The Dew of Light

The Dew of Light contains three narratives that are linked thematically and took place on three successive Sundays, on June 23, June 30, and July 7.

Nine Months

On Sunday, July 7, I attended a demonstration in Tel Aviv on a major intersection in front of the Kirya, the massive Israel Defense Forces base. It was one of many events staged across the country to mark the nine months since Hamas invaded Israel, killed 1,139 people with stunning cruelty, and seized over 250 children, women, and men and made them hostages.

Mothers of hostages and many other Israeli mothers have led the fight to force the Israeli government to make a deal for the remaining captives. The voices of these women, filled with grief and outrage, reached a crescendo as they and their children endured nine months of captivity. The mothers had carried these kidnapped children in their wombs and birthed them, only to see them violently wrested out of reach, some of them now dead.

The police closed off a swath of downtown Tel Aviv. The crowd grew, and chants demanding a deal "now!" echoed off the massive buildings. Suddenly, an orange flare was lit amid the crowd, causing people to move back. The garish glow illuminated a cage-like structure as it was raised above the crowd suspended from a high bridge above. I gasped when I realized that a woman was in the cage, swaying unsteadily as the floor of the cage sloped one way and the other. She screamed with anguish and led the crowd in chants deriding politicians. Written on the base of the structure were words saying, "My child, Matan, is still a hostage because of you - our government."

Soon after October 7, performative installation art appeared in large and small cities. They were made by artists and non-artists who were family or friends of the hostages, expressing profound loss and rage. The suffering of the families and close friends of the hostages is manifest every day in posters, signs, graffiti, songs, and shrines that pop up everywhere. During the first hour of last Sunday's gathering in front of the army's headquarters, the amplified sound of babies wailing from loudspeakers went on for what seemed forever. The cries represented the two smallest children who are still hostages in Gaza. Seized from their home in Kibbutz Nir Oz, their mother, Shiri Bibas, 32, and her sons Ariel, 4, and Kfir, who was nine months old when taken captive, are still held by Hamas. The father was separately taken hostage.

Copyright Paul R Solomon 2024

This is one of the earliest installations installed on Hostages Square. The bold word in Hebrew letters says, “NOW!” Hostages Square is an immense plaza in front of the Tel Aviv Museum of Art near the Israel Defense Forces headquarters. Since October 7, 2023, families of hostages have been encamped here.

Every Israeli grieves for the fate of the hostages, but some take a strong stand against making another deal for the hostages – with good reason. In 2006, 20-year-old Gilad Shalit, an Israeli soldier, was captured by Hamas in a raid through tunnels under the border with Gaza. After Shalit had been held captive by Hamas for over five years, Israel agreed to free 1,027 Palestinian militants in exchange for this one soldier. The lopsided exchange set the stage for further hostage-taking. Two footnotes: 1) Among the 1,027 Palestinians Israel freed was Yehiya Sinwar, the mastermind of the October 7 attack. Sinwar had been found guilty of savagely killing four Palestinians he accused of collaborating with Israel and was given four life sentences. 2) Benjamin Netanyahu was prime minister when Gilad Shalit was freed in 2011.  

On June 30, the Sunday before I participated in the July 7 demonstration, I attended a reception at the President's Residence in Jerusalem. President Herzog and his wife hosted a celebration of poet Yehuda Amichai's 100^th birthday. Yehuda Amichai (1924 – 2000) wrote about love and war, family, Israel, and nature and is recognized as one of the foremost Israeli poets. The poet's daughter and other VIPs read Amichai poems. The war with Hamas and Hezbollah and the hostages still held in Gaza was very much on everyone's mind. An empty yellow chair was inserted in the row of chairs for the VIP guests. When the event concluded, I had an opportunity to join a line and shake hands with President Herzog. However, something made me decide to leave and catch the next train back to Tel Aviv.

The Dew of Light

I just caught the evening train from Jerusalem, where I met a young woman named Or Tal, whose presence and story moved me and spoke to the present moment in Israel, the layered past, and the unknowable future. The train was crowded. I sat down on an aisle seat, reached under the seat to plug in my phone, and was greeted by riotous laughter from two women – Or Tal and her friend. They pointed and said in Hebrew, "We looked all over and couldn't find a plug.” Their laughter and smiles jumpstarted a fast-paced conversation that quickly surpassed my basic Hebrew.

