It seems like we are still leaving Egypt.
All Israelis have been through a lot of stress, anxiety, and upheaval – with terrible trauma and loss and shock and injuries and death for some of us.
We’re going through a new chapter of Jewish history. And it’s not easy. Of course, we as a people have been through more tragic times. But since Oct. 7, we’ve been in almost a constant state of war and pain.
New olim in particular, who haven’t experienced war in this country, may feel the anxiety more acutely.
And yet, this war, Operation Roaring Lion, may also be leading us toward freedom – the theme of the Passover Seder.
In fact, some people feel strengthened by the war, hopeful that we will at last vanquish our enemies.
Israelis brought together by shared knowledge that this war is righteous
Because so many Israelis believe in the righteousness of this war, it brings us together, literally. In safe rooms.
We are in this together. And that is the definition of community. It comes from the root of sharing.
This country is the shared refuge of the Jewish people. The Hebrew word miklat also means “refuge.” Israel itself is our miklat, even when we are vulnerable. But we are also one another’s miklatim, giving one another hope.
No wonder we have a shared sense of destiny. And a shared sense of purpose – to live together in community as safe, free, and proud Jews in our land.
SOMETIMES MY kids, who grew up in this county, ask my husband and me, “Why do you guys care so much about community?”
They grew up in Tekoa, a very strong community, and they can take community for granted. In fact, they sometimes crave anonymity.
I, on the other hand, did not grow up with a sense of community. But having a community can be lifesaving. My community saved me after my 13-year-old son, Koby, was murdered by Palestinian terrorists during the Intifada 25 years ago. The community’s care and love and concern kept our family going when I wanted to die. They gave us a safe space, an emotional miklat.
And the Koby Mandell Foundation, which we established, also gives bereaved families and children a sense of community, a sense of safety, a refuge, a miklat.
The bereaved families we work with know that they are not alone. Because grief won’t kill you. But being alone with your pain will destroy you.
So for the past 25 years, we have run Camp Koby and retreats and support groups to ensure that no bereaved Israeli has to suffer alone.
And that work continued after Oct. 7 when we took care of bereaved families from the Supernova music festival attack and from the war.
All Israelis felt part of one community. So many people ran to help others, to take care of the victims, to fight for the hostages.
ANOTHER WORD for community, edah, has the root meaning of ed, “witness.” Rabbi Jonathan Sacks tells us that an edah has witnessed the same story.
We Israelis, and in particular olim, know that we are witnesses to history. Many of us immigrated here to be part of the Jewish story. We are aware that we are living in prophetic times; that we are part of an unfolding prophesy; that we are living a new chapter of the Torah. That knowledge is a kind of emotional, intellectual, and spiritual miklat.
We know that Oct. 7 started on Simchat Torah; that this war began on Shabbat Zachor, when we read the passage in the Torah about Amalek, the ancient enemy of the Jewish people.
We know that this war seems somehow foretold. We sense that we are living in biblical times, that our little lives are part of a greater story that is unfolding in terribly dramatic ways.
Those who don’t live here cannot understand how we can eat sushi and run from our table to a shelter where there are babies sleeping through sirens.
They don’t understand how you can turn the scream of the siren into a happy song with your grandchildren.
They don’t know the sounds of the Israeli Air Force flying over your home.
They don’t know the pride of a pilot’s mother.
They don’t know the fear of a soldier’s mother.
There are some things you only learn and know from experience. They are etched on your body and on the body politic.
When you live through wars, they change you. They become something you survive as a heroic community. Every single citizen.
When relatives ask us to come home to America, it seems like a ridiculous proposition. Leave our communities?
They don’t understand that we are part of something bigger than us, something we have to play out; a war between good and evil; a fight to protect our country, our refuge, our miklat; a fight for our freedom and safety.
We won’t give in. We’re a community that is strong and rooted in our country. We’re one big family tree with a tremendous roots that stretch for centuries. We are home. We are the home front. And we will defend our home.
We are fighting for our freedom, the fight that started when we were slaves in Egypt and continues with Operation Roaring Lion against Iran.
We are immersed in living the Jewish story and creating Jewish history, bolstered by our faith and guided by divine providence, God’s promise to protect our people and our land.■
The writer is co-founder of the Koby Mandell Foundation, which has run programs for Israel’s bereaved families for the past 25 years. She is author of The Road to Resilience: From Chaos to Celebration; and The Blessing of a Broken Heart, which won a 2004 National Jewish Book Award. sherri@kobymandell.org