View from the Jerusalem Hills

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 kind of a place, as you’re weaving through bigger cities. I’m not...

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.