Learning that I was an American Jew, the women asked what every Israeli asks me '" Why are you here – now, with the war?” Usually, I laugh the question off, saying that  I specialize in coming at these ‘special" times – having been here last year, too, during the judicial overhaul when the country threatened to split in two. We shared face-to-face seats as the train barreled into and out of tunnels that gave way to roads lined with cypress trees and vineyards reminiscent of Italy. Dusk fell. Our faces reflected off the darkened window, and it felt like the three of us were in a private compartment. There was space and time to talk.

Hearing about my six months of exile from teaching at Western Michigan University, Or Tal and her friend said in unison, “How terrible! I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but you’ve come to the best place. “In Israel,  they said, “you don't have to be afraid to be a Jew.” The women know of what they speak. Both are second-generation Ethiopian Israeli Jews whose families experienced grievous losses and suffering to reach and eventually thrive in Israel.

Or Tal's grandfather was one of a small group who left their homes in Ethiopia in 1986, traveling by night and hiding during the day, traversing mountains in their determination to reach Israel and live openly as Jews. Their experiences are identical to the story I was told two years ago by Mexican-born photojournalist Adi Trillo, whom I met in New York. She documented a torturous journey made by Hondurans in 2020, who risked their lives walking during the nights into Guatemala, desperate to cross into Mexico and eventually to the United States. The Ethiopian Jews and the Hondurans alike fled violence, braved constant danger, were helped by guides who betrayed them, were attacked by soldiers, and were often returned to where they came from or died from hunger and disease.

As far back as the 1880s, Ethiopian Jews attempted to immigrate to Israel. They came in great numbers only after 1970, when they were recognized as Jews by the Chief Rabbinate of Israel. The government of Israel subsequently extended the Law of Return to this community. Much of Ethiopia's recent history has been marked by horrifying spasms of bloody civil war. The Marxist regime forbade Jews to emigrate. In times of chaos, many Ethiopians, including Jews, sought refuge in Sudan. Or Tal's grandfather missed out on Operation Moses, a covert mission of the Mossad that succeeded in rescuing 7,000 Beta Israel (Ethiopian Jews) and brought them to Israel between 1984 and 1985. Operation Moses was canceled in 1985 when Sudan leaked news of Mossad's work rescuing Ethiopian Jews.

OrTal's grandfather didn't wait for another rescue mission. He was murdered in Sudan. OrTal's father and her grandmother, who had remained in Ethiopia, were airlifted to Israel in Operation Solomon in 1991. The family settled in Beersheva, where there is a significant community of Ethiopian Israelis. Israelis whose families came from Ethiopia now number 168,800 (2022). They comprise 2.3% of the Israeli population.

Over and over, I ask Israelis whom I meet on trains, in taxis, in grocery stores, cafes, and synagogues where their grandparents came from. Yorav, my butcher in Jerusalem, is typical. His mother was born in a refugee camp in Germany in 1948. Her parents and the rest of his family, all of whom came from Ukraine and Russia, were slaughtered by the Nazis. Most Israelis who survived the Shoah and most of the children of Holocaust survivors do not have grandparents.  

Last summer, on a Friday evening, invited for Shabbat dinner by new friends, I sat next to an 86-year-old grandmother. She recounted for us her terrifying escape as a six-year-old girl who ran into the woods alone in Czechoslovakia after witnessing the invading Nazis murder her parents in 1938. One hears these stories over and over. On the other hand, stories of the hundreds of thousands of Jews who were persecuted and forced to leave their homes in Arab countries are much less familiar to American Jews, let alone the stories of Jews who came from Africa, Asia, and South America. Israel is a country of survivors with generations of trauma.

Last week, I had dinner with my friend Aviv, who is 24 years old, whose grandparents came from Iran and Morocco, and made aliyah in 1950. He feels bereft because they did not bring any of their culture to Israel. They were poor. They didn't speak Hebrew. Initially, they lived in transient, shoddy locations. He envies Persian Jews he has met in the US, who left Iran during the 1980s. They were educated, prosperous people who brought their rich culture with them. Aviv says he doesn't identify with Persian or Moroccan Jews.  “I am Israeli," he said. Or Tal and her family also lived in an impoverished community. Little of their Ethiopian culture is present in her life. Like my friend Aviv, she is simply "Israeli" but is deeply proud of her grandparents' courage and determination to come to Israel.

