To Whom It May Concern

As the warmth of Shabbos sets in each week, countless candles illuminate Israel, each a silent prayer for peace and blessing. Yet, for one young woman, a barista at Aroma, the act has taken on new significance — a pledge made to Rabbi Doron Perez, to light Shabbat candles in her home for the first time as a merit for his son, Daniel (דניאל שמעון בן שרון), held in captivity since October 7.

In our meeting this morning, Rabbi Perez, the Executive Chairman of World Mizrachi, recounted the heartrending story of Daniel’s bravery, a story that resonates with heroic sacrifice, as his actions saved others’ lives. This same courage was mirrored in the family’s ability to forge moments of joy in the darkest of times, celebrating the wedding of Rabbi Perez’s other son, Yonatan, who was injured on the same day yet managed to stand under the chuppah two weeks later.

Rabbi Perez, like so many others I have encountered this week, spoke with an inspiring composure, his faith unwavering in the face of such trials. His steadfast positivity, love for his homeland, and enduring belief in the divine mission of his people deeply moved us. The story came full circle as he concluded with the barista’s vow, a gesture symbolizing not just personal support for Daniel but also the collective spirit of a nation moved to acts of faith and solidarity.

The story of this stranger lighting candles for Daniel is not a unique one in Israel today. It’s part of a larger, quiet movement where people across the country are finding their own ways to deepen their spiritual connections. In these challenging times, it’s striking to see how many are turning to faith and tradition, seeking comfort and hope. These personal commitments to spirituality, taken up in kitchens and living rooms from city to city, reflect the extraordinary resilience of a nation. They show a collective response that, even in the midst of darkness and pain, there’s a powerful drive to reach for something greater, something that unites and uplifts.

As Shabbos returns, bringing in a moment of rest and reflection, the candles lit throughout Israel gain profound significance. These lights are more than just symbols of an ancient tradition; they become pillars of collective fortitude, illuminating a path of unity through challenging times. Each new flame broadcasts a message of solidarity, a prayer for those in captivity, like Daniel, whose stories are etched into the nation’s heart. As these candles cast their gentle light, they defy the darkness and serve as a quiet testament to the enduring spirit of hope—an echo of the Shabbos itself, which assures us that even in the midst of darkness, together we can kindle the enduring light of hope.

Stepping onto the war-torn soil of Israel, we continually confront the profound sorrow and palpable loss. Every stop tells a story of devastation, as countless individuals bear the scars of conflict, nursing their injuries and mourning the irreplaceable loss of relatives, friends, and homes. Our mission is clear – amidst the rubble and the tears, we endeavor to be a source of comfort and support, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

Our interactions with the wounded and grieving paint a vivid picture of the impact of our presence. Grieving parents, with eyes filled with an indescribable blend of pain and gratitude, express how our company strengthens their spirits. Wounded soldiers, carrying the physical and emotional scars of battle, find in our visits a momentary reprieve, a connection to a world outside their pain. The recurring message is clear: our presence matters.

Yet, in quiet moments of reflection, doubt inevitably creeps in. The scale of suffering is overwhelming, with tens of thousands bearing the brunt of the Hamas’ fury. Can our individual acts of kindness truly make a dent in this vast expanse of grief? Is our effort akin to a drop in an ocean, too insignificant to be felt? It is here that the timeless story of the starfish seems particularly poignant.

There was once an old man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach every morning before he began his work. Early one morning, he was walking along the shore after a big storm had passed and found the vast beach littered with starfish as far as the eye could see, stretching in both directions.

Off in the distance, the old man noticed a small boy approaching. As the boy walked, he paused every so often and as he grew closer, the man could see that he was occasionally bending down to pick up an object and throw it into the sea. The boy came closer still and the man called out, ‘Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?’

The young boy paused, looked up, and replied ‘Throwing starfish into the ocean. The tide has washed them up onto the beach and they can’t return to the sea by themselves,’ the youth replied. ‘When the sun gets high, they will die, unless I throw them back into the water.’

The old man replied, ‘But there must be tens of thousands of starfish on this beach. I’m afraid you won’t really be able to make much of a difference.’

