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Day 164: Iron Swords War

By Leah Garber

” I fear the most only two words:
The first is “a name I know” and the second is “killed.”
– Idan Haviv

Last night was another sad, quiet evening at Hostage Square in the heart of Tel Aviv, where yellow, the symbol of the hostages, has taken over. One square, in the heart of a city, unveils the sad story of this war and the people of Israel since that bitter day: October 7, 2023.

New displays have been added since I was here last. Oceans of tears have been shed here in the last 164 days since 250 people were brutally abducted to Gaza. The beautiful, smiling, silent faces of the hostages stand in painful contrast to the story they tell, to the painful plea they carry. The gloomy silence embraces all the cries. Cold winter air seeks out broken hearts. The wind carries soft whispers, prayers of hope, and sighs of despair.

As I stood there, my phone started beeping, announcing painful news that opens with the three cursed, bleeding words: “Released for publication,” and this time, the name I heard was familiar. The news hit like a punch in the stomach.

Twenty-two-year-old Captain Daniel Perez, who was injured and abducted by Hamas on October 7, was announced dead. Daniel, a platoon commander, led a battle against the terrorists during the Hamas massacre. During the harsh fighting, Daniel and his team killed 100 terrorists, but then this hero of Israel was killed, and his body was taken into Gaza. For 163 days, Daniel’s family swayed on the terrible pendulum between hope and despair. Last night, with the somber news, the pendulum stopped swinging. Death took over hope.

Based on blood found at the battle scene, Daniel’s family knew he had been wounded. But was he seriously injured? Did he need medical treatment that was denied? Did he suffer?

New findings and new intelligence information led the Military Rabbinate to declare Daniel dead, and although there is no body, Daniel’s family decided to hold a funeral, burying mostly blood, while his body remains in Gaza. An empty coffin with remains of Daniel’s blood. Remains of his life. Remains that tell the story of a brave soldier, an outstanding athlete, a young man who dreamed of becoming a commander, who always said: “If not me, then who?”

Daniel’s blood not only revealed the story of his life, but also one of great loss—dwelling on what Daniel was and what he will never get to be.

It was a quiet funeral—different from others. I never attended one without a body. Thousands of Israelis from across the country followed an empty coffin. Empty in the physical sense, but so full in every other way. Daniel’s coffin overflowed with a sense of pride in his ultimate sacrifice, knowing he risked his own life to save so many others. The coffin was lined with intense pain, too—a pain that under its wings held thousands of hearts that until last night had wished for his safe return and today are broken in pieces.

The coffin was especially heavy because of Israelis’ intense pride in the Perez family, who immigrated to Israel from South Africa during operation Cast Lead, when Daniel was 9 years old. They knew they were moving to a state at war, with constant dangers and challenges. Nonetheless, it was home.

I met Daniel’s father, Rabbi Doron Perez, twice. The first time was when he hosted our first JCC Association solidarity delegation in the peaceful backyard of his home in November. The second time was in his office in Jerusalem, when a second group of JCC Association leaders arrived to bear witness as part of a solidarity mission in January. Both times I left feeling the same way: inspired, strengthened, and at the same time, broken and crushed with sorrow.

In both instances, Rabbi Perez told us about Daniel, who was always special, original, and an independent thinker. Both times, we met an extraordinary person, determined, full of humor, so resilient, yet a broken father, too, full of sorrow and worry, who, despite the abysmal pain, managed to share words of unity and strength; pride in our people and our soldiers; the necessary mission on which they were sent; and our moral duty to return them home safely.

Rabbi Doron Perez also told us about his other son, Yonatan, who was wounded not far from the place where his brother fought and was kidnapped. Yonatan recovered from his injury, returned to fight, and, in the meantime, got married. At the time of the wedding, the family had decided to stick with the joy of marriage even though Daniel’s fate was unknown. They felt this was the time to continue to rebuild the long chain of Jewish peoplehood. It is a chain that has seen difficulties over the generations—rusted at times and nearly broken more than once but never severed. Knowing that Yonatan and his bride, Galia, are another link in the historic sequence of a persecuted people that requires—even when times are difficult and sad—to connect with other links and do precisely the opposite of what the cruel enemy tried to do: persevere and continue the Jewish existence, always, with determination.

At both meetings, Rabbi Perez shared his philosophy—gam v’gam—that two things can exist simultaneously, including sorrow and joy. The pain can be present alongside the joy of life that continues. Even under Yonatan’s chuppah | wedding canopy, the pain for Daniel did not recede.

In the eulogies, we heard about the terrible months of endless worry about Daniel. How can one, anyone, survive the limbo of not knowing what has happened to him for five months? How can anyone last between an undying hope that a beloved son is alive and great concern about his condition? Is he in pain from his injury? Is he being tortured? Where does he sleep? What does he eat? Is he alone or with other soldiers? Is he even alive?

The sea of tears in the cemetery mixed with heavy rains. Together, humans and angels mourned Daniel’s passing.

The cypress trees, standing tall in the cemetery, have witnessed many funerals. They have seen untold sorrow and grief. The cemetery’s paths, blooming in the colors of the rainbow between the graves, seem to apologize for their loveliness, as if uncomfortable with their own beauty.

Gam v’gam, grief and sadness reside side by side with blossoms and beauty. They all can exist simultaneously.

Daniel was there with us at the cemetery, carried in the cold Jerusalem wind. God holds a special place by God’s side for angels like Daniel—a place where flowers bloom year-round, watered by the tears of our soldiers who are now resting.

Rest in peace, dear Daniel. One-hundred-sixty-four days after your death, your mom and dad are calmer. There is comfort in knowing that you did not suffer in captivity after all and that your pure soul made its way to heaven without the cruel human animals defiling it in captivity.

Together, united, we will overcome.

Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.

JCC Association Announces Leadership Transition: Jennifer Mamlet Named Acting President and Chief Executive Officer, Doron Krakow To Step Down as President and CEO

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
March 18, 2024
CONTACT:
Lauren Magy, PR Specialist, JCC Association, [email protected] 

JCC Association of North America Announces Leadership Transition:  
Jennifer Mamlet Named Acting President and Chief Executive Officer, Doron Krakow To Step Down as President and CEO

NEW YORKJCC Association of North America announced today that Doron Krakow, president and chief executive officer, will end his tenure at the end of March, and Jennifer Mamlet, who currently serves as the organization’s executive vice president, will assume the role of acting president and CEO beginning April 1, 2024. 

Doron Krakow was named president and CEO of JCC Association in 2017 and led the JCC Movement for seven years marked by progress and achievement. He oversaw a team that established the JCCs of North America as an important entity worthy of Jewish philanthropy and a desirable partner for collaborations of all kinds, while positioning JCCs as the preeminent platform for Jewish engagement on the continent. During his tenure, Krakow led efforts that brought tens of millions of dollars to bear in support of early childhood Jewish education, professional development, camp scholarships, and travel to Israel; refocused the JCC Maccabi Games® by evolving its strategic framework and bringing the Games back to Israel in 2023 in celebration of Israel at 75; expanded the work of JWB Jewish Chaplains Council® to welcome Jewish military families to JCCs; and increased the number of JCCs actively engaged in the work of the movement from 111 to more than 160.   

