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“It’s Not Over” L’chol milchamah yesh shir—Every Israeli war inspires its own songs. The War of Independence, for example, gave us, among others, the song, “Bab el Wad.” A familiar song that The Six Day War gave us is, “Yerushalayim shel Zahav.” The Yom Kippur War also generated several songs, one of which is called, “Hamilchama Ha-achronah”—“The Last War.” Sung by that legendary Israeli crooner, Yehoram Gaon, it goes like this:
Given subsequent history, the hopefulness in that song is almost unbearable.
I will spare you the rest of the lyrics. The full text and a sound file of the song are available on the internet. The demeaning references to Zionism and Zionists in that song, and its glorification of terror and the infliction of pain and suffering are not only repugnant but are very sad, very depressing. On the other hand, here is an Israeli song that has recently appeared. Rami Kleinstein, a well-known popular singer and songwriter in Israel, was asked to compose the music for a poem written by Racheli Shavit and to sing it at a massive rally for the kidnapped Israeli soldiers last month. The song, entitled, “Zeh Lo Nigmar,”—“It’s Not Over”—goes like this: Zeh Lo Nigmar—It’s Not Over
This is a song with a war in the background, but this is not a song that glorifies war. This is a song of hope; a sad song of hope. That recurring phrase, “It’s Not Over,” alludes specifically to the fact that the three Israeli soldiers kidnapped this summer—Gilad Shavit, Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev—are still in captivity. More generally, it describes the Israeli understanding of this conflict: This was a 34 day war, but it’s not over. It’s clear that no one is promising that this will be the milchamah ha-achronah, the “Last War.” One thing that is not over is how Israelis have risen to the challenge. This war brought out the best in Israelis. It inspired a rare kind of self-sacrifice. One generous and resourceful company agreed to begin installing wireless internet access in bomb shelters. (Look, if you have to spend most of the day in those hot and close quarters, you might as well get some work done.) One Israeli businessman, learning that couples were postponing their weddings because of the bombardment, offered to host a massive celebration in the Tel Aviv area: Any couple from the north who wanted to get married could do so, and they could bring guests, too. He put a cap of 200 guests per couple, which is small by Israeli wedding standards, but, hey, during a war, it’s not bad. At the height of the conflict, when over a hundred and fifty katyusha rockets were falling each day, the Israeli papers carried little notices from people opening up their homes for refugees from the North. Here’s one that caught my attention, [and my heart]:
I just love the way this wonderful woman not only offers her home to strangers, but casually mentions that she knows six languages. I’d love to meet her. I’d love to stay in her home! Just yesterday, Israel withdrew the last of her troops from Lebanon. The war is over. There’s no longer a need for couples to get married en masse, for shuls in Jerusalem to offer “Fun Days” for kids up north to get away from the rockets or for generous elderly women in Tel Aviv to take in people—but the country’s needs remain enormous. Recently, Haifa Mayor Yona Yahav declared: “We have finished the war against Hezbollah, and now we are starting a new war, an internal war, [the “war of the economy”], to see how we can keep up the businesses, especially the small ones, which were closed [during] the whole period of the war.” Zeh lo nigmar. It’s not over. Israelis—leaders as well as ordinary citizens—certainly have their work cut out for them. It’s not over for us either. As a group, during the war, American Jews were tremendously generous. It was so heartwarming, while Elana and I were in Israel, to hear from members of the congregation who asked us how they could help. Our Kesher Committee distributed substantial funds to groups that provided relief work during the crisis. And our local CJP Israel Emergency Fund has raised close to nine million dollars in just a few weeks. But the needs, as I’m sure we all know, persist, and they far exceed what Israelis can meet on their own. Kiryat Shmona’s high school is in shambles. Many, many other public buildings in the north need to be repaired or replaced. The Israelis government’s budget has just gone up by one billion dollars a year. Anyone who’s read the emails from Rabbi Mauritio Balter of Kiryat Bialik—some of which are available on our congregational website—cannot but be impressed by the enormous needs, and by how much Israelis appreciate our help. Zeh lo nigmar. It’s not over. There’s still more work to be done. There is one particular way in which we can perhaps be even more effective