Looking Back to Go Forward

There is a growing unease over the direction of the Republican Party when President Trump leaves the political stage. For decades, support for Israel was one of the few issues that transcended partisan politics. While that bipartisan consensus has steadily eroded, particularly as anti-Israel sentiment has become increasingly mainstream on the left, Republicans have largely remained steadfast allies of Israel. President Donald Trump, more than perhaps any American president before him, has demonstrated an unwavering commitment to Israel’s security and legitimacy.

But many are beginning to ask what comes next.

Vice President JD Vance’s recent remarks have unsettled many in the Jewish community. In discussing his efforts to negotiate with Iran, Vance suggested that unnamed figures within the Israeli government were engaged in a secret, well-funded campaign to manipulate American policy. His comments echoed one of history’s oldest antisemitic accusations, namely that Jews secretly wield hidden influence over governments and push nations into wars for their own benefit. Such conspiracy theories have fueled hatred and persecution for centuries.

Antisemitism rarely begins with open expressions of hatred or explicit calls for violence. More often, it starts with insinuations about secret power, hidden agendas, and divided loyalties. That is why many Jews found the vice president’s comments so disturbing. It is not simply what he said, but what such rhetoric legitimizes when it comes from one of the most powerful elected officials in the world.

Last week, a majority of Democratic members of Congress voted to cut off aid to Israel. Candidates who traffic in anti-Israel rhetoric are moving ever closer to seats in Congress and the Senate. In New York City, the nation’s largest Jewish population is governed by a mayor who routinely vilifies Israel and has renewed his public threat to arrest Israeli Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu should he attend the United Nations General Assembly in September. Whether such a threat could ever be carried out is almost beside the point. The fact that it can be uttered, debated, and amplified in the mainstream without widespread outrage reflects how dramatically the public conversation has shifted and how much traction these views are gaining.

The same trend is evident overseas. Britain’s new government has signaled a far more confrontational approach toward Israel. Belgium has joined a growing list of European countries implementing punitive economic measures against Jewish communities in Yehudah, Shomron, and the Golan. Across Europe, support for Israel is becoming increasingly conditional, while hostility toward Israel is becoming increasingly respectable, and attacks on Jews and Jewish targets are becoming increasingly commonplace.

We have sadly grown accustomed to reports of Jews being assaulted in New York, Toronto, London, Paris, and other major cities. This week came word of Jews being attacked in Mongolia, a country with almost no Jewish population. It was a chilling reminder that antisemitism has never depended on familiarity with Jews. It thrives on myths, conspiracy theories, and propaganda, requiring little contact with its targets. The hatred has become global.

Viewed individually, each of these developments might be dismissed as an isolated incident. Taken together, they paint a sobering picture. The atmosphere has changed. Ideas that once lived on the political fringes are entering the mainstream. Hostility toward Israel is no longer confined to radical activists. Suspicion of Jews and Israel is increasingly expressed openly, confidently, and without apology.

Throughout our long history, the Jewish people have learned that political fortunes rise and fall. Friends become enemies. Governments change. Alliances shift. We appreciate and pray for leaders who stand with us and defend truth and justice. But our ultimate security has never rested in Washington, London, Brussels, or any other capital.

As the world around us grows increasingly uncertain, the lesson of these days becomes ever more relevant. Our task is not to panic, but to strengthen our emunah, deepen our commitment to Torah and mitzvos, and remember the promise that has sustained us through every exile. Nations may change, public opinion may shift, and yesterday’s allies may become tomorrow’s enemies, but the Ribbono Shel Olam remains the Shomer Yisroel, and that never changes.

How quickly things change. Last week it was Shabbos Chazon, the saddest Shabbos of the year, surrounded by mourning and the signs of aveilus. On Tisha B’Av, we sit on the floor as we read Eicha, recite Kinnos, mourn the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh, and reflect upon the suffering our people have endured throughout the various goluyos. We wonder when the sadness will end.

And then Tisha B’Av concludes. The mourning ends. And Shabbos Nachamu arrives. The atmosphere changes. The sadness gives way to hope. We play music again and wear clean clothes. There is a palpable feeling of relief.

But why? Has anything really changed? The Bais Hamikdosh has not been rebuilt. The Har Habayis remains off limits. The shu’olim - foxes - still roam where the Shechinah once rested, and the world has become no friendlier toward us. Why, then, are we suddenly comforted? What comfort do we have?

The answer lies in understanding the meaning of the word nechomah.

On Shabbos Nachamu, we begin reciting a series of seven haftaros from Yeshayahu, the novi of consolation, that accompany us from Tisha B’Av until Rosh Hashanah. This Shabbos derives its name from its haftarah, which opens with the famous words, “Nachamu, nachamu ami  -  Be comforted, be comforted, My people.”

The novi offers us double comfort, and we wonder about the repetition.

Following the sin of Adam Harishon, the posuk states, “Vayinochem Hashem” (Bereishis 6:6). Rashi explains that the word nechomah means more than consolation. It also means reconsidering, stepping back, and looking at a situation from a different perspective. Following what Adam had done, Hashem was reconsidering the creation of man.

But the word nechomah also means comfort. We can explain that these two definitions really go together because comfort comes in two stages. First there is consolation, the soothing reassurance that the pain will not last forever. Then comes the second, deeper form of nechomah, when the mourner steps back from the immediate darkness surrounding him and begins to see the larger picture. In truth, nothing has changed, but the person receives comfort because everything begins to look different as his perspective changes.

We can now understand why the novi says to us, “Nachamu, nachamu.” Hashem is offering us both forms of consolation, both definitions of nechomah.

We find this dual message of nechomah at the end of Maseches Makkos. Chazal recount that Rabbon Gamliel, Rabi Elazar ben Azaryah, Rabi Yehoshua, and Rabi Akiva were once standing overlooking the Har Habayis when they saw a fox emerging from the site of the Kodesh Hakodoshim. The others cried. Rabi Akiva smiled.

When Rabi Akiva explained that the fulfillment of the prophecy of destruction guaranteed the fulfillment of the prophecy of redemption, they said to him, “Akiva, nichamtonu. Akiva, nichamtonu.”

Just as Yeshayahu Hanovi did, they repeated the words. Rabi Akiva had not changed reality. He changed the way they perceived it. That is the essence of nechomah.

Unfortunately, we arrive at Shabbos Nachamu carrying burdens that feel painfully familiar.

The nations of the world continue to align themselves against us. As Israel fights enemies sworn to its destruction, much of the civilized world condemns the victim while excusing the aggressor. Jews everywhere are targeted and vilified.

The slogans change. The hatred never does.

Today’s antisemitism disguises itself as anti-Zionism or humanitarian concern. Yesterday it accused Jews of poisoning wells, spreading plagues, and consuming gentile blood. Today it speaks the language of international law, human rights, and political campaigns.

The vocabulary has evolved, not the hatred. It is still the same.

It is the ancient animosity of Yishmoel toward Yitzchok, of Eisov toward Yaakov, clothed in the fashionable language of each generation.

Europe, whose soil is saturated with Jewish blood, once again tolerates public displays of antisemitism that many believed had disappeared forever. Jews wonder if they have a future there. University campuses in America have become increasingly hostile to openly Jewish students. Public figures who once concealed their prejudice now express it proudly and are praised for it. Democrats who support Israel put their careers in jeopardy, and the vice president regularly insults Israel and speaks against it. When people gather to discuss current events, they wonder how much longer American Jews will continue to enjoy the freedom with which we have been blessed.

History rarely repeats itself in precisely the same form. It simply finds new disguises.

For us, however, none of this is surprising. Chazal taught us long ago, “Sinah yordah la’olam,” hatred descended to the world when Klal Yisroel stood at Har Sinai and accepted the Torah. Our enemies may invent new explanations for their hostility, but the source remains unchanged. We are hated because we carry Hashem’s Torah and bear His Name.

That realization does not lessen the pain, but it changes the perspective, and that is the beginning of nechomah.

As we conclude the mourning of the Three Weeks and Nine Days, we wonder how much longer the golus will continue and when it will finally end. America is battling Iran, and we fear the war will expand to Eretz Yisroel. We wonder what we can do to bring peace.

When history seems to repeat itself generation after generation, we do not find the answers to our questions in newspaper headlines, political analysis, or in the shallow conversations that often substitute for serious thought.

A young man once boarded a bus to Bayit Vegan and noticed Rav Moshe Shapiro sitting quietly nearby. Gathering his courage, he approached him and asked, “How are we supposed to understand what happened during the Holocaust?”

Rav Moshe looked at him warmly.

“Shalom,” he replied.