“It has been among the great honors of my career to serve alongside so many extraordinary professional and lay leaders across this continent, including JCC Association’s outstanding board and staff,” Krakow shared. “Working together with a community of JCC executives, whose work is often unheralded, but is among the most challenging and important in Jewish life, has been a privilege. As the largest and most diverse platform for Jewish engagement in North America, JCCs’ responsibility to shape this next chapter is great, and I know that JCC Association, guided by Jennifer Mamlet, who has served by my side since 2018, will proudly lead the way.” Krakow will return to Israel to be of service to his family and to the country during these troubling and turbulent times.  

As the first woman to hold the position in the century-long history of JCC Association, Mamlet will assume the role of acting president and CEO on April 1. Mamlet is a seasoned professional with vast experience both at JCC Association and within the JCC Movement. She served as the executive vice president of JCC Association since 2022, leading the organization’s day-to-day operations and strategic growth, and previously served as chief development officer. Over the four years in this role, she successfully oversaw a more than 10-fold increase in philanthropic investment in the JCC Movement from the year before her arrival. Mamlet is a former executive director of the JCC of Central New Jersey in Scotch Plains, New Jersey, and a senior vice president of development at the Ad Council. Earlier in her career, she was director of SCOPE (Summer Camp Opportunities Promote Education) at the New York section of the American Camp Association. She holds a bachelor’s degree in sociology and Spanish from Bucknell University and a master’s degree in social work from Columbia University. 

“I come to this moment both humbled and proud, having been asked to step into the role of acting CEO,” shares Mamlet. “I don’t take this responsibility lightly and in partnership with our extraordinary professional team and dedicated board, am determined to do what is needed to steward our organization and our beloved movement through this transition. It has been the highlight of my career to learn from and work in such close partnership with Doron for the last five years. It was his vision that initially brought me to JCC Association, and which has inspired my enthusiasm for our work every day since. I am deeply honored to build on his many successes as we propel the JCC Movement forward. 

David Wax, board chair of JCC Association said, “On behalf of the entire board, we would like to thank Doron for his contributions. Doron navigated JCC Association through many difficult world moments—including the Covid pandemic, Tree of Life massacre, bomb threats, and most recently, the October 7 attacks on Israel—which all impacted our organization and movement, as well as the Jewish world. We are grateful for his hard work and commitment to the movement during this period of unprecedented change.” He continued, “The entire board puts our trust in Jen to lead the organization during this period and into the next chapter, as we begin our formal search for a permanent successor.” 

The board of directors will begin a formal search for a permanent president and CEO this spring.  

# # # 

About JCC Association of North America  

JCC Association of North America leads the JCC Movement, the most expansive and inclusive platform for Jewish life in the U.S. and Canada, which comprises more than 170 Jewish Community Centers and Jewish Community Camps (JCCs). By virtue of its size and scope—serving more than 1.5 million people weekly, in person, and online—and with guidance and support from JCC Association, the JCC Movement dynamically influences efforts to create Jewish community, vibrant Jewish life, and intentional and measurable Jewish outcomes in local communities and across the continent. Learn more at JCCA.org or on LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. 

Please note that JCC Association of North America should not be referred to as JCCA or the JCC Association but initially as JCC Association of North America and as JCC Association in subsequent references.

Creating Divine Spaces I Shabbat Shalom, 5 Adar II 5784

By Doron Krakow

Creating Divine Spaces

This week’s Torah portion, Pikudei | פְקוּדֵ֤י, finds the people completing work on the Mishkan, the holy Tabernacle, which would house the Divine presence as they continued their journey from Egypt to the Holy Land, promised by God to Abraham. From that moment, the people themselves, by way of the work of their hands, their commitments to one another, and the lives they would lead together, provided the setting for God’s presence among them.

This, in a way, is the essence of our story—the story of the Jewish people. The Jewish people as a whole, of course, long my major preoccupation. But this week in particular, several individuals among them. Jewish people whose commitment to creating a home for the Divine provided an impetus to gather in celebration. Celebration of a career, a life, and a family.

My week began in Pittsburgh for the JCC of Greater Pittsburgh’s annual Big Night, a gala celebration of the community’s preeminent Jewish institution. More than 800 people gathered for an evening of fine food, music, dancing, and to honor Brian Schreiber, a generational leader, on the conclusion of his quarter-century as the JCC’s chief executive officer.

In 25 years, life brings challenges of every description along with countless opportunities for growth, acquisition of knowledge, and perhaps, most importantly, accumulation of wisdom. Wisdom would prove critical to the successful navigation of his final years at the helm. While nearly every JCC was compelled to contend with the global pandemic and burgeoning security crises, the slaughter of 11 innocents at prayer on a Shabbat morning in late October of 2018 in Pittsburgh created an unprecedented rupture in the life of the entire community, a community anchored at the JCC into which he’d poured his passion and his determination.

But on this night of celebration, it was not the hardships or challenges that occupied our thoughts nor were they the subject of our speeches. Rather, it was Brian’s heart, soul, and spirit with which he led this remarkable community—creating within it a space for the Divine—that touched the lives of countless thousands, year after year after year.

Jerome Makowsky, z”l, was a builder. Highly successful in business, he brought a similar commitment to bear as a leader in the Jewish community, founding, serving, and guiding not only the Memphis Jewish Community Center in Tennessee but also nearly every major Jewish organization and institution in town. At his funeral this past Sunday, tribute upon tribute was offered to a man widely considered the community’s patriarch—a model of kindness and compassion, a man of vision and commitment.

Jerome would go on to serve in national and international Jewish leadership roles, eventually chairing the boards of JCC Association of North America and JCC Global. Everywhere, it seems, he left his mark on those around him. It was his work, to be sure, but perhaps more so, it was his way. At the center of his life was his family—four generations of whom were on hand to receive those who came to mourn his passing and celebrate his life. They were his treasure. The center and focus of his world. Over the course of a day I’ll long remember, I came to understand a simple truth: The secret of his resounding success was how he made so many of us who were privileged to have been a part of his life feel like we too were part of his extended family.

On Wednesday evening in a magnificent setting in downtown Tel Aviv, I found myself standing beneath the chuppah | wedding canopy reciting the fourth of seven blessings bestowed upon two beautiful young people beginning a new life together. Though there isn’t a blood relationship between us, Guy and Keren are like my own children—our lives intertwined across distance and years. Having completed their service in the IDF, these two remarkable young Israelis embarked on careers of continuing service to their country and the Jewish people. He as a shaliach | emissary of Maccabi World Union, the world’s largest Jewish sports and education organization, and a major partner of the JCC Movement. And she as chief of staff to Ambassador Asaf Zamir, Israel’s Consul General in New York. Two passionate and dedicated citizens of Israel who found one another as they served the cause of peoplehood at a

time of growing stresses and strains across the Jewish world. With the breaking of the glass that marks the conclusion of the wedding ceremony, they set off on a new chapter in their lives—and in the 4,000-year-long chain of Jewish history.

Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, z”l, in his reflections on Parashat Pikudei, compares the final chapters of the books of Genesis and Exodus. Both describe the completion of acts of creation in which the Divine plays an essential part. In Genesis, it is the creation of the world at the hand of the Divine. In Exodus, the creation of the Mishkan, in which the Divine will remain among the people. Sacks said that like the children of Israel, “Our potential greatness is that we can create structures, relationships and lives that become homes for the Divine Presence.” This week, I witnessed and took part in three extraordinary celebrations reflective of precisely that.

