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 The
thundering sounds of artillery fire echoed through the
valleys beneath the Golan Heights and across the Sea
of Galilee. All across the Northern border with Syria,
civilians were huddled in their bunkers and bomb shelters,
wondering when this latest round of violence would abate.
On the face of it, this was nothing new; for nineteen
years the Israeli citizens of the North had endured
an almost daily barrage of shellfire from the Syrian
guns perched in the Heights above. In fact, an average
of one thousand shells a day fell on the Kibbutzim,
towns, and villages within range of the Golan, when
the Syrian army had control of the Heights.
But this time it was different. It was June of 1967,
and Israel had finally decided enough was enough.
For five weeks, Israel, in response to the Arab armies
massed on her borders, had mobilized her reserves, and
the economy had ground to a halt; it was a situation
Israel could not hope to maintain.
For months now, the radio waves all across the Arab
Middle East were filled with calls for Israel's destruction,
and Nasser, the president of Egypt, vowed daily that
the Arab armies would, finally push Israel into the
Sea; the entire country was waiting for war.
And so, on June 6, 1967, the Six-Day War finally began,
with Israel's lightning strike against the Egyptian
air force. Catching over eighty percent of the Egyptian
air force on the ground, the war was practically won
in the first few hours of fighting, as Israel took uncontested
control of the skies.
On the third day of the war, a delegation of citizens
from the North came to see the Israeli Prime minister,
Levi Eshkol. They demanded a solution once and for all,
to the constant, unprovoked Syrian artillery barrages
stemming almost daily from atop the Golan Heights. Things
had gotten so bad, parents didn't even bother putting
children to sleep in their own beds, preferring to tuck
them into beds in the bomb shelters, rather than wake
them up in the middle of the night when the sirens went
off. Farmers went to the fields in armored tractors,
and the fishermen on the lake plowed the waters in armored
boats.
Which was why this time the artillery howling down off
the Golan was different; it was no longer unprovoked.
The Israelis had done the unthinkable; they had decided
to take the Golan Heights. Gambling that the Syrians
would never expect a surprise attack on such strategically
superior positions, the Israelis were climbing the hills
in an attempt to remove, once and for all, the Syrian
guns terrorizing the citizens of the North.
The battle was not just about a piece of real estate;
at stake was Israel's right to live in peace, and her
responsibility to protect her citizens from aggression.
Finally, after nineteen years of unremitting terror,
Israel had an opportunity to set the North free; there
would be no second chance.
In the northern thrust, the elite Golani brigade was
in trouble. Apparently, aerial reconnaissance photos,
which had been misinterpreted as pathways across the
mountain terraces capable of supporting tanks, proved
to be an illusion. The lines were really the marks separating
the terraces up the side of the mountain, and were completely
impassable to armor, so the infantry found themselves
all alone.
Everything came to a head on the slopes beneath the
Syrian fortifications at Tel Facher. The Syrians had
spent an inordinate amount of time building this defensive
position, as it was clear that this was the gateway
to the entire Golan Heights. The Israelis, caught in
an impossibly exposed position, with no armor support,
and with quarters too close for real artillery and air
support were being forced into almost single file up
the mountain path, as they encountered intense defensive
positions including mines and barbed wire.
Tel Facher was dangerously close to becoming the turning
point of the war. The advance up the mountain ground
to a halt.
The Syrian artillery was now concentrating on a single
three-foot wide stretch of dirt where the Israelis were
stuck on the barbed wire, within range of the Syrian
machine-gun nests above. The boys from Golani were being
cut to pieces.
Enter one David Shirazzi. Shirazzi, not an officer,
and in fact not even a sergeant, had already been wounded
in the fighting but refused to let the platoon medic
evacuate him, insisting on staying with his unit moving
their way up the hill. He had spent the better part
of three years with these men, and they were more than
just members of his unit; they were his brothers.
They say he looked up that hill, and knew there was
no way he would make it to the top; the climb was too
steep, his wounds were too great, and the merciless
hammering of the artillery and machine gun fire meant
there was nowhere to go.
The rows of barbed wire, normally such a simple obstacle,
were, because of the terrain, proving to be the undoing
of the Golani brigade. The narrow approach meant only
one man at a time could approach the wire, which gave
the Syrian machine gunners more than enough time to
cut the Israelis down, one by one.
There is a powerful teaching in Pirkei Avot (Ethics
of the fathers):
"Be'makom She'Ein Ish, Hishtadel Le'hiyot Ish."
" In a place where there is no man, try to be that
man."
Someone had to do something, and in that place at that
moment, with the Golan and the entire Seventh Brigade
hanging in the balance, Shirazzi was that man.
Shouting out one word, "Alai" ("On me")
over and over again, he leapt forward and threw himself
on top of the barbed wire transforming himself into
a human bridge over which the men could run across and
storm the Syrian positions. With tears in their eyes
as they trampled over his body, the men of Golani took
heart from Shirazzi's example, and reclaimed the Golan
Heights.