than Israelis, and that is in the realm of American public opinion. Israel was not portrayed sympathetically during this war. Once Israel responded militarily to the cross-border attack; once Israel’s air force began bombing Lebanon’s infrastructure and Lebanese civilians began to be killed, the press’s—and therefore the public’s—attention focused on the question whether Israel’s response was proportional, and whether Lebanese civilians were being deliberately targeted. It was almost as if Israel’s attacks were taking place in a vacuum, as if Hezbollah weren’t holding Israeli soldiers hostage, and continuing to fire hundreds of katyusha rockets on Israel each day. Some reporters belittled the Hezbollah attacks. One described the initial Hezbollah incursion as “mere banditry, perhaps;” others described katyushas as crude, ineffective weapons—suggesting thereby that Israel was over-reacting. The death of civilians was and is by no means taken lightly in Israel—and it shouldn’t be taken lightly by any of us. Avoiding civilian casualties has long been a cardinal principle of the Israel Defense Forces. Quote: “[I.D.F.] soldier[s] shall not employ their weaponry and power in order to harm non-combatants or prisoners of war, and shall do all they can to avoid harming their lives, bodies, honor and property.” Those words, taken from the I.D.F.’s ethical code, a copy of which every Israeli soldier carries with him while in uniform—these words, rather than the behavior of Israel’s enemies, set the standard. It remains a serious question just how and why so many Lebanese civilians died during the war. There may very well have been Israeli operational failures and errors of judgment, and I hope that the governmental commission that has been set up to investigate the war will shed light on these concerns. To understand how preposterous and offensive it was in Israel to hear the charge that she was deliberately targeting civilians, you have to know about a story that is very well-known in Israel. It’s the story of three men, Hanan Samson, Yossi Kaplan and Boaz Sasson, who were serving in the Israeli army in the mid-1960s. They were pursuing terrorists in the Jordan Valley. As every Israeli soldier today can tell you, they cornered them in a cave and were about to open fire when they noticed a nursing mother with her baby in front of the cave. Were they to open fire, they might hit her or her baby. And so, in accordance with standard Israeli rules of engagement, they didn’t. But it turned out that the woman was an accomplice of the terrorists. Suddenly, she ducked out of sight and the terrorists, who were hiding behind her, opened fire. Those three Israeli soldiers—Hanan Samson, Yossi Kaplan and Boaz Sasson—were killed, and instantly entered the pages of Israeli military and cultural history. Natan Alterman, the brilliant Israeli poet and writer, later wrote a piece in the newspaper Haaretz in which he asked the question: What room in heaven is reserved for those three soldiers, whose devotion to tohar ha-neshek, or “purity of arms”—that is, strict limits on the use of arms in combat—cost them their lives? This was tohar ha-neshek at its best—and it’s a value that endures to this day. The battle to get the word out, the battle to let people know what kind of country Israel is, what kind of people live there, what kind of soldiers defend it—that battle is not over: There is an ongoing need to get the facts and to get them out. There is an ongoing need to combat the image in the media of the Israeli soldier as cruel, ruthless, and blood-thirsty– and to replace it with one that is closer to the truth. Our efforts on behalf of Israel are deeply tied to our presence here on Rosh Hashanah. Rosh Hashanah is sometimes seen, and it is sometimes experienced, as deeply personal. It is. But not only do we say, “Avinu,”—“Our Father,” or “Our Parent,” we also say, “Malkeinu”—“Our King.” Not only do we turn to God on this day as individuals, concerned about our fate during the coming year, we also confront God as members of the Jewish people, concerned about the fate of our nation, our people, during the coming year. We cannot forget the collective! We’re part of a people! On Yom Kippur, we will read a beautiful passage from Isaiah that reminds us how important it is to look out for others. Fasting is all well and good, but the kind of fast that God wants from us is a lot more active than a fast characterized by refraining from food. “Halo ZEH tzom evhareihu”—“THIS is the fast I desire,” God says: And what follows is a list of concrete steps: to release the imprisoned, to share our bread with the hungry and to take the homeless into our homes. This may seem at first glance to be very universal. It is. But, as we all know, charity begins at home—and so does the obligation to look out for others. As Isaiah puts it: “Mibsarcha lo titalam”—“Do