we are.
Sunrise-Israel
Nachman family remembering Ilay z”l
Nachman family remembering Ilay z”l
Connections
Hostage square tunnel walk
We left Jerusalem early, heading north on Route 6, a road that has quietly changed the face of Israel. With its smooth, electronic toll system, Route 6 has opened the country up, making once-remote areas accessible, reshaping the economy, and redrawing the rhythms of daily life. People now commute from further distances, entire regions revived by asphalt and ambition.
But our journey north was not simply a scenic drive. It was a descent into a layered story, of war, resilience, displacement, and the enduring Jewish spirit.
Our first stop was at the Alma Institute, where we met with Col. (Res.) Sarit Zahavi, a strategic analyst and founder of Alma, who works tirelessly to help the world understand what is unfolding on Israel’s northern front. Her strength was palpable as she spoke, and so was the quiet anger in her words. She shared that while Israelis knew of Hamas’ capabilities, they hadn’t understood them, and wrestled with what that even means. Her team had outlined a Hezbollah game plan over a decade ago, one that Hamas eerily mirrored on October 7.
We stood in the Upper Galilee, surrounded by beauty and silence that belies the trauma. 43 communities—60,000 people—were evacuated after October 7th. Many haven’t returned. Women especially are afraid to raise children along the border. Those who have come back are rebuilding under the echo of uncertainty, and tourism to the region has all but vanished.
Sarit asked us to do a military simulation. Each group offered ideas—solutions, questions. It was a sobering reminder: war here isn’t just about bombs. It’s the chase, the noise, the not knowing. Hezbollah is not a militia. It’s a terrorist army, a political party, a social movement loyal not to Lebanon but to Iran. And the war playing out is not just tactical. It’s psychological. It’s existential.
From Alma, we had lunch at Ma’arag in Kfar Vradim, a gourmet café that also serves a social mission—employing people with disabilities and special needs. Ivan Resnick (yes, related to our own Julian!) explained how the war disrupted their lives. They had 15 seconds to get to a bomb shelter—a reality that meant many of their workers couldn’t come. Still, they’ve created a system where every person’s work is dignified and valued. It reminded us what a Jewish vision of justice can look like—practical and profound.
Later that day, we volunteered at Lagaat BaSade—“Touching the Field”—an organic farm near the border, founded by Dor, a former tour guide turned farmer during COVID. He started picking up leftover produce. Eventually, he bought land and learned to farm. Since October 7, his land has been bombarded. Israel said they’d build him a bomb shelter. Then no. Then yes. Then no again. But still—he farms. Hundreds of rockets later, he farms. We got our hands dirty, feeling the wet soil between our fingers, the green growth under threat, and the stubborn hope that keeps it all going.
That night, we met Shula, a displaced woman from the northern town of Shtula, now living in a hotel room for over a year and a half. She was a preschool teacher for 30 years before becoming a host, a cook, a storyteller. Her family came from Kurdistan, from tents to homes, from heartbreak to rebuilding. She told her story in three parts: what I’m good at, what I love, and how to survive. Her story—told with passion and translated by Julian—was both personal and archetypal. A Jewish woman, torn from her home but never from her identity. “My sense of self is not connected to walls,” she said. “Fill your life with content.”
As she sang to us in Ladino, we were reminded again: it is vital to tell the Jewish story. And to hear it.
And threading through all of it—every discussion, every location, every heartache—was Yonathan, our medic-guide. Just months out of the IDF, he has lost 23 friends in this war. He speaks with clarity, kindness, and the kind of humor that makes room for grief. He told us, “I’m really funny in Hebrew” and I believe him.
As your rabbi, I want to tell you this: the north is hurting. And it is beautiful. It is broken. And it is full of light. The people here don’t ask for pity. They ask for presence. And we, by showing up, became witnesses, became carriers of their stories, became part of a broader Jewish family that stretches across mountains, generations, and heartbreak.
I am honored to carry their stories to you. May we hold them gently, and may they move us to deepen our empathy, our connection, and our commitment to the Jewish People. .
With love and resolve.
Simulation at Alma
Simulation at Alma
Simulation at Alma
Simulation at Alma
Farming
Farming
Farming
Today was a day filled with depth, tension, complexity, and meaning, a day that asked much of our minds and even more of our hearts. We began the morning grounded in the phrase that guided our every step: דֵּעוֹת שׁוֹנוֹת, לֵב אֶחָד, different opinions, one heart. This essential value of honoring multiplicity while remaining deeply connected anchored us in everything that followed.
