Posted on December 13, 2024
“I firmly believe in a religious-spiritual worldview built on question marks, but I also understand the tendency to want to speak in exclamation marks.”
My name is Lea, I live in Efrat. I’m married to Yonathan and a mother of four. I have been working in education for many years, and for the past seven, I have had the privilege of teaching 11th and 12th grade girls. This year, I am the coordinator for the 11th grade at the Neve Chana Ulpana [a high school for religious girls] and also a Ra”mit [Rabbanit-mechanechet, a Rabbanit-educator] in an elective beit midrash program held weekly at the school.
“Daddy, I love you, I hope you won’t die!”
Since the war began, I’ve noticed how my children are deeply preoccupied with concepts of good and evil, life and death, and questions about God. Every time Yonathan goes on reserve duty, one of my daughters sings to him in a funny tune, “Daddy, I love you, I hope you won’t die!” On another occasion, my son expressed relief, saying how thankful he was that God gave us a strong army that knows how to fight evil, and then, on second thought, he asked, “But why did God create evil people in the first place?” And, of course, there are the constant discussions about those we knew who have fallen or been injured, with many conversations and questions that bring both a smile and a tear. These small questions and moments, I think, reflect what many families are going through at this time. I can feel how they are shaping both my children and me, and how my approach to parenting has evolved as a result. I think about the scars we’re all accumulating during this time. I remember myself as a child during the intifada, and I hope that my children, and all of our children, are also experiencing moments of strength and resilience, alongside the questions and fears.
Woe to me if I do, woe to me if I don’t
Professionally, as a 12th-grade teacher, the lingering question was how to balance the need to maintain some sense of routine and learning with the urge to go out and take action, to volunteer, to help. The bureaucratic obstacles were many, but we still did what we could where possible.
During the first weeks of the war and even now, a passage from the Zohar, one of the central texts of Kabbalah, has been echoing in my mind. In the opening of Idra Rabba, a section in the book, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai (Rashbi) is nearing his death and is uncertain about how much he should reveal of the secrets of the mystical teachings. If he keeps them secret, they will be lost, buried along with him. But if he reveals them, people might misunderstand and teach them in ways he never intended. He cries out, ‘Woe to me if I reveal it, woe to me if I don’t reveal it.’
In the first lessons I taught after October 7th, I began in a similar way. I felt there was no clear right answer. Woe to us if we teach as usual, and woe to us if we don’t teach as usual. I’d be teaching a literature class, for instance, and in front of me, there would be students anxious about their brothers in Gaza, while at the same time, there would be others who long for some semblance of normalcy and wish to go an entire hour without mentioning the war. Sometimes, these were the very same students.
The Zohar’s answer is that there are secrets that can be revealed yet still remain secrets. I’ve held onto this idea throughout the past year. It’s possible to operate on two levels simultaneously — to constantly carry a sort of heaviness, prayer, and pain, while also engaging in simple, ordinary moments: smiling, rejoicing, and talking about other things.
Connecting despite complexity
Two weeks ago, we took the 11th-grade girls on a Shabbat experience to learn about the Haredi community in the Geula neighborhood of Jerusalem. For many years now, at Neve Chana, the 11th-grade students have been focusing on Israeli society and a tremendous effort has been put into organizing programs like this Shabbat experience. It’s always challenging, but it remains one of the most meaningful milestones of these years. It’s a window into a world so different from our own, a direct encounter with a highly insular, separatist community, and an exposure to a spiritual world that raises many questions for us. There is always 100% participation in this Shabbat, and something profoundly significant always happens.
This year, it was far from certain that we would go. There were many voices against it. The feelings toward the Haredi community are so complex and painful, so hurt and angry. In the end, we decided to go, and it turned out to be a particularly meaningful experience. The girls were hosted by Haredi families, we met with figures from the Haredi world, and there were many internal discussions among us. The conflict remains difficult, painful, and unresolved. I carry a lot of anger and criticism. And yet, despite all of this, I left with a bit more hope. I can’t fully explain why.
One Haredi woman came to speak with us, and the girls bombarded her with difficult questions. When she left, I accompanied her. I told her that I appreciated her willingness to speak with us honestly and openly, and that she had shared the complexities she faces within the world she belongs to. With tears in her eyes, she said to me, ‘If you’ve come here at a time like this and are bravely willing to meet with us in such difficult times, how could I say I wouldn’t come because it would make me uncomfortable?’
This does not diminish my expectation and demand for this community to find solutions, to be a part of the Jewish people, and to enlist. But it did soften me a bit on a personal level, and I was grateful for that softening.
Questions of faith
One final thought, and perhaps the most important, that occupies me both personally and in my work with students is the conversation about faith and God. The questions are inevitable, and there are no answers that truly provide comfort. I have many thoughts on this subject, but ultimately, it’s a question without a definitive answer, one that invites me on a journey of learning and sharing. Two weeks ago, one of my students came to me and asked if I could prepare a lesson on how to pray during such a time. How can we feel that God is with us, even when we’re facing so many hardships? The lesson isn’t ready yet, but my thoughts are already focused on it. It’s difficult to let the question remain unanswered, to sit with the uncertainty, rather than resorting to a superficial answer. That can be daunting. I firmly believe in a religious-spiritual worldview built on question marks, but I also understand the tendency to want to speak in exclamation marks.
I am grateful for the opportunity to engage with these questions, as they help me grow, learn, and listen more closely to an inner voice that, at many points in my life, has been faint, simmering at a lower flame.
