From the Rabbi

While traveling through Israel during the past two weeks, I saw unforgettable sights — pictures of the kidnapped, of course, but also a sign that reads “Beyachad Nenatzeach” (Together we will win). Togetherness may not have been one of the goals of this war, but it is a goal of the Jewish people to cohere.

For part of my time in Israel, I traveled with the Rabbinical Assembly Mission, a group of 24 Conservative rabbis from North America with goals to listen, hear, and bear witness. The days were long and intense, and it felt as though we had spent a month together, not just three days — meaningful work for a group of rabbis in the face of the devastation to the country and to its people since Oct. 7.  To support displaced families, many rabbis brought duffle bags full of supplies and gifts, cards for soldiers and to those who were hospitalized.

We met with Conservative Yeshiva and Nativ students, who are spending the year in Israel — what has it been like living as a young adult in Israel through all of this? Those who chose to stay convinced their parents they were safe, but I think their choice to stay was their deep connection to our people. We had dinners with our Masorti/Conservative colleagues in Israel from Knesset Rabbanim, and we prayed together.

On our visit to Kfar Aza, one of the devastated Kibbutzim, we were guided by Alon Futterman, a colleague’s son, who was asked to take part in rehabilitating the local community.  When I was a second grader, and we learned about the Holocaust, I remember thinking to myself that the worst of humanity had happened. What I have discovered is that it can be even worse than the Nazi’s acts. We ended the visit with a moving Azkara (memorial service), the constant sound of heavy artillery around us. Never again is now.

We continued on and visited Hamal Omer, near Beer Sheva, a private volunteer initiative to provide soldiers with a place to relax, shower, and eat non-Army food. It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to operate daily. I kept looking around, hoping to see one of my nephews serving in the IDF. This was followed by a conversation with Rabbi Yos Fromer of Magen Avraham Congregation and also  displaced Israeli families from the Gaza Envelope region.  They had been close to Palestinians before and believed in peace, but now, they said, they can’t see how they can live together with the people of Gaza.

Our last day started with a beautiful Shacharit (morning service) at the Egalitarian Western Wall with our local colleagues and rabbinical students. In Tel Aviv, we met with Achim LaNeshek (brothers in arms), which had converted its massive underground garage used for the anti-judicial reform demonstrations to a warehouse of items to support families in need.

That day we met also with families of hostages and a survivor from the Nova party, whose best friends had been murdered. We finished the day at Kikar HaHatufim (the Kidnapped Square), where the long, empty table awaiting its guests to return from captivity was a powerful and emotional sight.  We offered prayers and songs of comfort.

The togetherness of the Israelis these days is remarkable and contagious.  We all hope it will continue.  But the togetherness shouldn’t stop there.  It should include the Jewish people as a whole, forging a symbiotic connection between Jews in Israel and the diaspora.

The perniciousness of what we heard and saw made me realize that I couldn’t have experienced it without this group of pastors. The topics we discussed in the learning sessions focused on temporary burial, and how to pray for the kidnapped — questions asked in Israel now. We value life so much; we value it wherever it is, even in the afterlife. A prayer from Psalm 142: “Listen to my cry, for I have been brought very low; save me from my pursuers, for they are too strong for me. Free me from prison, that I may praise Your name. The righteous shall glory in me for Your gracious dealings with me.”

As Rabbi Akiva taught us, when our worst nightmares come true, God then fulfills the good prophecies as well. The cover page of our program said: “A time to cry, a time to embrace, a time to love, a time to build.” In Leviticus 26, we read “…and I will give peace in the land, and you shall lie down, and none shall terrorize you. I will drive the wild beasts from the land, and neither shall the sword go through your land.” Together we will win.

May 2024 bring hope and freedom to all,

—Rabbi Gadi Capela

The dramatic pro-Palestinian demonstration that took place on Nov. 15 gave witness that Columbia University continues to be a battlefield and a tinderbox of Palestinian Protest, colored by a distortion (intentional or not) of the Palestinian cause.

Since 2008, I have seen the slow progress of Apartheid Week on the Columbia campus, developing from a small booth to an army. Even after two pro-Palestinian organizations —  Students for Justice in Palestine and Jewish Voice for Peace — were suspended from campus because of their violent rhetoric in a demonstration on Monday, Oct. 23, they arranged another demonstration of 200 people outside the gates, carrying signs that said, “By any means necessary.” Following the barbaric events in Israel on Oct. 7, things progressed quickly. My professor, who heads the Institute for Israel Jewish Studies at Columbia, thought we should organize an interfaith event on campus. The matter became more urgent after the Oct. 23 demonstration.

The demonstration prompted a discussion in class. Everyone was shaken. The professor asked me to share with the class my own family history, which I had detailed in my mid-term paper. It centered on my parents’ immigration to Israel in 1951 via Operation Wings of Eagles, and stated the case that virtually half of the Jews in Israel are indigenous to the region. Indeed, 1948 saw thousands of Arabs displaced from Palestine, but thousands of Jews were displaced from surrounding Arab countries as well. None of the students knew that. My subsequent conversations with our own congregants, community residents (including members of GEM, our local ecumenical group) again revealed no awareness of the makeup of the Jewish population in Israel.

This past week, I spoke at the Bayit — the oldest Jewish food co-op. The students there were thirsty for a conversation. A couple of them even said they wouldn’t care if Israel lost the land, as long as they stopped the bombing in Gaza. That many Israeli Jews are indigenous to the land, and that there was always a Jewish presence there, albeit small, was startling to them, yet it resonated. They agreed that we need to think differently, take a new approach.

The essential (and false) argument of anti-Israel rhetoric is that the country was colonized by white Europeans. The essence of all the demonstrations against Israel boils down to this distortion: Jews are white Europeans who colonized the brown indigenous man. Anti-Israel rhetoric found a button that is pushed over and over and over again.

Incorrect. In Europe, Jews were not white enough. In America, Jews gradually became white and assimilated. Moreover, the current American public perception is firmly set that Jews are white. On that basis, Black Lives Matter connects itself to the Palestinian cause, considering Jews white European colonizers.

Since this has become the main argument — that we are all white colonizers — it means that to free Palestine, all measures become acceptable and legitimate. Therefore, we need to create an impactful event with the sole purpose to flip this argument. Considering my personal history, I am in a unique position to state the following premises:

Jews are indigenous to the Middle East and the region. World and regional wars caused a similar number of Jews and Arabs to be displaced in the Middle East in the years surrounding 1948. We are not giving up on interfaith dialogue; on the contrary, we will continue to speak to all who denounce the savagery in the attack on Oct. 7. We continue to believe that the Middle East must focus on religion and interfaith relations to promote a sustainable peace.

The parallel to the challenges of the 1930s is striking. For many years, I sat behind Eli Wiesel in synagogue and joined him in washing the hands of the Kohanim on the High Holidays. We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. His message to not remain silent in the face of adversity resonated loudly enough. Even though we seem to be Me’atim mul rabim — a few against the many, let us not despair. We must respond to the time and place in which we find ourselves. This is our moment. We must counter that which is a blood libel and yell this message from every rooftop.

May God bless Israel and keep it, and shine His face upon her, and give her peace.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela