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The first article I wrote about making aliyah was about our motivations for moving as well as an explanation of how I had overcome my fears of being in Israel and sending our kids to the army. A close friend had passed away in a senseless accident, and I realized that we do not control when or how our time is up. So I asked myself, “Wouldn’t I rather be in Israel?”
Last Shabbat, Goldie and I hosted one of my coworkers and his family in our house for Shabbat. He was being tried out as a rav for one of the local shuls. They have a son Mordechai’s age, and the two boys really got along well together.
After Shabbat, when it came time for them to leave, Mordechai was distraught. He cried uncontrollably and would not be comforted. Realizing that this may be related to his friend Andrew’s leaving Israel, I tried to distract him by mentioning that we would be having two sirens on Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day).
He asked why we have the sirens, and my answer led into a discussion of the way we celebrate Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, and Yom HaAtzmaut. I explained to him that we want to remember the Shoah and those killed not simply because they were Jews who were killed in a kiddush HaShem, but also because their deaths helped create an environment where the world would help create a Jewish State.
We then spoke about our obligation to honor the memories of all those killed in terrorist attacks and in defense of our country, and how their sacrifice is what enables us all to live in safety. And I added that only once we have honored those who paid for us to reach this point can we celebrate Yom HaAtzmaut.
He confessed (as he has in the past) that he is scared to go into the army. He asked me how we could come to Israel, if doing so could put him in danger. I reassured him that he could choose to not be in a combat unit if he wanted. Then I asked him if he believed that Hashem was in charge of the amount of time we have on this world.
He answered yes. I then asked him if it is possible, by running away to a different place, to get away from Hashem and avoid his decisions. He answered no.
“Okay,” I told him, “I have one more question. We aren’t allowed to put ourselves in danger for no reason, but if it is time for someone to die, do you think it is better to die in America or in a holy land?”
He looked at me for a moment, nodded his head, and went off to bed, his tears forgotten and his worries a bit soothed. My nine-year-old and I had a very serious conversation and a terrific meeting of the minds. I was very proud of his ability to maturely consider what I had told him.
The very next night, we participated in a terrific Yom HaZikaron event in Jerusalem run by the Tuesday Night in Jerusalem show. This is a weekly show that I believe can be seen online via www.israelnationalnews.com and is broadcast on cable and DirecTV. Although it was not Tuesday night, they hosted what promised to be a very meaningful event. It was also all in English, which was a bonus for us.
The event opened with a brief speech and then the memorial sirens. This was followed by a men’s choir performing a version of “Vehi She’amda,” and then the program began. Rabbi Stewart Weiss, whom I had known when I was a counselor at Camp Moshava in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, was introduced as the father of Ari Weiss, z’l, a soldier who was killed in combat. Rabbi Weiss spoke movingly about Ari and the loss their family felt, but I was astonished by the following story he told.
They were sitting shiva when a woman came to visit them. She was no one they knew, and it was the only time they ever met her. She told them that she had lived her entire life in Israel until her son turned 16. At that time, she and her husband decided to leave Israel for fear of having their son go to the army.
They moved to California and lived there quite happily. Their son reached the age of driving. With his driver’s license came a car (as with all his friends) and that is when tragedy struck. Her son was killed in a car crash.
“I am jealous of you,” she told Rabbi Weiss, “because my son died a meaningless death in California, while your son died defending our land and people with a kiddush Hashem.”
I was astonished to hear the very words and concepts that I had been trying to share with Mordechai repeated. And proud that I was not the only person with that thought.
There was much more to the evening. We heard from Doron Almog, a retired Major General who has fought in many wars and was the first Israeli soldier to leave a plane in the Entebbe rescue mission. He had lost a brother in combat and had the option to leave combat himself, and he described his commitment to fighting for Israel to us.
The evening closed with another performance by the men’s choir. They first sang our national anthem, Hatikva, in which the audience joined them in song. Then to conclude the show they sang an Israeli song called “Al Kol Eileh.”
This song speaks of many things and their contrasts. You may be familiar with an English version of this song, but it is not a literal translation and loses a lot of the meaning. It is a song beseeching Hashem to watch over and protect us no matter what, and a prayer for us to always return to our good land.
The choir’s soloist opened the song, his voice sounding clear and strong throughout the theater. When it came to the chorus, the rest of the choir as well as the entire crowd joined in. It was a very powerful expression, one in which we all felt linked by the beautiful words of the song.
Each stanza continued thus, with the soloist singing the words alone and all of us joining in for the chorus. The song and the event closed with the entire crowd singing the chorus in Hebrew:
Over all these things, over all these things,
Hashem the good, please protect,
Over the honey and over the thorn,
Over the bitter and over the sweet.
Do not uproot that which has been planted.
Do not forget the hope.
Bring me back and I shall return
To the good land.
