By Leah Garber
“Today, we have come from Jerusalem, the eternal capital of the Jewish people—from a land that has endured so much suffering. We have come from a nation, from homes, from families who have known hardly a year, a month, in their lives when mothers did not weep for their sons. We have come to try to put an end to the hatred, so that our children and grandchildren may never again experience the painful price of war, terror, and violence. We have come to care for their lives and their security, to soothe the pain and the anguished memories, to pray and hope for peace…. No more blood and tears. Enough. We harbor no hatred towards you, we are not thirsty for vengeance. We are like you: people who want to build a home, plant a tree, love and live alongside you with dignity, empathy, as human beings, as free men.”
— Yitzhak Rabin, September 13, 1993, in Washington, D.C. at the ceremony marking the signing of the Oslo Accords with the Palestinians
Rabin, a statesman, politician, and Israeli general, fought in Israel’s wars even before the country was a state, during the pre-independence, underground period. He knew Israel’s enemies intimately—as a common soldier through to one of the country’s chiefs of staff. Over the course of decades of combat, Rabin witnessed the horrors of war up close and the price paid in blood. He lost comrades-in-arms, subordinates, and many others. He had every reason to seek vengeance for their deaths, but even more so—from his own anguish and experience—he had every reason to do all in his power to break the terrible cycle of bloodshed, to stop the unceasing hemorrhage, and to strive for peace with our enemies.
In 1994, Rabin was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his role in establishing peace with the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan and for leading the Oslo Accords, which were intended to pave the way for a settlement with the Palestinians. There is not one Israeli who does not yearn for peace. We pray for peace three times a day, greet and part from one another with the word “shalom,” dream of peace, and long for it. The divisions arise not from the pursuit of peace itself, but in the concessions we must make to achieve it. Israel has forged lasting, stable, and significant peace treaties with its greatest enemies, Egypt and Jordan. The price was steep—we parted with important territories in our already tiny state—but we gained peace or at least the absence of war.
But Rabin had many opponents, and the period following the signing of the Oslo Accords was a tumultuous one in Israel. Granting of autonomy to the Palestinians and the rule of the Palestinian Authority was perceived by many as a capitulation to the terrorism that had plagued those days, which were characterized by waves of suicide bombings against Israelis that claimed dozens of lives. This scenario provoked a sharp rift between the political right and left. Fierce demonstrations by the right-wing camp were held across Israel, with chants of “Rabin is a traitor!” and more.
In the tense atmosphere of those days, with half the people supporting Rabin’s path toward a settlement and the other half certain that this path would lead Israel to ruin, the country was divided, each side fighting for the country’s very existence in its own way.
On the evening of the 12th of the Hebrew month of Cheshvan in 5756 (November 4, 1995), a massive peace rally, promoting the slogan “Yes to peace, no to violence,” was held in Tel Aviv. Displaying support for Rabin and his path, the event ended with a performance of the “Song of Peace,” in which Rabin himself participated.
As he descended the stairs from the square where the rally was held, assassin Yigal Amir, an Israeli law student with an extreme right-wing ideology, approached Rabin and fired three lethal shots. Hours later, the statesman died on the operating table, leaving an entire nation stunned and grief-stricken. The page containing the lyrics of the rally’s closing song remained in Rabin’s shirt, stained with his blood, and later became a powerful symbol of the event.
Photo: opensiddur.org
Nearly 30 years have passed since that devastating event that changed the face of Israel forever. Many of us felt orphaned, abandoned. Our statesman, on whom we had relied, was murdered, and by whom? By another Jew.
Today’s “View” comes not from Jerusalem but from Alexandria, Virginia, where I’m attending a conference of JCC shlichim (emissaries) and their supervisors. These young adults dedicate two or three years of their lives to educational and Zionist work in communities across the Jewish world.
Yesterday, in one of the sessions, we discussed the meaning of the word “hope” in our post-October 7 world.
I’ve written extensively about hope here—the hope that was and the hope that may have eroded or dimmed. Nonetheless, it is hope that keeps us above the turbulent, raging waters, offering us an island of tranquility amid chaos and providing a reason to look ahead, even when it’s dark.
At the beginning of the session, on a day on which two Israelis were killed by a rocket strike in the northern city of Nahariya, it was hard for me to talk about hope. But by the end, after listening to the supervisors’ descriptions of their shlichims’ successes in bringing the beauty of Israel to JCC members, hope filled me again, keeping me afloat like a life jacket. Today, we learned that an additional six soldiers lost their lives in battle, and as I did yesterday, I will look to the endeavors of the young shlichim to bring hope and light to this dark news.
These shlichim, who embody Israel’s promising future, weren’t even born when Rabin was assassinated. They’ve heard about him and seen the chilling documentation, but one of the most formative events in Israel’s history occurred before their time.
They come to your communities across North America from Israeli cities and kibbutzim, from the center and the periphery. They hold different views, identify with different sides of the political map, and their identities are diverse. They personify Israel’s beauty and its social richness, the Jewish state’s most meaningful assets. Most of all, though, they share a tremendous love for Israel and its people—and they are hopeful.
My hope today crosses the ocean that separates me from my country and the fences of hatred between Israel and its enemies. My hope is trying to reach my brothers and sisters who have been held hostage through 404 days and nights of terror. I try to send them fragments of hope, shards of optimism that maybe, just maybe, will lift them above the turbulent waters beneath them, allow them to continue to survive, and not to lose hope.
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.
Reader Interactions