After a brief hiatus from Jerusalem on a visit abroad, upon my return last week it felt like one of those Jerusalem nights of your dreams. Like a Jerusalem night from days gone by.
The August heat was oppressive, the hot still air as dry and warm as the release of an oven’s heat escaping into the kitchen when you open it just quickly enough to pull a cake from the oven, before you close the oven door to keep the heat from spreading.
That endless stagnant heated air all around.
Going on an evening outing before 10 o’clock at night prior to the tender mercy of Jerusalem’s faint breeze appearing was a non-option. No! the uniformed soldiers fighting for us in this unbearable Middle East heat wave, I thought. And the hostages. Down in the subterranean tunnel dungeons of Gaza. Starved. Hopefully not dehydrated. I trembled.
From across the Old City of Jerusalem, on the periphery of the city near the promenade, the expansive twinkling view of Jerusalem’s illuminated ancient and modern parts, including the gold dome on the Temple Mount and the dome of the Hurva synagogue, dot the landscape. I sat on the grassy knoll and took this mystical night in.
There was a laser light show on, enveloping the Jerusalem night sky, bathing the view in streaks of color and clarity. Indeed, Jerusalem was luminescent as it shined and radiated with this piercing incandescence. The light was animated by treasured songs moving in perfect synchronicity.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, and was caught off guard when suddenly the music began. There were precious age-old Jerusalem songs you don’t often hear anymore. Of course, there was the classic and timeless “Jerusalem of Gold.” But suddenly there was also the nostalgic and less common, “Jerusalem Light” by Yosef Sarig, of my childhood. A poetic song evocative of a Jerusalem bathed in prisms of light and color. A beloved song I once sang often. Then came “The Summit of Mount Scopus,” another favorite rom my Jerusalem childhood, both the lyrics and the melody surging with longing for Jerusalem.
Yet. There I was. Instead of being consumed by longing for Jerusalem, I was sitting on a perfect hot summer night, right there, overlooking magical Jerusalem herself.
For a moment, for an evening, all seemed just right. And peaceful.
Like a Jerusalem in harmony with itself.
Multitudes of Jerusalemites dotted the grass. All parts of Israeli society were there to enjoy this light show in this enigmatic city.
Welcome back to Jerusalem, I whispered to myself, as I hummed along with the stirring songs that gently floated on the faint Jerusalem night breeze.
As if for a second one could even forget there is the war. As if for a second one could forget about the plight of the hostages in captivity. As if for a second one could ever even forget about the soldiers.
On the way back, the hostage-related signs that have sadly become the norm cried out from the sides of the road. “Et achai ani mevakesh, It is my brothers whom I seek,” accompanied by the visages of the still in captivity hostages.
The words are from Genesis, spoken by Joseph when he is searching for his brothers.
That night, in the still pre-dawn darkness of jet lag when I was awake, slowly the muezzin Muslim call to prayer was audibly spreading from somewhere not far off. A reminder of another layer of this complex and multi-layered city.
Then that day’s news, focusing on the upcoming nationwide strike scheduled for the next Sunday, projecting tens of thousands of protesters taking to the streets across the country, as a call to end the war and return the remaining hostages at all cost.
Even before the strike, the tension was palpable. The Solomonic question and conundrum of how the hostages could be rescued when the IDF will close in on them, without simply causing soldiers to be killed without rescuing the hostages, but rather only triggering their execution, continued to plague the conversation. Various voices debated the merits as well as the risks of ending or continuing the war.
The following evening, after the nationwide strike, I was visiting with a centenarian, a Holocaust survivor. In the course of our conversation, she suddenly stared at me and deadpanned in Hebrew, “Tehilla, they will not return,” “I think they are dead.”
She might as well have poured a bucket of ice water on me. As wrenchingly obvious as this possibility is mentally, I never allowed myself to “go there.” I didn’t dare consider it.
Suddenly she shifted into prayer posture, looking heavenward and repeatedly beseeching G-d that she be wrong.
Between us, silence reigned. We absorbed the horror of it all.
“Et achai ani mevakesh.”
“It is my brothers and sisters whom I seek.”
Whom we all seek.
That is the prevailing sentiment here.
Those ancient words resonate across the generations.
G-d knows what the right choices are in navigating this agonizing knot of anguish and terror.
It’s at moments such as these that I try and keep close and hold onto those moments or nights that are a reminder of the Jerusalem of our dreams; of the Jerusalem that once was, of the Jerusalem that, in fragments, still is. Of the eternal Jerusalem that will always be.
© IJN 2025
