I haven’t told anyone this because, well, first because I know I’ll sound crazy. But second, because I don’t want anyone to spoil it for me.
I went to visit my sister and her family in Israel a couple of months after the Hamas massacre. I wanted to spend time with them, support them, make sure they were okay, and admittedly, ease my guilt about being so far away. It was the first night of Chanukah when I landed – the Festival of Lights—but there was very little light in the country. Posters with photos of the hostages hung on every light pole, store window, park bench, restaurant entrance, and bus station. I couldn’t bear the weight of the hostages staring at me, helpless, the sheer number of them. Taken, assaulted, raped, mutilated. After seeing them all day, I felt numb, and then guilty for feeling numb. It could have been my sister, her friends, or me if we had been at the music festival. The posters were a constant reminder of the hell the country was experiencing. Empty streets at night. Noticeably very few young men, mostly all serving in the army. Restaurants quiet. Stores empty. My hotel, crowded with evacuees from the south.
I arrived in Israel from New York at night and slept into the late morning. I was up several hours during the night in my hotel bed. My sister’s apartment was small, but she had offered to move her two small children to the sofa bed in the living room and give me their bedroom. But I didn’t want to displace them when they were already not sleeping well, worried that they’d have to run to the shelter in the middle of the night. Besides, I was used to my privacy – I lived alone in New York – and knew I’d be happy to have some space and solitude. I was seeing her that night for candle lighting and dinner. In the meantime, I was eager to walk from my Jerusalem hotel to wander around Machane Yehudah – one of my favorite street markets in Israel.
On display were tired-looking strawberries, rust-colored and bruised. They lacked their usual ruby-red shining glow. A man held small bite-size square samples of halva on a platter, but they looked crumbly and dry. The nuts that normally sat in overflowing barrels were only half full (did the supplier go to the army reserves?) and they had none of my favorites: candied pecans and almonds, peanuts covered in a candy shell, almonds dusted with chocolate and cinnamon powder. Instead, there were only matte peanuts and almonds that didn’t seem worth the calories. I didn’t bother with them and went on a hunt for freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, mitz rimon.
The vendors selling their fish, meat, spices, and cheese weren’t yelling at the passersby to purchase their delicacies as they normally did. Their hearts weren’t in it. They looked exhausted, defeated, indifferent. Bound by sadness. Their shouts lacked fervor, mere echoes of a habit from the time before.
After walking down several aisles, I spotted a man at his stand that overflowed with old-looking, beaten oranges and pomegranates captive in a rickety wooden box lying near a large juicer. Despite their appearance, with stubborn hope, I ordered a large cup of pomegranate juice. I immediately drank it and tried to imagine the juice’s antioxidants infusing my body, healing it from the stress it was under, the worry of the last months, and frankly, my fear of visiting a war zone. But it didn’t hit. It wasn’t sweet enough or cold enough, and its color wasn’t as bright as usual. It was more of a pinkish brown, rather than a bright red. I forced myself to finish it.
An old man with a cane asked me for money, and I reached into my pocket and gave him five shekels, some of the change I received from the juice stand. I walked a few feet and felt a raw chill; I wished I had worn my scarf, my gloves. The winters in Jerusalem can be tricky. The days often start out sunny and promising. But then it quickly shifts. It happens all the time, but it still fools me. Immediately, a middle-aged woman reached out her hand for money. I stuck my hand in my pocket and gave her my remaining coins.
“G-d should bless you,” she said.
I walked down the next street where women sold scarves and other textiles, long pieces of fabric that lay in rolls to be custom cut to size. Their faces pale, thin, deflated. I bumped into a man who appeared to be in his mid 50s. He was holding a photo, a close-up.
“This is my son, Yoav,” he said to me in English. “He’s one of the hostages. He was at the Nova festival. He’s just seventeen.”
“Oh my G-d, I’m so sorry.”
The boy had light brown shoulder length hair with streaks of sun-bleached blond, brown eyes speckled with gold – like his hair. He had a golden tan and wore a red T-shirt. He was hugging a beautiful golden retriever. The boy’s blond streaks matched the dog’s. They belonged together. What a beautiful sight. Pure light. A boy ripped from his family and friends. This couldn’t be the end of his life. It couldn’t. G-d wouldn’t let that happen. Light must counteract darkness. Love must nullify hate. It must.