He did not say anything else. He did not address the question or even acknowledge it.

A talmid witnessed the interaction, and when Rav Moshe got off the bus, he followed him and asked why the well-known rosh yeshiva and baal machshovah had ignored such an important question. Rav Moshe explained, “The young man knows where I live. He knows how long this bus ride is. If he thinks that the answer to that question can be given in the few minutes before I reach my stop, then he isn’t really looking for an answer. He’s just looking to make conversation. I don’t have time for pointless conversations.”

Some questions are simply too profound to be answered with slogans. Life demands depth and understanding. To understand Jewish history requires Torah. It requires us to look beyond the surface and recognize the Hand guiding events that often appear random.

That is what Parshas Va’eschanon teaches us.

Just as the novi gives us nechomah, Moshe Rabbeinu teaches us how to attain it.

Moshe Rabbeinu takes Klal Yisroel by the hand and shows us what Rabi Akiva would understand centuries later.

The answer to Jewish history is found in the Torah.

Parshas Va’eschanon is much more than a review of events that took place long ago. It is a blueprint for every generation that would one day struggle to understand exile, persecution, and redemption.

Moshe begins with his own heartfelt tefillah. “Hashem Elokim, Atah hachilosah...” He recounts how he pleaded with Hashem to allow him to enter Eretz Yisroel and then accepted Hashem’s decree barring him from the Holy Land with complete faith.

Before teaching Klal Yisroel how to live, Moshe Rabbeinu teaches us how to trust. He reminds us that no matter how much remains hidden from our understanding, there is One Who sees the entire picture.

Rashi explains Moshe’s declaration, “Asher mi Keil bashomayim u’va’aretz asher yaaseh k’maasecha u’gevorosecha…,” by contrasting Hashem with earthly rulers. A king of flesh and blood may wish to show compassion, but he is constrained by ministers, advisors, and political realities. Hashem answers to no one. His mercy is absolute, unrestricted, and perfect.

Through those words and that idea, we begin to find nechomah as we recognize that our lives are not governed by chance or by the whims of world leaders, but rest securely in the Hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Moshe then reminds us where life is found. He says, “V’atem hadeveikim baHashem Elokeichem chaim kulchem hayom.” Those who remain attached and devoted to Hashem are truly alive.

Life is not merely breathing, eating, sleeping, or playing ball. Life is attachment to Hashem. Life is found in a heartfelt Shemoneh Esrei, another posuk, another blatt Gemara, another act of chesed, another mitzvah performed with sincerity.

The world defines life by comfort, wealth, and security. The Torah defines life by clinging to Hashem.

Moshe continues: “Mi goy gadol asher lo Elokim kerovim eilov...”

What other nation possesses such a gift? What other people can call out to the Creator of the universe and know that He hears every sincere cry? And what other nation has experienced what ours has?

Who else was taken from the midst of another people through miracles, signs, wonders, and open displays of Divine providence?

Who else has survived exile after exile, persecution after persecution, only to emerge again and again proclaiming the same eternal truths?

History has no parallel. Neither does Klal Yisroel.

Moshe then brings us to the foundation upon which everything else rests: the Aseres Hadibros, the charter of the Jewish people that defines who we are, how we live, and why we endure.

Immediately afterward, we proclaim the words that have accompanied us through every generation: “Shema Yisroel Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad.”

Those words put us to bed each night and accompany us every morning.

They have echoed from the stirring cries of Yom Kippur to the whispered bedtime Krias Shema, and to the final declarations of martyrs ascending al kiddush Hashem.

Empires have risen and fallen. Kings have disappeared. Cultures and civilizations have vanished. But those words have never ceased to be spoken.

That, too, is nechomah.

Moshe’s message reaches its practical conclusion a few pesukim later.

“V’osisa hayoshor vehatov.”

If we seek Hashem’s protection, we must strive to become the people He asks us to be.

Not merely believers, not merely observers, but honest, compassionate, and upright Jews. When we are a nation faithful in both belief and conduct, we can ask Hashem to fight our battles.

When we fight our yeitzer hora, He fights our enemies. When we build homes of integrity, businesses of honesty, communities of kindness, and lives that reflect His Torah, the bris remains intact, along with Hashem’s promises.

Moshe assures us that Hashem will bring His people into the land promised to the avos, filling their homes with brachos and goodness.

Those promises were never abandoned. They were only delayed until we prove worthy of receiving them.

Perhaps that is the deepest meaning of Shabbos Nachamu.

Nothing changed this week. The stones of the Kosel still stand as lonely testaments to what once was and what we have lost. The Har Habayis still waits for us to return. Our enemies have not disappeared. The world’s attitudes have not improved.

So what is the nechomah?

The nechomah is that everything has changed because we have changed. Our outlook has changed.

The tears of Tisha B’Av were never meant to leave us in despair. They were meant to restore our vision. The mourning stripped away our illusions and reminded us who we are. When we perceive the churban and the losses, when we see the foxes strutting about, confident and content, that is when we know that resurrection is coming. When we see dusk, we know that there will be dawn. When the sun goes down, we know it will also rise.

Shabbos Chazon marks where we were. Shabbos Nachamu points to where we are going.

The Bluzhever Rebbe experienced unimaginable tragedy during the Holocaust and then came as a refugee to America, where he witnessed and helped lead the rebirth of Yiddishkeit. He understood this better than most.

A young bochur once stood in line after lighting Chanukah licht to receive the rebbe’s brocha. Hoping to preserve the moment, he quietly asked a friend to photograph him standing beside the rebbe.

The rebbe noticed the boy handing his friend the camera to capture the moment.

When the young man approached for a brocha, the rebbe warmly took his hand and smiled.

“Bochur’l,” he said, “you probably want a picture because I represent a world that has disappeared.”

The boy nodded shyly.

“But never forget,” the rebbe said as he held the young man’s hand, “that the future of that world that is no more is standing inside of you.”

The man who had survived destruction and came to embody the generation and world that had been lost was telling a young member of the next generation that the past itself guaranteed the future - a future of Torah, a future of Yiddishkeit, a future of Yidden.

That is why we remember. That is why we spent three weeks remembering and mourning. Not because we live in the past, and not because we are held hostage by the past, but because we believe in tomorrow, because we want to build a better tomorrow.

We rejoice on Shabbos Nachamu not because the golus has ended, but because we know that it will.

Over the past nine days and three weeks, we returned to our origins. We remembered our losses. We confronted our failures. We mourned the Bais Hamikdosh, the harugei Beitar, Rabi Akiva and the other Tannaim, the victims of Tach V’Tat, of York, England, of the Crusades, and of the Holocaust.

Now we can lift our eyes. Now we hear the words of the novi once again as he calls out to us through the ages and proclaims, “Nachamu, nachamu ami.”

Be comforted. Step back. See beyond the ruins. Look beyond the darkness. Recognize that the same Hashem Who accompanied us through every golus walks beside us today.

Our path to geulah begins long before Moshiach arrives. It begins the moment a Jew learns to see history through the eyes of Torah.

That is the gift of nechomah.

That is the message of Shabbos Nachamu.

And that is why, even before the Bais Hamikdosh is rebuilt, we are able to proclaim again and again: “Nachamu, nachamu ami.”

We know it is on the way. It is almost here.

May we merit the day when those words are no longer a promise of consolation, but the joyous proclamation of redemption itself, bemeheirah beyomeinu. Amein.

Churban and Geulah

There are many sad sounds we hear during the Nine Days, from the mournful melody of Eicha to the scraping of a chair being turned over on Tisha B’Av. There is also the sound of silence we encounter when music would otherwise be playing, when we would have been attending a simcha or gathering at a barbecue or another happy occasion that is put on hold until the Nine Days have ended.

The saddest sound, however, is one we have almost stopped hearing altogether. It is the sound of another Jew slipping away.

Every year, as Tisha B’Av approaches, we mourn the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh. We remember the flames that consumed Yerushalayim, the blood that flowed through its streets, and the millions of Jews who were killed, exiled, enslaved, and scattered.

We cry over a churban that occurred nearly two thousand years ago, and Chazal taught us that it has never really ended. Every generation in which the Bais Hamikdosh is not rebuilt is considered as if it was destroyed.

The churban is not only past history. It is also present tense.

Today, Jews once again live under physical threat. Our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisroel endure terrorism, rockets, and war. Around the world, antisemitism has emerged from the shadows with a brazenness few imagined possible just a few years ago. Jewish schools require guards. Shuls require security. Jews are attacked in the streets of Europe and America simply because they are Jews. Politicians openly mock and criticize us.

Physical danger has returned.