To Brian Schreiber and to all whose lives and careers are given to leading our institutions and organizations, to Jerome Makowsky, z”l, and to all who make possible the foundations upon which our communities are built and grow, and to Guy and Keren Sela and all those embarking on life’s greatest adventure—the start of a new family, the next link in the chain:

יברכך ה’ וישמרך
May God bless you and protect you.

יאר ה’ פניו אליך ויחנך
May God deal kindly and graciously with you.

ישא ה’ פניו אליך וישם לך שלום
May God bestow God’s favor upon you and grant you peace.

Shabbat shalom | שבת שלום

Image

Doron Krakow
President and CEO
JCC Association of North America

Day 158: Iron Swords War

By Leah Garber

The Jewish nation overcame an incredible series of troubles and harms that according to the way of nature cannot be endured. This prolonged existence, contrary to historical logic, is the most wonderful thing.
– Herman Wouk

Earlier this week, one of the glittering events of the year took place in Hollywood—the Academy Awards ceremony. In luxurious gowns and suits and with sparkling smiles, America’s most glamorous entertainment industry celebrities walked the red carpet, weaving elegantly toward the cameras, scattering glowing stardust.

It was a colorful display, dominated by red. Many celebrities accessorized with red pins symbolizing their call for a cease-fire in Gaza and justice for the people of Palestine. With a righteous expression, they wore the pins on their garments. The colorful palette of the red carpet, however, was missing the yellow ribbons calling for the release of 134 Israelis held captive in Gaza for 158 days. Hollywood celebrities calling for a cease-fire without the release of the hostages promotes the agenda of Hamas and denies Israel’s right to self-defense.

The Oscars and its red carpet parade are more than just another glitter-filled event. They’re a platform where celebrities share their opinions—in support or condemnation of political campaigns and current events. As influencers, they have the power to shape the opinions of their followers. Of course, their followers typically are not looking to explore or understand the truth but rather to imitate the state of mind of their favorite pop artists, actors, and celebrities.

Superficiality at its best and ignorance of the basic facts.

For years, Hamas, a radical, fundamentalist Islamic organization, has been calling for the destruction of Israel and rejects any form of peace negotiations. Hamas brutally initiated an attack on Israel 158 days ago. The terrorists’ aggression against Israel was a blatant violation of the standing cease-fire. On October 7, Hamas slaughtered 1,200 innocent Israelis, kidnapped 250, and launched hundreds of missiles toward Israeli civilian targets. Hamas initiated this war.

Hamas denies civil rights to members of the LGBTQIA community and perpetrates acts of violence, discrimination, and harassment against them. Many LGBTQIA Palestinians have sought refuge elsewhere, including in Israel. Ignoring these basic, well-known facts is a miserable, shallow stand that, first and foremost, embarrasses allies of those within the LGBTQIA community across the world. Furthermore, by failing to agree to a cease-fire now, Hamas, is preventing their own people, the residents of Gaza, from celebrating Ramadan, a month of intense spiritual rejuvenation marked by fasting, prayer, reflection, and community.

With the beginning of Ramadan earlier this week, senior Hamas officials increased their efforts to set Israel and the entire Middle East on fire. Sadly, these leaders see the holiday as an opportunity to expand the violence beyond the borders of Gaza into the State of Israel. They are eager to see clashes on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem and are calling on Israeli Arabs to take to the streets to partake in violent riots against Israel. During a month that should be dedicated to spirituality, family, and peaceful pursuits, Hamas is attempting to incite more violence and killing.Instead of striving to grant temporary relief to their people, Hamas prefers to ignite flames that deepen hatred and violence.

Is this what those wearing red pins in Hollywood support? Do they even know what they support, or is it that red looks better on their gowns than any other color?

Jews have never been pampered by the world’s love. We’re used to being ostracized and excluded. We know what it means to be the “least popular kid on the block.” We are accustomed to accusing fingers pointed at us and always being blamed for the world’s ills. This has been our sad fate since the dawn of history. Indeed, the holiday of Purim, which we will celebrate later this month, commemorates Haman’s hatred for the Jewish people and his desire to kill all the Jews in the Persian empire in the 5th century B.C. And this current global hypocrisy and disregard for Israeli suffering in the face of our enemy’s barbarism is extremely painful.

I have never felt as proud to be Israeli as I have during these last 158 days. I know that the war we are engaged in, out of existential necessity, is a just war, and we must fight it. Thankfully, many in the world have a similar understanding and recognize that if Israel does not continue its efforts to eradicate Hamas, the events of October 7 will be repeated against us again and again. We have no choice but to respond to these unprecedented threats—just as any nation would do in the face of similar risks.

War exacts painful sacrifices on all sides. Israeli soldiers put themselves at risk in battle to avoid killing innocent Gazans, and there is no joy in the death of innocents. But when these same innocent residents of Gaza are used by their own people, by Hamas terrorists, as cannon fodder, Israel cannot be blamed for the atrocities of the war.

A few weeks ago, U.N. Under-Secretary-General Pramila Patten, the United Nations Special Representative of the Secretary-General on Sexual Violence in Conflict, and a delegation of experts from the fields of medicine and law visited Israel to gather evidence of the Hamas terrorist attacks. The delegation’s report presents a wealth of evidence of sexual assaults and violence—including rape, gang rape, rape of corpses, genital mutilation, nakedness, and tying up corpses, among other crimes— on October 7 and confirms sexual abuse perpetrated against those kidnapped and held captive by Hamas.

Yesterday, Israel’s minister of foreign affairs and 40 family members of hostages presented at the U.N. Security Council hearing, which dealt with Under-Secretary-General Pramila Patten’s report. One by one, the family members and some previously released hostages shared details about the horrors, the abuses, and the sexual assaults—things they would rather forget. In their remarks, they revealed scars that never stop bleeding, wounds that refuse to heal.

What is most upsetting to the families is hearing absurd accusations that Patten’s report is based on fabrications. The only thing worse than the crime itself is that others try to deny it. The denial stings the victims again and again, constantly bringing them back to the event itself.

The seventh of October happened. Unfortunately, the wheel cannot be turned back. It is impossible to revive the massacred or pretend that the blackest day, the most terrible of all days, did not happen.

But what we can do and should do is continually remind the world that those atrocities happened. They were acts of brutal terrorists against innocent people, without any provocation whatsoever from Israel. We must remind the world that the terrorists have not ever expressed any remorse. On the contrary, Hamas leaders continue to say that if they could, they would repeat the events of the massacre again and again.

Those who wear the red pins must consider the facts. All of them. They must search for the full truth. They cannot simply lean on what’s making headlines and adopt it as their worldview.

It’s hard to be hated. It’s exhausting, draining, and frustrating, and one doesn’t ever get used to it.

Together, united, we will overcome.

Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.

Day 153: Iron Swords War

By Leah Garber

“If you will it, it is no dream” — Theodor Herzl.

