It was March of 1988. A few months earlier, the First Intifada had broken out, leading to large protests and mobs across numerous Palestinian villages. I was a post-college student at the Hesder Yeshiva in Gush Etzion. This uprising would feel different from later, more violent waves. There were no bombings and no organized terror networks; this was largely an intifada of protests and relentless stone-throwing.
The IDF was stretched thin and needed extensive manpower to manage protests erupting across village after village, where riots and stone-throwing had become routine. One by one, my friends in the Israeli hesder program began receiving draft notices.
It soon became clear that the entire yeshiva would emptied out, as everyone was drafted into emergency service.
The whole yeshiva felt the impact. A heavy, palpable sadness settled over us. Many had already served two stints in the army and were looking forward to a stretch of uninterrupted Torah study. To make matters more difficult, Passover was just a few weeks away. Having spent multiple Seders in the army, my friends were hoping, this time, to sit at a family Seder, slow and deliberate, not rushed and improvised.
The disappointment, even a quiet heaviness, hung in the air.
Our revered Rosh Yeshiva Rav Yehuda Amital gathered us and shared his experiences from the labor camps during World War II. Of course, then, there was no distinction between Shabbat and the rest of the week. Each day demanded grueling, backbreaking labor.
He told us that he kept an old, crumpled white shirt, which he would fold and place in his pocket every Friday morning. After long hours of exhausting work, he would slip away at sunset. There, beyond the sight of the guards, he would put on the white shirt as his Kabbalat Shabbat, marking the arrival of the sacred day. Then he would return to his labor, having found a small but meaningful way to keep Shabbat even under those harsh conditions.
He told us, almost sharply, “You are spoiled. Your Shabbat is spread across so many elements: the food, the singing, the Torah, the friends, the rest, the family time.
“My Shabbat in the camps was compressed into a single white shirt and those few minutes of wearing it. But it was intense, it was meaningful, and Hashem was with me.”
He then turned to the boys who were about to be drafted for Passover. “This year,” he said, “your Seder may be rushed, perhaps no more than half an hour before you are called back to serve. But it will carry the same depth as that white shirt in the labor camps. Hashem will be with you in that shortened Seder, just as He was with me there.”
That story about the crumpled white shirt deeply changed my life. So often, when I felt confined by circumstances and life’s difficult conditions, I returned to that white shirt and challenged myself to rise above my frustration.
The story also taught me that at times of scarcity or hardship, when the resources we usually rely upon are stripped away, those very moments can deepen our connection. With fewer external layers and supports, the experience becomes sharper and more focused. What remains, whether physical or emotional, carries greater weight, just as his Shabbat in the camps was concentrated into that single white shirt.
The image of my rebbe’s white shirt, and the way scarcity can intensify religious and emotional experience, stayed with me through many challenging moments.
A disrupted Passover
That lesson returns to me this year.
This year’s Passover will feel very different for many people, both in Israel and in the Diaspora. Travel restrictions have disrupted plans, leaving families who had hoped to be together, to be separated. In Israel, ongoing limitations and strict safety guidelines will continue to shape how the holiday is observed, often in constrained settings.
Many people feel frustrated, sensing that this year’s Passover will fall short of what they had hoped for.
Rav Amital’s white shirt reminds us that while we won’t always have the resources we seek, we can still breathe deep meaning into less than ideal Shabbatot or chagim. Even when the setting is diminished, the core experience can remain intact, and at times even grow stronger.
His message speaks to life in general, but it is especially relevant to the experience of Passover.
The night we left Egypt was chaotic and unexpected. We imagined a measured departure, but we were driven out in haste. The dough we had prepared did not have time to rise. Pharaoh pursued us as we fled. We did not control the moment or the process. We were carried forward toward a destination we could hardly grasp.
A Passover that feels less controlled and less orderly more closely reflects that original night. Letting go of the need to shape every detail this year may return us to the experience of that first Passover.
This year on Passover, let go. That may be the truest path to freedom.
And, of course, whatever limitations we may face, it is important to think about those whose Passover will be far more disrupted. Tens of thousands of soldiers continue to fight, heroically defending us and protecting our borders.
Their Passover will be compressed and often improvised.
The least we can do, in light of their sacrifice, is not to complain about the more moderate restrictions we face.
Misplaced language
Relatedly, we must be careful about the way we speak.
There is an ancient tradition that Jews were exiled to Germany after the destruction of the First Temple in the 6th century. Seventy years later, Ezra called upon Jews across the Diaspora to return with him to Jerusalem. Most did not respond and chose to remain in exile. Only 42,000 returned, leaving the Second Temple period diminished in both national strength and spiritual ambition.
Within that story, a particular failing is attributed to the Jews of Germany.
They are described as having written to Ezra, praising the kindness of their hosts and declining his invitation. They encouraged him to return to Jerusalem, while they remained behind, speaking of Germany as if it were their Jerusalem. The tradition records that because they spoke of another land in those terms, they later suffered disproportionately across the generations.
We must be careful with the language we use when we speak about Israel and about our bond to this land.
Over the past few months, as travel bans have limited the usual Passover traffic, the phrase “stuck in Israel” has been used. That language is not only painful and insensitive to Israelis who are defending this land on behalf of Jews around the world, it is also historically short-sighted. There were even billboards portraying Israel as a burning country; in parallel, “rescue” flights were arranged to bring non-Israelis “home” for Passover.
It is understandable and important that families want to spend Passover together. But the language used has been misguided. No Jew is ever “stuck” in Israel. Those who choose to leave to be with family should do so in a way that reflects that they are not escaping but remain bound in a shared fate with this country and with the Jewish people.■
The writer is a YU-ordained rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion (Gush), a hesder yeshiva. His latest book, Reclaiming Redemption, Vol. II: Faith, Identity, Peoplehood, and the Storms of War, is available at mtaraginbooks.com.