But there is another tragedy unfolding, quieter than war and less visible than terrorism, yet in many ways no less devastating. It is the disappearance of Jews.

Last week, much attention was given to a poll that purported to show that New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani enjoys greater approval among American Jews than Israeli Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu. The numbers themselves are startling. Even more startling were the accompanying findings, which showed that substantial numbers of American Jews believe that the United States is too supportive of Israel, and many describe Israel’s actions in Gaza in the harshest possible terms.

The poll indicated that the antisemitic Mamdani has a 44% approval rating among U.S. Jews, while only 32% approve of Netanyahu. The Associated Press survey also found that 38% of Jews say the United States is being too supportive of Israel, and 30% say that Israel’s actions in Gaza are genocide.

People argue over what the poll means politically.

Perhaps we should ask what it means spiritually.

My late uncle, Rav Berel Wein, had a way of reducing complicated sociological questions to a simple truth. He would often remark that it should not surprise anyone that Jews who eat from McDonald’s eventually lose their Jewish feeling.

It is not really about hamburgers. It is about assimilation.

When Jewish life becomes little more than an ethnic memory, when Torah is replaced by culture and mitzvos by nostalgia, Jewish identity eventually becomes so diluted that it loses its very foundation.

This did not happen overnight.

For decades, millions of American Jews convinced themselves that identity could survive without Torah. They thought that Chanukah candles, a Pesach Seder, a bar mitzvah, a few Yiddish expressions, bagels, lox, brisket, and nostalgic memories would somehow be enough. They are not.

Children were taught to be good people, but not necessarily good Jews.

They learned every fashionable ideology of the day but little about Avrohom Avinu, Har Sinai, the churban, or the return to Eretz Yisroel. They could speak fluently about oppression and colonialism, but had never studied why the Jewish people have davened toward Yerushalayim for over three thousand years.

When October 7 arrived, it did not create this crisis. It exposed it.

Many young Jews had never been given the tools to understand why Israel exists, why Jews have returned to their ancient homeland, or why Jewish survival has always depended upon remaining faithful to who we are.

A vacuum never remains empty.

If parents, schools, and communities do not fill Jewish hearts with Torah, emunah, history, and pride, someone else will fill them with other ideas.

And they have.

This, too, is churban.

So, on Tisha B’Av, as we mourn the millions who died al kiddush Hashem throughout the generations, we also weep for the millions who have been lost to intermarriage, assimilation, and indifference - Jews whose names remain Jewish, while their children and grandchildren may never know what it means to say Shema Yisroel.

Their loss is not marked by a yahrtzeit.

No Kaddish is recited. No shivah is observed.

Yet, Klal Yisroel is diminished all the same.

In Eretz Yisroel today, we are witnessing firsthand how devastating the loss of Yiddishkeit can be for the Jewish people. What we see taking place is not merely a political disagreement or a debate over public policy. It is a kulturkampf, a struggle over the soul and character of the Jewish state, the likes of which many of us have never experienced.

Jews whose grandparents lived lives of Torah and mitzvos are at the forefront of efforts to reshape the spiritual identity of the country. The painful irony is impossible to ignore. Descendants of those who once davened in shtieblach, learned in yeshivos and botei medrash, and sacrificed everything for Yiddishkeit are now leading campaigns against many of the very institutions that ensured the survival of Torah after the Holocaust and remain at the heart of what being a Jew is all about.

Make no mistake about it: What is going on now is far more than a dispute over the military draft of yeshiva bochurim.

That issue is merely the symbol of a much broader struggle.

Rabbi Wein, whose final book, A Life of Learning, was recently published ahead of his upcoming first yahrtzeit, recounts there the first time he encountered the Ponovezher Rov.

It was 1947. Rabbi Wein was not yet bar mitzvah. The Ponovezher Rov had already become a legendary figure, and when he arrived in Chicago, the city’s rabbonim, roshei yeshiva, and approximately 250 yeshiva talmidim gathered to hear him.

“We all sensed his aristocratic bearing,” Rabbi Wein writes. “The Torah shone from him.”

The bais medrash was overflowing. The Ponovezher Rov first delivered a brilliant shiur and then turned to the future of Eretz Yisroel.

Rabbi Wein recalls his astonishing prediction: “He predicted that a Jewish state would be established, but that it could very well be that the Jewish government would put a person in jail just for being a shomer Shabbos.... That was my first exposure to the Ponovezher Rov. I had never heard words like that before.... I went home with my father.... When we came home, my mother asked, ‘So what did he say?’ and my father told her [about his prediction].”

Those words must have sounded almost unimaginable to the audience in Chicago at the time. Yet, history unfolded much as the Ponovezher Rov foresaw. The State of Israel was established, and while Jews are, boruch Hashem, not imprisoned simply for being shomrei Shabbos, we are witnessing something that would have been equally difficult to imagine: Thousands of bnei Torah, whose lives are devoted to limud haTorah, are being treated as enemies of the state, facing arrests, threats, and relentless efforts to dismantle the Torah world. Alongside this has emerged a painful and dangerous rift among Jews, one that many believe is unlike anything experienced since the founding of the state.

The Ponovezher Rov foresaw the great challenge that the Jewish people would face from Jews who no longer understood what Torah is, what a ben Torah represents, and why the Torah itself is the heartbeat of Klal Yisroel.

And now, seventy-eight years later, just a couple of weeks ago, senior Israeli roshei yeshiva traveled to Chicago, among other places, to present their case and raise desperately needed funds to sustain the Israeli yeshivos and yungeleit, who are being squeezed financially by anti-Torah state forces engaged in this battle.

The battle extends far beyond yeshivos and yungeleit. It also encompasses Chinuch Atzmai, the independent Torah school system founded with extraordinary mesirus nefesh by Rav Aharon Kotler, the Chazon Ish, Rav Zalman Sorotzkin, and the gedolei hador, who understood that without authentic Torah education, there would be no future for Klal Yisroel. It includes repeated efforts to weaken the autonomy of Torah institutions, reduce funding for yeshivos, alter the religious character of the public sphere, challenge the sanctity of Shabbos, and erode the kedusha of the Kosel, Eretz Yisroel, and Am Yisroel.

Each controversy may appear to stand on its own, but all are expressions of the same underlying conflict: What should a Jewish state look like? Should it be guided by the eternal values of Torah or should it resemble every other modern Western democracy, with Judaism relegated to little more than a cultural artifact?

This is the tragedy of spiritual distance. When Torah is no longer the lens through which a Jew sees the world, even the institutions that preserved the Jewish people for thousands of years can come to be viewed as obstacles rather than treasures. The yeshiva, once the pride of the Jewish people, becomes a target of resentment. The Kosel, once the symbol of every Jewish heart’s longing, becomes just another public site to be redefined. Shabbos, the gift that has sustained us, becomes an inconvenience to be accommodated rather than a covenant to be cherished. The holy city of Yerushalayim becomes a battleground over whether stores should remain closed on Shabbos.

The greatest sadness is that so many of those fighting these battles are our own brothers and sisters.

Had they been raised to appreciate the beauty of Torah, the sacrifice of previous generations, and the miracle of the Torah world rebuilt after the churban of Europe, they might see these institutions not as relics of the past, but as the very heartbeat of the Jewish future.

That, too, is part of the churban we mourn during these days.

Not only the stones that were burned, but the hearts that have grown distant.

During these Nine Days, we refrain from music and limit our joy because our nation’s heart remains broken.

Perhaps we should also allow ourselves to mourn the brothers and sisters who are still alive but are disappearing from our people.

The Gemara teaches that the second Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because of sinas chinom. It will be rebuilt through ahavas Yisroel. Love means more than merely embracing another Yid. It means seeking to bring him home.

The answer to assimilation is not better politics. It is not better messaging. It is not cute slogans or social media campaigns.

It is Torah.

It is parents who teach their children that being Jewish is not simply an ancestry, but a destiny.

It is schools that fill young hearts with pride in Hashem, His Torah, and His people.

It is communities that understand that every Jewish child who grows up loving Torah is another stone laid in the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh.

The enemies of the Jewish people seek to destroy our bodies. Assimilation destroys our souls. During these Nine Days, we mourn both.

And perhaps, if our mourning is sincere enough - for the Jews we have lost, for those we are still losing, and for those who can yet be found - it will help bring the day when mourning itself will disappear and the words of the novi Zechariah (8:19) will finally be fulfilled: “The fast of the fourth (17^th of Tammuz), the fast of the fifth (Tisha B’Av) ... shall become days of joy and gladness.”