This iconic phrase opens “Altneuland,” The Old–New Land. Theodor Herzl’s utopian novel was published in German in 1902. The book later became one of Zionism’s establishing texts, as it expanded on Herzl’s vision for a Jewish return to the Land of Israel. The book ends with a concluding sentence: “…and if you don’t will it, what I have shared with you is no more than a legend and will remain just that.”

And the Jewish people have always full-heartedly willed it. We have always strived for peace. The Jewish people have always strived for peace. Shalom, the word for peace, is how we greet and separate from each other; it is the essence of the name of Jerusalem, the capital city. Three times a day, Jews across the world pray for peace, but we also express our desire to live peacefully through our actions.

Forty-five years ago today, on the 27th of the Hebrew month of Adar, Israel and Egypt signed a historic, first-of-its-kind peace treaty. The agreement was signed in Washington, D.C., by Anwar Sadat, President of Egypt, and Menachem Begin, Prime Minister of Israel, and witnessed by Jimmy Carter, President of the United States. This tremendous historical moment followed Sadat’s visit to Israel in 1977. The main features of the treaty were mutual recognition, cessation of the state of war that had existed since the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, normalization of relations, and the withdrawal by Israel of its armed forces and civilians from the Sinai Peninsula, which Israel had captured during the 1967 Six-Day War.

The agreement took a heavy toll on both sides. In Israel, society was divided between supporters and opponents, many of whom were forced to leave their homes in the Israeli settlements in Sinai which were given to the Egyptians as part of the agreement. Egypt was suspended from the Arab League, and Syria severed all relations with Egypt. In 1981, President Sadat was assassinated by members of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad.

Although it was never a love affair but rather a “cold peace,” the agreement lasted since the treaty went into effect, and Egypt became an important strategic partner of Israel.

In 1994, Israel signed a peace agreement with Jordan, where, in addition to land, Israel gave up one of its most valuable resources—water.

In 2020, through the Abraham Accords, the UAE became the third Arab country to formally agree to normalize its relationship with Israel. Later that year, Bahrain, Sudan, and Morocco also joined the Abraham Accords.

The signing ceremonies of the peace agreements with Egypt, Jordan, and the UAE

The November 29th, 1947, United Nations Resolution 181, supporting the end of the British Mandate and the formation of a Jewish state, along with recommending a partition between the Jewish state and an Arab state, marked the beginning of a war between Israel and its neighbors that has continued for nearly 76 years.

The Partition Plan was a compromise welcomed by the Jews who, after 2,000 years of yearning, received recognition of their birthright. The right to establish Jewish sovereignty in a Jewish state governed by the Jewish people led to spontaneous, joyful dancing in the streets, but unfortunately, also led to the beginning of a permanent state of war between Israel and its neighboring countries that rejected the partition plan and any form of compromise.

The plan, with its objectives to encourage political division and economic unity between the two nations, was rejected by the Arab world, indicating an unwillingness to accept any form of territorial division. A rejection that led to the War of Independence and the eight wars that followed, marking a bloody chain of conflicts, operations, and terror attacks. These events define our collective identity as a nation under constant threat, always fighting for its existence—an identity molded by violence and hatred against us. But, to Israelis, the Jewish world, and most Western countries, have an identity shaped by bravery, determination, and desire to overcome obstacles. Israelis willingly pay the ultimate price and, when possible, reach out to neighboring countries, often settling for less land with the hope that it will assure peace.

Egypt’s willingness to work towards peace proved that, like the prophet Isiah’s words, it’s possible to will “swords into plowshares.”

As a young girl, I grew up in a country overwhelmed by constant violence and threats, mainly from Egypt, our mighty southern neighbor. Since the days of the Pharaohs, Egypt has symbolized aggression and a continuous desire to oppress the Israelites.

In November 1977, Egyptian President Anwar Sadat stunned the world by visiting Jerusalem and breaking the psychological barrier produced by three decades of war and hostility. At the official invitation of Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin, Sadat landed at Israel’s Ben-Gurion airport for a two-day visit to Jerusalem.

Sadat will forever be remembered for his courageous act of visiting the contested capital of the Arab world’s foremost nemesis in an apparent concession to the legitimacy of the Jewish state’s existence, and its right to peacefully coexistence with its Arab neighbors.

I remember we all held our breath. I can still hear the silence hovering over the empty streets, the feel in the air of messianic prophecy, and the great excitement of redemption wrapping us with hope. Our prayers were finally heard, and our wishes came true. The desired peace was no longer a dream. It was here, carried on the wing of Sadat’s presidential airplane from Egypt’s dusty deserts.

That was the atmosphere throughout the streets of Jerusalem. We were all glued to our TV screens, rubbing our eyes as they followed the historic speech from the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, when the Egyptian leader declared: “No more war, no more bloodshed.”

Forty-five years later, the messianic prophecies of peace are still longed for. Redemption apparently, was after all, not Prime Minister Begin’s or President Sadat’s to determine. Our prayers are still waiting to be answered.

Exactly five months today, 153 days, Israel is facing the most harsh and painful of its wars. A justified war, which was imposed on us, and exacts a heavy and bloody price every day it continues.

In recent days, new videos from refugee camps in Gaza have been circulated, in which Gazan citizens are seen calling for the elimination of the Hamas organization, the return of the Israeli hostages, and the end of the war. The citizens of Gaza have been suffering from the brutality of Hamas for years. They, too, are the victims of the ongoing hatred against Israel, where, for years, Hamas has used its people as cannon fodder and human shields. The humanitarian aid trucked into Gaza every day is brutally robbed by Hamas terrorists who steal from their own hungry people, which is further proof of their heartlessness and the malice that drives them.

From 1947’s Partition Plan to Prime Minister Begin’s invitation to Sadat in 1977 to the 2020 Abraham Accords, our chronicles reveal the story of a nation yearning for peace, always willing to compromise, and never losing hope.

We will do it if only our neighbors will as well. How wonderful it could be when iron swords are welded to plowshares, the fields of slaughter will grow grain which will feed two nations, who together will prove that there is no sweeter reality than the fulfillment of the dream of peace.

Together, united, we will overcome.

Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.

Day 150: Iron Swords War

By Leah Garber

One hundred and fifty days ago, the hot Israeli summer gave way to a short autumn—one that visits here for only a few days, offering relief from the heat and providing secrets of exotic countries carried by migrating birds. The hot July and August sun surrendered to autumn’s warm rays.

This brief visit ends too quickly when winter steps in. This year—perhaps as a courtesy to agricultural fields left behind without working hands and battlefields packed with soldiers—winter rains delayed their fall. They hesitated, almost afraid to wet our warriors and add to their burden.

But then, 100 days ago, in the middle of January, the rains finally started to fall, at first hesitantly, apologetically, and later with full force. The pale yellow of the approaching winter was replaced by a determined gray. Rain clouds dropped unprecedented amounts of rain as if trying to wash away the evil and pain.

Winter’s rains are starting to fade. Sad and embarrassed they were unable to bring comfort or purify the evil. As the sky clears the blanket of rain clouds is replaced by a lighter one through which shining rays try to penetrate—to warm us and ease our pain. Today, 150 days since the terrible rupture, the sun breaks through and winter begins to recede, inviting spring in its place.

Summer, autumn, and winter. The seasons change and the world continues to revolve, but in Israel, that one long, gloomy, and bloody black day, October 7, never really ended, indifferent to the change of seasons.