Only three men eventually reached the top of Tel Facher,
but it was enough. On June 12, 1967, the Syrian guns
on the Golan Heights finally went silent. Two thousand
years after the Roman legions had exiled them; the Jewish
people had finally come home to the ancient mountaintops
of the Bashan.
One wonders what gives a man the strength to pursue
something he knows he will not finish. David Shirazzi,
who is memorialized for eternity in the Golani museum
at Tsomet Golani, had no illusions that he would ever
reach the top of the Golan, yet he kept moving up that
hill to get as far as he could, clinging to the belief
that he could still make a difference.
This week we read the weekly portion, Ha'azinu.
The song of Ha'azinu, is Moshe's swan song. Moshe shares
Judaism's vision of the future with the second generation,
poised on the banks of the Jordan River, ready to enter,
at long last, the land of Israel. But Moshe himself
will not be going with them.
Having appointed Joshua (at G-d's command) as his successor,
Moshe is getting ready to say goodbye; he will not enter
the land of Israel with his beloved people. With the
song of Ha'azinu, he is leaving them his legacy:
the recipe for what the world is meant to be, and how
to avoid the pitfalls of what it so often ends up becoming.
The song of Ha'azinu has as its theme the idea that
as a people, no matter what mistakes we make, we can
always go back and become the people we are meant to
be.
One wonders what gave Moshe, perhaps the most tragic
figure in the Bible, the strength to go on, knowing
he would never get to finish what he had started.
Even more challenging is the fact that the following
week we will read the Torah's last portion (Ve'zot
HaBeracha), and the Torah will end before the Jewish
people even enter the land of Israel.
The Torah speaks so often of "Ki Tavo'u El
Ha'Aretz", "When you will come to
the land", and seems to have as its goal the
return of the nation Israel to its homeland, which it
had left as the family of Yaakov nearly three hundred
years earlier. So why does it end now? Why isn't the
book of Joshua, which sees the Jewish people cross the
Jordan River and enter the land of Israel, included
in the Torah?
How can we spend so much time preparing for the realization
of the dream to be a nation in our own land, and then
stop short of seeing it come true?
In truth, Jewish tradition is replete with instances
of individuals who do not see their dreams through to
fruition, as well as tasks begun but not completed.
Joshua, Moshe's successor, is given the mission of both
conquering the land of Israel (whose borders are defined
not by committee but by G-d,) and dividing the land
amongst the tribes. But most of the land is neither
conquered nor apportioned in his lifetime. In fact,
some portions of the land of Israel as defined in the
Bible were never conquered!
The Jewish people, prior to entering the land are given
the mission of building a Mikdash, a permanent
edifice as G-d's sanctuary, something that does not
happen for nearly four hundred years, and King David
himself, who dreamed of building this Temple, does not
live to see it happen, just as Abraham, Yitzchak, and
Yaakov do not live to see the birth of the nation of
Israel.
And this pattern continues, as with Eliyahu (Elijah)
the prophet, whose mission to reform the nation of Israel
and rid her of idolatry is not only ever realized, but
may well be described as an abysmal failure, at least
within the context of the plain text.
All of which must challenge us to consider the very
nature of setting goals in the first place. What does
it mean to set goals?
We find ourselves at the beginning of a new Jewish year,
with the power of resolutions, goals, and objectives
very much on our minds. It has become an accepted truism
in our society, that in order to accomplish things one
needs to set goals and objectives. But what is the nature
of these goals? How does one arrive at goals that are
realistic, and is there a system for ensuring that such
goals are achieved? If one cannot or does not achieve
some or all of those goals, does that necessarily imply
failure?
There is a fascinating statement in Ethics of the Fathers
(Avot 2:21) that may shed light on this topic:
"Lo Alecha HaMelacha Ligmor, Velo' Atah ben
Chorin Le'Hibatel Mimenah'"
"It is neither incumbent upon you to finish the
task, nor are you free to desist from it."
Apparently, the Mishnah is suggesting here, that while
I cannot ignore projects, challenges, perhaps even mitzvoth
that come my way, I am not responsible to see such items
through to their satisfactory completion.
Why not? Why am I not responsible to complete any and
every project that comes my way, especially once I have
taken on such responsibilities?
Can there be nothing wrong with a person who makes a
commitment to take on a given project and then backs
out in the middle, without seeing it through? Indeed
what value is there to the enterprise if there is no
obligation to attain the goals that have been set?
Perhaps the issue at stake here is not whether we complete
our goals and tasks, but rather how we achieve
them.
The idea that I can complete something, anything, on
my own, stems from the illusion that in this world we
are ever really alone.
Imagine setting the goal of climbing Mount Everest this
year. Could such a goal ever really be yours to complete
alone? So much thought, effort and work goes into the
planning for such an expedition. And so many different
people have to commit to do so many different things,
to see such a project through to its natural conclusion.
