It’s a tradition. Whenever I’m at my old stomping grounds, I pop by my former neighborhood’s falafel joint. Now I know — everyone claims their falafel place is the absolute best. But, without getting into the merits of the various amazing falafel joints across Jerusalem, and Israel, trust me.
I was on my way to Gan HaVradim, the rose park in Jerusalem that lies between Israel’s Supreme Court and the Knesset. Unexpectedly, just steps in front of me, was a huge white tent, with a picture of Hymanot Kasau, as well as flags waving in the breeze, flags bearing Hymanot’s visage.
The weight of the loss of Oct. 7 is in the air.Because three years ago, Oct. 7 was the date of Simchat Torah. Now, it’s as though there are two official commemoration dates.The Jewish holiday. And Oct. 7.
There is just nothing like the joy of the holiday of Sukkot in Israel.The country seems transformed.Pulsing with an unbridled joyousness.
Rachamana . . . The Merciful One. I was at the Kotel, the Wailing Wall, one among tens of thousands standing for midnight penitential Selichot prayers.
What a magical night. A night to celebrate America 250 publicly, with the sacred twist of celebrating this national milestone in the holy city of Jerusalem. This grand event was hosted by the US embassy, the Honorable Ambassador Mike Huckabee and his gracious wife Janet.
As the sacred days of Rosh Hashanah approach, there’s a perceptible change in the air. Once the Jerusalem breeze begins lingering, I can almost smell the approaching Days of Awe. Snippets of the selichot penitential prayers and the wail of the shofar are carried by this breeze.
This year, the 25th anniversary of 9/11 converges with the onset of Rosh Hashanah.What are the odds that marking 25 years, a quarter of a century — a number considered symbolic in marking a generation, and in America’s 250th anniversary year to boot — Rosh Hashanah and 9/11 would be interwoven.
I made a terrible mistake. Since I won’t be there with them on their first day of school, in my desire to try to be part of this milestone in absentia, I wanted to leave my neighbors’ elementary school age boys a little first day of school package and cards.
The world’s greatest decoy is before our very eyes, and many in the world are falling for it. Asleep at the wheel. Israel the terrible! Israel the evil! Israel the monster! In reality, real savages butchered civilians en masse, even perversely and proudly filming it. But then, in classic projection when people are actually describing themselves, they flip the narrative.
This week a tragic entanglement of two brothers lives told the story that many are still carrying. One brother’s joyous wedding night as he married his bride, the other brother, Bar Ashraf, present and participating in the festivities, warmly hugging his family. Only to disappear afterwards. Within the frantic search for her brother’s whereabouts, three days after the wedding, his sister’s feet led her to Liron Barda’s grave.
When I come back home I’m back in the days and times of “yore” — when I was growing up. It’s always fun to come back and see old friends. One of these people is Pete Moutzouris, known simply as “Pete” of Pete’s Fruits and Vegetables, at the corner of Holly and Cedar Sts., right across from my shul — EDOS.
“Nachamu Nachamu Ami” comes Isaiah’s cry for comforting the nation of Israel, after so much sorrow and national mourning. In these days of the calendar, we lament the anguish of past exile, but also experience the deepening feeling of hostility and alienation in our present exile.
It stopped me in my tracks. A yahrzeit candle perched on a stone plaque right by the Danube River. At the edge of a quiet, tiny town. A pit stop …
Two hundred and fifty years. This July 4th carries an additional dimension of momentousness: a landmark birthday, officially called America’s semiquincentennial celebration. It’s been exactly a quarter of a millennium since the Declaration of Independence was signed.
Although I like to believe that last week’s signing of the Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) is not the end of the story, but rather roughly equivalent to the Book of Esther’s chapter 3, when Haman’s power seemed elevated and formalized as he became the recipient of the king’s signatory ring. The story of the Megilla still has multiple chapters waiting to unfold before Haman’s downfall is final. The tension and uncertainty still weigh heavily.
It’s called a ceasefire, yet these past few “ceasefire” weeks have been devastating. More young beautiful soldiers with their whole lives ahead of them, serving in Lebanon, fighting Iran- sponsored Hezbollah terrorists, in order to secure Israel, now dead.
As spring melts into the onset of summer, the vivid and colorful landscape around us deepens. Pinks, greens, blues, golds. The colors of flowers and fruits — blushing peaches, apricots and plums. Flowering peonies, dahlias and poppies. Amidst these, there’s the fleeting season of pink rhubarb stalks.
I can still recall the shudder I felt. It was summer 2019. That week I had just written my column about the horrific tragedy about the danger of children’s death in hot cars — heatstroke. I wrote in order in order to bring awareness of this self-caused agony of bereaved parents, so readers can take the necessary mental and behavioral steps to prevent it.
I couldn’t hide my Jewishness, if I tried. I mean — my name is Tehilla Goldberg! Plus, apparently I dress the part of feminine Jewish religious. Many times in my life when I’d be in a neutral setting, I was referred to or approached with the assumption that I was Jewish, and sometimes even Orthodox Jewish. For me, it was always a point of pride. I lived and breathed Judaism. In my own way, I strongly viewed myself as an ambassador of the Jewish people.
It was another perfect spring Jerusalem day, just the right temperature that I like before the weather gives way to the sweltering Middle East summer when you feel yourself baking in the sun. It was the kind of a day that touched you with a gentle breeze, and the day was rich with the gold warmth of the sun — the kind of heat you can meander in for hours.
For me, the upcoming holiday of Shavuot has always arrived with a certain gentleness. Not only because there is the literal countdown to the holiday, and it brings with it a sense of accomplishment (that is, if you managed not to mess up the Omer count!) and a sense of special arrival.
I found myself bristling as I read some of the news coming out of Israel these past couple of days. Of course, the security situation and navigating it in all of its complexity is at the forefront. But a few news stories caught my eye that were truly so upsetting. Among them, a nun was knocked to the ground. As appalling and wrong as that is, I knew it was an outlier, an aberration.
In Mount Herzl, Israel’s national cemetery, located in Jerusalem, adjacent to the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial, there is a dedicated plot where the prime ministers of modern day Israel are buried. All, but one. Menachem Begin. Here’s a little slice of history that sheds light on the reason.