Chazal tell us that Moshiach was born on Tisha B’Av. The Nine Days are not only about mourning. They are also about rebuilding. Every Jewish child who learns the Alef-Bais, every Jew who puts on tefillin, every family that begins keeping Shabbos, every baal teshuvah, and every person who begins learning Torah is another brick in the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh.

Perhaps this is the cry of the Nine Days for our generation. We mourn a Bais Hamikdosh that was destroyed because Jews became distant from one another and from our Father in Heaven. We must mourn every Jewish soul that has drifted away and believe that every soul can return. The same Jewish spark that burned in Avrohom Avinu, in the kedoshim of Europe, and in the builders of Torah in Eretz Yisroel after the churban still burns somewhere within every Jew. Sometimes it is very deep, very hidden, and very small, but it is there. Our task is not only to mourn what was lost. It is also to dedicate ourselves to bringing home what was lost.

My dear friend, Rav Eliezer Sorotzkin, who for many years led Lev L’Achim and today heads Chinuch Atzmai, was in the United States last week and shared with me a remarkable story that offers a perspective we would do well to remember.

Eighty years ago, the parent committee of the Shearis Yisroel cheder discovered that the father of two boys attending the school traveled to the beach on Shabbos, Rachmana litzlan. The committee members were aghast. They concluded that the boys could no longer remain in the cheder.

The renowned chareidi writer Rav Moshe Schonfeld was involved with the school and suggested that before taking any action, they should discuss the matter with the Chazon Ish.

The situation was presented to the Chazon Ish, and he listened carefully as the parents spoke. Then, instead of responding immediately, as was his usual practice, he sat in silence.

Five long minutes of deep concentration passed.

Finally, he lifted his eyes and quietly said, “I searched through the entire Torah. I carefully examined all the punishments prescribed for a mechallel Shabbos, and I did not find anywhere that it is forbidden to teach Torah to his sons.”

This is not to say that we should begin admitting the children of mechallelei Shabbos into our schools. Rather, the lesson is that perhaps we should look at those Jewish children in the United States and Eretz Yisroel who have wandered so far from the path of their ancestors with sadness and compassion, and ask whether there is some way we can reach them, inspire them, help bring them home, and support worthy organizations such as Lev L’Achim, Shuvu, and Oorah, which engage in this holy work.

The Kuzari, (5:27), the Maharal in Netzach Yisroel (Perek 23) and many other seforim teach us that appreciating the loss of the Bais Hamikdosh and mourning the churban bring us closer to its rebuilding. Grieving over what we have lost arouses Heavenly mercy and hastens the geulah.

May we merit to see the fulfillment of “Kol hamisabel al Yerushalayim zoche vero’eh b’simchasa,” that all those who mourn Yerushalayim will merit to witness her consolation bekarov.

During these Nine Days of mourning, let us daven that we merit to see the day when the Bais Hamikdosh will be rebuilt, when every neshomah that has become distant returns, and when we will merit the ultimate geulah, speedily in our days.

The Next Stop

There are moments when life feels settled, when the world seems to be moving along familiar tracks and even its difficulties feel manageable because they fit into patterns we recognize. And then there are moments when that sense of order begins to loosen, when events seem to arrive faster than they can be processed, and the future feels less predictable than what came before it.

For the Jewish people, that feeling is not new.

It is the story of our history.

As we proceed through the Three Weeks, reflecting on the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh and the long journey of golus that followed, we learn Parshiyos Mattos-Masei, which, at first glance, appears to be little more than a detailed record of travel stations in the wilderness. The Torah lists, one after another, the places where Klal Yisroel encamped during their forty-year journey from Mitzrayim toward Eretz Yisroel, seemingly offering a geographical itinerary that records where the nation stopped along the way.

Sifrei Kabbolah and drush explain that the forty-two encampments listed in the parsha correspond to the Sheim Mem-Bais, the Divine Name of forty-two letters, indicating that each stop was part of a deeply structured spiritual process, carefully guided and precisely arranged by Hakadosh Boruch Hu to prepare the Jewish people for their ultimate entry into Eretz Yisroel.

What appears to be a travel log is, in truth, a map of destiny. This explains the teaching of Chazal (Brachos 8b) that we are obligated to read and study the parsha each week shnayim mikra v’echod targum. Chazal add that this obligation extends to “afilu Ataros v’Divon,” the names of the places where the Jews camped in the midbar. Though the names of these places have no apparent significance and no targum, we are nevertheless obligated to recite them, because every stop and every name carries profound meaning.

Our ancestors were not wandering aimlessly in the desert for forty years. They were engaging in a Divinely orchestrated sequence of stages through which Klal Yisroel had to pass in order to become the nation capable of entering the Land promised to Avrohom Avinu. Some of those stages were elevated and uplifting, while others were marked by complaint, failure, or punishment. Yet, all of them together formed the continuous process of national formation.

One of the most profound messages of this week’s parshiyos is that life is not defined by isolated moments, but by movement through stages, each of which contributes - even when not immediately understood - to the unfolding of a larger story that becomes visible only when viewed in its entirety.

A person often imagines his life as a series of disconnected events - some meaningful and some confusing, some successful and others disappointing - as though each stands alone without necessarily being part of a unified structure. The Torah, however, teaches otherwise. Every stage is part of a journey, every experience is part of a direction, and every passage through life is part of an overarching design that is guided by the Ribbono Shel Olam with purpose and intention.

We are not static beings. We are travelers, and travelers, by definition, are always in motion, even when that motion is not immediately visible.

This is why Chazal emphasize that adam l’umal yulad, man was created for work, for effort, for striving, for movement toward something beyond his present state. The goal is not to stagnate, not to become too comfortable in one place for too long, but rather to pursue continual growth, continual refinement, and continual advancement through the various stages of life.

There are times when progress is visible and satisfying, and there are moments when it feels as though nothing is moving at all. There are times when a person feels elevated and inspired, and times when he feels weighed down by uncertainty or failure. Parshas Masei reminds us that the journey does not cease during those moments, even if it is no longer perceptible in the same way, because we are always in transit. Always moving.

This idea takes on deeper meaning when we consider one of the most frequently misunderstood descriptions of Klal Yisroel in the Torah: the phrase am k’shei oref, a stiff-necked people, used by Hakadosh Boruch Hu after the chet ha’Eigel. At first glance, it appears to be a rebuke, a criticism of stubbornness that led the nation to sin. Yet, Moshe Rabbeinu, in his plea for forgiveness, transforms this description into a defense, arguing that the same trait that can lead to rebellion can also be the source of extraordinary resilience and unwavering loyalty when directed toward the service of Hashem.

What appears to be a negative - obstinacy - becomes, in the context of Jewish survival, an essential strength.

It is this stubborn continuity that has carried Klal Yisroel through every stage of golus. History is filled with civilizations that rose and fell, empires that dominated the world only to vanish, and cultures that once seemed unshakable but ultimately disappeared into obscurity. Yet, Klal Yisroel, despite having been exiled repeatedly, persecuted relentlessly, and dispersed across continents, has continued forward without interruption.

The Romans thought that they had ended Jewish history with the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh.

The Crusaders thought that they had broken the spirit of Klal Yisroel.

The Cossacks thought that they had extinguished Jewish life in Eastern Europe.

The Nazis declared with chilling confidence that they were implementing the “Final Solution.”

Each generation of our enemies believed that it had brought about the end of our story, and each time, boruch Hashem, they were mistaken.

What they perceived as endings were really transitions. They were simply another station in a journey that continued regardless of how final things appeared at the time.

This becomes particularly evident when we study the accounts of the Holocaust through the lens of those who lived through it with a world of emunah. While secular historians often emphasize helplessness and victimhood, the testimonies of frum survivors reveal something far more complex and far more profound. They describe Jews who clung to mitzvos under the most impossible circumstances, who risked their lives for tefillin, and who never gave up their emunah and bitachon, even under the most trying conditions.

They were not passive. They were defiant in their faith.

And when the war ended, their response was not to remain defined by destruction, but to begin again. Survivors rebuilt families, reestablished yeshivos, revived communities, and laid the foundations for the Torah world that exists today. They did so not because they had recovered from trauma in any conventional sense, but because they understood that Klal Yisroel does not remain in any one place indefinitely.

We move forward.

This pattern can be traced throughout Jewish history.

Take Telz, for example. To describe Telz merely as a town is to miss its significance. It was one of the great centers of Torah in Lithuania, home to a yeshiva that shaped generations of Torah leadership. Sunday was the 20^th of Tammuz. On that date, in 5701 (1941), the Jews of Telz were murdered in the Rainiai Forest, and it appeared, at that moment, that an entire world of Torah had been extinguished.

The Nazis were driven not only to destroy lives, but to eradicate an entire spiritual civilization.

