I write these words Saturday evening after a much needed day of rest.
Yesterday morning I connected with a fellow named Avi, who has turned his apartment in the Katamon neighborhood of Jerusalem into a bakery of gourmet hallot for soldiers, which volunteers then deliver on Friday for Shabbat. After loading six crates of hallah into the back seat and trunk of my rental car, I made the 90-minute drive to Be’eri and then Zikim.
As is often the case in Israel, things which appear simple and straightforward on the surface become more complicated up close. My contacts were not waiting at the designated spot, and I felt a bit foolish telling the sentry I was looking for Matan with a load of hallot from Avi (imagine showing up at the front gate of NAS-JAX saying, “I’m looking for Dave with a load of rolls from Steve”!). Eventually, with multiple back-and-forth calls, I successfully delivered 200 hallot to two groups of grateful soldiers.
A few words about these kibbutzim, nearwhich the soldiers are stationed. Zikim is on the coast, a few miles north of the Gaza border. On the morning of October 7th it was attacked by terrorists in an amphibious assault. While they managed to repel the aggressors, 19 civilian beachgoers were killed. Be’eri, the largest kibbutz in the area was hit even harder. Hamas members overran the community, murdering, raping, pillaging, and destroying. Of the 1,000 kibbutzniks 100 were killed or dragged off to Gaza — 10% of its population.
Individuals are not permitted to visit either community, but organized groups can make arrangements for tours. Indeed, while waiting to make my hallah deliveries to Be’eri, I saw four tour buses enter the kibbutz. I experienced the same surreal feeling as I had the day before watching the Israeli Air Force attack Gaza — a sense of being a tourist to tragedy. It is vital we bear witness to the atrocities and destruction of October 7th, and yet, in the growth of the tourist trade surrounding the events of that day there is a fine line between gawking and paying one’s respects.
Friday was also the first day of real precipitation since the start of the winter season, the only time of year when Israel receives the rainfall it relies on. As much as one appreciates the brilliant blue heavens that grace Israeli skies so much of the year, the land has a special beauty all its own when it rains. On my drive back to Jerusalem, between the periods of steady precipitation, I glimpsed patches of pink and blue skies interspersed with darker rain clouds.
I enjoyed a wonderful Shabbat dinner with Rabbi Matt Berkowitz, whom many of you know from his visits to Jacksonville. He and his wife Nadia hosted me as well as Nadia’s mom, Sue, who made aliyah from England some years ago.
As I walked the two kilometers back to my hotel from the Arnona neighborhood where Nadia and Matt live, I sat for a while on a bench at the Haas Promenade overlooking the entire Old City, the Mount of Olives, and a chunk of West Jerusalem. Despite the darkness and the fact that I was alone, I had no concern for my safety. For all that people talk about the “dangers” of being in Israel, Jerusalem is one of the safest cities anywhere. Things that I do there without hesitation I would never dream of doing in any American city, including parts of Jacksonville.
The quiet of the night on the Haas Promenade was interrupted only by the occasional passing car (on Shabbat traffic is far lighter and there is no public transportation). Against the backdrop of the incredible vista before me, I heard the distant peal of a church bell and the call to prayer from a mosque in the valley below. Had I been at the Kotel at that moment, I would have also heard the late night murmurings of Jews at prayer. It is this accidental symphony of interfaith worship that defines the music of Jerusalem’s soul. What a blessing to hear its notes carried on the breeze!
Tomorrow I will visit Hostage Square in Tel Aviv. Good night and Shavua Tov!
Jonathan Lubliner
Jack F. Shorstein Senior Rabbi
Rabbi Jonathan Lubliner 