Never has nature’s palette so contradicted the national mood as it has in the last 150 days. The spectacular beauty of nature is spread throughout the length and breadth of the country—in the magnificent reds and purples of anemones, in the pinks and whites of cyclamen hidden among the rocks, and in the bright yellows of chrysanthemums.

Fields in the south, the ones Hamas terrorists viciously trampled, leaving cracks of hatred and killing, are now blooming with nature’s beauty. The blood of the 1,200 slaughtered souls has changed to the red of the anemones, and songbirds, deaf to the atmosphere of mourning, insist on singing, heralding the coming of spring. Caterpillars soon will turn to butterflies, filling the air with all the cheerful colors of the rainbow.

But today we mark 150 days in which even nature in all its glory has failed to heal the pain. One hundred and fifty days in which extremely heavy rain failed to clean the blood from the paths of the kibbutzim and southern towns and the sullen winds failed to obscure the smell of fire. No spring blossom, no matter how beautiful, can lift the depressed spirit.

We have endured 150 days in which 134 men and women, civilians and soldiers, youngsters and adults have been hidden in Gaza, where only one color dominates those long days and nights. The color of despair and pain. The color of crying and heartbreak. They are there, and we are here. For 150 days.

The families of the hostages are losing patience. Worrying about their loved ones breaks their hearts. They have traveled all over the world to meet with kings and heads of government. They’ve begged and cried in attempts to appeal to the leaders’ minds, hearts, and sense of reason.

Despite their efforts, once again, they awoke this morning to the same reality: Beyond the mountains of darkness and the abyss of grief, their beloved family members have been captives for 150 days and counting.

Last week, the families marched alongside thousands of Israelis from the site of the Nova music festival near Kibbutz Re’im to Jerusalem. A sad march of parents, siblings, children, and friends of the hostages who remain chained by murderers.

On the 100th day, exactly 50 days ago, I met Danny Miren, father of Omri, who is being held captive by Hamas. Danny said he has decided to grow a beard until his son Omri is returned. Danny longs for the day when father and son will stand side by side and together shave for the first time. Omri will remove the filth of captivity and Danny a symbol of mourning. Fifty days have passed since I met with Danny, and in that time, his white, sad beard has grown—as have his sorrow and pain, as evidenced in the picture above.

Today the families arrived at the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, walking through the building in silence, carrying pictures of their loved ones and begging leaders to bring them home now.

They had a difficult meeting with Knesset members and ministers, telling the legislators how they cannot sleep or eat—not to mention smile or get on with life. They shared how the nights are nightmares; how suicidal thoughts dominate the days; and how they move on a rollercoaster from hope to despair.

Everyone in Israel yearns for the return of the 134 hostages, believing there is no greater mitzvah than that of ransoming captives. But when dealing with the devil, the price they ask and the uncertainty of Hamas’ intention to return hostages is nerve-wracking and unbearable.

Last week I again went down to the site of the Nova music festival. What was a happy, lively site 150 days ago now commemorates the 364 souls who were brutally tortured and murdered and the 44 young people, some of them seriously injured, who were kidnapped to Gaza. Three-hundred-sixty-four trees have been planted in memory of the murdered, and among the trees, red anemones insist on poking out of the soil. In the place where young people danced, memorial pillars with pictures of the murdered and the hostages are now planted in the wilderness of death.

It saddens me to drive south to see the evidence of Hamas’ crimes. They robbed the joy of life from 1,200 whom they murdered, kidnapped hundreds of hostages, injured thousands, burned entire kibbutzim, and now they’ve also stolen our ability to rejoice in the coming of spring and wholeheartedly embrace nature’s blossoming.

Together, united, we will overcome.

Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.

The 92nd Street Y Turns 150 I Shabbat Shalom, 21 Adar I 5784

By Doron Krakow

I was privileged to return to the 92nd Street Y last Sunday evening for a remarkable program. Bari Weiss, founder of The Free Press, delivered the Y’s annual “State of World Jewry” lecture to a packed house on the institution’s largest stage. This year’s address, “What It Means to Choose Freedom,” followed numerous prior luminary speakers over the years, including Elie Wiesel, Abba Eban, and Amos Oz. It was delivered at a time of great turmoil in the Jewish world—and in the aftermath of the horrific slaughter of innocents in Israel on October 7. A time in which Israel’s modern heroes, the soldiers of the IDF, are engaged in a life-and-death struggle to free the more than 130 men, women, and children who remain, after 143 days and counting, in the hands of the butchers of Hamas. A time in which virulent antisemitism in this country and throughout the West has become increasingly commonplace.

Though the Passover Haggadah reminds us each year that “in every generation, they stand [against] us to destroy us, but the Holy One, blessed be the Eternal, rescues us from their hand.” From the Exodus itself, across the millennia, in seemingly countless chapters of our story, those words have proven altogether too true. But we were certain that in our time, at long last, things had finally changed.

With Europe beneath the boot of Nazi Germany and the extermination of the Jewish people underway, America, Great Britain, and their allies rallied together, and the forces of freedom prevailed over those of darkness and hate. We were born into a world in which American democracy was a light unto the nations, and for Jews, each passing decade brought us to new heights of achievement, acceptance, and opportunity. We’d never had it so good—and our biggest challenge as a Jewish community, it seemed, was how to keep from blending into the great American melting pot.

We came of age at a time of Jewish sovereignty, raised in the aftermath of Israel’s lightning victory in the Six-Day War, its triumph over those who sought to destroy her in an onslaught unleashed on Yom Kippur. Israel had become the Start-Up Nation, a global leader in science and technology, and one of the great military powers not only in the region but in the world.

This time it was different. After 2,000 years, stories about how in every generation they would rise up against us would be consigned to history.

There is a great deal I will remember about the program that night. About the size and energy of the crowd. About the passion and purposefulness of the speaker. The chilling significance of her contention that for Jews today, Jews who have enjoyed these many decades of pride and prosperity, “our holiday from Jewish history has ended.”

But I think what I’ll remember most about that evening was what I experienced outside the 92nd Street Y before and after the lecture. I was joined by my wife; two of my sons, one with his fiancé and the other with his girlfriend; and two dear friends. We’d had dinner together a few blocks from the Y and walked over shortly before the lecture was scheduled to begin. As we approached the stately entrance on Lexington Avenue, we noticed the barricades and dozens of law enforcement officers and police vehicles creating a path to the well-guarded ticket-holders line, which ran along the building’s perimeter.

Then we began to hear the screams, the chants, and the taunts from demonstrators, many wearing masks or covering their faces with black and white keffiyehs in solidarity with Hamas. They carried Palestinian flags and signs depicting Jews as Nazis, railing against genocide being perpetrated in Gaza and calling those coming to an evening lecture at a great Jewish cultural institution “baby killers,” “murderers,” “Nazis.” There we stood, under police protection, attempting to maintain our dignity in the face of screams reminiscent of periods in history we were certain had long since passed us by. I looked at my children—my boys and their girls. I looked at my friends and at my wife. “Are you okay?” Are you okay…

Once inside, it was hard to stay fully focused on the lecture. My thoughts kept straying back to that scene. When we said goodnight and started to go our separate ways after the program, I found myself, once again, accosted by a man who pursued us, asking how I could sleep at night. As I turned to face him, he called me a baby killer and a butcher. I couldn’t keep myself from responding with a few comments of my own and was ready for more when I remembered that the safety of my children could be at risk. Rigid with tension, I turned, put my arms around them, and walked away.