But they did not understand the nature of Klal Yisroel. Telz was not extinguished. It was relocated.

Its Torah was carried forward and rebuilt in new places by its leaders, who understood that destruction is never the final word.

Today, the sound of Torah in Yeshivas Telz is loud and strong. On Sunday, Selichos were recited and special shiurim were delivered l’illui nishmos the kedoshei Telz. Their memory lives on. Their sanctified lives are not forgotten.

Similarly, on Tisha B’Av, we mourn the loss of the residents of the ancient city of Beitar. The Rambam describes a city filled with tens of thousands of Jews, led by Bar Kochva, who was believed to be the potential Moshiach, a moment in history when Klal Yisroel stood at the threshold of geulah. And yet, that moment collapsed into catastrophe.

As the Rambam (Hilchos Taanis 5) writes: “A great city by the name of Beitar was captured. Inside it were many tens of thousands of Jewish people. They had a great king whom all of Yisroel and the rabbis believed was the king Moshiach. He fell into the hands of the gentiles and they were all killed. It was a great tragedy, as great as the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh.”

Rav Moshe Shapiro explains that the depth of Tisha B’Av lies not only in what was lost, but in what could have been - in the recognition that Klal Yisroel has stood at the edge of redemption more than once, only to find that the moment slipped away.

And that realization becomes part of the mourning, for we mourn not only the destruction, but also the missed opportunities.

And so, the question naturally arises: How many times in history have we been closer than we realized? How many moments could have unfolded differently? And how often do we fail to recognize the significance of the place we are currently in while we are still standing within it?

These days, we are experiencing many moments that feel historically charged. It is easy to become overwhelmed by the pace of change, to gasp in awe as we perceive Hashem arranging the world for the period of the ultimate geulah.

The Satmar Rebbe would say that after the devastation of the Holocaust, Klal Yisroel stood at the precipice of the geulah. Hashem granted us a glimpse of what redemption would look like - a partial restoration of Jewish life in Eretz Yisroel that was not yet complete, not yet governed by Torah, and not yet accompanied by the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh. It was, in that sense, a station along the way, but not the destination itself.

The Bais Hamikdosh was not returned. Halacha did not rule. It was merely a taste of what was to come.

However, the rebbe would say that because the Jewish people were satisfied with that small taste, Hashem determined that we were not yet deserving of the redemption, and therefore we were left with only a semblance of what could be.

And once again, we were left with yet another stop along the road, another station on the way to geulah.

And that is where we still are today. Moving. Waiting. Building. Continuing along the journey with clarity and faith.

This is the message of Ataros v’Divon, the reason we study every one of the stops in the midbar on the way to Eretz Yisroel. That is the message of Parshas Masei. Until the geulah, no place is the final stop. It is merely a station, and we are not meant to mistake the station for the destination.

We are not meant to settle where we are. We are meant to move. To climb. To grow. To improve. Not to become stationary, apathetic, or content.

People can cycle for miles on a stationary bike, sweating, raising their heart rate, feeling the strain in their legs as though they are accomplishing something significant, and yet they remain in exactly the same place where they began. There is motion, there is effort, there is even exhaustion, but there is no forward movement.

It is possible for a person to be very busy, very active, even very tired from all he is doing, and still remain essentially unchanged. He may feel that he is progressing because he is exerting effort, but if all that effort doesn’t translate into forward movement, then he is still standing in the same place where he started.

This is one of the subtle dangers of spiritual life as well. A person can become accustomed to his routines, his habits, and the way he goes about life, and, without realizing it, begin to mistake activity for advancement. If he becomes too comfortable with where he is, then his entire life can resemble a stationary bike: a great deal of motion without actually going anywhere.

The Torah carefully records each masa, each journey, each departure, and each arrival, emphasizing that the defining feature of those forty years was movement. Not permanence. Not settling. Not remaining in one place for too long, but constant transition from one stage to the next, in a precisely structured process of growth under the direct guidance of Hakadosh Boruch Hu, moving forward until Klal Yisroel reached Eretz Yisroel.

That is the fundamental difference between a journey and a routine.

A routine repeats itself. A journey goes somewhere.

And that is why the Torah does not refer to them merely as encampments, but as masa’os - journeys, departures, movement.

The Torah is telling us that life must always be measured not only by intensity, but by direction. Are we moving forward or are we circling in the same place? A person is not meant to define success by being busy or engaged, but by moving toward a higher destination. It is what yeshivos refer to as shteiging. We must always strive to shteig - not just to learn, not just to go through the motions, but to become better and to grow.

When a person understands that every stage of life is meant to move him forward, then even effort, struggle, and challenge become part of a forward-moving journey rather than an illusion of progress.

Even when we slow down in the summer and take a break for bein hazmanim, we don’t stop. We don’t lose sight of our goals and don’t take a vacation from Torah.

The parshiyos of Mattos-Masei teach us that we are not meant to become spiritually stationary, even if we are spiritually active. We are meant to be in motion, progressing from one masa to the next, never confusing where we are with where we are meant to go.

Because the difference between pedaling and a journey, between merely learning and shteiging, is not how much energy is expended, but whether you are actually going somewhere.

Klal Yisroel, from the midbar until today, has never been a people standing still. We have always been a people moving forward toward the fulfillment of the Divine promise that one day all of these journeys will be seen not as wandering, but as a single path leading home.

May we merit coming home with the geulah sheleimah bekarov.

It’s Time to Come Home

This week, we enter the Three Weeks, a period unlike any other on the Jewish calendar, a time of mourning for events that took place centuries ago. It is a time to remember what we have endured as a people, to miss what we no longer have, and to recognize that the absence we have grown accustomed to was never meant to be normal.

The Bais Hamikdosh was the place where Heaven and earth met. It was where the Shechinah rested openly among Klal Yisroel, where every korban expressed our yearning to draw closer to Hashem. The Bais Hamikdosh was where tefillos ascended with a clarity we can scarcely imagine. It was the beating heart of the Jewish people, the place from which holiness radiated to the entire world.

Its destruction marked the beginning of a long exile in which Hashem’s presence became hidden and our nation was scattered across the globe. We have built communities, yeshivos, and homes of Torah that are sources of great pride. Yet, every simcha remains incomplete, every home bears a zeicher l’churban, and the center of Jewish life remains in ruins.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of golus is not merely that we have lived so long without the Bais Hamikdosh, but that we have become accustomed to living without it. We have learned how to navigate golus. We have learned how to flourish in foreign lands. We have become comfortable in a world that our ancestors never mistook for home.

The Three Weeks insist on awakening us from that complacency. They remind us that no matter how secure we feel, no matter how prosperous our communities become, no matter how much Torah is learned and how many beautiful shuls are built, something essential is still missing. We are a people waiting to come home.

Lately, we have received several reminders of this reality. We became comfortable in our golus in Western Europe, in the United States, and, dare we say, even in Eretz Yisroel. Each of these places has recently reminded us of the true nature of golus, leaving us shaken and concerned.

There was a time, not very long ago, when support for Israel was one of the few issues that united Democrats and Republicans. From President Harry Truman’s recognition of the Jewish state in 1948 through decades of bipartisan congressional support, standing with Israel was viewed as both a moral obligation and an American strategic interest. Republicans and Democrats disagreed on taxes, spending, foreign policy, and countless domestic issues, but support for Israel remained a bipartisan constant.

For decades, New York stood at the center of that consensus. It was home to some of America’s strongest pro-Israel Democrats. Men such as Senators Daniel Patrick Moynihan and Jacob Javits defended Israel unapologetically on the world stage. The city’s large Jewish population helped create a political culture in which support for Israel was considered both morally right and politically prudent.

Those days are changing. Last week’s Democratic primary elections in New York may ultimately be remembered as a turning point. A slate of socialist candidates defeated established Democrats while campaigning on democratic socialism, class warfare, and promises of dramatically expanding government.

More importantly, woven through nearly every successful campaign was a common thread of hostility toward Israel.

These candidates were not merely critical of Israel. They attacked their opponents for supporting Israel. Progressives have created a political environment in which, to survive Democratic primaries, candidates increasingly feel compelled to distance themselves from support for Israel.

That is an extraordinary political reversal.

Ultra-liberal Congressman Dan Goldman was condemned for being too close to Israel and for his relationship with AIPAC. His victorious challenger, Brad Lander, repeatedly attacked those ties, making opposition to AIPAC a defining issue of his campaign.

Lander accused Israel of committing genocide in Gaza, pledged to oppose American arms sales to Israel, and declared after his victory that he intends to become “one of the Jewish members of Congress most willing to stand up for Palestinian human rights,” while insisting that American taxpayers should no longer finance “Netanyahu’s wars.”

