By Leah Garber

“Life is a Celebration”/Ilay Nachman, z”l

October 9, 2023

Dear Pinemere Families,

Like most of you, I was shocked and devastated this weekend by the news coming out of Israel. The horrific violence that has left our Jewish homeland in fire and fear has left me sad and questioning.

It is with great sadness that I share with all of you the passing of Ilay Nachman. Ilay was a member of our staff team in 2022 and had become a beloved member of our growing community of Pinemere-ites in Israel. Ilay was a Village counselor but was known by everyone at camp as a gentle giant. His infectious laugh, caring nature, and love of Israel made him a pleasure to be around, and the type of role model both campers and staff could look up to. His passion for camp grew every day and I like to imagine that he would have eventually found his way back home to Pinemere, a place he loved with all his heart. All of us who knew Ilay were blessed to have had him in our lives. He will be sorely missed.

To our extended Pinemere family in Israel, we stand with you in solidarity and friendship and love.

Am Yisrael Chai,

Eytan Graubart, Executive Director | Pinemere Camp”

As happens every year, about 1,500 young Israelis will spend this summer at camps across North America as shlichim or emissaries, 370 of them at JCC day and overnight camps. In addition to their staff duties, these young Israelis carry the beauty and spirit of Israel with them, spreading an energetic “Israeliness” and strengthening the connection to Israel for campers and other staff. For many campers, the relationships they develop with their Israeli shlichim forever change their attitudes and associations with Israel.

Yesterday, I was privileged to participate in the Jewish Agency’s training seminar for summer camp shlichim. This was a somewhat surreal experience and felt like walking into a bubble. Alongside the painful Israeli reality that includes embracing the fallen and their families and fearing for the fate of the 133 hostages, I found excitement and joy.

In a small hotel in the mountains of Jerusalem, young Israelis from across the country gathered for pre-camp training. They were joined by camp directors from North America, who, despite the war and associated risks, did not hesitate to come to Israel to be together with the shlichim assigned to their camps and welcome them to camp ahead of the summer.

Once inside this magical, vibrant bubble, all I felt was the beauty of Israeli youth. These young people had recently been released from military service, many having fought in Gaza and lost friends. Some had been at the Nova Music Festival and survived. Others lost their homes, and for six months now have been living with their families in hotels or temporary apartments. Nonetheless, they managed to leave the horrors behind to enthusiastically sing summer camp songs—practicing the techniques necessary to bring their Israeli spirit to camp. It was uplifting and encouraging, an escape for a moment.

But the bubble was not sealed and certainly not transparent.

A large poster of the hostages next to a chilling poster of eight former summer camp shlichim who were killed since October 7 was a poignant reminder of the cruel reality outside our comforting bubble. Ilay Nachman, z”l, and Ron Shemer, z”l, with six others make up the eight.

As happens every year, about 1,500 young Israelis will spend this summer at camps across North America as shlichim or emissaries, 370 of them at JCC day and overnight camps. In addition to their staff duties, these young Israelis carry the beauty and spirit of Israel with them, spreading an energetic “Israeliness” and strengthening the connection to Israel for campers and other staff. For many campers, the relationships they develop with their Israeli shlichim forever change their attitudes and associations with Israel.

Yesterday, I was privileged to participate in the Jewish Agency’s training seminar for summer camp shlichim. This was a somewhat surreal experience and felt like walking into a bubble. Alongside the painful Israeli reality that includes embracing the fallen and their families and fearing for the fate of the 133 hostages, I found excitement and joy.

In a small hotel in the mountains of Jerusalem, young Israelis from across the country gathered for pre-camp training. They were joined by camp directors from North America, who, despite the war and associated risks, did not hesitate to come to Israel to be together with the shlichim assigned to their camps and welcome them to camp ahead of the summer.

Once inside this magical, vibrant bubble, all I felt was the beauty of Israeli youth. These young people had recently been released from military service, many having fought in Gaza and lost friends. Some had been at the Nova Music Festival and survived. Others lost their homes, and for six months now have been living with their families in hotels or temporary apartments. Nonetheless, they managed to leave the horrors behind to enthusiastically sing summer camp songs—practicing the techniques necessary to bring their Israeli spirit to camp. It was uplifting and encouraging, an escape for a moment.