not make yourself invisible to your own kin!” Even months after the guns have fallen silent we have to continue to remember this, for zeh lo nigmar, it’s not over. Sadly, not all of feel that sense of kinship. Arnold Eisen and Steven M. Cohen recently conducted a survey of American Jews. (See The Jew Within, p. 219) Among other questions, they asked, “To what extent do you feel close to Israelis?” Possible answers included, “To a great extent,” “To some extent,” “Not at all,” and “Not sure.” 43% responded, “Not at all.” That feeling of kinship is at the heart of another Israeli song, one of my favorites. Composed by Naomi Shemer after the Yom Kippur War, it’s entitled, “Anachnu Shneinu Me-oto Ha-kfar” “The two of us—we’re from the same small town.” It goes like this:
YOU AND I ARE FROM THE SAME SMALL TOWN
That song is a classic, “There, but for the grace of God, go I,” song. One ex-soldier singing to his buddy, who lies buried on the other side of the cemetery way. I thought about that song when I read a story in the paper on the plane flying back from Israel, toward the end of the war. The story was about two Israeli soldiers, Sergeant Yiftach Shreir and Sergeant Ilan Gabbai. Like the pair of guys in that song, these guys were about as close as you can be. They went through everything together: their basic training, officers’ school, and advanced paratrooper training together. They were so close, that each of them recorded the other’s voice mailbox message, so if you called Yiftach, you would hear Ilan’s voice; if you called Ilan, you would hear Yiftach telling you to leave a message. Early in the war, Yiftach was killed. Just like in the song, he was brought back home for burial. Ilan couldn’t make it to the funeral, because he was on the front lines, but he did manage to make a shiva call on Yiftach’s parents, which brought them a great deal of comfort. But that’s not the end of the story. Right after he paid his shiva call, Ilan returned to his unit and was back on the front within days and, one week later, he himself was killed, on the first day of the Israeli land offensive in Lebanon. He was brought back for burial next to his dear friend, Yiftach. Unlike in that Naomi Shemer song, no cemetery wall separates them. There are no evening breezes for one to contemplate the loss of the other. Neither is alive to remember the other. [See Ma’ariv, August 2, 2006] I remember the first time I heard that song. I was just out of college and it had a deep impact on me. I remember feeling, for the first time, disconnected and remote from the center of Jewish life. I wasn’t from the same village as the narrator of that song, or of his friend. I was from Philadelphia. I never fought in a war. My friends and I went off to college after high school. My buddies were never brought home from battle to be buried in the town cemetery. Abraham Joshua Heschel, in his book Israel, An Echo of Eternity, describes this feeling. “Not living in the land [of Israel],” he wrote, “non-participation in the drama, is a source of embarrassment.” It is true that this war, just like the previous ones, has reinforced the distinction between the lives led by our Israeli counterparts, and our own. We American Jews are very lucky. We who raise Jewish kids here in America don’t have to worry about them in the same way they do. And yet, that song is about us anyway. It may, literally, be true, that we, and our children, don’t come from the same small towns as our Israeli counterparts and that our lives have been lived so differently. But isn’t it true that, in many cases, our grandparents or our great-grandparents came from the same places? Whether in Lithuania or Poland or Ukraine, the founders of Israel grew up in the same towns and villages of Eastern Europe as did those who came to this country in the early twentieth century as immigrants. We’re cousins—and not very distant ones, at that. As Heschel puts it, “Israel is a personal challenge, a personal religious issue. It is a call to every one of us as an individual, a call which one cannot answer vicariously.” Zeh lo nigmar. It’s not over. Hakrav lo nigmar. Israel’s struggle, and our struggle, for a secure, legitimate Jewish national home continues. May we learn from this war that, in a world in which our Israeli cousins may be invisible to the rest of the world, they must be visible to us, and we must be visible to them. If we don’t feel close to them, who will? Tomorrow, we will blow the shofar. So will our Israeli counterparts. May this be a symbol for us. Just as we will hear the same tekiah, the same shvarim, the same teruah that they will, may we one day be privileged to sing together a song of hope, a song of peace, a song of redemption for Zion, for Jerusalem, and for all humanity. Ken Yehi Ratzon. So may it be God’s will. Amen. |
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