Rabbi Conover Updated Blog

I believe, with full conviction. 

Even in my brother’s eyes I can find a sign -  

That I am not alone… 

From Ani Ma’amin by Ari Horowitz 

Today is one month and one day after the terror of October 7.  For the Jewish people, the world fundamentally changed that day.  Yossi Klein Halevi describes the emotional impact in four words: rage, dread, uncertainty, and resolve.  Each of these emotions pervaded my experience in Israel last week. For me, sitting now in my home in Chicago, I feel many of those emotions.  Enraged and still shocked by the horrific way that so many innocent Israelis were murdered.  Dread, not only by the possibility of widening war, but of the loss of so many lives—of Israeli soldiers and innocent Palestinian civilians.  Uncertainty about what might happen next—not only there, but here with growing antisemitism.  I witnessed the resolve of so many Israelis—from my peacenik friends to the heads of situation rooms all over the country’s center.  A better word to describe me is prayerful.  What can I say?  I’m a rabbi. 

These four emotions were displayed acutely in my conversation last Monday with Barak, a father of four from Netiv HaAsara, a moshav in the south, where 20 people were murdered.  He opened our conversation by saying:  

“I can’t believe that sheloshim is almost over…”  

Sheloshim is a period of 30 days that mourner’s restrict some of their “normal” activities after the death of a loved one.   Last Monday evening my friend Yoshi Zweiback and I spoke with Barak.  After nineteen of his friends and one family member were murdered on October 7, half the moshav members were relocated to a hotel in Tel Aviv.  There is a memorial as you enter the hotel with a yahrzeit candle on a table under framed pictures of the slain.  The Wax brothers each holding a beer in a toast.  Chavik smiling from inside a pool.  Bilhah and Kobi hugging.  Parents… Peace Activists…  Farmers… Children…  Yehi Zichram Baruch—May their memories be a blessing.  

The first thing I noticed about Barak were his eyes-- sky blue with warm intensity.   Many times, while Barak spoke, he paused and looked off in the distance.  He told us of the many funerals he attended and of his survivor’s guilt.  He shared how felt lucky that only 20 people from Netiv HaAsara were killed.  What a world to count twenty people murdered as a blessing.  He said: “I have no more tears…”.  But just as he said that his eyes welled up and he said, “Yes I do.”  He told us about his best friend Tamar from Nir Oz.  She was in her safe room with her children and husband in their home.  Terrorists set it on fire.  When they came out, the terrorists shot all of them dead.  “Tamari!” he wailed and then caught himself and looked away again.  

He recounted what he experienced on October 7. 

He woke up to a siren that lets them know to get to a safe room. These are usually triggered by missile attacks from Gaza.  Most often, the sirens stop, and people wait another minute or so before they emerge.  But that day, the sirens continued.  Barak and his family stayed in the safe room.  First the electricity went out and then the wifi.  There was no way to get information about what was happening.  The only thing that worked was the kibbutz’s WhatsApp.  Barak and his family heard gun shots nearby.  Soon after, a member of the kibbutz posted on the WhatsApp that terrorists had come into the kibbutz.  He didn’t know how many.  Families should stay in their safe rooms.  Anyone with a gun should patrol the windows of the home in case any of the terrorists tried to get in.  For twelve hours, Barak’s wife and kids stayed in the safe room.  Barak patrolled the windows.  At one point in the day, he made sandwiches for the kids holding his gun.   

His wife, who was traumatized by an earlier attack in 2012, had become hyper vigilant about charging her phone. There was no way to do that.  But without their phones, they would have no communication at all.   As the day wore on, their phones were below 10%.  Even knowing terrorists likely still roamed the kibbutz, Barak snuck to his car to charge her phone.  (I think about Palestinians in Gaza, who were thrust into this awful war by Hamas terror that day and were cut off from electricity in subsequent days as they tried to get in touch with family.) 

At around 6:30pm, they heard sustained gun fire.  Someone on WhatsApp let them know IDF soldiers had arrived.  Barak and his family quickly packed two suitcases.  They sped off in two cars— Barak’s wife with their oldest son in the car in front, Barak and his three youngest behind them.  He instructed the children to lay on the floor of the car.  They had to swerve around bodies as they fled the kibbutz. 

He shrugged.  Unprompted he asked: “Will we go back?  I don’t know…. I lied to my kids.  I told them we were safe there. How could the government let this happen?  I thought they were keeping us safe….”  His voice trailed off, but he didn’t turn away.  There was rage in his eyes.   

He began again, “I don’t know if I can ever feel safe.  But it was our paradise.”   

This is what he shared a week ago. I wonder what he would say today.   

Ariel Horowitz (the son of Naomi Shemer) wrote a song called Ani Ma’amin (literally, “I Believe”) just days after October 7. Of course, the title is taken from a hymn that focuses on the 12th of Maimonides’ 13 Principles of Faith: 

I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah,  
and, though he may tarry, I will wait daily for his coming. 

Horowitz’s Ani Ma’amin does not focus on the Messiah.  Instead, it captures the resolve of the people Israel. Pray as if everything depends on God.  Act as if everything depends on you.  

His song concludes:  

I believe, fully and completely, 
In the children’s laughter, 
In the grass that will still grow. 

Here there was a past, 
Here there will be a future, 
I believed once, 
I always will believe. 

 In that belief, I am prayerful and resolute.