Letters on the Sea

Brooklyn, NYC : Tel Aviv, Israel : 1/27/2024

The waves calmed me down at once. I felt at ease, and my mind rested on the rhythm of the water meeting the clouds. The night was foggy and rainy when I landed, a surprising welcome from the desert. I missed being here. While physically being away, Israel has made itself at home in my thoughts every day. This trip felt like returning to a campfire, after wandering in the night in search of light. It was when my friend Elkana Neulander was killed, that’s how I knew it was time. I had to come back. I needed to hug my family. I needed to be with my people.

Israel is always special, and being there now is significantly precious. I came back to be in the heart of a moment of incomprehensible grief, so that I could embrace collective resilience. Tel Aviv’s embodied experience is running into a childhood friend at 2 in the morning, in line for a delicious pita. I heard him speak English, so I asked where he was coming from. Within seconds we recognized each other. After eating our delicious meal on the street of Tel Aviv, we spent the rest of the night at a dance club, celebrating the miracle of our existence. Moments like these sing of how impossibly wonderful that we are here, alive, thriving, despite seemingly never ending existential threats.  

Through the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and weed, the familiar smells of a Thursday night in Tel Aviv, I felt the true spirit of the celebration. The people of Tel Aviv are celebrating as survivors, embracing life with each other, during the darkest of times. The present toll of the war, and the motivation to keep going cries out. As we walk around we say, ‘hello, shalom’, welcoming each other. Seeing the joy of life flourish, despite the seemingly pit of despair, feels transcendent while immediately shocking. And definitely, transformative. 

I saw posters, signs and murals everywhere throughout the city, demanding the return of the hostages now. They filled every corner of Tel Aviv. Everywhere my eyes looked, I saw the cry of a broken heart, dying to be united and safe once again. The park benches on Dizengoff circle are filled with large teddy bears, demonstrating the children ripped from life by monsters. The heaviness of the situation weighed me down like a ton of bricks. I felt at ease though, to see that there was no anti-Israeli propaganda. For the past couple of months I have witnessed the walls of Brooklyn covered with torn down hostage posters, and worse. The night before my flight to Tel Aviv I literally saw a poster written in Arabic, with terrorists holding machine guns. It was taped to a mailbox around the corner from where I live. It makes me feel scared for the future of my generation, and motivated to move back to Israel. 

Unsurprisingly, Tel Aviv is bursting with life, even amidst the most traumatic events of our collective lives. The clubs are still pounding their beats. The coffee shops are still vibrant. They pour caffeinated beverages into our souls, fueling the warm conversation of loved ones. The resilience and need to embrace life, even in the worst of times, is foundational to who we are. Around me, the Israeli people hugged their friends who have come home for the weekend from reserve duty. I saw children playing with their family, delighted to be alive, together and today.  People smiling at eachother, wishing for a peaceful day. I got to enjoy the presence of my family, finding joy in knowing that we are close. Hopeful, resilient embers are glowing in Israel. 

In Israel, the collective is seen within every individual, and the individual is seen within the collective. The ongoing conversation within Judaism, questions how the individual can relate with the collective in the best way. This phenomena emanates within Israeli society. We are asking how to balance the different needs of both entities, so they can effectively support each other. This question rings in my heart often as I think of my friends and peers risking their lives to defend us. I think about all of the familes and friends who have loved ones fallen, loved ones missing, and loved ones captured. I ask myself what can I do? Why am I reading news reports daily of people my age being killed in Gaza, to defend our ability to be safe? I know that I’m not a soldier. I tried and realized it wasn’t my path. So I do what I can, and that is to create and to communicate. In Israel, you realize very clearly that you are a part of a whole. The need to be of service to the collective is strong, which reflects the need to understand how the individual can most effectively be of service.

I feel a strong need to focus, and to create, particularly in Israel. I am a magnifying glass for the desert sun, in need of a creative project to point the flame to. The pull to delve into life, to be involved in the individual and collective unfolding of our history, is ever present. Within Judaism, we find connection and meaning in being involved, connecting, and creating, rather than destroying, denying and depriving ourselves. In our time of grief, the fire burns our focus forward and dances vivaciously.

To balance the intensity, I started and ended every morning walking on the beach, watching the sunset and sunrise. I walked on the sand, listening to the waves whisper to me. When I watched the ebbs and flow of the sea, it gave me the peace of body and mind to help pull me through the day. Every time I went to the beach, I brought my journal. In fact, everywhere I went, I brought my journal. Strangers smiled as they passed by, and their dogs ran up to play with me. It was inspiring and heartwarming to see the beautiful people of Tel Aviv, enjoying the waves.

On my last day of my all too short trip back, I watched the orange glowing sunset, passing through the waves of the Mediterranean sea. Watching the crowd gather together to stand in awe of the miracle of the passing day filled me with a wonderful sense of belonging. The scene of the sun setting on our lives every night, soothes the broken heart. It’s telling us that we made it through another day. And we will be back tomorrow morning, after the dark night, to stand in awe of the sunrise again. As I was leaving I heard the waves whisper,

‘Remember, the future is stronger than the past.’