Dear friends,

Welcome to the tail end of the annual Israel Intensity Week. It begins with a siren and two minutes of silence ushering in Holocaust Memorial Day, followed a few days later by Memorial Day for fallen members of the Israel Defense Forces and terror victims, and capping things off with Yom Atzmaut, Israel Independence Day. 

The intensity of it all shouldn’t surprise you, my fellow tribe members. Do we have an international reputation for being laid back? Obviously, the answer is loud and perhaps a bit aggressive – No.

Arguably this tendency may have begun when Hashem told Avraham to leave everything behind him and head out to the land where (to use the words of the text) Hashem said, “I will show you yourself.” This verse is sometimes understood as meaning “I will show you.” The word “arekka” (I will show you you) is reflective. Even though Avraham embarked on a journey that demanded absolute emunah in Hashem, it also was one that would culminate in his learning himself. Seeing his true essence and identity emerge from the continued interaction with the mission Hashem reveals here in Eretz Yisrael far more vividly than in any other place in the world was the result of his journey and of yours.

​You may have heard of Effie Zuroff (I am not sure I have the name right; I heard it on the radio only once, but what he said left a deep impression on me). He just resigned from his job. He is the last Nazi hunter. The men who gave the world a whole new definition of the word evil are now in their nineties or dead. Going back a few decades, if you were to find yourself in a café somewhere in South America hobnobbing with your friends, enjoying the gemutlchkeit of your replanted German culture sans the beer, you might suddenly feel a hand on your shoulder. You would turn around and find yourself facing a man you have never met. As soon as you heard him say, “I was looking for you,” you would realize that the game is over. You would have met Effie Zuroff.
They are gone, safely in hell. People of my generation and that of my children and grandchildren have seen survivors, the eyewitnesses to the unspeakable. When we are no longer in this world (and arguably way before then), the Holocaust may end up as interesting as the Babylonian exile’s beginning, or the Inquisition. Certainly intellectually informative, but not what most of us think about when planning a milchig sheva brachos or studying for a mid-term. It will be shelved in the file called Then, which isn’t really relevant to Now.

Or is it? The horror isn’t the hero of the show, the stars of the show are the survivors, and those who didn’t survive, but knew in ways that we never will know, may Hashem preserve us, that whatever you want to be, you don’t want to be a Nazi. The sheer courage that belonged to the generation of the parents of most of my schoolmates in Bais Yaakov was not appreciated at the time. They were loved and respected, but the kind of admiration that makes you aspire to be more wasn’t always there. As a group, they remained foreign. They didn’t speak English as one would in Oxford. By and large, the kind of jobs that they took to support their families didn’t give them much status. Today you can look at the bravery and the determination they had, and stand in awe. The way this is done in Israel on Memorial Day is by formally standing at attention. Arguably it is a somewhat ironic attempt to dress the significance and pain of their lives in fashionable Westernized clothing.

The silence is not. It’s something that you need to keep yourself from becoming a victim of spiritual amnesia. It gives you time to ask yourself questions about what it means to choose life, to step back and think about the giants, people like the Bobover Rebbe, who dedicated themselves to helping his people rediscover their potentials and to keep moving forward. The caring, the acceptance, and the concrete help that he gave was always impressive. When I learned that he was only in his forties and had already managed to lose those closest to him when he became the father of hundreds of others, astounds me. The way to memorialize both the survivors and victims is, in my opinion, to commit yourself to not letting yourself ever forget who you are, and what your mission is – never will be like that of people who aren’t Jews.

My husband’s son, Luzzie (okay, Elazar) Gottlieb came to speak about the Israeli army when it was their time to be memorialized. He is tall, wears Chassidic clothing, and is part of the kashrut administration of no less than the Badatz of the Aida Chareidis. One look at him (and his wife and baby who came for the ride) makes you wonder whether some bizarre mistake was made in scheduling him to speak about the soldiers of Israel’s army.

No mistake.