We reflected on the balance between old and new: how we create something meaningful today by standing on the shoulders of those who came before us. We considered our shared humanity, the challenges of complexity, and the importance of cultivating both strong individual and communal Jewish identity.
With these values in mind, we began our walk to the Old City of Jerusalem, visiting sites that are both spiritually significant and historically pivotal to the State of Israel and the Zionist movement. At the Western Wall and the Jerusalem Archaeological Gardens, we stood on ancient stones while holding the heavy questions of what it means to be here, in this land, with all its past and present layers.
As we approached the Wall, we found ourselves swept into scenes of celebration, many boys becoming Bar Mitzvah, as it was Monday, a traditional day for Torah reading. Each one was joyfully danced into the Wall plaza beneath a huppah, with drums and music leading the way. Mothers, sisters, and grandmothers leaned over the mehitza, the separation barrier between men and women, just to catch a glimpse of their loved one stepping into Jewish adulthood.
Years ago, the Kotel held a strong emotional pull for me. That feeling has shifted. It now feels Orthodox, exclusionary, and not accepting of the pluralism that shapes my Jewish life. For me, it’s more about memory than future. Julian gently encouraged me to see it differently, to recognize that a place can still be a source of connection even if you don’t agree with much of what it represents. It can be about people, history, shared moments. And I can hold that tension: I may not feel fully at home there, but I can still honor its communal and historical significance.
At Mt. Herzl, Israel’s National Cemetery, we explored the early roots of Political Zionism—the idea that Jewish safety and flourishing require not just prayer but action. We discussed how Herzl, witnessing antisemitism like the Dreyfus Affair in 1890s France, began dreaming and planning for a homeland. By 1897, the first Zionist Congress convened and laid the groundwork for funding and building the infrastructure of a Jewish home. The 1903 Kishinev Pogrom—so powerfully captured in Bialik’s “City of Slaughter” marked a devastating turning point: the shift from hope to urgency.
We sat quietly at the grave of Yitzhak Rabin, the first Prime Minister born in Israel, a soldier for the State, and ultimately a soldier for peace. He was a deeply complex figure, and we wrestled with his legacy: Was he a destroyer of the dream or its brave redeemer? Rabin refused to treat Palestinians as a people without agency, and for that, he was both admired and opposed.
We continued to the military cemetery, where Israel’s fallen soldiers are buried chronologically, each grave marked with the same minimalist formula. Even grieving families are not permitted to deviate. It is a stark, sobering form of equality in death. There is power in uniformity—but also pain.
Two monuments stand side by side here, contrasting and complementing one another: Yad Vashem, reminding us of the price of not having a country, and Mt. Herzl, representing the price of having one.
This mission we’re on is not a tour, it is a volunteer journey, supported by a UJA Surge Grant, and shaped by the question: What role do we play in this moment? How can we better understand and support those we meet, and how might we bring their voices and needs back to our own RSNS community?
At Pantry Packers, we learned that they serve over 47,000 families each month, guided by lists from the government to ensure the food reaches those in need. From food distribution to recovered meals to aid for the homebound and health-compromised, they operate with dignity and efficiency. They even partner with World Central Kitchen, and run nonprofit grocery stores and financial aid programs for those affected by crises like October 7 and the Iranian conflict.
We packed food side by side, with hair nets and aprons, in their warehouse. It felt good, empowering even, to contribute in this small way, providing sustenance to whoever is in need, without judgment or condition.
We spent the afternoon on Kibbutz Tzora, where our guide Julian grew up. It’s where he raised his children, and now where his grandchildren live, a living testament to the power of generational continuity. We learned about the evolution and privatization of the kibbutz movement, once founded on socialist ideals, shaped by the HaBonim youth movement and the Palmach Brigade. With about 1,000 people, the kibbutz is still committed to intergenerational care and communal life. At its core is the belief that there was, and maybe still is, something more important than the individual: the collective dream of building Jewish life in this land.
At the recently restored basketball court, we paused to honor the memory of Lt. Sahar Tal, a young man who loved the game and who died defending his country on October 7.His name now lives in every bounce of the ball, every game played in his honor.
We stepped into the kibbutz shelter, a small, claustrophobic space that made real the daily reality of this country’s vulnerability. Many elderly residents struggle to get there in time. Though each shelter is supposed to be open to all, in reality, some people have been turned away. One artist responded by creating a powerful poster, now pasted across the country, stating simply: All are welcome here. A small but profound act of resistance and hospitality.