This wasn’t a political rally, and it didn’t happen in a neighborhood known to be unsafe. It wasn’t Tehran or Cairo. It wasn’t a scene from a documentary film about Europe in the 1930s. This was the Upper East Side of Manhattan on a beautiful winter evening in the most populous Jewish city in the most prosperous nation in the free world. Americans, Jews and non-Jews attending a lecture, required the protection of New York’s finest while being subjected to viciously antisemitic taunts, chants, and cries from masked haters of Jews mere steps away.

And it wasn’t an isolated incident. In far too many places across Canada and the United States, this scene is repeated in various permutations. And far too many Jewish institutions have become the focal points. JCCs. Synagogues. Hillels. The landmarks of Jewish community.

At the opening of the program, the Y’s remarkable Chief Executive Officer Seth Pinsky noted that this year the institution is celebrating its 150th anniversary and in response to the rising tide of antisemitism, it is doubling down on its commitment to Jewish content and programming. The 92nd Street Y will continue to proudly proclaim its commitment to strengthen Jewish community and enrich Jewish life as we, Americans and Canadians from coast to coast, embrace our responsibilities to and for one another by pushing back against this rising tide.

Im ein ani li, mi li? | אם אין אני לי מי לי? | If I am not for myself, who will be for me?

Shabbat shalom | שבת שלום

Image

Doron Krakow
President and CEO
JCC Association of North America

Day 145: Iron Swords War

By Leah Garber

One-hundred-forty-five years ago today, one of the greatest minds of all time was born: Albert Einstein, the father of the theory of relativity and a central figure in the revolutionary reshaping of modern physics in the 20th century.

Exactly 202 years separate the birth of one Jewish genius and the death of another. Baruch Spinoza, a 17th-century scholar who significantly influenced modern biblical criticism and established himself as one of the most important and radical philosophers of the early modern period, died on the same Hebrew date on which Einstein was born. Also, on this date 48 years ago, René Samuel Cassin, a French Jewish jurist and Nobel Prize laureate died. Cassin co-authored the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

A Dutch Jew, a German Jew, and a French Jew each granted the world the treasures of thought and knowledge in their own fields, promoting them as groundbreaking, enlightened, and just, and enriching humanity. Or at least giving humanity the tools to become the best possible version of itself.

For generations in our history lessons, we learned about the persecution of Jews—from the days of Haman in Persia who sought to destroy all the Jews to the Nazis in Germany during the Holocaust, who sought to do the same. Across continents, throughout centuries, under different leaders, “justified” by various excuses, Jews have long been a persecuted people.

As much as we learned and read about this oppression, torment, and discrimination, and despite all the testimonies we heard, the concept of being persecuted and hated remained theoretical for many of us. We had not ever really experienced what it feels like to be afraid, to think twice before wearing Jewish jewelry, putting on a kippah, speaking Hebrew in public, or even introducing ourselves with a name that clearly sounds Jewish.

We do now.

The October 7 massacre changed Israel, the Jewish people, and, in many respects, the world. It awakened dormant demons and, once again, brought Jew hatred to the surface—neither hidden nor disguised but out into the open, in broad daylight, without any fear of repercussions for being antisemitic.

Of course, it is unacceptable to discriminate against any people and politically incorrect to condemn other cultures. Racism isn’t tolerated under any circumstances. Freedom of expression and speech are basic, supreme values. Yes, it’s all true—until it concerns the Jews.

When such acts are directed against Israel and Jews, it’s okay to condemn, express hatred, racism, and violence, and still be considered liberal, enlightened, educated, and open-minded.

See the contradiction?

Apparently, many don’t. Or perhaps I should say: “Unfortunately, many don’t.”

Israel has participated in the Eurovision Song Contest 45 times, won four times, and hosted three times. Israelis are big Eurovision fans, and being part of the competition means a lot to many of us. Unfortunately, none of that will happen this year. Eurovision officials have disqualified Israel’s song for being too political.

In every artistic competition or exhibit, ensuring artistic freedom is paramount, sometimes even sacrosanct—until it involves Israel and the Jews. Since October 7, double standards, contradictory standards, and hypocrisy have characterized every discourse associated with Israel, and it has already been said sarcastically: “Me too, unless you are a Jew.”

The Eurovision Song Contest is all about celebrating culture, music, ethnicity, and diversity. It’s a stage that leaves behind prejudices and encourages each country, to be itself, share the beauty of its culture, and bring the many sounds of music together on one shared platform, uniting and uplifting through the beauty of art, which knows no bounds.

In past years, the competition included songs with blatantly strong messages, ridiculous costumes, and weird productions, but they all were accepted and welcomed as part of artistic freedom.

Not this year—at least not as far as Israel is concerned.

The Israeli song, “October Rain,” has been disqualified because it allegedly contains a political message.

Read these lyrics and judge for yourself:

Writers of history stand by me
Look into my eyes and you will see
People leave without saying goodbye
Someone stole the moon tonight
took my light
Now everything is black and white

Who is the fool who told you boys don’t cry?
Hours and hours and flowers
Life is not a game for cowards
Why does time go crazy?
I lose my mind every day
Clinging to this mysterious journey

Dancing up a storm
We have nothing to hide
take me home
Leave the world behind
And I promise you never again

I’m still soaked from the October rain
Live in fantasy
in ecstasy
Everything is meant to be
We will die, but love wont

I’m still soaked from the October rain
There is no air left to breathe
I’m not here, I have no space
They were all fine children, each, and everyone.”

October rain by Keren Peles, Avi Ohayon and Stav Begger.

What are the political messages expressed in these lyrics?

Do you see anything besides deep pain?

Does the song’s disqualification express anything other than a familiar hypocrisy with a grain of uneasiness to look the pain in the eye and allow it space? Or is it simply because Israelis are persona non grata and the lyrics are yet another miserable excuse?

How sad, how familiar, and how terrible that we are no longer surprised.

What is it about us that attracts so much fire? What is it that arouses emotions that make everyone the world over feel that when it comes to Israel, they can express a firm opinion?

Our Palestinian neighbors in Gaza received medical treatment in Israel for years. Likewise, leaders of Arab countries were flown secretly to receive treatment in Israel. Israeli doctors shuttled to every corner of the world to provide medical treatment to people of all nationalities and religions.

From Abraham, who gave the world monotheism, the belief in one God, to Moses who led the Israelites from Egypt after 400 years of slavery and granted the world the concept of freedom, all the way through Spinoza, Einstein, and Cassin, three giants, who granted the world three fundamentals of an enlightened society: knowledge and science; thought and spirit; and law and justice—the Jewish people have always contributed to the development of humanity.

Although we were taught that a good name is awarded to those who do good, many can’t make the connection between a positive deed and a worthy reputation.

So, we will not sing in the Eurovision competition this year.

Who can even sing anyway, except sad songs about the October rain? The rain of tears that has not stopped since that black day, 145 gloomy nights ago.

