October 1, 2024

I want to bring you into the everyday world of Israel’s existential war. Existential war: Fighting to survive, to not be wiped out.  

Excuse my chutzpah, but I want much more than that.  I want the right to enjoy a normal, peaceful existence — I do not want neighbors whose goal is to annihilate us. 

How close would you go to areas that weren’t evacuated but are theoretically within rocket range? You must ask yourself: Will there be air-raid sirens while I’m driving? While I’m there? An appointment at Ceders-Sinai: Should I go? I’ll wear clothes that won’t get too messed up if I have to jump out of the car and lie on the ground with my hands over my head. 

These are our daily dilemmas. Fears. Stresses.  Who accepts this in a recognized, sovereign country? 

Excuse my chutzpah, but I am tired of hearing we have the right to defend ourselves against terrorist rockets, missiles, drones and anti-tank missiles. I am tired of being forced to play defense until we are beaten down enough to win a short-lived international clearance to fight back. Not to win. Just to push them back until the next time. 

Israel left Lebanon in 2000 and Gaza in 2005. We did not start this war.

So I have to ask: Why are we still subjected to bombardments — whether sporadic (Lebanon) or routine (Gaza) almost from the day we left? Not just since Oct. 7. 

It’s very simple. 

They want to kill us. They are terrorists who want to kill Jews. 

Fear of an invasion like the one in the south on Oct. 7 led to the evacuation of more than 60,000 residents along the northern border. Even when that threat subsided, residents didn’t return. The north has been subjected to deadly and destructive attacks, especially from anti-tank missiles that have a range of nine miles – too close to shoot down or to take cover. These “internal refugees” have been living in crowded hotel rooms and guest houses while all attempts at diplomatic solutions have failed. 

That’s not a bad thing. Negotiations, withdrawals, U.N. agreements never gave us anything, but it gave these terrorist organizations time to regroup, restock and grow in numbers.  They do not honor agreements. They do not want neighborly relations. They do not want us.

 Why is it so hard to understand that?

The Israeli army is finally taking aggressive action that will hopefully enable residents to return: 

To their homes, if those structures are still standing and livable; 

To their farms, if their livestock and crops haven’t been burned to the ground; 

To their schools, if they are not afraid to ride a school bus; 

To their places of work, if they still have a job, if they haven’t filed for bankruptcy.

Sound extreme? Picture Beverly Hills, approximate population 32,000 according to the 2020 U.S. Census Bureau. Empty. Homes, shops and schools deserted. Visions of Coronavirus lockdown but with the addition of deadly rocket fire. Some buildings have crumbled onto the expansive sidewalks, insides blown through plate-glass windows onto Wilshire Blvd.  Or the Fairfax district (12,500) with the Farmers Market clock tower now rubble among the stalls. The Grove a ghost town. 

Remember hiding under desks in the 1950s and early ‘60s? Now Israeli children who ride school buses in border areas are drilled in hiding under the seats or bending down away from the windows while covering their heads. They have 15 seconds.  If they are in a “30-second” designated area, the adults riding with them can try to get them off the bus, away from vehicles, and make sure they lie on the ground and cover their heads. Thirty seconds.  Would you send your kids on a school bus under these conditions? 

We don’t want the “right to defend ourselves.” We demand the right to live without having to defend ourselves daily.

We don’t want the “right to defend ourselves.” We demand the right to live without having to defend ourselves daily. 

Excuse my chutzpah for wanting the new year to be one of enduring security and a normal existence. A new year that will see the return of the hostages, the return of our citizens to their homes, the return of our reservists to their families.  

Shana Tova.

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Galia Miller Sprung moved to Israel from Southern California in 1970 to become a pioneer farmer and today she is a writer and editor. 

It’s been a long year, possibly the longest year that we have faced since the Nazis were defeated and the concentration camp survivors were freed. Nineteen-forty-eight and 1967 and 1973 were long years too, but each of them ended in victory. While the many long years since then have not always led to such clear-cut results, we could almost always prepare for the High Holy Days with some sense of confidence that the modern-day Israeli experiment was succeeding. There were steps forward and backward, distractions and frustrations. But we knew that we were on the right path.

But as we mark the one-year anniversary of the Simchat Torah Massacre, the future is even more uncertain than it was last Oct. 8. The unresolved nature of the war against Hamas, the prospect of a broader conflict with Hezbollah, and the potential for a region-wide battle that ignites the entire Middle East has produced a level of uncertainty and trepidation both in Israel and among Diaspora Jews unlike any that we have seen in the last 76 years. 

We feel threatened, not only by the prospect of military attacks in the Middle East but the resurgent antisemitism throughout the world. One year ago, few of us believed that anti-Jewish hatred was gone. But the prevailing opinion in our community was that it was in retreat, that it had been banished to the margins and the shadows. We looked at tragedies in Poway and Pittsburgh and Charlottesville as aberrations rather than indicators, as infrequent exceptions rather than insistent warnings.