Elsewhere, Darializa Avila Chevalier defeated veteran Congressman Adriano Espaillat after campaigning on ending military aid to Israel. Her political résumé includes organizing Columbia University’s pro-Palestinian encampments and participating in anti-Israel activism dating back to her years as part of Students for Justice in Palestine.

Her victory celebration was punctuated by chants of “Free Palestine” as she proudly repeated her promise to block military assistance to Israel.

These were not isolated races.

They were victories by candidates backed and promoted by New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani, whose political rise has become emblematic of a movement that increasingly views opposition to Israel not as a liability but as a badge of ideological purity.

Only a few years ago, rhetoric of the type these people employ would have ended a mainstream political career. Today, it helps build one.

But something deeper is taking place.

When these people talk about Israel, they do not merely mean Israel. They mean us. They mean the Jews - the rich Jews, the greedy Jews, the Jews who throughout history have been made the scapegoats for society’s ills. Yet, they cloak their antisemitism in language that denies the Jewish people’s right, after centuries of persecution, exile, expulsions, pogroms, and the Holocaust, to live safely in their ancestral homeland.

We do not need to agree with every decision of the Israeli government - and we don’t - to recognize that relentlessly portraying the world’s only Jewish state as uniquely evil both feeds, and is fed by, antisemitism.

The line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism becomes increasingly blurred when Jewish students are harassed, Jewish businesses are targeted, and elected officials are ostracized simply because they support Israel’s existence.

Moreover, politicians, as well as podcasters and media talking heads, have discovered that attacking Israel energizes activists, excites donors, dominates headlines, and increasingly wins elections in urban districts.

As hostility toward Israel becomes a reliable path to clicks, ratings, and higher office, more politicians and media figures will adopt similar rhetoric. It is noteworthy that virtually none of the Democratic Party’s leaders or elected officials has condemned the statements and beliefs of these progressive candidates. You can count on the fingers of one hand those who have declared that such individuals do not belong in the Democratic Party, in Congress, in the Senate, or in any position of public responsibility.

As America celebrates its 250^th anniversary as the bastion of liberty, this trend should concern not only Jews, but all freedom-loving people, both in the United States and around the world.

History has repeatedly shown that societies that normalize hostility toward Jews rarely stop there. Antisemitism has often served as an early warning sign of broader civic and moral decline.

The issue facing America is larger than foreign policy.

It is whether we remain capable of distinguishing between a democratic ally defending itself against terrorists and organizations that openly celebrate the murder of civilians.

It is whether ideological purity will replace moral clarity.

These elections, together with the recent primaries that have produced similar candidates in Maine, Michigan, New Jersey, and elsewhere around the country, should serve as a warning.

Ideas once confined to the political fringe have steadily entered the mainstream.

Language once universally condemned is now increasingly accepted and applauded.

Hostility toward Israel is no longer merely tolerated in parts of American politics. It is rewarded.

Chazal tell us, “Halacha hee b’yodua she’Eisov sonei l’Yaakov.” Throughout history, that hatred has worn many disguises. Sometimes it came draped in the robes of religion. Sometimes it marched beneath the banners of nationalism. Today, it often presents itself clothed in the language of human rights, anti-colonialism, and social justice.

The vocabulary changes. The animosity remains the same.

History teaches another lesson. Every empire, every ideology, and every movement that sought to marginalize or erase the Jewish people eventually passed into history.

Klal Yisroel endured.

We do not place our trust in political parties or election returns. We appreciate our friends, recognize dangers when they arise, and speak honestly about the challenges confronting our community. But ultimately, our confidence rests where it always has - in the Ribbono Shel Olam, Who has sustained His people through every generation.

During this period of the Three Weeks, we think of the churban of the Botei Mikdosh and of the many Jewish communities that existed for centuries, only to vanish almost overnight.

If you travel today to Vilna, you will find weathered gravestones whose inscriptions are slowly disappearing beneath layers of moss. You will see a vast, historic cemetery with a sports complex at its center, and you will read about plans to further develop the resting place of thousands of our ancestors. It is not enough that they did their best to destroy Jewish lives, torturing and tormenting them beyond imagination. They now feel compelled to disturb them even in death, denying them the most basic human dignity of resting in peace.

And in Vilna, and all across Europe, on streets where every Friday afternoon women once hurried home carrying fish, where fathers returned from the market and children ran to greet them, today there is only silence. Where there were once shtieblach, shuls, and botei medrash pulsating with life, filled with the sounds of Torah and tefillah that sustained the world, today there is emptiness and desolation, as many locals have done their best to ensure that those places are - and remain - Judenrein.

The Nazis, their collaborators, and all those who sought to erase Jewish existence succeeded in destroying bodies and buildings. They succeeded in emptying streets and silencing communities. But they did not succeed in silencing the Torah.

Auschwitz, Birkenau, and the forests of Ponary and Kelm, as well as Bialystok and Babi Yar, where the voices of Jews were cut short, still stand as haunting reminders of that destruction. But in cities and towns throughout the world, those voices are once again heard, loudly, proudly, and unmistakably.

Today, young people sit in botei medrash, struggling over the very same difficult line of Gemara that a child in Tashkent, Brody, or Warsaw struggled with a hundred years ago. Mothers light Shabbos candles, covering their eyes and swaying with emotion as they recite the same tefillah their grandmothers whispered in small wooden homes across Eastern Europe. Jews everywhere are opening seforim and continuing conversations that tyrants tried to bring to an end.

There is a profound thought from Chazal (Taanis 5b) that offers a powerful response to the tragedies of our history: “Rabi Yitzchok said in the name of Rabi Yochonon, Yaakov Avinu lo meis - Yaakov Avinu did not die.” The Gemara explains that just as Yaakov’s children are alive, he, too, is alive. The continuity of his descendants, their loyalty to Yiddishkeit, and their commitment to Torah and mitzvos are themselves a form of eternity.

Nowhere is that more evident than when we reflect on the Jewish communities of the Diaspora that have been lost since the churban.

Think of the men who sat in little shtieblach in Kishinev and Galicia, worrying whether their grandsons would know a Tosafos. Think of the mothers in Germany, Spain, and Portugal who recited Tehillim, praying that their children remain faithful Jews. Think of the millions of simple Yidden who owned little, endured much, and measured success not by wealth or honor, but by whether their children would continue the chain that stretched back to Har Sinai.

Their worlds were consumed by fire. Their homes were burned. Their botei medrash were emptied. Entire towns, cities, and even countries were emptied of Jews. And yet the chain was never broken.

The bochur wrestling with a difficult Rambam. The father walking to shul on a Shabbos morning with his little son. The family gathered around the table singing zemiros. The child in cheder reciting, “Torah tzivah lanu Moshe morasha kehillas Yaakov.” These are not merely echoes of the past. They are the answer to those who believed they could erase us.

Our president is fighting with his opponents over the construction of a giant arch at Arlington National Cemetery. Civilizations build their monuments out of stone and marble. Ours are built of children, Torah, and memory.

The great cities of Europe once contained magnificent shuls whose walls seemed to touch the heavens. Many are now museums, ruins, or empty shells.

The enormous botei medrash in Lakewood, the crowded shtieblach in Boro Park, and the yeshivos in Eretz Yisroel, filled with thousands of people learning Torah, are our memorials to the generations that came before us.

The signs of the churban are everywhere. You can walk through Yerushalayim and still see walls scorched by the Romans as they destroyed the Bais Hamikdosh. You can see the massive stones they hurled from the walls surrounding the Bais Hamikdosh. You can walk along the very paths trod by millions of olei regel. And, of course, you can daven at the only remnant we have of the Bais Hamikdosh, the Kosel, from which the Shechinah has never departed. It still stands, beckoning us to come home, to return to what we once were and what we can once again become.

We have lost so much. We are a wandering people, and now we enter three weeks of mourning, three weeks of aveilus, to reflect upon what we have lost and what we continue to lack.

The headlines change. Political parties rise and fall. Empires come and go, just as they always have. But the Jewish story has never truly been about them. It has always been about a people carrying the memory of their true home, refusing to mistake golus for geulah.

As the Three Weeks begin once again, we remember what was destroyed and what still must be rebuilt. We remember that we are a people waiting to come home, and that we can never be comfortable until we do.

I remember as a young child, we would be playing outside by a neighbor and my mother would call for us and say, “It’s time to come home. It’s time to have supper and do homework.”

The Three Weeks is like that call, reminding us that we have work to do and we have to come home.