Even newer homes in Israel are required to have shelters; Julian has one in his own home but often chooses to run with his family to the communal one. We are constantly challenged to understand the limits of empathy, the reality that we cannot feel everything, cannot hold every sorrow. And yet, we try. We stretch. We wrestle.
That evening, we were welcomed into Julian’s home by his wife Orly for dinner and we sat with four Israeli men, including our medic/guard Yonatan, who served in Gaza and Lebanon. They spoke honestly, with broken hearts and clear eyes. Two are twin brothers who have already served over 300 days in reserve duty since October 7. Another is still serving. Their stories were filled with heartbreak, fatigue, guilt, and the impossible burden of being both protector and mourner.
One soldier shared that in a Hamas officer’s bedroom, he found a copy of Mein Kampf with the chilling handwritten note: “Finish what Hitler started.” Another expressed deep shame that the hostages remain. “Each time one comes home, I feel guilty. I’m the soldier, safe in Israel. He’s the civilian, still in Gaza.” And yet, he added, “I have hope. I must. Because without it, they won’t come back.”
They were united in their belief that Hamas is an ideology. You cannot kill an idea. And so, they questioned whether this war can ever truly end. They mourned the breakdown of trust between Jews and Arabs, and the pain of lost relationships with those who once simply wanted to provide for their families. “We lost the PR war,” one said bluntly. “But we are more awake now. That matters, too.”
What a day.
A day of tension and truth. Of pride and grief. Of strength and sorrow.
A day that reminded us again:
Different opinions. One heart. דֵּעוֹת שׁוֹנוֹת, לֵב אֶחָד.
With love, questions, and enduring hope.
Old City
Separation at the Wall
Separation at the Wall
Israel In Review Studio
Pantry Packers
Pantry Packers
Pantry Packers
Yonaton and Jonah
All Are Welcome Here (Welcome Poster)
“Eli, Eli, shelo yigamer l’olam—hacho l’vayam, rishrush shel hamayim, b’rak hashamayim, t’filat ha’adam.”
“My God, my God, may these things never end: the sand and the sea, the rush of the waters, the lightning in the sky, the prayer of the human heart.”
This hauntingly beautiful poem, written by Hannah Senesh,a young Hungarian Jew who made aliyah and parachuted into Nazi-occupied Europe to try to save Jews during the Holocaust, framed my Tisha B’Av this year. It has been set to music and often sung as a prayer, almost a lullaby of longing and resilience. Today, it echoed in my soul as I stood on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea in Tel Aviv.
We spent the morning at the beach, immersed in warm water that matched the summer air. The sea wasn’t refreshing—it was enveloping. At times soothing, at times overwhelming. At one point, the current pulled me far from shore; I was so caught in thought I didn’t hear the lifeguard calling me back over the loudspeaker. The sea swallowed me, not in danger, but in metaphor—an apt image for this moment in our people’s story.
This is the paradox of Jewish life: to live and to mourn at the same time. To enter the sea and feel the weight of history. To send our children to defend this land and to protest those who govern it. To celebrate the miracle of Jewish sovereignty while grieving the ways in which it is misused. That tension, held with courage, is a Jewish value.
On the eve of Tisha B’Av, my friend and rabbinic colleague, Amy Klein, who made aliyah, lives in the north, and has two sons serving in the IDF, spoke at a demonstration near her home. Her words are raw, courageous, and essential. I share some of them here:
“An hour before the Ninth of Av, I choose not to run away from the truth. October 7th taught me to live with internal contradictions and to recognize feelings that do not align with the self I thought was me.
Tradition teaches that the First Temple was destroyed because of idolatry. Today, the government of the State of Israel and its leader—descendants in spirit of those ancient idolaters—sanctify land over life: the lives of hostages, soldiers, and innocent Gazans. War crimes are being committed in our name. This is also true even when the other side wants to kill me.
Some secular Israelis are fasting this Tishah B’Av as a warning against the creeping destruction of the Third Temple—not a building, but the moral heart of the Jewish people. I often wake with guilt for not having done enough since October 7th. But guilt cannot be our only response.
The slogan of ‘baseless hatred’ has become hollow when used to silence dissent. We have a duty not just to prevent the destruction of Jewish buildings or armies—but the destruction of a Judaism that deserves to live.”
