Searching for the Spirit

October, 2003
Yom Kippur. Day of Atonement, soul searching, praying to be blessed with life and forgiven for our transgressions as individuals and as a nation. A day that we greet with trepidation yet also with a sense of anticipation, of being able to start fresh, expunge our sins, make some kind of peace with our Maker and ourselves.

This past year was not an easy one, and I yearned to devote myself to the kind of reflection that I find difficult to achieve in my neighborhood synagogue. I decided to accompany my oldest daughter, Elisheva, to Otniel in the southern Hevron Hills, to prayers at the hesder yeshiva where the boys combine army service with Torah studies.

She's gone there for a number of years and I thought it would be an experience I'd like to share with her, especially on the eve of her departure for the States for a few months as part of her National Service.

I called the son of one of my mother's oldest friends, a Sofer Stam (Torah scribe) who lives there with his family, and, this being Israel, he readily agreed to host us and of course we should eat with them, too. I love this country.

The bypass road south of Kiryat Arba has left Otniel quite isolated, 10 minutes down a desolate, winding road from Beit Haggai, itself at the southernmost tip of Hevron.

We arrived from Efrat a few minutes before candle lighting, and after a quick phone call and some last minute face-stuffing we found our places in the women's section of the yeshiva.

The building is magnificent, the same architect as Rabbi Gold's place in Har Nof, the roof looking like birds in flight. I've developed an aversion to doves due to their association with the Oslo accords, but the yeshiva, which I'd never before seen lit up at night, is a sight to behold.

Kol Nidre, the evening service, lasted for 4 hours, though Elisheva whispered to me that the rabbi adds prayers at the end in the (vain) hope that the girls will tire and go home before the boys finish, and thus minimize the social aspect of the day. Pity, because there could be some great matchmaking there. So sayeth the Jewish mama, anyway.

The evening gave us a taste of the fast days' content, with joyous prayer, dancing, singing, tremendous religious fervour. I couldn't help but compare it to what goes on in other parts of the country, so close and yet so far, where the only thing that begets such enthusiasm is a rock concert, or maybe a soccer game. Here young people, dressed all in white, were being brought to heights of ecstasy without the pills, just from belief and joy in recognizing and serving the Creator. I'd never experienced anything quite like it.

The next morning we were back in our places at 7:15, prayers already over an hour underway. A little while later a girl next to us fainted, out cold. When efforts to keep her conscious failed, the paramedics came to get her with a stretcher, their requisite M-16 machine guns jostling for space near their medical vests, getting tangled in their tzizit and tallit strings, tugging at the white kittels they wore.

While appreciating and respecting the devotion of my co-religionists, I was finding it hard to keep my thoughts in order. Too many questions, so much pain. Why, if we say that meaningful prayer and heartfelt tshuva (repentance) will earn you long life, did our friends David and Nava Applebaum die this year- among the many hundreds of beautiful Jews who were killed and wounded in terror attacks? Did they not pray well? Were they really supposed to die years ago but were given an extra allotment because of their good deeds? What was the point of this exercise if G-d decides that there's nothing to be done but die to sanctify His name, as we read that the 10 greatest rabbis did, in the most horrible ways possible?

A separate Yizkor prayer was said for Otniel's own 4 hesder boys, slaughtered this year in the school kitchen on a Shabbat eve, one of them locking the door to the dining room to save his friends while dooming himself.

Are these not the finest people around? Why did they die? Why are we continuing to die in this beloved place for the crime of being Jews who have held on and come home after 2000 years dispersed in a world determined to eliminate us? Are we all automatically forgiven for our personal sins because of the readiness we show to die for being Jews just by living here? And what to do first, beseech G-d for my own life, my own family, or my greater family, the greatest family that ever walked the face of the Earth, the Jewish people?

I looked at the girls around me, wrapped up in and rapt in prayer, at the boys below, singing and dancing their joy at the opportunity of serving G-d with love. I sensed not fear of the Almighty, just awe and privilege, love of Hashem and His world. I was figuratively tapping the passing angels on the shoulder, kind of passing them a note to please, if they have a moment and wouldn't mind, ask G-d if he wouldn't mind sparing us a trial or two, protecting His people, granting us some peace of mind and body. If he could spare a thought, I'd really appreciate it.

Not these kids. They were demanding, yes, demanding that we get a fair shake. And how, I wondered, could G-d possibly say 'No' to them? They have been raised where our ancestors walked, know this Land as well as their own backyard, because that's what it is to them. They carry the mantle of every Jew who ever dreamed of one day coming home. And they serve in the finest, most moral army on the planet, bar none, risking their lives not only by going out for coffee and riding buses, but by taking up arms to protect the rest of us who want to do the same and live as normally as possible.

What I was witnessing was the inner core of these precious people and their teachers, the faith that inspires them, that imbues them with hope and not despair, of better days to come. How can He not listen, not forgive their inequities, for we live not just by Zchut Avot, but also by Zchut Banim, its the good deeds of the forefathers and of our children that will carry us through.
And I, who was so privileged and so unworthy of praying among these pure souls, have at least had a share in raising one of them. For that I am forever grateful.

The day wore on. We arrived at the Neila prayer, the very last chance to repent before the Gates of Heaven close, the final decree signed.

The rabbi exhorted us to pray for the gate to wait till we were done, noting that in Otniel they knew so well, so tragically, what an unlocked gate can cost. It was then that I fell apart, when the sorrow and agony and heartache and every other emotion hit so hard. I keep track of the 7 times we say "Hashem Hu HaElokim" by thinking of one of my seven children with each recitation. I felt that the vaulted roof would - should- soar away like the wings of the eagles that the prophets said would bring us home, but could now carry our prayers on high, to where they need to go.

Half a pack of tissues later, when I looked up after the shofar was blown signalling the end of the day, I was actually a bit surprised to see the roof still intact.

Giving Elisheva a full body hug while regaining my composure, I went outside while the yeshiva erupted in dancing and singing to the song "Next Year in Jerusalem" the perennial prayer for an age of peace, of freedom, of homecoming, of redemption.

A feeling of unease came over me when I noticed the pinpoint brightness of Mars, harbinger of bad tidings, hovering right over the moon, symbol of the Jewish people. I could only dispel the sudden chill by hoping that I was witnessing the end, and not the beginning, of bad times. The price has been too high already.

Hammering is now the backdrop noise as we prepare for the holiday of Sukkot by building the booths where we shall soon spend a week. Were our prayers heard, what kind of year will we have collectively and individually? The older I get the less I seem to understand. All I really know now is that nothing makes sense to us mortals, but is all in G-d's hands.

May He decree that evil's dominion be finally erased from the face of the Earth, may we all merit a world of joy and peace, faith and hope. May we be inscribed in the Book of Life. And may G-d protect our precious children, our future, our dream-keepers, with every breath and step that they take. From a little, insignificant mother, to the Father of all creation. Please.

Eve Harow, Efrat