Since then, we’ve learned that those ancient hatreds never disappear. They are never fully eliminated. As hard as we try and as strongly as we hope, we will never exterminate true prejudice and bias. The bigots, both blood-and-soil nationalists and overly-woke Hamas apologists, will patiently wait for the opportunity to crawl out of their crevices and pick up where their predecessors left off. Throughout our long history, no previous generation of Jews has ever avoided this challenge from the oldest and darkest forces in our communities. Neither will we.

But while we shouldn’t have needed to relearn these lessons, we have now been reminded that the price of our heritage and our faith is eternal vigilance. We know that our religion and our culture require constant protection. We remember — yet again — that we must defend what we hold dear and we must do it ourselves. If we wait for others to come to our rescue, we will be repeatedly disappointed, disheartened and dangerously vulnerable. We benefit from friendships and alliances with others and we need to relearn the importance of reaching out to other underrepresented communities so we can work together, grow together and care for each other. But we can’t rely on others to do this work for us: we are the saviors we’ve been waiting for.

This will require us to deprioritize our quarrels over domestic policy in whatever country we live, and recognize that those divisions cannot divide us from the legacy, the traditions, the core beliefs of our shared past and shared future. We must recognize that while we are proud to be Democrats and Republicans, progressives and conservatives, we are first and foremost children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

The Jewish religion is not perfect, nor is the Jewish state. Both our faith and our homeland benefit from questions asked from those who love them, and those challenges make us better. Of course Jews disagree. We revel in our disagreements. But our disagreements are supposed to bring us closer and not drive us apart. At our best, we disagree so that we can improve and move forward together.

Of course Jews disagree. We revel in our disagreements. But our disagreements are supposed to bring us closer and not drive us apart. At our best, we disagree so that we can improve and move forward together.

The false sense of security that many of us have felt in 21st-century America is no more. That could be a curse. It might be a blessing. But most likely and most accessibly, it should be an opportunity for us to begin anew and to commence a rebuilding process that will allow us to celebrate our Judaism the way we deserve.

Shanah Tovah

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Dan Schnur is the U.S. Politics Editor for the Jewish Journal. He teaches courses in politics, communications, and leadership at UC Berkeley, USC and Pepperdine. He hosts the monthly webinar “The Dan Schnur Political Report” for the Los Angeles World Affairs Council & Town Hall. Follow Dan’s work at www.danschnurpolitics.com.

In some ways, I consider 2023/5784 the last normal Rosh Hashanah of my life. Last year around this time, my biggest concern for the Jewish people probably focused on whether we were collectively consuming enough fruits and vegetables during the challah-heavy High Holy Days. 

I am kidding. I don’t even remember what went through my mind last Rosh Hashanah, the last seemingly innocent Jewish New Year I would know. But whatever preoccupied me last year now seems so blissfully trivial in light of everything that has occupied my state of mind since Oct. 7.

As I contemplated what I could add to the undoubtedly beautiful wisdom of Rosh Hashanah stories in this week’s issue, I realized that this issue coincides with the one-year anniversary of Oct. 7 in the Gregorian calendar. And this Rosh Hashanah could be squandered if Jews worldwide, including myself, forget each other. 

Here are seven groups of Jews whom I implore you to actively remember this Rosh Hashanah, whether you sit in a synagogue pew or simply enjoy a moment of sunlight: 

The Hostages in Gaza

Do the remaining Israeli hostages in Gaza know that Rosh Hashanah begins tonight? Perhaps not, and perhaps it’s better that way. For me, the more important question is whether those hostages are still alive.

Do the remaining Israeli hostages in Gaza know that Rosh Hashanah begins tonight? Perhaps not, and perhaps it’s better that way. For me, the more important question is whether those hostages are still alive. 

But I can’t stop thinking about how those hostages spent last Rosh Hashanah. Were they with family? Did they pray to have been “inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life” for a sweet and healthy new year, only to have been taken captive and brutalized mere weeks later? As I read testimonials in which rescued hostages described the physical and emotional abuse they endured by Hamas, including starvation and dehydration, I can’t bear to imagine the bounty of food and family that these hostages may have enjoyed last Rosh Hashanah. There was no way they could have known what was to come. 

If you are reading this column in a well-lit space, please remember the dark squalor of the tunnels or other spaces in which these innocent Israelis are still being kept in captivity. Do not forget their hunger and thirst; their fear and fortitude. 

This Rosh Hashanah, do not complain that it is too hot, too cold, too bright or too gloomy. Remember that for the past 12 months, over 100 of your Jewish brethren have not seen the light of day, nor inhaled even a life-saving breath of fresh air. As Dr. Itai Pessach, who treated some of the rescued hostages, told CNN, “It was a harsh, harsh experience, with a lot of abuse, almost every day … Every hour, both physical, mental and other types, and that is something that is beyond comprehension.”

The Rescued Hostages and Oct. 7 Survivors

To date, nearly 50 survivors of the Nova massacre have taken their own lives. For the past year, Israel itself has been suffering from what seems to be a national epidemic of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). 

