“Where is the Ruach? (Ruach meaning wind but also spirit in Hebrew) Maybe in the field. Maybe by the sea.”
— Eifo HaYeled (“Where Is the Child”)
For two years now, every Shabbat and festival has carried the bitter taste of those who will no longer get to taste the sweetness of sacred time — and of those who, in the tunnels of death, taste only captivity, torture, thirst, and hunger. For two years now, the festivals of Tishrei have been painted in the colors of October 7th and the war that crushes and destroys so many lives — of Israelis, and far more beyond the fence.
When I sit down to write a Dvar Torah in such a time, I am reminded of the words of the Psalmist in Psalm 137:
"For our captors asked us there for songs,
our tormentors, for amusement:
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
How can we sing a song of the LORD
on alien soil?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
let my right hand wither;
let my tongue stick to my palate
if I cease to think of you,
if I do not keep Jerusalem in memory
even at my happiest hour."
This question feels even sharper now that we’ve returned home to the Gaza border. A person is a person — and for us, too, it was easier and more comfortable to forget the horrors of war while we were in exile in Be’er Sheva (which we love and always will, even though it isn’t home). But when you live one kilometer from Khan Younis, forgetting simply doesn’t work.
Seeking God in such a storm is harder than ever. Some urge us to see the “miracles” that happened in our home (our family was spared), in the communities around Gaza, and even to view the absence of an attack in the north as a miracle. But that, of course, is a terrible cheapening and emotional dullness — an abuse of the concept of miracle.
No miracle happened to us. Not to the hundreds of friends, acquaintances, and relatives we lost or who were taken captive on October 7th. And to call what happened in the north a miracle — that’s to say that God was busy protecting the north while once again forgetting or deliberately neglecting (again…) the south.
Of course, there was luck — and many stories of individual heroism. On our second day at the hotel in Eilat, to which we were evacuated after more than 30 hours in bomb shelters, I gathered the Nirim community for Birkat HaGomel, the blessing of thanksgiving after surviving danger. I had the privilege of enabling women who had never before recited it — certainly not in a synagogue — to do so. There was deep gratitude, alongside immense heartbreak.
All this leaves me, during these festivals of Tishrei, with a question toward Heaven. Leonard Cohen, in the horror of the Yom Kippur War, wrote "Lover, Lover, Lover". The same question is asked by the prophet Isaiah in chapter 58, the Haftarah for Yom Kippur - but Cohen’s God answers differently: "I never never turned aside," he said, "I never walked away. It was you who built the temple, It was you who covered up my face."
In this fierce spirit, I find much meaning in that answer — and much less in seeking God only in synagogues and study halls, through repetitive texts. At the very least, these should be joined by a search of the heart.
The band Eifo HaYeled wrote “Where Is the Ruach” in the 1990s. Lately, I’ve been searching for that Ruach— in the fields, on the seashore, and in songs about true love. Maybe also in the sukkah.
I also search for the spirit in the eyes and hearts of our young people. They have drifted away from us. Many of them no longer understand what we mean when we insist on humanism, on human dignity and the divine image, on the values of the Declaration of Independence, on equality and justice, on international law and human rights, on the veil of ignorance and on power relations. I hear too often, “Kill them all.” I feel deep numbness — and I know that we have planted a very confused wind, corrupted our moral foundations, and are now reaping a whirlwind.
And yet - our hope is not lost. Perhaps through many searches will come moments of finding - in the Ruach and in the field. Perhaps through the insistence on the right to doubt will come also Berl Katznelson’s call “Against the Plaster” (B’G’nut Ha’Tiach), the courage to look at cracks and flaws. And perhaps we can, little by little, rebuild these essential human foundations. To speak of what happened “to us” and also of what we did “to them.” And above all, to remember our responsibility — as human beings, as Jews, and as Israelis — to bring goodness into the world, to pursue peace and justice, and to see those who dwell in darkness.
Chag Sameach — may good tidings soon reach all of All of God's creatures, and all of Human Kind, from the sea to the river.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Avi Dabush is the CEO of Rabbis for Human Rights. He was ordained by the Shalom Hartman Institute and continues to integrate Jewish values with social activism. In 2023, he received the Sami Michael Award for his work in reducing social and economic inequality.
On October 7th, Rabbi Dabush survived the Hamas terror attack in his home at Kibbutz Nirim. He and his family now live temporarily in Be’er Sheva. He has become a leading voice in advocating for the return of the hostages and continues to call for human rights and peace across the region.
