Resilience

David Makovsky is the Ziegler distinguished fellow of the Koret Project on Arab-Israel Relations at the Washington Institute for Near East Policy; adjunct professor of Middle East Studies at Johns Hopkins University’s Nitze School of Advanced International Studies and president of the US affiliate of the National Library of Israel (NLI USA).

October 7 last year came at the end of the holiday cycle. In Israel, it was Simchat Torah, literally a celebration of “the joy of Torah.” This year, it is hard to imagine any festivity during the entire holiday cycle if hostages are still being held in the dark tunnels of Gaza.

Yet the holiday seasons are not just about joy. They are also about reflection and introspection. There will be no shortage of either this year. Jews do not equate introspection with despair. In Jewish history, the prophets of gloom, like Isaiah and Jeremiah, were also the prophets of hope. After commemorating the destruction of the Temple, Jews spend the next seven weeks in synagogue – leading up to Rosh Hashanah itself – reading the Haftarah of comfort about rebuilding and renewal. This sense of resilience is hard-wired in Jewish history. The whole idea of the Haggadah is very much in keeping with the uplifting words of Martin Luther King Jr., who famously said “only when it is dark do you see the stars.” Jews are not fatalists, but rather draw inspiration from difficult times to aspire to a better tomorrow.

The great Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks of blessed memory once said: “Jews have faced more uncertainty than any people in all of history. Throughout century after century, Jews did not know if they will still be here next year. Jews have known every kind of uncertainty and we survived the whole lot. Not only did we survive the whole lot but there is also something really unusual about Jews and Judaism; as it says in Exodus 1:12 ‘The more they were oppressed, the stronger they grew.’ That is what I call super-resilience. Resilience means you survive the pressures. Super resilience means you grow stronger with the pressures.”

This idea of super-resilience has been core to Israel’s identity. Facing wars from different enemies since 1948, Israel has drawn strength from the diversity and determination of its people to overcome adversity and emerge stronger for it. Part of its resilience comes in no doubt from its ethos of communal solidarity, where people know they are in the same boat and that they are only as strong as their weakest link.

Yes, this idea of communal solidarity is indeed being tested today perhaps as never before amid the debates about the hostages. However, a society that wrestles with this idea – and understands the stakes for its future – is a society that should not be counted out at all.

As painful as it is to look back at the past year on this Rosh Hashanah, let’s remember that this difficult exercise of self-reckoning is tied to a plea for being written in the ‘book of life.’ It is interesting that books and life are tied together in the Jewish tradition. Indeed, the National Library of Israel’s renewal has been a ray of light during a dark time, as thousands upon thousands flock to it (even with few tourists in the country during wartime).

If people converge on books even during wartime, it is a sign that the Jewish people have not forgotten to prioritize what has long been central to their identity. A thriving culture links the past and present to ensure a better future. It is part of the super-resilience that will hopefully ensure that the bonds linking Israel and its connection to Jewish communities across the Diaspora will be stronger after this crisis subsides.

Shlomit Naim Naor is a poet and educator. Her two prize-winning poetry books were published to great acclaim by Pardes. Her third book is due to come out in the coming year. She works as the Israel Programming Director at the Institute for Experiential Jewish Education.

Nissimmi Naim Naor is a chef and an Israeli rabbi who works in the realms of culture, art, identity and tradition. He is a major in the reserves and serves with the IDF’s casualty unit. He leads the Siah Yitzhak community in Jerusalem, and is the creator of the television program Sir Ga’agua (Pot of Yearning) on which he cooks with bereaved families.

Forget about poetry, no need for poetry, draw. Forget about books, you don’t have to write anything. Forget everything.

The phone call that called me to the army reserves on October 7 was the beginning of the worst five months of my life. I arrived at my army base, terrified by the news, by the continuing battle, and by what had happened to us on that day, along with the knowledge mixed with the fear that more unbearable and terrible things were about to occur. My job during these five months was to organize and manage the military funerals for the Jerusalem area – names and families filled my waking hours and my insufficient sleeping hours. In the first weeks we worked nights and days, with no free time for anything; but even in the later months I couldn’t read anything. Not a poem, a story, or a novel. Words, which had once been a source of escape, hope and strength, became empty and elusive.

Forget about your body, forget the girls, forget the scars, just write – as if you are not you, just with your memories. Write as though your life is someone else’s. As if you were never abandoned.

It wasn’t only words that were lost to me in those months, it was also the kitchen. My desire to cook and bake, for a glass of good wine and a fresh pastry. The love of a conversation about food, its history and the ever-present deep undercurrents – all became pointless. There was a moment, two months into the war, when one of the guys on the base asked something about gnocci, and I instinctively began to explain how pasta was developed in China and wandered westward on the Silk Road, and as I was speaking, for a second, I saw myself from the side – and found myself wondering – who is this man? Is that me? Who cares about food and how it tastes.

As if you didn’t switch countries. That they didn’t die next to you. As if they didn’t lie to you, write.

That terrifying feeling that the country disappeared on 10/7 and has not yet completely returned. The understanding that we are living on very thin ice, and for a few hours we caught a glimpse of the deep abyss lying beneath it.

And those who were killed. The names, which after a few hours become faces, and suddenly we find the son of friends among the fallen, a friend from the neighborhood, a friend’s brother-in-law, the daughter of a colleague. There is no longer any point to anything, and there are no words that can dull the pain.

As if you can fall asleep at night.

The nights became menacing. Dread of messages that would arrive during the night and of all the pain of the day to come, fear of falling into a deep dreamless sleep – and then waking up in a sweat, into an unimaginable reality. And each morning anew, the first thought going through my head – “I can’t believe that this is what our lives have become.”

Write as though you aren’t afraid.

And at home with the girls – routine. Games of backgammon deep into the night, family dinners without me, phone calls, messages, and yes my sweetie, everything will be all right. You can go to sleep now.

Write as though you have someone to pray to.

The most difficult moment every week – the prayer for the safety of the hostages. A whole synagogue, hundreds of men and women, and all absolutely silent when I read the names, first name and the name of their mother, and sometimes where they were abducted from. And a collective sigh of pain and weeping, as we sing of our “brothers in distress and captivity.”

As if anything went easily for you.

Everything is difficult. Everything hurts. Inflamed. Every activity that was routine in our previous world, requires superhuman effort, and things that were difficult, have now become almost impossible. Even a return to the kitchen appears distant, and that’s all right. I already switched careers once, and I will do it again after the war ends.

Write as if you learned to play piano or dance ballet.

I don’t know how to play piano, or dance, but I’m a pretty good baker.

Suddenly it’s useful. A friend whose husband was killed in the war asks me to bake a chocolate, pecan-filled yeast cake for the Shabbat of the shiva. Two days later, when the studio is filled with the aroma of fresh dough and butter, I take yeast cakes out of the oven, slather them with sugar syrup, and remember the hundreds of times I have baked these cakes. How joyful it was then, and how everything is now overshadowed by the touch of sadness. I’m reminded of how much power there is in preparing food for people we love.

Write as though everything is all right. Write as though it is easy to write a book or two or three – but don’t write a book. Poems aren’t necessary.

In the workshop I conduct for the rabbis from New York we all cry when one of the participants speaks of the cake she ate when she sat shiva for her father.

I take off my uniform and put on my red chefs’ shoes.

 

Translation by Rena Bannet