The boy bent down, picked up yet another starfish and threw it as far as he could into the ocean. Then he turned, smiled and said, “It made a difference to that one!”

This timeless narrative serves as a powerful reminder that the magnitude of our impact should not be measured in the vastness of the challenge, but in the connection we forge and the meaning we bring to individual lives. We may not be able to change the reality of the entirety of the people of Israel, but to each grieving parent and wounded soldier we encounter, we are a testament to the power of human connection and compassion. In the midst of overwhelming sorrow, our efforts affirm that they are not alone, and indeed, it made a difference to that one.

Is it possible for a grieving mother to welcome strangers into her home, greet them warmly and patiently, only to then offer them words of comfort and inspiration?

Is it possible for a 19-year-old soldier, freshly recovered from injuries, to insist on returning to the battlefield, forgoing additional time to recover?

Is it possible for a mother of seven children, managing a bustling and lively household, to maintain a joyful spirit while her husband has been away at war for over three weeks?

Is it possible for countless families, displaced from their homes, to display joy and an acceptance while confined to small hotel rooms, with an uncertain future ahead?

Is it possible for individuals, fully engaged in the grueling task of identifying the mutilated remains of hundreds of men, women and children, to maintain grace, composure, warmth, love, optimism, and hope?

Is it possible for hundreds of soldiers, bearing the weight of war-related stress, to spontaneously burst into song, expressing praise and gratitude to Hashem?

Is it possible for parents whose children are being held in captivity to focus their spoken thoughts on their love for the land and the people of Israel?

Is it possible for injured civilians and soldiers to receive hundreds of cards, visits, gifts and calls from people they’ve never met?

Is it possible for a Holocaust survivor, who endured the unspeakable atrocities of the concentration camps, to maintain hope and optimism while having to relive unspeakable traumatic memories?

Is it possible for a community, struck by a catastrophic raid of terror, to come together, support each other, and vow to rebuild with resilience and strength?

Yes, it is possible. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

ה’ עז לעמו יתן ה’ יברך את עמו בשלום

The sun had barely set, casting a soft golden hue over the city, as a somber silence filled the air. A young visitor, with a heavy heart and words stuck in his throat, walked hesitantly towards a mourning family. They had just lost a brave son, a relentless fighter against the terrors of Hamas. In this moment of unspeakable grief, the young visitor searched deep within for the right words of consolation, the words that could bring even a sliver of comfort to the shattered hearts before him.

It was in this delicate moment of shared sorrow and solidarity that he found the strength to whisper, “המקום ינחם אתכם – May Hashem (lit. “The Place”) comfort you.” These ancient words, passed down through generations, carry with them a profound and unique consolation. Referring to God as “The Place” is an uncommon choice, yet it holds special resonance. “המקום” signifies stability, an unchanging sanctuary, and a source of eternal comfort. It is a reminder that even in the darkest times, there is a refuge, a constant presence that embraces the grieving and offers solace. This choice of words conveys the deep-seated belief that Hashem is not distant or detached, but an ever-present sanctuary, providing unwavering support in times of sorrow.

In the land of Israel, this connection takes on even greater meaning. The land itself is seen as a source of comfort and strength, embodying the resilience and fortitude of its people. Those who dedicate their lives to this land, fighting against the threats and terrors that seek to undermine its peace, do so with a purpose greater than themselves. They find solace in their deep connection to the place, becoming part of its story, its struggle, and its enduring spirit.

The land of Israel, steadfast and unyielding, provides an unwavering foundation in a world fraught with uncertainty. It’s more than a mere geographical entity; it’s a living testament to the power of perseverance and strength. The land has absorbed the scars of time and adversity, and yet, it remains resolute and sturdy. The people of Israel derive strength from The Place, finding solace in the land’s relentless spirit and its capacity to weather the harshest storms.

המקום ינחם אתכם

As the visitor steps away, having shared words of consolation, he leaves behind a flicker of comfort, revealing the resilience inherent in the land and its people. The land of Israel, “The Place,” reveals itself as a profound anchor in this moment of grief. It extends its ancient arms of stability, enveloping the mourning family in a sanctuary of comfort. Here, in their time of deepest sorrow, they are gently reminded that they are not alone; they are held by a land rich in history and strength, a place that stands unwavering, offering them a steadfast foundation and a connection to something greater.