When the time comes to wipe the tears and look forward to a better tomorrow, we will raise our heads with pride, return to singing, and remember that it doesn’t matter what the world thinks of us. We know who we are, and we will never forget it.

We, the people who gave the world Avraham, Moshe, Rambam, Janusz Korczak, Marc Chagall, Leonard Cohen, and so many others, do not need the Eurovision stage. With or without the world’s sympathy or approval, we will sing at the top of our voice: “Am Yisrael Chai!

Together, united, we will overcome.

Leah Garber is a senior vice president of JCC Association of North America and director of its Center for Israel Engagement in Jerusalem.

Not Just Another Trip to Israel

By Jeff Dannick

“How was your trip?” Such a simple question, but as I have discovered since returning from Israel, almost impossible for me to answer. This was my bar mitzvah trip, my 13th time visiting Israel, and my first time in more than seven years. I had been yearning to return since my last planned trip was coronavirus-cancelled in 2020, but life always seemed to get in the way. After October 7, I felt a stronger pull to visit than I had ever felt before, and at the same time, for the first time, I also felt trepidation. Would it feel different? Would it be different?

More than the place, I missed the people. Two people in particular, who I’ve known for 20 years, but who I think of as family, my “brother,” Shaul Zohar, and my “son,” Yonathan Hefetz. For me, no trip to Israel is complete without spending time with these two special men, so when JCC Association put together its extraordinary Leadership Solidarity Mission to Israel, I knew I would be going—and extending my visit.

Shaul and his wife, Karin, live in the north of Israel in Kiryat Shemona. Shaul’s parents moved to Israel from Iran in 1959, so Shaul has lived in Kiryat Shemona his entire life. Karin is originally from Holland and moved to Israel without knowing a word of Hebrew. They have four children, three of whom I have known their entire lives: Chen (23), Shi (19), Shir (17), and Or (15). In other words, a typical Israeli family.

My usual “home away from home” in Israel is the zimmer | room at Shaul’s house. Not this trip. This time, I stayed with Shaul and Karin in Club Hotel Tiberias, the formerly closed hotel that was hastily refurbished and reopened to accommodate more than 800 evacuees from Kiryat Shemona. While many evacuees have since found alternative places to stay, there were still more than 300 at the Club Hotel when I arrived on Friday afternoon. Shaul and Karin share a two-room suite with Or, two of their cats, and their bird. Chen and Shir share another suite with their other two cats and their rabbit, and Shi is deployed at a base in the Golan Heights. We welcomed Shabbat in their room, with wine, a roll, and song, and then headed to dinner in a dining hall filled with evacuees: children, elders, and everyone in between. I have spent so many Shabbat evenings with the Zohar family, but this was like no other.

Shabbat morning we toured the north, enjoying the lush beauty of the Golan Heights and Hula Valley. We picked up Shi at the base and took her out for lunch—it was so strange to see her in uniform. We drove close to Kiryat Shemona, but as I promised my wife, Marcia, we did not venture into the evacuated area. After three months in Tiberias, the family is bracing for many more. After Havdalah back in the hotel room, we headed to the dining hall for another communal dinner, and then Shaul and I took a long walk together. We talked well into the night and ended the long day with a long hug.

Sunday morning Shaul drove me to Tel Aviv, and after more hugs, we said l’hitraot | until we meet again, and I checked into the beautiful David Kempinski Hotel. More and more hugs as friends and colleagues arrived to begin an emotional roller coaster ride together. I began to think of this trip as a solidarity mission sandwich. Nestled between brief visits with my dear friends was an itinerary like none other I have ever experienced or imagined. I know that the details are readily available, so I will confine my writing to highlights, takeaways, and reflections. The mission was overwhelming, exhausting, and inspiring. The source of inspiration was the Israeli people that we met, their resilience, determination, and, perhaps most extraordinarily, their hope for the future. It was clear from everything that we did and saw that October 7 was a game changer, a pivotal moment in history and that Israel, the Jewish people, and the world will never be the same.

For me, Tuesday was by far the most difficult day, as we traveled to the Gaza envelope. On the bus, we were joined by Middle East strategic intelligence analyst, Avi Melamed. Avi provided what was for me an illuminating and terrifying tutorial on Hamas, Hezbollah, and other Iranian proxies, describing what he called “Iran’s Hegemonic Vision,” and the implications for Israel and the Jewish people, the entire Middle East, and beyond. We then saw firsthand the manifestation of that vision as we visited Sderot, Ofakim, Kibbutz Nir Oz, and the site of the Nova Music Festival, which was transformed into a killing field. It is hard to describe the feeling I had as we walked through the makeshift memorial to those who were beaten, raped, killed, or taken hostage that day. I have only felt that way once before in my life, and that was when visiting Auschwitz.

So where does the hope come from?

We finished the day sharing barbeque with an IDF unit. We visited with the soldiers, heard about their lives and experiences, and shared a few laughs, handshakes, and even some hugs. We are, after all, family. At that moment, I understood the idea of Jewish peoplehood on a very different level than ever before. It wasn’t an intellectual understanding; it was deeper and more personal. We were thanking them, and they were thanking us. That’s right—they were thanking us! They understood why we were there, and it meant something to them. It gave them strength. I don’t know if Israeli and Diaspora Jews have been this close, and mutually dependent, since 1948.

As we wrapped up our mission over dinner in Jerusalem, we all reflected on our experiences together. We are so fortunate to be part of the JCC Movement. This group of dedicated, insightful, and inspiring leaders shared their most intimate thoughts, and once again brought light to what could have been a very dark trip. As we headed toward our buses, one heading to the airport and the other back to the hotel in Tel Aviv, everyone was hugging. Some of us were already close to others in the group, but after our shared experience, we truly were bonded. I climbed onto the hotel-bound bus, ready to begin the final phase of my trip.

Upon arrival at the hotel, I was welcomed with a bear hug from my dear friend Yonathan. We went into the hotel for a drink and a quick catch-up before he took me to my new hotel, the Brown Brun Hotel in Tel Aviv. Once again, I was the rare tourist among a hotel full of refugees, this time from Kibbutz Erez. It seemed like the perfect bookend of hotel experiences during this surreal visit to Israel.

Two days with Yonathan and his wife, Chen, was just what I needed after the intensity of the solidarity mission. We had Shabbat dinner with Yonathan’s parents, played tennis (Yonathan was the Israeli junior champion when he was 17), went to amazing restaurants, and walked through Tel Aviv markets, neighborhoods, and along the beach. Other than a visit to Hostage Square, my time with Yonathan and Chen seemed almost normal. We talked about life, family, jobs, and yes, war and politics. How do Israelis do this? Live their lives in the midst of war? Rabbi Doron Perez speaks of “gam v’gam,” but that is a discussion for another time.

After an extraordinary dinner at Claro (Yonathan’s lifelong friend is the chef), I was off to the airport for my flight home. When Yonathan dropped me off, and we shared one last hug, I knew that my relationship with Israel had changed. I will never again let seven years pass between visits. This is my homeland. These are my people. I want to dig deeper into my Israeli roots, meet family whom I have never met, but I know are there. I yearn for a peaceful future for Israel, even as I understand that we have a long, challenging, and dangerous road ahead.