And so on this Tisha B’Av, with the sun on my face and despair never far from the surface of every conversation, I held the words of Eli Eli close. The sand and the sea. The lightning in the sky. The prayer of the human heart. Live and mourn. Protest and love. Send your children to the army and send your voice to the streets.
Later, we met our RSNS group at Ben Gurion Airport. There’s something about airport reunions that always brings to mind the opening scene of Love Actually, the reminder that in an often painful and divided world, arrivals are moments of unfiltered love. From there we traveled to the Haas Promenade (Armon Hanatziv), overlooking Jerusalem just as the fast was ending.
It was the first time since I arrived in Israel that I saw large tour buses again, one small sign of life returning. The promenade was alive with voices: the melodic chanting of a Muslim group on one side and hundreds of B’nei Akiva teens on the other. B’nei Akiva is the largest religious Zionist youth movement in the world, and these high schoolers were here on a five-week Israel experience. As the sun set, they sang niggunim, wordless, mournful melodies that filled the space with aching and hope. It created a sacred soundscape for our own Shehechiyanu moment.
We gathered in reflection and prayer, asking:
Is it the same Israel? Is it the same Jewish world? Are we who we were before October 7th?
We began with these words:
Ruach HaOlam, Spirit of the World,
We begin this journey together—as kehilla, a community.
We have come from different places, with different stories, different questions, and different longings.
But here we are—Hineni—Here I am.
Like our ancestors before us,
we answer the call not knowing exactly what lies ahead,
but with a willingness to show up—fully, honestly, humbly.
We come not only to give,
but to listen, to learn, to be challenged, and to grow.
Let our work be a blessing—bracha—
for those we meet, and for ourselves.
Let us build unity even amidst complexity.
Let us ask hard questions and hold space for the ones with no easy answer.
Today is Tishah B’Av.
A day of mourning destruction and exile.
Even though we do not fully observe the fast today, we hold its metaphor:
The cracks in the world, in our hearts, and in our history.
Even in brokenness, we are called to rebuild.
To witness pain honestly, and still choose love and courage.
And as we closed, we turned to gratitude:
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְּמָנוּ וְהִגִּיעָנוּ לַזְּמַן הַזֶּה
Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech ha’olam,
shehecheyanu, v’kiy’manu, v’higianu laz’man hazeh.
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe,
Who has given us life, sustained us, and brought us to this very moment.
As night fell, Jerusalem exhaled. The fast was over, and the city came back to life. We gathered for a family-style vegetarian meal at Tmol Shilshom, a bookstore café tucked into a small alley off Yoel Solomon Street. Surrounded by books and new companions, we welcomed those joining us for the first time, whether first-time visitors or first-time in years. We are a community of the people of Israel, and our story, like this day, holds both tears and promise.
Airport Welcome!
Shehehiyanu moment
Dinner
I’ve been thinking about slow travel. It’s something I think I aspire to. At its core, slow travel is not about how many places you see, but how deeply you experience them. It’s a mindset that values connection over speed, meaning over motion. Part of me is drawn to this way of being, to savor, to notice, to sit still. But I’ll be honest: another part of me wants to see everything, touch everything, take it all in before time runs out.
And time, of course, is limited.
So I take pieces of slow travel with me. I borrow its permission. I lean into its rhythm, even if just for a Shabbat. And in those moments, the ones I least expect, both in travel and in life, that’s where transformation seems to live.
Shabbat in Tel Aviv, this vibrant, electric, complex city, turned out to be the perfect setting for that kind of travel. A kind of slow Shabbat, in a place that rarely slows down.
The morning began with a yoga practice in a small Ashtanga studio in Florentine. Ashtanga is a set sequence of poses, done in silence except for the sound of breath and the gentle presence of a guide. It’s a practice rooted in repetition and intention, keva and kavanah, and I often feel its deep parallels to prayer. There is comfort in its structure, meaning in its consistency, and a sense of being carried by the community around you. The studio had couches and tea just outside the room. “Choose your temperature,” the teacher said. “Cooler in the back, heat toward the front.” I took the middle. And I felt grounded—ready for the Shabbat ahead.
Later, Rebecca and I simply walked. Through the old and new streets of Jaffa. Through HaTachana, the renovated train station. Along the Tayelet, the boardwalk, all the way to the port. Around us, people were sitting in parks, eating meals, surfing, playing. There was a sense of ease, of quiet joy, of letting the day unfold. We weren’t trying to accomplish anything. Just walking. Letting our minds rest. Letting the planning go. One foot in front of the other.