I didn't learn the name of Or Tal's friend, who got off at the Ben airport stop to catch a train north to Haifa. She was shy and had limited English. Or Tal radiates light and life. Her name reflects her essence. Or is light. Tal means dew – the dew that descends in the evening and is essential to the life of this primarily arid country. In tifilot (prayer), one prays for dew to descend from the heavens. Or Tal seems kissed by the dew and the sun. Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah, a first-century sage, tells us that the light of Torah is called the dew of light. The light of the Torah revives a person. Rabbi Eleazar also quotes the prophet Isaiah, saying that God's  "dew is the dew of light," a light that promises life after death.

Copyright Paul R Solomon 2024

Names also have the power to revive the life of someone who has died. Or Tal's brother was named after his murdered grandfather. His name originated in Amharic, the language of Or Tal's grandparents. Shortly before Or Tal was born, the family moved to a small town called Ofakim, 20 kilometers from Gaza. She grew up taking it for granted that Ofakim was routinely attacked with rockets launched from Gaza. On October 7, 2023, Hamas terrorists were on the streets of Ofakim at 6 am on Shabbat. The terrorists waited until rockets were launched from Gaza, forcing the people of Ofakim to run outside, seeking bomb shelters. About 50 citizens of Ofakim were slaughtered as they sought safety. A small contingent of police fought back in the absence of the army.

When Or Tal turned 18, she elected to become a combat soldier. She passed the tests to become a combat soldier but was injured during training. When she recovered, she became an intelligence officer. On October 7, Or Tal was in Ashkelon, a city of 120,000 Israelis, 50 kilometers south of Tel Aviv and 13 kilometers from Gaza. It was the holiday of Simhat Torah. Autumn had arrived, and the time to pray for dew was over. Winter was coming, and one prays for the rains. That morning, rockets and missiles rained down on Ashkelon while terrorists devastated Ofakim and other towns.

The Gaza Envelope

As it happens, I was in the Gaza ‘envelope' on June 23, the Sunday before I met Or Tal. The Gaza envelope comprises Israeli territory that is ten or fewer kilometers (6.2 miles) from the border with Gaza. That morning, I left Tel Aviv with Amit Musaei, a survivor of the Nova Festival. He is also a certified Israel guide. Amit and many of the other 4,000 people at the Nova Festival greeted the rising sun on October 7 with music and dancing. Thanks to his service in the army earlier, he immediately distinguished the sounds of rockets and Iron Dome interceptors from the loud music. 3,000 missiles and rockets were launched from Gaza that day. There were no bomb shelters at the festival site. Those thinking clearly, lay on the ground, arms protecting their heads. Others milled about thinking the danger was past. Amit knew otherwise and convinced his two close friends to leave the site with him. The hours ahead were harrowing as terrorists on jeeps and motorcycles reached the festival site, where they slaughtered 360 people with ferocious blood lust.

Here is the route we took in the Gaza envelope. Be’eri is the location of the Nova Festival. Or Tal’s town, Ofakim, is at the bottom right. Ashkelon is to the north, off the map.

Amit is 41 years old, married with three children, and passionate about psychedelic trance music. He survived October 7 because he made sound decisions during the first hours and was lucky as the harrowing day went on. His car wouldn't start. The delay saved him from taking a road on which dozens were murdered. He was shot at. He took cover. Desperate to reach his wife and children in Holon, about an hour away, he survived. Two friends – very close friends who were late reaching the festival found safety in a bomb shelter, only to be executed in the shelter by the terrorists.

Going to the Gaza envelope with Amit was all about remembering. He is a big guy with a ready smile. He is fragile and resilient. He told our small group that he received treatment in a psychiatric hospital. He wants to share his story. Amit said that taking people to the festival site and into the bomb shelter where his friends died, and other locations is, for him, a form of therapy. With tourism almost entirely extinguished since October, taking people to the Gaza envelope sites enables him to help support his family.

Israel is tiny, and I am reminded daily how history paves over one story with another. Until I experienced being in the Gaza envelope and until I met Or Tal, the city of Ashkelon was burnished in my memory as a halcyon day on the beach with a Persian woman I met in Israel during the 1980s. It was ferociously hot. The beach was entirely ours. Farzaneh had fled Iran along with tens of thousands of other Persian Jews at the time of the Iranian Revolution and settled in New York City. Farzaneh and I are still in touch. I learned last week that she left New York City and now lives nearby in Beit Shemesh. I look forward to visiting her.