Dear TBZ Community,
I often think of the crossing of the sea from this week’s Torah portion, Beshalach, as a story of pure joy: the people of Israel have been saved, they are on the other side of the sea, no longer in danger. They can breathe, they are free from the enemy that enslaved them for 400 years. As they look back at the sea and forward towards their future, they erupt in song, celebrating their salvation and redemption.
However, just a moment before (Exodus 14:11), they were filled with doubt:
וַיֹּאמְרוּ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה הֲמִבְּלִי אֵין־קְבָרִים בְּמִצְרַיִם לְקַחְתָּנוּ לָמוּת בַּמִּדְבָּר מַה־זֹּאת עָשִׂיתָ לָּנוּ לְהוֹצִיאָנוּ מִמִּצְרָיִם
And they said to Moses, “Was it for want of graves in Egypt that you brought us to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, taking us out of Egypt?”
But now, on the other side, they no longer see Pharaoh, no longer feel slavery, no longer experience the chase. They can look forward to the future.
But this year, as I reflect on the crossing of the sea, I realize what this moment holds for the people of Israel. Of course, they erupt in joyful songs, but they also carry the weight of trauma and suffering. Some may even recall the devastation of the Egyptians who drowned in the sea or the impact of the plagues that led to death in every home. A well-known midrash (commentary) helps us understand the complexity of this moment. When the people of Israel begin to celebrate, the angels in heaven join in, but God stops them, saying:
אָמַר הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא: מַעֲשֵׂה יָדַי טוֹבְעִין בַּיָּם, וְאַתֶּם אוֹמְרִים שִׁירָה?
“The work of My hands, the Egyptians, are drowning at sea, and you wish to say songs?” (Talmud Bavli, Megillah 10b)
God names the complexity of the moment, acknowledging the cost of their liberation.
At this moment, the people of Israel also look ahead. They face a vast desert, an unknown journey that will lead them to the promised land, to Torah, and to a new life that may be freer from suffering and filled with blessings. Yet despite the unknowns in their future, they erupt in song because that moment of joy gives them strength for the difficult journey ahead.
As I think about this story, I reflect on my recent trip to Israel, which I returned from today, where I spent ten intense days with the Hartman Institute’s rabbinic fellowship. During my time there, eleven hostages were released: Arbel Yehoud, Agam Berger, Gadi Mozes, Suwannakham, Bannawat, Surasak, Watchara, Pongsak, Ofer Kalderon, Yarden Bibas, and Keith Siegel.
One of the most powerful experiences I had was last Shabbat when I joined the weekly Shabbat vigil, organized by Mishmeret 101, a project of the Mothers of the Hostages. After morning services conclude at the different communities and synagogues in South Jerusalem, people gather at 11:30 a.m. for song, silence, and prayer. This gathering takes place at Oranim Junction, outside the Reform synagogue Kol HaNeshama, an area now referred to as “Kikar Karina” (Karina’s Square), due to the synagogue’s large poster of Karina Ariev. Until last week, the large poster read, “We are waiting for you, Karina,” but since her release on January 25, it has been changed to say, “Karima is home and we are waiting for ALL the hostages to return.” Karina is the cousin Kol HaNeshama’s executive director, who was at this gathering and spoke about her cousin’s return.
This Shabbat prayer gathering is organized by one community in particular, Hakhel, the egalitarian minyan in Jerusalem’s Baka neighborhood, which includes the Goldberg-Polin and Shoham families. Hersh Goldberg-Polin was one of the hostages killed last August and found in the tunnels. Yuval Shoham was a soldier who fell in combat in Gaza at the end of December. The families of these two young men, who knew each other, continue to plead for a hostage deal, until the last hostage comes home, and for the end of this war.
Most of the people at the gathering, myself included, didn’t yet know that Ofer, Yarden, and Keith had been released, as we had not seen the news due to Shabbat. At the start of the gathering, someone announced their release. There was an eruption of joy, tears, and a moment filled with so much hope and possibility. After that, we sat and sang songs of hope, despair, and longing, followed by the reading of the names of all the hostages still in captivity—those believed to be alive and those who have passed. I was asked to read the names of those who have died and pray for their return to their loved ones for proper burial. As I read each name aloud, my voice broke, and I shivered at the weight of what I was reading.