But as the sun set, and Shabbat came to a close, it also became Erev Tisha B’Av, the eve of the Ninth of Av, a fast day that mourns the destruction of the ancient Temples and the many collective tragedies of Jewish history.
The streets began to fill, not with shoppers or tourists, but with people coming together to grieve, to protest, to hope.
Tisha B’Av this year coincided with the regular Saturday nightdemonstrations. And the intersection felt so potent. Because these gatherings, like the day itself, are about grief. Grief for lives lost. For community fractured. For safety vanished. For ideals and dreams that feel increasingly out of reach. At their heart, they ask a sacred question: How does prayer lead to action? How does a vigil, a rally, a protest lead to change?
It has now been 666 days since the hostages were taken. Along with thousands of others, pulled in one direction we moved toward Hostage Square. It is a space of mourning, of solidarity, of refusal to forget. We were surrounded by Israeli flags, posters with the names and faces of the hostages—those known to be alive, those confirmed dead, and many still unknown.
The chants were simple and haunting:
Achshav – Now.
Di – Enough.
Busha – Shame.
Speaker after speaker took the mic: siblings, parents, released hostages. Their pain was raw. Their voices steady. And as I listened, I was struck by the power of consistency—of showing up again and again. It felt like both a rally and a vigil. Like collective heartbreak wrapped in communal strength. People hugged, cried, stood in silence, talked. And behind it all, the newest video of a young hostage in a tunnel, starving.
And what haunted me was the mirror, because we’ve seen horrible images coming out of Gaza. Children starving. Desperate parents. Grief that knows no borders. Can’t our leaders see the reflection? Can’t we?
Just ten minutes away, in Democracy Square, another protest unfolded. Louder. More defiant. Drums and even fire. That protest began long before the war—an anti-government movement that has since absorbed the hostage cause. The two gatherings are deeply linked, and people move fluidly between them. But their tone is different. Hostage Square felt mournful, resolute, supportive. Democracy Square felt urgent, angry, full of raw protest energy.
After walking back to our hotel, we sat quietly with the man who’s been at the front desk every day since we arrived. He seemed weary. Not just from work. “It’s different now,” he said. “Since October 7, everything is harder. Living here is harder.”
I hear that. I feel that.
And I want to say this clearly: There are Israelis that care.
They are tired, but they are showing up.
They are grieving, but they are building.
They are hurting, but they are fighting for change.
Shabbat, in its own quiet way, was deeply restful. It gave me space to breathe, to observe, to move slowly through the city and through my own thoughts. That is the gift of Jewish time—it doesn’t separate rest from action, it integrates them. We are asked to pause not as an escape, but so we can return to the world renewed, ready to do the hard work. After this Shabbat, I felt more able to walk into the heartbreak of Tisha B’Av, to show up with clarity and empathy. May we all find those moments of rest that strengthen our resolve to do the essential work.
Shavua Tov, have a good week.
Favorite Breakfast
Democracy Square
Hostage Square
Our final yoga class in Jerusalem was a slower, grounding practice, an invitation to pause, to be still, and to notice. It felt like an appropriate way to say goodbye to a city that stirs so much within me. I’m grateful to have discovered Sira Yoga, and I hope the studio we found in Tel Aviv is just as welcoming.
The transition from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv wasn’t just a change in scenery; it was a window into the fabric of this country. The manager of our Jerusalem hotel took it upon himself to help us navigate the cab fare, every time I called a “Gett” ride on my phone, he would immediately get on the phone with the driver, haggle in whichever language the driver spoke Hebrew, Arabic, or English and secure us the best price. Our driver that morning was trilingual, and deeply thoughtful. He began by telling us that the best kind of tour guide is a Christian Israeli and that we were lucky, because he was one himself.
Before October 7th, he made his living as a professional guide for Christian pilgrims. Since then, his business has dried up. He wasn’t angry, more resigned. He didn’t blame fear or instability, but the airlines for halting the flights. “If the flights open up, the people will come,” he insisted. I hope he’s right, for the sake of all the people here whose livelihoods depend on visitors.
Over the course of the hour-long ride, we learned about the different paths he takes his clients on, distinct for Catholics and Protestants, and how deeply rooted his family is in this land. He spoke of the many languages that live within his household: English in their community near Jerusalem, Hebrew with his wife’s family in Haifa, Arabic and German for the children who attend a private German school.