But the bubble was not sealed and certainly not transparent.

A large poster of the hostages next to a chilling poster of eight former summer camp shlichim who were killed since October 7 was a poignant reminder of the cruel reality outside our comforting bubble. Ilay Nachman, z”l, and Ron Shemer, z”l, with six others make up the eight.

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

By Leah Garber

Go son, go down to the water
And see the women weeping there
Then go up into the mountains
The men, they are weeping too.
Father, why are all the women weeping?
They are weeping for their men
Then why are all the men there weeping?
They are weeping back at them.”
– Nick Cave

An autumn sun rose on the morning of October 7, illuminating a world that, as soon as the warming rays shone in full, darkened and went out. Since then, 185 days of thick darkness have descended upon us. Six months have passed, and the sun has not yet risen again.

Forty-seven–year-old Elad Katzir from Kibbutz Nir Oz woke up on that black Sabbath, to the sound of terror. He reported in a WhatsApp group that terrorists had infiltrated the kibbutz and were in the midst of a house-to-house killing spree. Elad begged: “We need help as soon as possible.“

Help didn’t arrive in time to save him or other kibbutz members. One out of four members of Kibbutz Nor Oz either was murdered or kidnapped to Gaza that morning. Elad, together with Hana, his 76-year-old mother, was kidnapped. His father, Rami Katzir, was murdered. Hana was released after 49 days in captivity, and since her return to Israel, she has been hospitalized in serious condition.

In January, as part of vicious psychological terror, Elad’s captors sent videos in which he looked emaciated but alive. Not long after he was videotaped, he was murdered. Two days ago, following intelligence information, the IDF’s commando unit, in a daring operation, managed to locate and retrieve Elad’s body and bring it home to Israel to be buried.

It has now been six months—185 days—that those 133 abductees have been held in Gaza. Of the total, at least 34 are no longer alive.

No matter where we turn, these are challenging times. All eyes are directed north, toward the escalating tensions with Hezbollah, as we speculate about when the current fighting will turn into war. The atmosphere is tense, anxiety is in the air.

The fact that 133 of us are still held captive leads to a desperate notion of helplessness together with the need, more like an urgent call, to do something, anything, to bring the hostages home.

In six months, life goes on, and the world hasn’t stopped spinning. Alex and Dolev, two of the hostages, had babies whose first gaze was into their moms’ sad eyes, and their first cries were for dads they haven’t met. Emily, also held in Gaza, lost her beloved grandfather; Itai and Agam, kidnapped on October 7, each missed the celebration of a brother’s bar mitzvah back home in Israel, and Yonatan, Daniel Perez’s brother, got married.

Alongside the tension and worries, and the solidarity rallies in support of the families of the hostages—that now turned into protests—life in Israel, as much as possible, goes on as usual.

All trains hold seats reserved for the hostages, a sad, daily reminder of our reality. Yet every morning, passengers ride the trains to begin another workday, and every evening, as they head downtown to hang with friends, they sit next to the reserved seats, powerless against the absence—like phantom pain in a missing limb that doesn’t let go. The hostages are absent, but they are always present in our thoughts and our hearts.

How can people sit next to reserved seats for hostages who are presumed to be alive—and certainly tortured—and chat with other passengers about banal, everyday life, read a book, or listen to music as if that empty seat isn’t screaming of horror?

How can one enjoy a meal in a restaurant when the next table is set, waiting, reserved for the hostages, their pictures by their plates?

How can it be that classes at our Israeli community centers continue? Folk dances, modern dance, ceramics, painting, they’re all happening, when on the walls nearby hang pictures of the hostages in mute sadness?

Who can go for an evening run and day after day pass a display of 250 chairs—rocking chairs, baby seats, cribs, each with a picture of a hostage?