Years ago, (during the second Lebanese war, or maybe it was the second war in Gaza, but who’s counting), he felt a need to give what he can and do whatever he can do for the soldiers. As a chossid, his Rebbe had told him many times that that is what every Jew is meant to feel. He was learning, but wanted to do something more, something specific and direct. He and a friend headed down to a base located near the last place civilians were allowed to go. They came with two gifts. The stuff you need to make a great barbeque, and a couple of dozen or so tzitzis, to give away to any soldier who'd want to put them on and earn a bit more merit. He came back later with a couple of hundred. The demand was so real, so pure, the bond was clearly mutual. They wanted him to talk to them about what religion is about. In the course of time, his visits became a regular part of life on the base. Some of the soldiers came to his home for Shabbos. The commander of the base called him aside with a problem, the white tzitzis compromise the shelter that olive green uniforms gives his guys. Yes. He now has distributed several thousand olive green tzitzis. He has been doing this for over ten years. This is a man with a full-time job and large family, (in fact one of the career soldiers who saw him year after year finally asked a question that was troubling him, but because he may have felt it to be too personal, had never asked. “You come every year. How come your baby never grows”? Luzzie told him “Every year I’ve been here, it’s been, Baruch Hashem, with a new baby.” The soldier’s mouth may have closed by now….

The soldiers face what I never faced, with courage and with the knowledge that the Jews in their hometown need them and that whatever else they are, they are part of the tribe. Even those who are drafted and didn’t particularly want to spend a minimum of two years in the mixture of danger and boredom that is what serving in the army is about, know who they are. Even those who don’t put on Luzzie’s green tzitzis. They are members of the tribe.
So too the victims of terror. They know that emunah is their only answer, and it is one that the Dee family and the Paley family spoke out with eloquence that only pain can generate.  It is the Land that shows you yourself.

​Yom Atzmaut is such a paradox. The overwhelming miracle of being here is astounding. Israel is alive, full of hope, Tshuvah, buildings in Beitar and Kiryat Sefer whose lobbies are basically parking lots for strollers and trikes. An estimated 70,000 bachurim are studying in the yeshivas that dot the entire country.
There are also the victims—the ones whose education took them to want to have a Jewish state that isn’t too Jewish. The heritage of the early secular founders of the State include fear of Torah, and hatred of anything that is too different, anything that marks you as a Jew. Today’s progressive leftists are victims of a spiritual holocaust. The difference between them and the victims of a physical holocaust is that they are unaware of the fact that they are spiritually dying. They are your brothers just as much as Rabbi Dee or the Paleys or the thousands of bachurim or your own family. A bright spot on the horizon is that some of them have come to see the bond that holds us together. I am enclosing a speech made by the Minister of Information (doesn’t that sound like something out of Orwell’s 1984?). It was far different than anything I have ever heard from a member of the secular movement...Please read the enclosure.
 
Much love to all of your folks back in the Golah,
Tziporah 

​Dear friends,

Imagine waiting for what you knew would be the greatest event in all of history. You would be simultaneously on edge and in rapt anticipation. If you didn’t know exactly what would happen and when, both feelings would only be more extreme. Last night we began the second week of counting the Omer (the days between Pesach and Shavuos). Each day took you a step closer to Mount Sinai, the place where Hashem told Moshe that he and his people would come to serve Him. Each day was its own world. The way we count is by saying, “this is day one,” and then, “this is day two.” We don’t say, “this is the first day” or “this is the second day.” The reason is that each day had its own individual role in making it possible to really be there at Har Sinai in every way.
In ordinary language, you’ll often hear people using the phrase, “He isn’t there yet.” What that means is that the steps that he has to take to reach whatever goal was set haven’t yet been taken.   

Are you “there” yet?

You have a mission and an address that only you will reach, but you also are part of a group of people who are compared to one man with one heart. You are on your own journey (what a cliché), but you aren’t alone. Your journey converges with the journeys made by Jews since the first Pesach. If you can get in touch with this idea, you will discover that each episode of your life can take you further. Ideally, each day moves you a square forward, but there will inevitably be days that don’t. You can still learn from those days and let them take you where you have to go by default. Each chapter has a beginning, middle, and end. However, because one day leads to the next, it’s hard to notice the steps that move you forward as they happen. So, I will tell you about…

THE WHITE KETTER CHAIR

Those of you who have spent time in Israel know what Ketter chairs are. They are the ubiquitous hard plastic stackable chairs that you see everywhere people gather in numbers. Needless to say, the Kotel has huge pillars of them, and the ushers have the job of putting them out and taking them back more or less all of the time. One exception is Birkat Kohanim. No chairs. When a mini-crowd of 15,000 (which is what we had this year) to a maximum of around 25,000 people squeeze into the Kotel plaza, there is standing room only.