For olim, this sentiment and longing to come home to Israel has great meaning. And I leave you this week with this question: What are you waiting for?
Last Shabbat, Goldie and I hosted one of my coworkers and his family in our house for Shabbat. He was being tried out as a rav for one of the local shuls. They have a son Mordechai’s age, and the two boys really got along well together.
After Shabbat, when it came time for them to leave, Mordechai was distraught. He cried uncontrollably and would not be comforted. Realizing that this may be related to his friend Andrew’s leaving Israel, I tried to distract him by mentioning that we would be having two sirens on Yom HaZikaron (Israel’s Memorial Day).
He asked why we have the sirens, and my answer led into a discussion of the way we celebrate Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, and Yom HaAtzmaut. I explained to him that we want to remember the Shoah and those killed not simply because they were Jews who were killed in a kiddush HaShem, but also because their deaths helped create an environment where the world would help create a Jewish State.
We then spoke about our obligation to honor the memories of all those killed in terrorist attacks and in defense of our country, and how their sacrifice is what enables us all to live in safety. And I added that only once we have honored those who paid for us to reach this point can we celebrate Yom HaAtzmaut.
He confessed (as he has in the past) that he is scared to go into the army. He asked me how we could come to Israel, if doing so could put him in danger. I reassured him that he could choose to not be in a combat unit if he wanted. Then I asked him if he believed that Hashem was in charge of the amount of time we have on this world.
He answered yes. I then asked him if it is possible, by running away to a different place, to get away from Hashem and avoid his decisions. He answered no.
“Okay,” I told him, “I have one more question. We aren’t allowed to put ourselves in danger for no reason, but if it is time for someone to die, do you think it is better to die in America or in a holy land?”
He looked at me for a moment, nodded his head, and went off to bed, his tears forgotten and his worries a bit soothed. My nine-year-old and I had a very serious conversation and a terrific meeting of the minds. I was very proud of his ability to maturely consider what I had told him.
The very next night, we participated in a terrific Yom HaZikaron event in Jerusalem run by the Tuesday Night in Jerusalem show. This is a weekly show that I believe can be seen online via www.israelnationalnews.com and is broadcast on cable and DirecTV. Although it was not Tuesday night, they hosted what promised to be a very meaningful event. It was also all in English, which was a bonus for us.
The event opened with a brief speech and then the memorial sirens. This was followed by a men’s choir performing a version of “Vehi She’amda,” and then the program began. Rabbi Stewart Weiss, whom I had known when I was a counselor at Camp Moshava in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, was introduced as the father of Ari Weiss, z’l, a soldier who was killed in combat. Rabbi Weiss spoke movingly about Ari and the loss their family felt, but I was astonished by the following story he told.
They were sitting shiva when a woman came to visit them. She was no one they knew, and it was the only time they ever met her. She told them that she had lived her entire life in Israel until her son turned 16. At that time, she and her husband decided to leave Israel for fear of having their son go to the army.
They moved to California and lived there quite happily. Their son reached the age of driving. With his driver’s license came a car (as with all his friends) and that is when tragedy struck. Her son was killed in a car crash.
“I am jealous of you,” she told Rabbi Weiss, “because my son died a meaningless death in California, while your son died defending our land and people with a kiddush Hashem.”
I was astonished to hear the very words and concepts that I had been trying to share with Mordechai repeated. And proud that I was not the only person with that thought.
There was much more to the evening. We heard from Doron Almog, a retired Major General who has fought in many wars and was the first Israeli soldier to leave a plane in the Entebbe rescue mission. He had lost a brother in combat and had the option to leave combat himself, and he described his commitment to fighting for Israel to us.
The evening closed with another performance by the men’s choir. They first sang our national anthem, Hatikva, in which the audience joined them in song. Then to conclude the show they sang an Israeli song called “Al Kol Eileh.”
This song speaks of many things and their contrasts. You may be familiar with an English version of this song, but it is not a literal translation and loses a lot of the meaning. It is a song beseeching Hashem to watch over and protect us no matter what, and a prayer for us to always return to our good land.
The choir’s soloist opened the song, his voice sounding clear and strong throughout the theater. When it came to the chorus, the rest of the choir as well as the entire crowd joined in. It was a very powerful expression, one in which we all felt linked by the beautiful words of the song.
Each stanza continued thus, with the soloist singing the words alone and all of us joining in for the chorus. The song and the event closed with the entire crowd singing the chorus in Hebrew:
Over all these things, over all these things,
Hashem the good, please protect,
Over the honey and over the thorn,
Over the bitter and over the sweet.
Do not uproot that which has been planted.
Do not forget the hope.
Bring me back and I shall return
To the good land.
For olim, this sentiment and longing to come home to Israel has great meaning. And I leave you this week with this question: What are you waiting for?
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