Every day, we await the arrival of Moshiach. Every day, we daven for him and hope that this will be our final day in golus. May these be the last Three Weeks we observe in mourning, and may we soon merit to witness the fulfillment of the tefillah we recite three times each day: “Vesechezenah eineinu beshuvcha l’Tzion berachamim.”
Amein.

Summer Thoughts

For many people, this Shabbos marks the beginning of the “Country Season.” Tens of thousands of Yidden head for the hills, to their summer homes, to what we used to call bungalows, although, by now, most are anything but.

That got me thinking. Do you ever think about where you would go if you wanted to run away from everything?

Not a vacation. Not a weekend getaway. But a place where the noise of the world cannot reach you. A place where the pace of life is measured not by deadlines and headlines, but by the rising and setting of the sun.

I have heard people say that if they ever had to run away for some reason, chas veshalom, they would head to one of those small, picturesque towns tucked away in the hills of Vermont.

I can imagine being holed up in a modest farmhouse at the end of a winding dirt road, surrounded by acres of trees, with a stream running nearby and a porch where I could sit with a sefer and a cup of coffee as the world passes by unnoticed.

I have only been to Vermont a couple of times, but each time I was there, I thought that there was something almost mythical about the place. The rolling green mountains, the village greens, the family farms that have existed for generations, the maple trees that explode into brilliant shades of red and gold every autumn. It represents a kind of America that seems to have been frozen in time - a simpler, quieter place where neighbors know each other, children play outdoors until nightfall, and people still wave as they pass on country roads.

Of course, I am not planning on moving there anytime soon. Aside from the issue of finding kosher food and a minyan, I suspect that I would miss the noise and energy of our communities more than I realize. A Jew was never meant to live alone on a mountain, disconnected from a kehillah and the warmth of other Yidden.

In any case, the pipe dream went up in a puff of smoke when I read an article from The Free Press about an Israeli woman who moved to Bristol, Vermont, a tiny town of 3,782 residents, the kind of place where, as she described it, “you let your kids run outside barefoot and leave your doors unlocked.”

As a child of the Second Intifada, she had lived with the fear of terrorism and violence. She believed that by moving to a quiet corner of rural America, she had left those anxieties behind. Vermont was supposed to be her refuge; a place far removed from the conflicts and hatred of the Middle East.

But then she found herself sitting on a folding chair at a local gathering, hearing accusations of “land theft” and chants about the “occupied land of Palestine.” In that moment, she said, she no longer believed that she was safe.

Think about that for a moment.

If antisemitism can make its way to a tiny Vermont town hidden among forests and mountains, a place where the biggest concerns should be the coming winter or the next maple harvest, then there is no corner of the world untouched by this ancient hatred.

The Jews of Europe once thought that they had found enlightened societies where they were accepted. Jews fled from one country to another searching for peace and security. In every generation, we have searched for a place where we could finally exhale and say, “Here, we will be left alone.”

History has repeatedly shown us that our ultimate security cannot come from geography. A beautiful landscape can soothe the soul. A quiet town can offer peace of mind. A mountain retreat can provide silence. But no place on earth can guarantee safety.

The only true refuge of the Jewish people has always been our connection to Hashem, our Torah, and our communities. We can appreciate the beauty of Vermont’s mountains, but our real shelter has never been found in the shadow of any mountain. It has always been beneath the wings of the Shechinah.

When we imagine escaping, we usually imagine subtraction. Fewer people. Fewer obligations. Less noise. Less tension. A small house at the edge of a forest where the only sound in the morning is the wind rustling through the trees and birds announcing the arrival of a new day.

There is something very alluring about that image. The world has become so loud. In an era of constant connection, we yearn for some time to disconnect.

While the quiet country road may be beautiful, it cannot replace the sound of a child reciting a posuk. The solitude of a mountain sunrise is inspiring, but it cannot replace the warmth of a “Gut Shabbos” exchanged between neighbors walking home from shul. A field of maple trees changing colors in autumn is breathtaking, but it cannot replace the sight of a bais medrash filled with Yidden bent over their Gemaros.

That is why there is something almost poetic about the Vermont dream collapsing under the very reality it was trying to escape. It was not only that antisemitism followed the Jewish people there. It was that the dream itself had overlooked an essential truth: A Jew does not find safety by becoming invisible.

We have tried that throughout our long golus. We have moved from country to country, from one enlightened society to another, hoping that perhaps here we could simply be another citizen, another neighbor, another person left in peace. Yet, the story has repeated itself too many times.

And yet, we endure, not because we have found the perfect corner of the earth where trouble cannot reach us, but because wherever we have gone, we have carried our home with us. A sefer on a table. A mezuzah on a doorpost. A minyan in a shul. A mother lighting Shabbos candles. A father learning with his child.

Perhaps that is the greatest irony of all: The little Vermont farmhouse hidden among the mountains seems like a refuge because it is far away from everyone. But a Yid’s greatest refuge has never been found in isolation. It has always been found in connection - to Hashem, to Torah, and to other Yidden.

The forests of Vermont may offer silence. But the sound of Torah is what has allowed us to survive every storm.

Think about the irony of what the Israeli woman was seeking. She went to Vermont because she wanted a place where her children could run barefoot on the grass and where doors remained unlocked. She was searching for innocence, a world that felt untouched by hatred and conflict. A world that would not bother her for being Jewish.

That longing is profoundly human. After centuries of wandering, persecution, and uncertainty, who could blame a Jew for dreaming of a quiet little corner of the world where history finally leaves him alone.

But perhaps that is the great lesson of our journey through golus. We do not survive because we find a place where there are no storms. We survive because we have learned how to build homes that can withstand storms wherever they arise.

Whether it is a Jewish home in a crowded apartment building in Boro Park, a small house in Monsey, a village in Europe centuries ago, or even a remote farmhouse surrounded by Vermont mountains, the walls do not protect us. What protects us is what is behind those walls: Torah, tefillah, emunah, and the generations of mesorah that we carry with us.

Last week, I found myself in Boro Park, having gone there to be menachem avel the Rubashkin family upon the passing of their dear mother. Having grown up and lived in Monsey for most of my life, and now residing in Lakewood, walking down the streets of Boro Park felt a bit jarring.

The streets were alive with noise, traffic, and construction, with people of all ages moving in every direction, all close together, all in motion.

As I walked, I noticed a sign indicating a bais medrash and stepped inside, simply to sit for a moment and look into a sefer. The sign read “Fultichan.” I pulled the door, expecting it to be locked, but it opened immediately - no combination, no multiple locks.

Inside was a small room with two people learning.

I had never been there before, and I do not know if I will ever be there again. But I walked in and felt at home.

A Yid walks into a bais medrash and feels at home, wherever it is, whatever its size, whether it holds multitudes or just two chavrusos learning a sugya. There is a familiarity there that transcends place and circumstance.

And that reminded me that I do not need to go to Vermont or the country or anywhere else to find stillness. All I need to do is step into a bais medrash, open a sefer, and I am transported to the eternal Yiddishe place of solitude, comfort, and safety.

A person can build a house at the edge of the forest and believe that he has finally escaped the world. But a Jew has never been tasked with finding a place where he can hide from history. Our task has always been to carry eternity with us as we walk through history.

There is something about a Vermont or country summer that speaks of innocence and simplicity, where life is uncomplicated and peaceful, formed from a combination of deep green mountains, wildflowers growing along the fence lines, the old country store where everyone knows each other, the gravel road disappearing into the hills, and the old pickup truck moving slowly because there is nowhere to rush.

But even a place where time seems to move more slowly, a place that looks like it belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting, cannot promise an escape from the darker currents that run through the world.

The winds blow through the valleys of the Catskills or Vermont just as they blow through every other place on earth. The difference is not whether there is a storm outside. The difference is whether there is a flame burning inside.

And perhaps that is why, after all the centuries of exile, a small shtiebel in a noisy city can be a greater refuge than a cabin on a dusty country road.

Perhaps every person has his own Vermont.

For some, it is a bungalow in the mountains. For others, it is an apartment at the edge of Geulah, a house on a lake, or simply the dream of a different life where the burdens and anxieties of the present somehow cannot find us.

And perhaps every generation has its Vermont as well.

A time when it believes that the storms have finally passed. A moment when all the pieces appear to have fallen perfectly into place. The right people are in power. The dangerous enemies have been weakened. The future seems secure. We tell ourselves that the battles are behind us and that we can finally sit down on the porch, open a sefer, pour the coffee, and rest.

But history has a way of knocking on the door of even the quietest farmhouse.

Because no matter how far we run, we cannot run away from the world that Hashem placed us in. The purpose of a Jew is not to escape history, but to live through it with emunah. We are commanded to build homes, raise families, learn Torah, and serve Hashem not in a world free of uncertainty, but in a world where uncertainty is the stage upon which our bitachon is tested.

And that is a lesson we have been reminded of once again in recent months.

Everything was falling into place. Donald Trump won a landslide victory, doing away with Kamala Harris with historic flourish. He was Israel’s friend, the best anyone could hope for. He stood at Israel’s side during his first administration and promised to do so in his second. He was surrounded by Jewish people, conservative ones, and friends of the Jewish nation. As far as friends of Israel were concerned, he could do no wrong. He said and did all the right things. He was a welcome change and relief from the Biden and Obama years and their anti-Israel administrations.

Binyomin Netanyahu’s life mission has been to derail Iran’s push for nuclear weapons, but despite his many efforts and hard work, he found no allies in his campaign. And then Trump bought in. Following his reelection in November 2024, Netanyahu flew to the president-elect’s mansion in West Palm Beach and discussed with him how they would jointly attack Iran and its nuclear project.

Working together, last year at this time, the United States and Israel attacked Iran’s nuclear facilities. Trump and Netanyahu were jubilant. The Iranian threat had finally been removed. After lying about their nuclear ambitions for decades, Iran would finally not be able to continue production of a bomb. Trump was proclaimed an Israeli hero, and Jews the world over were thrilled.

But by February, Iran appeared to be on the cusp of enriching its uranium to levels necessary for bomb-making, and the Trump-Netanyahu coalition went to war against Iran once again. Commencing with the assassination of the Iranian Supreme Leader and dozens of members of the country’s leadership, their goal was to cause regime change and spark a transition to a post-theocratic government. Trump had promised the Iranian people as much, and he was coming now to make good on that pledge.

The other goals were to prevent Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons, destroy its ballistic missile capabilities, and end Iran’s ability to maintain and support its terror proxies.

Netanyahu was thrilled. He was finally achieving his life’s ambition. The American president was his best friend. They spoke every day or two and things were looking up. He was planning his reelection campaign, preparing clips of himself and Trump working together, and gathering Trump’s many complimentary quotes about his greatness, military leadership, and importance to Israel. Trump was even going to travel to Israel before the elections to campaign for his friend, Bibi.

And then, after months of bombing and achieving military victories, decimating Iran’s nuclear capability along with its navy and air force, Trump decided that he had had enough. What he thought would be a quick war was dragging on. Iran was blocking ships from transporting oil through the Strait of Hormuz, causing the price of gasoline to rise along with inflation. His threats and bravado were not cowing the Iranians, and the war was quite unpopular in the United States and elsewhere. He and his administration had done a poor job of selling it and explaining to the American people the need for the war.

The whole thing fell apart. All the words of Chazal cautioning us not to trust in governments or people came back to haunt us. All the lessons we have learned over the years once again became so real. Everything we have learned about lev melochim vesorim b’Yad Hashem is smacking us in the face. Eretz asher Hashem Elokecha doresh osah, tomid einei Hashem Elokecha bah, meireishis hashanah v’ad acharis shanah. If you follow Hashem’s directions, His chukim umishpotim, He will be there for you, protecting you, suppressing your enemies, and keeping your friends your friends.

But when you disrespect Him, when you do not follow His laws, when you mock His Torah and those who dedicate their lives to it, then things begin to crumble. And that is exactly what happened. When you take credit for military miracles, when you say, “Kochi v’otzem yodi asah li es hachayil hazeh,” then He says, “I will leave you to your own devices and see how far you will get.”

And as the world found out on October 7, that is not too far. And now that lesson has been repeated again. Your best friend, colleague, ally, and protector now mocks you, criticizes you, and curses you, and his vice president speaks with open contempt, if not outright hatred, toward you and your country.

President Trump tells you that if not for him, the State of Israel would not exist. If you do not acknowledge Hashem’s role in your state, then you leave a vacuum, and the American president is as eligible to fill that role as anyone else. He has been a good friend and dependable ally, and he deserves appreciation.

Israel is the land of the Jews, our haven in a sea of hatred, but when its leadership turns its back on Hashem, His Torah, and those faithful to Him, things begin to collapse.

Overnight, the man who fashions himself as master of the art of the deal was out-negotiated by a couple of lunatics with their backs against the wall, quickly running out of money and power. Overnight, the best friend of Israel, the commander-in-chief whose army worked shoulder to shoulder in unprecedented unity with Israel’s forces, jointly confronting the world’s pariah state, which views them as the Big Satan and the Little Satan, was convinced that Iran’s leaders wanted to turn over a new leaf and function as a rational country.

After dropping tens of thousands of bombs across Iran, and annihilating its navy and air force, most of its drones and missiles, and the capacity to manufacture more of them, and causing hundreds of billions of dollars’ worth of damage, the United States gave the regime a lifeline.

What happened? What changed? Observers wondered. Israel and its supporters scratched their collective heads. Commentators commented and pontificators pontificated. Republicans bit their tongues, and Democrats gleefully wagged theirs in a fit of “I told you sos” over the president’s seeming capitulation.

It is only a memorandum, not a deal. There is much negotiating ahead and nothing is definite. But a few things are clear: We are not in charge, nothing happens by itself, and nothing can be taken for granted.

When the war began, people the world over were fearful, and everyone immediately began davening and saying Tehillim. As time went on, they got used to the situation. Besides, Trump and Netanyahu were in charge. Their armies, the two most powerful in the world, were doing what they do best and crushing Iran. What could go wrong?

We slackened off. We lost sight of the One Who really runs everything and thought that the ruination of the Iranian regime was a done deal. Israel would be granted years of peace. Iran’s days as a terror paymaster would be ended, and its proxies would collapse. The Arab Gulf states would have nothing more to fear and would line up to make peace with Israel.

Well, it is not yet over, but the war seems to be heading toward a surprise ending. Our tefillos have the ability to change the outcome. Our devotion to Torah can bring about the change. Our mesirus nefesh for Torah has the power of the parah adumah to result in taharah and kedusha.

This week, we lain, “Zos haTorah, odom ki yomus b’ohel.” The secret of our existence, the secret of our success, is to go beyond our abilities, to stretch ourselves physically and financially for Torah. By doing so, we succeed, and our people succeed along with us.

• • • • •

Perhaps, one day, I will still make my way to that little farmhouse in Vermont.

Perhaps I will still sit on that porch as the morning mist rises from the stream, a cup of coffee warming my hands, a sefer open before me, listening to the whisper of the trees as they sway in the gentle breeze.

But the peace I imagined finding there was never hidden among the hills or waiting for me at the end of some forgotten dirt road.

A Yid can sit in the middle of a city, surrounded by noise and commotion, with enemies gathering at his borders and the nations of the world changing their loyalties overnight, and he can still possess a tranquility that no mountain retreat can provide. Much the same, a person can sit in the most beautiful corner of the world and be filled with fear if he believes that his fate rests in the hands of presidents, generals, and governments.

The lesson of these days is one our people have learned and relearned throughout thousands of years of history. We appreciate those whom Hashem sends to help us. We express gratitude to friends who stand by us. We use the tools that Hashem places in our hands - diplomacy, military strength, wisdom, and strategy.

But we must never confuse the messenger with the One Who sent him.

The same Hand that directs the flow of a quiet Vermont stream directs the currents of history. The same Creator Who paints the leaves in the forests of New England decides the fate of empires, moves the hearts of kings, and determines whether a friend remains a friend and whether an enemy loses his power.

“Zos haTorah, odom ki yomus b’ohel.” The secret of Yiddishe existence is not our ability to find a place where the world cannot touch us. It is our ability to enter the ohel of Torah, to live by it, and to sacrifice for it.

After thousands of years of wandering through every kind of landscape - deserts and ghettos, palaces and prisons, prosperity and persecution - the Jewish people are still here. We never found our Vermont.

We found something far greater.

The ohel of Torah.

The nations search for their security in treaties and alliances. Empires trust in their armies and economies. We have our own refuge.

Not a farmhouse at the end of a winding road.

Not a president in Washington.

Not a military coalition or a diplomatic victory.

Our refuge has always been, and will always be, the Ribbono Shel Olam.

He is always available to us, wherever we are. We do not have to run away anywhere. We do not need to find quaint towns and cottages. “Ki karov eilecha hadovor me’od beficha uvilvovcha.” Personal tranquility is a choice that can be achieved by stepping into the ohel haTorah, the Ohel Hashem, figuratively and literally. It is always open, always available.

The light is always on.

May we all be zoche to the ultimate tranquility and peace with the coming of Moshiach Tzidkeinu bekarov mamash.