המקום ינחם אתכם בתוך שאר אבלי ציון וירושלים

Walking through the nearly deserted streets of Sderot today, I found myself surrounded by a haunting yet powerful sight: sukkot…everywhere.  Still standing long after the holiday of Sukkot has come to an end, these sukkot, typically dismantled after Simchas Torah, have become frozen in time, serving as a timestamp of the catastrophic attack that took place a little over three weeks ago. 

As we know, sukkot are meant to be temporary shelters, reminding us of the protection provided to our people for 40 years in the desert. Sukkot is a time of immense joy, a period for reflection on the hashgacha pratis (divine protection) that has shielded us since the start of our nationhood. Yet, in Sderot, the joyous celebrations of this holiday were cut tragically short and the sukkot remain, standing in silence, bearing witness to the turmoil that ensued.

Yet, I believe that the lingering presence of these sukkot, now empty and almost ghost-like, tells a story of resilience and strength. They stand defiantly, bearing the weight of recent history, serving as a metaphor for the enduring spirit of the people. Despite their fragility and temporary nature, these sukkot have withstood the test of time, much like the community they represent.

The way I see it, the sight of these structures, still standing in the face of adversity, powerfully reinforces the concept of hashgacha pratis.  The sukkah represents Hashem’s sheltering presence, “a sukkah of peace enveloping and protecting His people.” The sukkot of Sderot, remaining upright and steadfast, stand as a powerful reminder of this divine protection, highlighting the unwavering strength and resilience that faith and community can provide.  These sukkot stubbornly serve as a testament to the strength of the human spirit and the power of community. 

As I returned to the hotel late this evening, I encountered many evacuees from Sderot, who have taken temporary shelter far from where their sukkot still stand.  Yet the people of Sderot, much like their sukkot, remain resilient, their spirit undampened by adversity. Sderot, with its standing sukkot, becomes a symbol not of defeat, but of indomitable strength and unwavering hope, proving once again that out of darkness can come the most profound light.

Today, we had the privilege of meeting some truly extraordinary individuals, and among them was Yossi Urim, a man with a remarkable story of survival and kindness. On the morning of Simchas Torah, Yossi, who lives in Sderot,  was shot by a terrorist right outside his shul.

Despite the severity of his injuries, today marked a significant milestone in his recovery as he was finally being discharged from the hospital, over three weeks later. He recounted his incredible tale of survival with us, attributing his life to the timely intervention of two strangers from another community, who courageously came to his rescue. 

Yossi described that on that fateful day, amidst the catastrophic chaos, the local ambulance and emergency responders were overwhelmed and couldn’t reach him in time. Steadily losing blood at home, he started to wonder how he could possibly survive this ordeal. That’s when two men showed up at his house.  Realizing the gravity of the situation, they made a swift decision to drive him to Saroka Hospital themselves.

In an innovative and quick-thinking move, they dismantled one of the closet doors to create an improvised stretcher. They then carefully placed Yossi in the back of their car, doing their best to stabilize him for the journey ahead. As Yossi grappled with his injuries, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, the men offered words of reassurance, urging him to hold on and promising that help was on the way.

It was at Saroka Hospital where our paths crossed with Yossi, allowing us to bear witness to his story of resilience and the unwavering spirit of human kindness.

One of the men who had come to Yossi’s aid, Leon, embodied the true essence of a hero. Tragically, his life was cut short the very next day, as he too fell victim to a murderous terrorist. Although Yossi was still confined to his hospital bed and unable to visit Leon’s family during their shiva, his parents went to pay their respects on his behalf.

During their visit, Leon’s wife shared an incredible story about her late husband. She revealed that on the night before his tragic death, Leon had spoken to her about the heroic deed he had performed that morning, saving a life by rushing Yossi to the hospital. With a deep sense of responsibility still lingering, Leon asked his wife to please remind him to return to Yossi’s house when this nightmare was all over. When she asked him why, he unassumingly responded, “I need to fix the closet door.” 

יהי זכרו ברוך

If you had to immediately evacuate your home with no way of knowing when you would be able to return, what would you grab with you on the way out? For most of us, this is nothing more than a purely hypothetical exercise in thought. Yet, for the evacuees who shared their stories with us, this was their reality, as they swiftly fled from their homes and communities. While they are all grateful to be alive and sheltered in a place of safety, the split-second decision of what to take and what to leave behind continues to reverberate even weeks later. Having never been faced with this particular dilemma, I am far from confident that I can answer this question with truthfulness and accuracy. However, hearing these firsthand accounts motivates me to, at the very least, take a moment and try.

Undoubtedly, it is an unsettling thought, imagining oneself in such dire circumstances. Yet, I believe it’s an important exercise, forcing ourselves to consider what truly holds value in our lives. It brings to light the importance of cherishing our possessions, not for their material worth, but for the true meaning they carry. So, as I sit here, pondering over what I would grab and go, I realize it’s not just about the items themselves, but about holding onto the fragments of life that define us, even when the rest of the world seems to be falling apart.

THE POWER OF PRESENCE

War. For over three weeks, we have been hyper-focused on the war that is unfolding in Israel.  With the never-ending news cycle, our attention has shifted from one chapter in this story to the next. Attempting to process the unfolding horrors of Hamas’ barbaric attack on our homeland, then trying to somehow come to terms with unfathomable numbers of casualties, hostages, injuries, and the countless displaced families. Our focus then shifted again, this time to the battlefronts, both in the north and the south, watching the surgical attacks from the air, and bracing ourselves for the next stages of the battle – on the ground. We have watched cycles of rage and violence unfold in the US and around the entire world, wondering when we will awake from this nightmare, asking ourselves this can truly be happening.

But tonight, together with other representatives of the American rabbinate, I had the privilege to hear from ordinary people who remain singularly focused on the events of this past Simchas Torah.  The Ramada Hotel in Jerusalem, one of many hotels which are currently providing hospitality to evacuees from both the north and south, is currently providing shelter, food, warmth, programming, and relative calm, to over 1600 people who watched the horrors of that fateful day unfold in real-time. They shared their stories with a mixture of intense trauma and profound composure.  Men and women, of different ages and backgrounds, sharing the horrifying events of three weeks ago.  I, together with my friends and colleagues, did the only thing we could do – sit and listen. I could not help but feel exceptionally inadequate to be sitting in that space, profoundly aware of how little I could possibly understand and appreciate the trauma that they had experienced.

Yet, something remarkable happened. Something which I have seen so many times before yet caught me by surprise tonight – they were all so grateful for our presence and concern. They felt so lifted and comforted knowing that there were others who cared for them, their families, and their communities.

The simple act of lending a listening ear, providing a space for them to share their experiences and their pain, served as a vivid reminder that sometimes, all it takes to make a significant impact in someone’s life is to be present, to show up, and to listen. In the midst of the chaos and the devastation, the simple act of being there communicated more than words ever could. It was a moment of genuine connection.

As I listened to their stories, I realized that this act of listening was not just beneficial for them; it was transformative for me as well. It was a stark reminder that in our quest to provide solutions and fix problems, we often underestimate the power of presence. We forget that sometimes, all a person needs is to feel heard, to feel seen, and to know that they are not alone.

So, as we navigate the complexities of life and encounter people who are experiencing challenging times, let us never underestimate the impact we can make by simply offering a listening ear. Let us remember that our presence, our ability to listen, and our willingness to simply be there can be a source of hope and strength to those in need.

When informed that one is “daydreaming” or that their “head is in the clouds,” the instinctive reaction is often defensive. We inherently value attentiveness and concentration, both from ourselves and from those around us. Indeed, whether we are immersed in a task or involved in a discussion, our productivity and efficacy are typically heightened when our minds are fully engaged and present in the moment.