As for the rescued hostages, most of them arrived back in Israel so malnourished and suffering from so much psychological trauma that their healing is still in doubt. I have heard about the emotional states of rescued hostages who have toured America and shared their stories; in more intimate conversations, some have described what they call a “darkness” or a “demon” that follows them throughout the day (and especially at night) as they remember how Hamas tortured them or killed their friends or loved ones before their eyes.  

Perhaps the rescued hostages will have the emotional strength to return to a synagogue or to a Rosh Hashanah seder this year. Please have them in mind, because they will never be the same person they were last Rosh Hashanah. And neither will we. 

Bereaved Families and the Families of Hostages

This year, I will be thinking about the thousands of bereaved Israeli families who lost cherished children, parents, siblings, grandparents or other loved ones on or after Oct 7. The thought of that one … or two, three, or more empty chairs at their Rosh Hashanah meal this year (if they even have a seder) is too painful to imagine. But we must imagine it. 

This year, let us also not forget the families of Jews who are still being held in Gaza — families who do not know whether their loved ones are still alive. For them, there is no closure; only tortured thoughts of whether the person they love is safe. Let us imagine the empty chairs in countless Israeli homes this fall, and perhaps leave a chair or two empty in our homes and synagogues this Rosh Hashanah.

The Courageous Soldiers 

This year, I will be thinking more than ever before about the soldiers of the IDF, many of whom are so young that they wouldn’t be able to order a beer in the United States. Instead of hearing a shofar in a synagogue, many of them will be entrenched across from Hamas in Gaza or Hezbollah on the border with Lebanon, protecting their country in every way. For those soldiers and the remaining hostages in Gaza, the prayer to be sealed and inscribed for life takes on a whole other meaning. 

Please have these soldiers in mind, especially the ones who are under fire in Gaza and Lebanon, operating anti-missile weapons, manning dangerous checkpoints, or maintaining safety in the West Bank or the Old City of Jerusalem. 

And don’t forget about their young children, who stand at doorways and beg their uniform-clad parents not to leave, as well as the brave parents of these soldiers. Imagine hugging your son or daughter before they leave for reserve duty in merciless Gaza, wiping your heartbroken tears from your face, and composing yourself long enough to attend Rosh Hashanah synagogue services the next day. 

The Refugees Who Fled Northern Israel

We must not forget the 90,000 Israelis who, in the past year, have been displaced from their homes in the north due to the unrelenting Jew-hatred of Hezbollah in southern Lebanon. I truly hope that the hotels and other spaces that have been offering them shelter will also provide Rosh Hashanah meals for them, as well as nice holiday clothes and more toys for their children. Last year, they celebrated Rosh Hashanah in their own homes. This year, they are refugees in their own country. 

The Jews Who Have Woken Up

For all of the gratitude we have offered this past year for the multitude of Jews who have “woken up” in terms of embracing their Jewish identities and finally feeling connected to our people, wouldn’t it be wonderful if each of us invited a previously disconnected Jew to a High Holy Day meal or service, or offered them a good, old-fashioned visit, with a few apples, challah, and honey in tow? 

Please have all Jews in mind this year, including those who have lost many formerly meaningful friendships, been banned from activist spaces, left jobs that promoted an atmosphere of antisemitism, or shown courage in other ways, all because this year, they finally understood the immortal last words of Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl, z”l, when he looked at a camera and said, “I am Jewish.”

The Jews Who Cannot Be Named

Finally, given the recent unbelievable incidents involving Israeli intelligence, I cannot help but think of the Jews in the Mossad, the ones who could never afford to attend a synagogue service or a Jewish holiday meal in the country where they operate, lest they blow their cover and compromise the safety of Jews worldwide. 

Perhaps they will prepare a secret, modest meal for themselves at their undisclosed apartments this Rosh Hashanah, meals that won’t feature any overt ingredients such as apples or pomegranates, for fear of tipping off anyone at the Grand Bazaar in Tehran or Istanbul. Perhaps they will recite as much of the High Holy Days prayers as they can still remember from grade school silently to themselves, because they could never be caught in possession of a siddur, much less an open tab on their cell phones connected to anything Jewish. 

For all of the legends and lore surrounding Mossad agents, they make so many sacrifices, as do their families. I don’t know whether the legendary Eli Cohen (born Eliyahu Ben-Shaul Cohen), who operated in Syria for four years, ever secretly recited prayers to himself on Yom Kippur each of those years, or whether he spent Rosh Hashanah meals not in the company of his beloved family, but surrounded by murderous Syrian officials who thought he was one of them. I can only imagine the last words that may have left his mouth in the moments before he left this world on May 18, 1965: “Shema Israel…”

As long as we never forget each other, the People of Israel (Am Israel) live on. Shana Tova U’Metuka.

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Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker and weekly columnist for The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles. Follow her on X and Instagram @TabbyRefael.