— Eifo HaYeled (“Where Is the Child”)
For two years now, every Shabbat and festival has carried the bitter taste of those who will no longer get to taste the sweetness of sacred time — and of those who, in the tunnels of death, taste only captivity, torture, thirst, and hunger. For two years now, the festivals of Tishrei have been painted in the colors of October 7th and the war that crushes and destroys so many lives — of Israelis, and far more beyond the fence.
When I sit down to write a Dvar Torah in such a time, I am reminded of the words of the Psalmist in Psalm 137:
"For our captors asked us there for songs,
our tormentors, for amusement:
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion.”
How can we sing a song of the LORD
on alien soil?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
let my right hand wither;
let my tongue stick to my palate
if I cease to think of you,
if I do not keep Jerusalem in memory
even at my happiest hour."
This question feels even sharper now that we’ve returned home to the Gaza border. A person is a person — and for us, too, it was easier and more comfortable to forget the horrors of war while we were in exile in Be’er Sheva (which we love and always will, even though it isn’t home). But when you live one kilometer from Khan Younis, forgetting simply doesn’t work.
Seeking God in such a storm is harder than ever. Some urge us to see the “miracles” that happened in our home (our family was spared), in the communities around Gaza, and even to view the absence of an attack in the north as a miracle. But that, of course, is a terrible cheapening and emotional dullness — an abuse of the concept of miracle.
No miracle happened to us. Not to the hundreds of friends, acquaintances, and relatives we lost or who were taken captive on October 7th. And to call what happened in the north a miracle — that’s to say that God was busy protecting the north while once again forgetting or deliberately neglecting (again…) the south.
Of course, there was luck — and many stories of individual heroism. On our second day at the hotel in Eilat, to which we were evacuated after more than 30 hours in bomb shelters, I gathered the Nirim community for Birkat HaGomel, the blessing of thanksgiving after surviving danger. I had the privilege of enabling women who had never before recited it — certainly not in a synagogue — to do so. There was deep gratitude, alongside immense heartbreak.
All this leaves me, during these festivals of Tishrei, with a question toward Heaven. Leonard Cohen, in the horror of the Yom Kippur War, wrote "Lover, Lover, Lover". The same question is asked by the prophet Isaiah in chapter 58, the Haftarah for Yom Kippur - but Cohen’s God answers differently: "I never never turned aside," he said, "I never walked away. It was you who built the temple, It was you who covered up my face."
In this fierce spirit, I find much meaning in that answer — and much less in seeking God only in synagogues and study halls, through repetitive texts. At the very least, these should be joined by a search of the heart.
The band Eifo HaYeled wrote “Where Is the Ruach” in the 1990s. Lately, I’ve been searching for that Ruach— in the fields, on the seashore, and in songs about true love. Maybe also in the sukkah.
I also search for the spirit in the eyes and hearts of our young people. They have drifted away from us. Many of them no longer understand what we mean when we insist on humanism, on human dignity and the divine image, on the values of the Declaration of Independence, on equality and justice, on international law and human rights, on the veil of ignorance and on power relations. I hear too often, “Kill them all.” I feel deep numbness — and I know that we have planted a very confused wind, corrupted our moral foundations, and are now reaping a whirlwind.
And yet - our hope is not lost. Perhaps through many searches will come moments of finding - in the Ruach and in the field. Perhaps through the insistence on the right to doubt will come also Berl Katznelson’s call “Against the Plaster” (B’G’nut Ha’Tiach), the courage to look at cracks and flaws. And perhaps we can, little by little, rebuild these essential human foundations. To speak of what happened “to us” and also of what we did “to them.” And above all, to remember our responsibility — as human beings, as Jews, and as Israelis — to bring goodness into the world, to pursue peace and justice, and to see those who dwell in darkness.
Chag Sameach — may good tidings soon reach all of All of God's creatures, and all of Human Kind, from the sea to the river.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Avi Dabush is the CEO of Rabbis for Human Rights. He was ordained by the Shalom Hartman Institute and continues to integrate Jewish values with social activism. In 2023, he received the Sami Michael Award for his work in reducing social and economic inequality.
On October 7th, Rabbi Dabush survived the Hamas terror attack in his home at Kibbutz Nirim. He and his family now live temporarily in Be’er Sheva. He has become a leading voice in advocating for the return of the hostages and continues to call for human rights and peace across the region.