What struck us most, however, was the complexity of his identity. His family, once living in a Palestinian community, made the decision to move to a Jewish neighborhood. And although they are Israeli citizens, he was adamant that they be referred to as Christian Israelis, not Christian Arabs, a distinction that, to him, represented a significant cultural and political difference. He spoke about the ways the government tries to classify people, to place them in neat categories that don’t reflect how they see themselves.
His invitation to us, “Come have a meal with us next time you’re in Jerusalem”, felt like more than hospitality. It was a generous act of mutual recognition. As Rebecca and I drove on, we sat in silence, reflecting on the layered identities that shape this land. What does it mean to be an Israeli Arab? A Palestinian Israeli? A Jewish Israeli? What roles do language, culture, and state-imposed categories play in how people are seen, and how they see themselves?
We had initially planned to make the journey from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv via bus and train and another bus, and then walk with our luggage the final stretch. I can say without hesitation that our choice to support this guide, this human being, was worth every shekel and every story. We didn’t just get transportation. We were transported into someone’s truth.
Tel Aviv, as expected, is hotter. In climate and in character. The city pulses with energy, less reserved than Jerusalem, more vivid and fast-moving. Here in Neve Tzedek, near the edgy Florentine neighborhood and the tree-lined Sderot Rothschild, we’re immersed in a landscape of color, sound, and youth. And it’s startling: there are no tourists. None. Peter called it “language immersion,” and he’s right. On the streets, all you hear is Hebrew. You don’t even hear English.
Yet, somehow, this absence of outsiders has pulled us further in. We are not on the periphery looking in. We are participating, even if temporarily, in a shared life. And the assumption people make? That we must be visiting family. Because why else would anyone be here right now?
But the truth is, this is about family. Maybe not by blood, but by belonging. That’s why I came. To be with the people. To be a part of something that transcends geography or politics. To stand with the people of Israel not as an outsider, but as someone who cares.
We walked the streets of Neve Tzedek, wandered through the graffiti-filled alleyways of Florentine, and browsed the familiar artisan stalls of Nachalat Benyamin, the same ones I remember from my junior year at Tel Aviv University. I tried on jewelry. We searched for jumbo raisins in the chaos of the Carmel Market for Peter and Marc Kramer, squeezing through the crowds of secular Israelis rushing to prepare for Shabbat, all the while exchanging cheerful “Shabbat Shalom”s. There’s something deeply moving about that: Jews who may not observe in traditional ways still honoring the rhythm of Jewish time.
And that’s what this place is about: Jewish time. A concept Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel explores in The Sabbath. Are we a people of time or of space? He suggests time is the essence of holiness in Judaism, not monuments, not structures, not land. We sanctify time with candles, wine, song, and prayer. But here, in Israel, where the land and space have become central to our identity, it becomes more complex. Still, walking through Tel Aviv as Shabbat approached, I was reminded: it is time, not place, that defines our holiness.
As evening fell, we walked 2 kilometers to Beit Shalom Aleichem for Shabbat services, a progressive Israeli community I’ve visited before. I expected to see a mix of tourists and locals, but this time, it was entirely Israelis. The tone felt protective, intimate. When the sirens went off on people’s phones, indicating an alert in another part of the country, people paused. They checked in with loved ones. And it was okay. It felt like we were all holding something together. The prayers were in Hebrew, the music was soulful, and although the spoken Hebrew was beyond my comfort zone, the prayers—the familiar melodies, grounded me. I was carried by them.
At dinner afterward, once again, someone asked if we were here visiting family. It’s the only explanation they could imagine. And I wanted to say, yes. Always. I always come for the people. That is the whole point. Not for the land, not for the history, not even for the language. I come for connection.
As we walked home, tree-lined streets alive with music and the scent of summer blooms, Rebecca read me a story from a book she’s using with our teaching staff at RSNS this year, Stories for the Sake of Argument. It was about a child who feels unsafe in the place they live, but whose parent insists, “This is our land.” The curriculum asks: What is the parent’s role? Is the child Arab Israeli, Jewish Israeli, Christian Israeli, Palestinian? The text is deliberately ambiguous. But to me, the heart of the story is not about land or identity. It’s about people. Do we stay, do we choose to live, or make journeys, in places that scare us, because we love the people who are there?
For me, the answer is yes. The reason to be here, always, is the people.
Shabbat Shalom from Tel Aviv.
Rockin Rabbi
Crafty Neighborhood Entrances
Graffiti Art That Challenges
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.