How is it possible to attend a funeral for a soldier who fell in battle, listen to their parents mourn in pain, and then get into the car and listen instead to traffic reports—as if the world did not just end for one more bereaved, loved family?

This impossible reality, with all its paradoxes, is apparently, possible. It has been our reality for six months.

For six months a gloomy grief, an endless sorrow, has filled me and taken over my being as if a heavy burden rests on my shoulders. I carry the searing pain with me throughout my daily activities; it clings tight and doesn’t let go. Every breath is breathed for those who are struggling, those who are hidden in the suffocating tunnels. At every meal, I agonize over how it is that I get to enjoy what is denied to others. With every sweet chirping of birds, I think of those who hear only the sound of death. When someone hugs me, I think of those who are wrapped instead in terror and fear. I beg beautiful butterflies to carry my thoughts and some beauty to our people in Gaza, who likely see none, and in every baby’s laughter, I see hope for a better world—one that has yet to come. Like everyone in Israel, I live my life alongside the constant, painful presence of the tragedy. A part of my heart, a part of the heart of all of us, is a prisoner in Gaza, too. With each passing day, the thread of the hostages’ lives grows shorter.

Israelis’ reputation for resilience is starting to erode, and the overwhelming sense of unity that was so comforting in the first months of the war is beginning to evaporate, giving way to old disputes.

I have never experienced such deep, inconsolable pain. I have never felt such burning despair or disappointment with our leadership, or such true fear of the future.

Israel has been at war for six months. Six months and our wounds still bleed—daily. The cry is still screaming, constantly. The fire is still burning. It has been six months that we’ve been breathing the smoke from October 7.

This is a weeping song
A song in which to weep
While all the men and women sleep
This is a weeping song
But I won’t be weeping long”

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.

By Leah Garber

The weather is warming up; hot, dusty desert winds are blowing, hitting the air and the atmosphere.

After almost six months of fighting in Gaza, the 134 abductees have spent 180 days in daily hell, trapped in the jaws of monstrous terrorists, and Israeli citizens are starting to lose patience. Solidarity rallies in support of the hostages’ families have taken on a more inflammatory tone. The families’ desperate cries and broken voices are fueled by loud voices of anger, disappointment, and frustration, calling for an expedited deal to return all hostages immediately and for the government to dismiss itself.

In 180 days, the seasons have changed. Babies have been born, started crawling, spreading innocent smiles. In 180 days, sown seedlings have begun to sprout, heralding the coming of spring. After 180 days, the rising temperatures predict the hot summer waiting around the corner—and our mood. After 180 days, our patience is drawing to an end.

The hostages have experienced it all. The thunder, the hail, and winter winds, the cold penetrating the light holiday clothes they wore on the day they were abducted. And now, the changing weather gives away the passing of time. They were kidnapped right after Sukkot, and, now, toward Passover, they are still in captivity.

The transition from rallies held in Tel Aviv’s Hostage Square in support of the kidnapped to loud, determined protests in front of the Knesset (Israel’s parliament building) and the prime minister’s house in Jerusalem bring us back to the streets of October 6—back to the stormy, revolting, divided Israel.

Next week, on April 7, we will mark six months since October 7, and 120 elected parliament members will embark on the Knesset’s summer break. Meanwhile, the families of the abducted rage. While their loved ones do not get any respite from their never-ending nightmare, their elected representatives will go on break.

Day after day, representatives of the families and thousands of Israelis, many of whom are camping out by the Knesset, protest, their clothes dyed blood red. In the struggle for the release of all hostages, we must, within the law, do what we can to influence decision-makers, who must negotiate with the cruelest of enemies in an attempt to bring home 134 Israelis while not compromising Israel’s safety.

The Israeli street once again is divided. Although most of the public is interested in moving the elections forward—the original date for the next election is October 2026—many believe that in a time of war, it is wrong to focus on political campaigns, especially for Prime Minister Netanyahu, for whom this will be a survival campaign.

On the other hand, many are disappointed with how the current government is functioning. There is a growing concern that politics seeps into the decision-making process and political considerations influence the conduct of the war. If so, our leaders are engaging in politics during the war anyway.