Nobody gives better hugs than Israelis. For this and many other reasons, I am hopeful.

Am Yisrael Chai!

Jeff Dannick is the executive director of the Pozez JCC of Northern Virginia in Fairfax. He participated in the JCC Association Leadership Solidarity Mission to Israel in January 2024.

This blog post is one in a series authored by JCC CEOs and executive directors who recently visited Israel on one of two different JCC Movement Solidarity Missions. Read other posts in the series.

 

The Lesson of the Anemones in Sha’ar HaNegev

By Betzy Lynch

Over the last three years, I have visited Israel’s Sha’ar HaNegev region three times. This incredible community of 10 kibbutzim, one moshav, and one center for Ethiopian olim (immigrants) is situated roughly three-quarters of a mile from Israel’s border with Gaza. My experiences in Sha’ar HaNegev have challenged everything I understood about people and shattered my beliefs about human limitations.

My first visit was in May of 2022 for a master class in co-existence and community building. The residents of Sha’ar HaNegev had imagined and created a home for nearly 10,000 residents who believed they could live in peace with their Palestinian neighbors if they could build a bridge to a better life for all residents of the region. In Sha’ar HaNegev, you could believe in this dream because every few yards there are outside shelters, and safe rooms in every home protect against rocket fire. In Sha’ar HaNegev, you could believe in this dream because people chose to live in kibbutzim that consistently reinforced the message that the “we” was always more important than the “I.” In Sha’ar HaNegev, you could believe in this dream because of the leadership Ofir Libstein, z”l, who inspired and painted a vision of what could be for Israelis, Bedouin, Druze, and Palestinians when we invested in each other’s well-being.

When I returned from my first trip to the region, I saw the power of community in a completely new way, which raised the bar for what I believed my JCC could do for our community in San Diego. We would be stronger because of what I had learned of Sha’ar HaNegev.

My second trip was a master class in partnership and peoplehood. I arrived in Sha’ar HaNegev with 250 San Diegans to celebrate 25 years of partnership between our two communities. Walking through the community campus there, it was easy to believe you were in San Diego—minus a red alert or two. The similarities are striking: the desert horticulture, the warm desert climate, the ease of indoor/outdoor spaces, and the names of the community philanthropists, which are often the same in both places. Our communities are woven together with the thin, yet unbreakable threads of Jewish peoplehood. This sense of family is not built from responsibility and obligation, which can cause family dysfunction. It is built from the foundations of Judaism that allow us to imagine each human being created in the image of the divine and to find a path for each of us to discover what we can bring to our community. On this trip, I came to understand that for Sha’ar HaNegev to fulfill its aspirational vision, we needed to raise our aspirations for Jewish life in San Diego. The San Diego community knew we needed to invest and reinvest in the imagination of Sha’ar HaNegev’s potential to build resilience for their community. We also learned that we needed to expand our imagination of what our JCC could become to create meaningful Jewish experiences for all people to enjoy what appeared to be the golden age of Jewish life in the Diaspora.

My third trip was a master class in grief, loss, and survival. Before I met with our group from JCC Association, I spent time with two colleagues and now dear, dear friends. They lead the community-building efforts for the region. When they picked me up in Jerusalem, we drove south to Sha’ar HaNegev, and along the way, they shared the status of the community. Almost all the residents have been evacuated to other parts of Israel. They worked hard to keep the kibbutzim together in the evacuation, knowing that people would need community and some thread of normal life. As we arrived at Kfar Azza, a kibbutz that was deeply affected by the terror of October 7, I felt my emotions welling up in my eyes. I reminded myself that my friends had lived through this terror and loss, and I needed to hold it together for them. We walked through the destruction of Kfar Azza. We stopped at the olive tree where our friend, former Mayor of Sha’ar HaNegev, Ofir Libstein, z”l, was murdered on that fateful day. And I tried to embrace the irony. A man, a special leader, who championed peace by building a better life for everyone in the region—including those living in Gaza—was murdered at the foot of an olive tree. My heart sank.

As we stood at the border fence and looked across the fields into the distance, I heard the sound of artillery fire and saw smoke rising in the distance. Small drops of rain began to fall on my face, and I felt the war in my heart and in my bones. As we walked through the rest of the horrific scene, my colleagues shared the disputes among kibbutz members about how to preserve the burnt and bullet-ridden homes. Some want to tear it all down, others want to maintain it as is so no one will forget or deny what happened there on October 7. They told me about the residents who had been taken hostage, sharing how a few people had managed to escape their attackers and others are still being held in Gaza. When we reached the home of Ofir’s son, I could not hold back my tears. His home was completely destroyed, like so many others of the young people who lived in that section of Kfar Azza. My tears were not only for Ofir’s wife and family who lost their mother and grandmother, nephew and cousin, husband and father, and son and brother on October 7 but also for those families who were killed all together, leaving no one to say kaddish for them.

As we drove away from Kfar Azza, I tried to imagine what it would take to restore enough strength and confidence to the residents of Sha’ar HaNegev so they can return home. Sadly, I cannot imagine it will be possible.

A few days later, I again went to southern Israel, this time with leaders from our JCC Movement. During the bus ride from Tel Aviv to the site of the Nova music festival massacre, I could not stop thinking about my friends in Sha’ar HaNegev. How were they still standing after more than 100 days of death, terror, and uncertainty? How were they going to find ways to hold their grief and build a path to recovery for the community?

At the site we could see a makeshift memorial in the distance, but mostly the space was a beautiful campsite and park. We gathered in a circle and said memorial prayers. I shut my eyes and prayed. Prayed for peace for the souls that had been taken and prayed for the resilience of my friends and all of Israel. As the group walked toward the memorial, I walked the other way—into nature. Trees, fresh with new leaves that moved gently in the wind, were scattered throughout wide stretches of open space. I could see the buds of red flowers for which the region is so famous. My emotions were getting the best of me. As my tears dropped to the earth, which only 100 days earlier had been covered in the blood of young music-loving Israelis, I was angry. Angry that nature was acting as though no tragedy had happened in this sacred space. I opened my eyes and my heart to the heavens and wept for the first time since arriving in Israel. Wiping my tears, the lesson started to sink in. Nature is never without destruction, and yet the heartiest of plants always seem to bloom again. My friends in Sha’ar HaNegev and their leaders are the red flowers of the south. They are the heartiest of plants veiled by a gentle, red flower.

My JCC colleagues and I spent a few more days in Israel affirming this lesson. It is possible to plant for the future and hold on to ambiguity, tragedy, and hope all at the same time. Boarding the plane to return to San Diego, I continued to reflect on the “garden” of Jewish peoplehood. I now understood better than I ever have that the role of our JCC in San Diego is to plant the seeds of our shared history, preserve and share rituals and traditions, nurture spirituality and human connection, create a love of Israel that will grow roots for a lifetime of meaning and holistic well-being for my San Diego community and my friends in Sha’ar HaNegev.

Betzy Lynch is the CEO of the Lawrence Family JCC in La Jolla, California. She participated in the JCC Association Leadership Solidarity Mission to Israel in January 2024.

This blog post is one in a series authored by JCC CEOs and executive directors who recently visited Israel on one of two different JCC Movement Solidarity Missions. Read other posts in the series.

 

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