My own education came flooding back to me. My teachers telling me that the Jewish people have persevered over two thousand years because of our light, our determination to never give up hope. Of course! That’s why my family always celebrates Passover, Purim, Chanukah. Because our enemies were not successful. And here I am, my feet standing on the grounds of a Jewish state after thousands of years of not having one, of getting expelled or butchered in foreign countries. But now we do. We are still here. We must prevail. Light must outshine everything else. Light. Chanukah—the Festival of Lights.
All of this—this man walking around with his photo in this time and place of darkness—is just the beginning. It’s before the miracle, before G-d’s intervention. This isn’t the end of the story.
He continued, “I’m not begging for money for myself like these other unfortunate souls all around you. But I want people to give to my son’s favorite charity—Leket—that provides food to the poor. Do so in his merit, and in your merit, and together we can spread light on this very dark Chanukah.”
I reached into my pocket and remembered I already gave away my money. I had come to the shuk only with the change I had already given away and a credit card. I had to withdraw more shekels from the bank and hadn’t the chance to do so yet.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have cash. I gave away whatever I had.”
“You don’t have any change in your bag?” he pointed to my fanny pack.
“No.”
“Can you please check?”
“I don’t. I came from America and didn’t take out shekels yet. I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash.”
“Please check. G-d performs miracles all the time, right? That’s what Chanukah is all about. The menorah’s oil was supposed to last for a very short while, and it lasted for eight full days.”
Wearily, I opened my fanny pack and saw no cash inside. Just my sunglasses, hotel key, and credit card.
“You see?” I showed him my empty bag. “I’m so sorry.”
I looked at him and he placed his son’s photo in my hand.
“Look at him, his eyes, his face.”
“I swear, I have nothing to give.”
“Just look at him and believe in miracles. In Chanukah, in his release.”
I stared into this beautiful boy’s eyes—brown with gold speckles—his sun-bleached hair, his golden tan arms around his beloved dog, and my heart grew heavy and heavier, and as it grew heavier, so did my fanny pack, until I felt its weight pulling me down. Coins began to overflow from my bag. I bent down to pick them up and, as I did, more appeared, and more. There was an empty plastic bag on the ground, and I began to put the coins inside. Tears formed in my eyes and fell down my cheeks.
“This money will feed hundreds, and I know G-d will free Yoav. Now I know.” I heard the man’s voice from above, from where he stood as I bent down to the ground, putting the falling coins inside the bag.
“Never stop believing in Hashem. Never lose hope. There is always a way,” he continued.
A vendor walked by shouting, “Chocolate! Taste the best chocolate!”
A mother walked by, holding her young daughter’s hand. The girl looked at me as they passed and after, turned her head to continue looking. A young couple bustled past me.
I stood up, carrying my heavy bag of coins and moved out of the way to let the vendor pass.
I turned back to continue talking to the man, but he was not there. I looked all around me, thinking he might have tried to move out of the way when the chocolate vendor pushed through the narrow aisle. But he was gone. The boy’s photo was no longer in my hand. Had I dropped it when I picked up the coins? My fanny pack that had been open was now zipped shut, but I hadn’t closed it. I was sure of it. My keys, sunglasses, and credit card were all there. A blue Chanukah candle, that I swear had not been in my bag, was also there.
“Continue to spread light,” the man’s voice sounded in my ear.
I walked ahead out of the shuk and immediately saw a big sign for “Leket” on a table with a blue plastic bucket for donations. A woman stood nearby and collected change from passersby. I placed my bag of coins inside the bucket and walked away.
***
I’ve been back from my trip for three weeks now. It’s the little things that have changed. I’m no longer bothered by the winter cold when I take my dog for walks. Instead, I enjoy the feeling of cold air hitting my face, waking me up. I’m exhilarated. I find myself mesmerized by the crystals formed in the snow as the sun hits it. And I don’t see the snow as snow, as a unit, but I see individual snowflakes all coming together, resting on one another, forming a luminescent kaleidoscope of light. And I want to stay there. To stop time and appreciate the beauty.
Also, I find myself enjoying washing the dishes, watching the soap’s clear bubbles form, expand, and then slowly disintegrate. It’s all a process. Things grow, then shrink. They’re suppressed, then released. The night is dark; then comes the morning light. It’s always bad before it gets better. We are beautiful, alive, fluid.
***
It feels good to finally be able to tell someone what happened. I have been trying to spread light in any way I can. I hand change to whoever asks, I tip generously, offer my seat to strangers on the bus, and I make sure to call my parents every day. It’s not much, but it’s something.
The blue Chanukah candle sits on my nightstand, a symbol of the hope that Yoav will soon return home.