Yet, according to Rebbi Eliezer, having one’s “head in the clouds” is precisely the mindset that one is to maintain while seeking to achieve optimal fulfillment of the mitzvah of yeshivas sukkah.  The Torah, while instructing us to sit in a sukkah for seven days, uncharacteristically embellishes this directive, by way of an explicit revelation of the underlying reason for this mitzvah. In Vayikra chapter 23, the Torah states:

בַּסֻּכֹּת תֵּשְׁבוּ שִׁבְעַת יָמִים כָּל הָאֶזְרָח בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל יֵשְׁבוּ בַּסֻּכֹּת. לְמַעַן יֵדְעוּ דֹרֹתֵיכֶם כִּי בַסֻּכּוֹת הוֹשַׁבְתִּי אֶת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל בְּהוֹצִיאִי אוֹתָם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם אֲנִי ה’ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם

“You shall dwell in temporary shelters for seven days.  All native-born Israelites are to live in such shelters.  So your descendants will know that I had the children of Israel live in temporary shelters when I brought them out of Egypt. I am Hashem your G-d.”

On the surface, the Torah’s precise intent in this context does not seem even slightly ambiguous, nor is there any apparent need for commentary.  Quite to the contrary, the Torah’s message seems abundantly clear; we sit in a sukkah in order that we should come to remember the sukkah.  Quite simple.  Surprisingly however, the rabbis of the Mishna debate the true meaning and consequence of this pasuk.  The Talmud in Maseches Sukkah 11a records the following braisa:

תניא: (ויקרא כג) כי בסכות הושבתי את בני ישראל ענני כבוד היו, דברי רבי אליעזר. רבי עקיבא אומר סוכות ממש עשו להם

“It was taught in a braisa: ‘that I had the children of Israel live in temporary shelters’, these were the clouds of glory, so are the words of Rebbi Eliezer. Rebbi Akiva says, literal huts were made for them.”

Rebbi Akiva is of the opinion that the Torah means exactly what it says; we sit in the sukkah to commemorate the huts that protected us from the sweltering heat and the harmful elements, as we wandered aimlessly through the desert. Yet remarkably, Rebbi Eliezer offers a dramatically different perspective. Sitting in the sukkah represents something far more profound, even transcendent.  According to his opinion, sitting in the sukkah serves to commemorate the special protection that we received from the ananei hakavod, the clouds of glory, whose hovering presence provided unceasing divine protection throughout our sojourns in the desert.

While reflecting upon these two opinions of the tannaim, a striking question comes to the surface.  According to Rebbi Akiva, it is quite understandable how sitting in a sukkah can effectively remind one of the experience of sitting in a sukkah. One need not be imaginative, nor creative in any way. Simply being in the moment and connecting with one’s surroundings, should be more than sufficient to enable a person to generate the requisite awareness for fulfilling the mitzvah.  According to Rebbi Eliezer, on the other hand, it is quite perplexing to understand how sitting in a sukkah is similar or reminiscent of the experience of being shielded by a protective cloud.  The structure of a sukkah bears no apparent resemblance to a cloud and provides no natural outlet for such a mindset.

Rav Nissim Alpert z”l concedes that there is, in fact, nothing that we can possibly construct on this earth which can adequately simulate the experience of being protected by a cloud. Clouds are practically invisible, forever elusive and, if anything, generate feelings of instability, exposure and vulnerability.  Neither brick and mortar, nor fiberglass, canvas or wood, can serve to create a space which resembles the delicate features of a cloud.  Perhaps, argues Rav Alpert, that is precisely the point. The notion that we were protected by the ananei hakvod in the desert is, at its core, synonymous with the concept of hashgacha pratis.  In order to successfully connect with the memory of protection and shelter provided by clouds of glory, we must necessarily envision transcendence, rather than succumb to distractions of mere illusions of earthly spaces of shelter.  On Sukkos we are called upon to remember that our every need, without exception, is provided for by the One above.

If this is indeed the case, then why are we instructed to leave our homes? Could we not (simply) engage in focused meditation and deep introspection, enabling us to achieve an inspired awareness of divine protection, all from the familiar comforts of our own homes?  Explains Rav Alpert z”l, herein lies the dilemma.  Ironically, it is precisely from within the familiar confines of our permanent structures, where our vision suddenly becomes clouded. Because our natural shelters and our homes create a façade of genuine safety and protection, our ability to perceive hashgacha pratis often becomes considerably obstructed.  When surrounded by four walls and a roof, it is much easier to lose sight of our true and complete dependency upon G-d, and succumb to the self-generated myths of independence and dominance.