Six months of fighting is eroding Israeli society, most notably with the lack of a long-term solution for Gaza that would result in a sustainable, reliable status quo that would ensure residents of southern Israel could return to their homes safely. The lack of such a plan accepted by all parties raises concerns—but mostly fear—that the reality of October 7 will repeat itself.

In addition, the Israeli public is not indifferent to global criticism. It is true that the criticism is heard here through filters and is met with disappointment and frustration, but whether pleasant to our ears or not, it has an effect. The opinions of heads of state are important to Israel. The support of our allies is essential; we know Israel cannot act in a vacuum.

The ongoing war and the consequences for the civilians in Gaza tilt the scales against us. The Western world reacts to the images of the war as they are—without the subjective intensity of our pain, suffering, humiliation, and the existential fear expressed through our tears. The difference between our painful, collective personal experience here and the reality projected through television screens across the ocean is substantial, and we can’t afford to ignore its impact on world opinion.

And, as if the reality is not complex enough, terrible tragic mistakes happen, and they are so unfortunate and, most of all, so very painful. Fighting in Gaza means fighting in impossible urban conditions, above ground and below, in an endless tangle of tunnels. It means fighting against an enemy that hides in hospitals, schools, and mosques, transports weapons in ambulances, and hides them under baby cribs. These are the most difficult, challenging conditions in the world.

And so, with sincere sorrow, IDF spokesman Rear Admiral Hagari stood in front of the cameras in the middle of the night to acknowledge the tragic deaths of World Central Kitchen employees and the organization’s vital mission to supply meals to people in need. He announced that Israel has begun an in-depth investigation of the incident to be conducted by those of the highest ranks.

From the dawn of history, from the beginning of mankind, wars have been fought. In the annals of the world, wars are bloody, leaving behind a long trail of orphans, pain, and deprivation. We all know of empires built on conquests, the victors drawing the contours of their identity.

In a few weeks, we will read in the Passover Haggadah about the Jewish people who, as a nation of slaves, were redeemed after 400 years and, after an additional 40 years of wandering in the desert, were led to the Promised Land to establish their identity as the people of Israel in their land.

Since then, we have been destined to fight for our existence and to justify our right to sovereignty. We are loyal to our homeland, our identity, and our Jewish heritage. We have not initiated any war, and we have no ambitions to expand at the expense of our neighbors. We are pained by the bloody price of the fighting and wish for the day when we, with our neighbors by our side, will live here in peace.

Until then, we will guard our home, and we will do everything so that the 134 hostages can sit with their families in freedom at the Passover table—dressed in new holiday clothes, leaving their ragged clothes from October 7 behind.

May it be.

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.

By Leah Garber

“Where there is no flour, there is no Torah; if there is no Torah, there is no flour.”
— Ethics of the Fathers, 3:17

One hundred, seventy-two days of harsh fighting, 172 long nights in which 134 hostages are still held captive in the darkness of Gaza. Almost six months ago, tens of thousands of families are still displaced from their homes due to massive destruction and hostile worldwide public opinion ads to the hardship, which exact a heavy toll on all of us.

In addition to the pain, despair, and frustration, there is mental and physical fatigue that begins to take over. What will be? When will this all end? What awaits us in the Spring? Is a significant escalation in the fighting on the Lebanese border awaiting right after Passover?

And as if the many external threats and accusations outside the country, motivated by antisemitism are not enough, the society in Israel, which united in an exemplary manner through weaving a unique fabric from our blood and tears in the first months of the fighting, is beginning to unravel.

Following the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948, compulsory service in the army began. Back then, the heads of the ultra-Orthodox sectors feared that the intensive service in the military, which is primarily secular, would incite yeshiva students away from a strict religious lifestyle and jeopardize their rigid religious observance.  The ultra-Orthodox community turned to Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion with a request to exempt yeshiva students from the obligatory draft while allowing them to support the fighters through prayers and Torah study. Ben-Gurion accepted their request, mainly because of the low numbers of yeshiva students of conscription age at the time and replied to the opponents by saying: “There are 400 yeshiva students. If they commit to conscription, the yeshiva houses would be at risk of closing”, and so it was agreed, they were exempt, and still are ever since.