Throughout my week in Israel, I experienced the complexity of this moment. On one hand, it seems that for many, life goes on. There is so much strength and resilience, with powerful stories of kindness, love, and hope. There is also so much pain for what has been, and so much fear and despair for what is yet to come. There is no promised land yet in view. There is an eruption of song for those who are coming back to their loved ones, and fear for those who are not. And for a fragile peace deal. And for leadership that doesn’t care about its people.
This week, I also understand the midrash of the angels singing, and God reminding them about the cost of salvation, in a different way: God, let the people of Israel sing, doesn’t call them to stop. Not yet.
In the midrash, God only calls the angels to stop singing. In a way, God understands that the people, who have gone through all they have endured, could not hear God’s plea to have compassion for the Egyptians. God, surely, hopes that the angels can. Eventually, we are all called, in the practice of Passover, to take a drop of wine for each of the plagues, to lessen our enjoyment and acknowledge the suffering of the Egyptians.
As I spent this week in Israel and in my many conversations, I could see how for many, the trauma, pain, loss, and fear continue to be so great that it is just too hard to see the suffering of others. I did have the opportunity to speak with people who are working for peace, who are working for a shared society, who have not lost hope for the future, who care about the future of the Palestinian people and Israelis side by side, and who can and still utter the word “peace,” at least as an aspiration or a dream not to give up.
One of them was Ghadir Hani, a Palestinian citizen of Israel, an award-winning peace activist, and a member of the Habima-Almanbar Initiative – a Religious Vision for Peace. She reminded me that we can’t close our ears to God’s plea of the angels. She gave me hope.
At the same time, from my experience, it seems that many Israelis (perhaps most?) can’t yet see beyond their own pain, and understandably so. They can’t yet hear the plea from God, the reminder that the Egyptians are drowning. But Ghadir and others reminded us not to give up on that call.
There was another powerful image shared by Rabbi Adi Romem, a graduate of the Hartman Institute’s Beit Midrash, who quoted Donniel Hartman saying that when a siren sounds, alerting you to danger, the directions and instinct are to crawl into a protective pose. This position allows you only to see yourself and no one else around. I learned that this is a phenomenon in Israel— in Hebrew it is called משתבללים (making oneself into a snail) and it means that people curl up into themselves rather than deal with the terrible reality in front of them. Rabbi Romem shared that, in a way, many are still in a state of trauma, still holding this position, but perhaps, she said, we must move on and look beyond; raise our heads to see not just our own trauma, but also the trauma that surrounds us. God’s call to the angels is exactly that. It is a call that can be relevant to us all, and not just regarding Israel, but in our own lives and the injustices and suffering we see around us.
I come back to Brookline with so much sadness for so much broken-heartedness. But at the same time, I return hopeful and reminded not to give up, as I witness the resilience of the people and the strength of courageous leaders.
In the crossing of the sea, we erupt in song for the joys we experience, even when we look back and forth with trepidation. And God reminds us (though not all of us may be ready for this reminder) that we can’t look just into our own suffering or joy, we must look outward and beyond. Throughout my week in Israel, I witnessed the complexity of the moment and the hard road ahead, but I remain hopeful for the future—perhaps just as the people of Israel remained hopeful as they crossed the sea.
May this Shabbat bring us peace, strength, and clarity. May we find the courage to forgive, heal, and move forward together, knowing that we do not walk this journey alone.
May God grant blessing and comfort to all of us and our loved ones. May we discover strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts generously. May those who are ill find healing.
May all the hostages soon return to their families and friends; may peace prevail, and may our leaders prioritize life. May those working for peace be granted strength and courage to continue their sacred work, and may we soon witness peace and dignity for all.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia
P.S. It is hard to stay silent to President Trump’s proposal for the U.S. to take control of Gaza and I want to express my deep concern. There are no adequate words to express the horror of forcibly displacing millions of Palestinians with the backing of the U.S. These proposals are absolutely unacceptable, violating both U.S. law and international law. Trump’s reckless words may sabotage fragile ceasefire efforts and jeopardize the lives of hostages still held by Hamas. Pro-war forces in Israel seeking to sabotage the ceasefire from within are already celebrating. We must not remain silent and the Jewish community must not remain silent.