Therefore, the Torah instructs us to temporarily extricate ourselves from our permanent structures, to break away from our comfortable and familiar settings, and take a seat directly beneath the stars. Rather than obstruct our view, the schach widens our perspective and sharpens our focus.  The immediate instinctual feelings of exposure and defenselessness are soon replaced with feelings of security and protection. It is precisely within the temporary and frail structure of the sukkah, that one can begin to achieve a true and genuine sense of divine shelter and safety.

It would seem that the message of the sukkah has never been more relevant than it is today, as its message speaks directly to an early 21^st century generation bombarded with unprecedented challenges and temptations. Technology has enabled us to create virtual walls and structures, providing us with a continuous sense of safety and protection.  Whether it is the security provided to us by digital firewalls or our grossly exaggerated confidence in unlimited access to knowledge and information, we are living at a time where many of us have ever-inflating illusions of omnipotence and immortality.  Anyone with a smartphone in his hand wields access, potential and power, all of which could only have been imagined a generation ago – if even that!  One would naturally expect that such extraordinary scientific advancements would yield measurable improvements in the emotional stability and mental health of our generation. Having the world at our fingertips should be more than enough to bring calm and reassurance to those who would otherwise be anxious, and restore faith and stability to society’s most emotionally compromised and spiritually vulnerable. Remarkably however, research and studies have shown the opposite to be true.  Recent advancements in technology seem to be triggering an unprecedented surge in anxiety and depression.  At first glance, such developments seem counterintuitive.  Shouldn’t our generation, blessed with unlimited access and control, feel greater safety and security than previous generations?  Should we not be observing a marked decrease in anxiety and social withdrawal?

Once again, the mitzvos of the Torah, which are both immutable and eternally relevant, provide us with the necessary insight, we would otherwise be lacking. Permanent structures, while providing us with protection from the elements, do not ultimately satisfy our innate need for feelings of purpose and transcendence. Access to information and the capacity to digitally monitor and control one’s home and finances, while convenient in many respects, are grossly inadequate substitutes for genuine feelings of emunah and bitachon.  Being connected to a worldwide network, while affording us the opportunity to instantaneously communicate with millions of people at the click of a button, often creates feelings of existential loneliness, rather than genuine comradery and connection.  The Torah provides us with a solution, which is both simple and profound; “אמרה תורה כל שבעת הימים צא מדירת קבע ושב בדירת עראי” (Sukkah 2b) “The Torah says that for seven days one should leave his permanent dwelling and live in a temporary dwelling.”
We must designate times in our life, during which we extricate ourselves, albeit temporarily, from the façades of safety and security, and seek shelter in the warm protective cover of the clouds of glory. These clouds can be accessed when, and only when, we walk away from our desktops, turn off our smartphones and disconnect from our familiar “reality”, which is truly virtual (at best).  The imperative to seek shelter in the ananei hakavod is more essential today than ever before. The more technologically advanced our world becomes, the more urgent and indispensable the need for spiritual cultivation and emotional reinforcement.  These engagements cannot be initiated by downloading and accessing a particular app. These processes are not the products of a carefully scripted digital code, nor facilitated through an online service.  They occur in the very spaces and places where they have been successfully conducted for centuries. We become more spiritually attuned in houses of worship and study. We become more emotionally adapted and fortified through meaningful connections with friends and family. We become more spiritually stable and secure by strengthening our connection to G-d, through prayer and study. We offset feelings of worthlessness and helplessness by recognizing the constant hashgacha pratis that we have in our lives.  We can mitigate and even overcome invading thoughts of worry and doubt by pulling ourselves away from our digital devices and strengthening our connection to our Father in heaven.

Herein lies the timeless message of the sukkah. Ultimately, the sukkah offers each and every one us an opportunity for spiritual rejuvenation and growth. May we be inspired to truly escape our permanent dwellings and seek shelter in the secure and sustaining walls of the sukkah, thereby deepening and strengthening our connection to Avinu shebashamayim.