One exception was the Early Bird. My friend Mimi arrived in time for the earliest shacharis and discovered that the Lady with the White Chair had already arrived. She had located her Ketter at the extreme right wall of the Ezrat Nashim where there is always some shade. When it was time for her to go, she rose. Mimi had her eye on the chair, carefully surveying the turf as she inched her way to its plastic promise of comfort. It was not to be. The Lady with the Chair motioned to a heavily pregnant woman and stood her ground until the Expectant One was safely ensconced. Not for long. Within a few minutes, the pregnant woman noticed a woman using a walker nearby. She motioned to her and gave her the seat. Not for long. The elderly woman who was barely managing to keep herself steady was the next on line. Not for long. When she eyed the woman with a spinal condition that left her almost completely bent over, the chair was transferred still again. By that time the brachah was over, and the crowd began to slowly move towards the exits. The chair was soon removed by the ushers, having done its job four times.

Each time the chair was given away, a particle of time in someone’s life was used to its fullest and most beautiful fulfillment. I don’t know any of the people, but for each one Hashem’s gift of life was moved from oblivion to meaning.

24/7

Even when you aren’t doing much, you are either consciously alive or not. Even when relaxing, you can feel some appreciation and calm. When you go to sleep and get up the next morning, you often will notice that not only are you more physically energized, but things look better, and you feel more ready to go. One reason is that your soul gains strength during these hours. Hashem comforts it after its day’s work and lets it move back to your body for the next day’s trip.

GEVURAH

The weeks of Sefira are ones in which, according to Kabbalah, each of the traits that you have in common with Hashem will challenge you in its own way. You will face challenges to your kindness, your inner strength, your desire for truth and harmony, your awareness of how goodness ultimately prevails, and your thankfulness to be running the race. The last week is finally the one in which you are ready to respond to Hashem with absolute humility, having faced the blockage to your most genuine self, confronted the challenges, and at least for now, moved beyond their grasp.

Let’s say you didn’t always succeed.

Then you keep on going. That itself is a brand of success.

The second week is the week of gevurah, strength. In his marvelous book on Sefira, “Usfartem Lachem” (available in a condensed version that isn’t overwhelmingly difficult), Rav Frisch tells you what being strong is about. It’s being able to defeat enemies. When applied to Hashem, it is about the ultimate defeat of evil, and the enemies of the Jewish people who have made evil their theme song. For us, it means finding the evil that lurks inside, and facing it without denial and without apology. It means never giving up the fight, even if you lose on occasion. It means learning to be humble when it is easier to be arrogant; to be there for others when you want to save everything you are and everything you have for more Me time/money/emotional space. It means caring enough to sometimes help a friend out by saying what needs to be said, but doing it with love and with care.

WHAT GETTING THERE LOOKS LIKE FROM HERE

You and I barely know the ups and downs along our own paths. Certainly, pretending to know the route someone else traveled is at best illusory, and at worst dishonest. Nonetheless, the sages tell us to reflect on the lives of those who pass.

Rebbetzin David’s passing took place on Pesach. For those who haven’t heard of her (or haven’t heard much about her), she was one of the most remarkable women in our times, by any measure. Her father was Rav Yitzchak Hutner, one of the premier Roshei Yeshiva in the States and author of Pachad Yitzchak, a set of sefarim dedicated to giving deep insight into the profound messages of the Yamim Tovim, and through that into every area of life. She absorbed both his personality and the depth of his teaching. In fact, the early editions of the, not yet published, Pachad Yitzchak were literally written by her hand.

I was not a member of her inner circle. I didn’t study in BJJ (which she founded); my relationship to her was that of a seeker who found a teacher whose erudition had no equal. She shared with amazing generosity. Her friendliness, willingness to give time generously and with almost unbelievable humility defies description. Her basic message of finding inspiration as you learn and letting it touch the person you are as you live was one that found expression in her honesty, love of Hashem that flowed through her approach to learning, and wisdom that went far beyond intellectual sharing.

I was at one of the maamarim (public talks) given by her renowned husband, the Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Yonason David shlita. Between the segments of the talk, there were pauses for the hundreds of men who were there to sing. At one point I used the time to translate what I heard to a friend whose Hebrew wasn’t up to it. She turned towards me and told me to stop. “This is also part of the limud, part of the experience.” It was a lesson that I never forgot.

Living is part of the learning.

​Much love,
Tziporah