Over the years, the number of yeshiva students benefiting from the exemption has increased, and with them, there have been repeated attempts by different heads of state to remove the exemption. Seeking to require yeshiva students to enlist in the army as any other Israeli citizen.

For political reasons, these attempts have failed time after time. Every coalition, whether a left- or right-wing coalition, depended on the votes of ultra-Orthodox parties, who conditioned their joining the government on the retention of the law that exempts their electorate, the ultra-Orthodox yeshiva students, from compulsory conscription. The issue of exemption from mandatory military service for specific sectors of society, while other sections, including the Modern Orthodox, has created increasing hostility towards the ultra-Orthodox, which appear, especially now, to be evading their civic duty.

The reality is approaching a boiling point and requires courageous leadership from both sides.

We have been in the midst of the longest and most difficult war in Israel’s history for nearly six months. A war whose end is not near, but predictions, which I hope will not come true, say that it will only get worse. This is a war in which hundreds of thousands of Israelis, reservists, left their homes with short notice and have served for close to five months, some longer. Now, most of those who have already been released are beginning to receive orders for additional reserve service. This load hits the reservists in all aspects, through their ability to support their families, Israel’s economy, financial stability, and more.

If the ultra-Orthodox sector had also harnessed themselves and mobilized, the load would have been distributed equally among all.

For 76 years, the Israeli people have mourned their fallen soldiers.  Since October 7, they have mourned the 600 soldiers killed in battle, bemoaned the painful toll the war is taking, and are now demanding equality. The blanket exemption angers and divides the people. Prime Minister Netanyahu, a former decorated officer, understands that, in principle, everyone must serve. Still, for his political interest, he cannot afford to jeopardize his current coalition, which relies on the ultra-Orthodox parties and continues to press for the existing status quo. The ultra-Orthodox public is not ready to be flexible, and its leaders declare that they are prepared to go to prison or leave Israel if the law is revised and requires them to serve in the army.

This week, the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, will consider a proposal to change and adjust the legislation. Will history be made here, and a decades-old distortion will be corrected, or will the politics of special interest dictate our reality, perpetuate inequality, and continue to divide the people?

It is important to note that over the years, the rate of yeshivot boys enlisting has increased. More and more continue to enlist, some of them while being socially ostracized and dealing with boycotts from their own communities. To meet their needs, the army introduced changes in the military system to allow soldiers to serve in gendered base units, to incorporate hours for prayer, learning Torah, etc., into the daily routine. It is also important to emphasize that many yeshiva students would be happy to serve in the army but are afraid to do so as it is against the instruction of their rabbis.

Military service is not only a right civil act but also invites this community into the wider Israeli society, which includes greater employment opportunities at the end of the service, financial incentives for apartment buyers, and more. Above all, the army is the ultimate melting pot of Israeli society. In the army, Israelis from all sectors fight side by side: religious and secular, the townspeople and the kibbutzim, right-wing and left-wing supporters, Jews, Bedouins, Muslims, Christians, and Druze. The army is the people’s army, and there is no greater, more significant, and more committed friendship than the warriors’ loyalty to each other.

It was not for nothing that our sages said, “if there is no flour, there is no Torah.” The Torah, the world of the spirit, the world of values, the world of content, cannot exist without the physical support of action, of a base that allows the spirit to rise, and vice versa. In times of trouble and distress, when the people of Israel are fighting for its existence, the spirit cannot be freed to rise without a firm and solid foundation that will preserve and protect it and allow it to exist.

This is a time of trouble. On the battlefield, religious soldiers fight, yet follow their religious rituals and traditions and learn Torah when possible.

I wish we could reach the day when we can give up some of the fighters and allow for more spirituality in different fields—Jewish content, scientific research, artistic growth, etc. Those days are far away; in the meantime, we need everyone to protect our homeland. The one home we have. Because only…

…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.

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.