Rachamana . . . Rachamana . . . Rachamana . . . The Merciful One.
I was at the Kotel, the Wailing Wall, one among tens of thousands standing for midnight penitential Selichot prayers.
Rachamana.
Rachamana.
Rachamana.
The broken raspy plea of the weeping cantor, soaring brokenly over the plaza via a microphone, cutting through the clamor of the packed crowds.
It felt like there was an unspoken solidarity and heightened connection between us all standing there.
We were all emotionally and spiritually stripped bare there, under the night sky; various people unraveling to different degrees.
The repetitive mantra-like refrains of the Selichot prayers washing over me.
And us.
We stood there each alone as an individual.
Yet also, anonymous, as a part of the crowd.
The crowd being Am Israel.
Our vulnerability and our humanity, flawed and all, the great equalizer.
“Rachamana,” he kept weeping, as his voice was amplified.
It was the prayer-poem he happen to be leading.
Then came the verse . . . the cantor was sobbing . . . “Libi libi al chalaleihem, my heart, my heart [ bleeds] for the fallen.
A holy silence reigned.
I had arrived late.
I was standing toward the back, near the exit of the Kotel plaza.
There were youngsters. Some chatter here and there. But as the cantor wept, shattered, almost choking on the pain of those words leaving his lips yet seemingly coming from somewhere else entirely, deep within him, a holy stillness took hold.
Then, at a different point, there were the prayers more like blessings and declarations of hope and goodness for the land of Israel this coming year, and the deafening roar of the crowd’s “Amen!!” punctuating the air, infused the atmosphere with deep optimism.
A different night, there was a pre-Selichot solemn singing gathering at the grave of two fallen soldiers, followed by Selichot on Mount Herzl. Friends of the fallen soldiers, teachers, high school students, parents, rabbis, complete strangers — and of course their bereaved families, stood there together.
Again, close to midnight. Under the night sky. Surrounded by the graves of the dead, the fallen heroes. So young.
There was Yom Kippur liturgy — “shirei neshama, songs of the soul.” In between songs, reflective remarks from family members and other bereaved parents who came. It was heartbreaking. Rachamana . . . Merciful One.
It felt like the previous night’s Rachamana at the Kotel now ricocheting through the cemetery.
Another bereaved father stood up and spoke of his beloved son, who died by suicide after carrying scars from Oct. 7 and a year of fighting.
While the previous evening’s Selichot at the Kotel offered a deep sense of solace, validation — togetherness, as a part of the nation, knowing we weren’t alone in our search for mercy and hope, on this night there was something so unresolved, so sorrowful, so raw, so very visceral in the whispery tone, quiet pauses, softer feeling. So different than the previous night’s public urgency and plea.
Here, the sobs were silent.
Just before Selichot prayers commenced, the gathering ended with a deeply touching, poetic and evocative song about the hope for Mashiach coming.
But a song, whose words are drawn from a midrash, that acknowledges how people can come to feel a doubt in that belief. Perhaps from being worn down by brutal hurt after hurt, or disappointment after disappointment, generation after generation. Just before heralding the joyous news of Mashiach’s arrival from a rooftop, this midrash makes space for that state of doubt. But in this midrash the song is written from a post-Mashiach perspective. In this song, he has already arrived.
In that cemetery, two nights before Yom Kippur, under midnight stars, surrounded by the graves of the fallen, amidst their valiant, bereaved family members, as we softly sang those words, this time the song felt like a question, a lament, a supplication — and a hope — all rolled into one. That was the note on which the gathering glided into the Selichot.
That was my prelude to Yom Kippur here in this Holy City.
Then, after Shabbat, on Sunday, once the Yom Kippur sun set, so did a collective sacred whisper descend, blanketing Jerusalem in a white pristine kittel all its own.
The city transformed.
Gentle, yet also the cathartic release of more urgent prayers, intermingled with the melodious Yom Kippur niggun and special kaddish cadence, floating in the air from open shul windows.
But once that final Shofar blowing pierces the air, the air shifts.
Perceptibly.
The energy accelerates, from a somewhat restrained and purifying sacred stillness marked by surrender and supplication, to the kinetic. The staggered staccato of hammers hitting nails into wooden Sukkah walls. The drilling. The rush for the Four Species.
An intensity is lifted.
A national pause gives way to the hectic logistic preparation, and the embracing of joy.
The sukkahs won’t build themselves.
The entire country transitions from the pinnacle of Days of Awe prayers to a different kind of surrender, this time to the Clouds of Glory we will be immersed in, enveloping the fragile sukkah huts and pungent pine canopies interspersed by sparkling Sukkot starry nights.
The journey from the sweet sense of the whole country busy preparing for Rosh Hashana together — the souk’s stalls bursting with crimson pomegranates, blushing crisp apples, gold raw dates on the vine, vibrant ripe produce for the simanim and greetings of Shana Tova everywhere — then traversing the meaningful Selichot and Days of Awe to Yom Kippur — and now, to Sukkot. A magical journey.
It fills me with such pride, meaning and gratitude to be counted as part of my beloved nation of Israel.
There’s just nothing like this brilliant transformative concept.
I don’t take for granted that I was blessed to experience this Elul-Tishrei journey in Israel this year, in all of its components, truly greater than the sum of its their parts.
Happy Sukkot! Chag Sameach! May this coming year bring abundant blessing.
© IJN 2026