How arrogant would it be to declare publicly 'this year
I will climb Mount Everest'? And what a healthy dose
of reality it would be to realize in all of the goals
that we set for ourselves, just how much we really need
each other, to really achieve them. In fact, perhaps
this Mishnah (teaching) in Ethics of the Fathers is
suggesting just how valuable a habit it would be to
recognize this truth in everything we do.
Whether we are setting the goal of studying Torah or
losing weight, do we really take the time to stop and
consider just how much I need help to successfully achieve
this goal? If there is salad in the fridge for me to
cut up, in order to have a healthier lunch, who went
to the supermarket and bought the salad? And what a
gift that we live in a world where such food is so readily
available? Do we ever thank the farmers who toil in
the fields so that we have such bounty so readily available?
And of course, there would be no crops in the fields,
let alone vegetables in the supermarket if there were
no rain. When we walk out of the house in the morning
only to discover the rain beginning to fall, do we really
appreciate what a gift that is? If G-d did not provide
the rain, in the end, where would be? How many people
in Africa or India take rainfall for granted?
Are we ever really alone, in anything we do?
This is not to say, of course that we are not meant
to take responsibility for our role in any given venture,
and even to imagine we are alone when we do our bit.
Confronted with G-d's conclusion (in the sin of the
Golden calf), "Heref Mimeni Va'Ashmidem",
"Leave me be and I will destroy them", The
Talmud (Berachot 5a) has Moshe responding:
"Ein Ha'Davar Talui Elah Bi", "This thing
then, is dependent only on me".
It is certainly important in life to recognize that
we make a difference, and that we have the power to
climb mountains and change the world, all on our own.
But this must always be coupled with a healthy dose
of reality concerning just how much we really do need
each other. And of course when this idea begins to permeate
my thought consciousness on a constant basis, it changes
the way I look at the world, and everything and everyone
in it.
Anyone who has ever built a company will agree that
any successful business venture depends on teamwork.
The attitude that the company is 'mine' is not just
unhealthy, it also isn't true. And the best way to inspire
the people who work with you is to do away with the
illusion that they work for you. The successful
surgeon recognizes that all alone in an operating room,
he could never be all that he was meant to be. It is
only with the nurses and interns, the anesthesiologists
and technicians upon whom he or she absolutely depends,
that the operation can be a complete success. And however
skilled his or her hands are, they too, are in the end,
a gift from the ultimate One upon whom we all depend;
the only true One.
What an incredible world this could be, if only we could
all embrace this idea. The absurdity of war would be
akin to my hand fighting with my foot as to who is really
in charge. In the end, if my hands and feet were fighting
with each other, I would never be able to get out the
door, much less get anything done.
The isolationist policy, as an example, of the United
States prior to World War II, was not just a mistake;
it simply wasn't true. We are not really separate nations,
we are in the end all of us, one world, and we are all
partners in building that world.
Perhaps this is at the root of the way in which the
Torah ends.
When one man accomplishes so much, it is easy to forget
how much he still needs to be perceived as part of the
team. Of all the individuals that ever walked the earth,
Moshe reached a level that most people never come close
to even comprehending. Moshe somehow achieves the ultimate
'I-Thou' relationship, speaking to G-d face to face,
(whatever that means). And when you get that high, it
is easy to forget that you don't get there on your own.
So the Torah ends before we get into the land of Israel,
making the point that for all his greatness, he didn't
do it all; he merely set the stage. Moshe gets the Jewish
people out of Egypt and through forty years in the desert
with all the challenges that entails. But in the end,
even he can't do it all, he has simply prepared the
way for Joshua to bring the Jewish people home. Moshe
alone, without Joshua, would be teaching Torah to a
Jewish people still languishing in the desert. The book
of Yehoshua, coming as it does after the five books
of Moses are completed, sends a powerful message that
we are always part of a larger picture.
And in the beginning of this week's portion, Ha'azinu,
Moshe very clearly introduces this idea to the Jewish
people before they enter the land of Israel.
Shortly, when the Jewish people enter the land, the
miracles that are obviously apparent in the desert,
will cease. There will be no more Manna from heaven
that provide food daily, no clouds of glory to protect
the warriors as they conquer the land, and no pillar
of fire to light the way. And it will be so easy to
forget that we are not alone, and it is not really us
who are doing all the work. Moshe exhorts the second
generation, who did not grow up in Egypt nor see the
wonders of the Exodus and the splitting of the Sea,
never to forget that they are not alone. That in all
that we do, Hashem is always there.
Incredibly, Hashem says to us, that He does not want
to be alone either. Hashem wants us to participate in
this world as partners, building the land, and making
this a better world.
"Ha'azinu Hashamayim Va'adabera, Ve'Tishma
Ha'Aretz Imrei Phi."
"Hearken heavens, and I will speak, and let the
land hear the words of my mouth."(Devarim 32:1)
The heavens and the earth are a balance, between all
that we can do here on earth, and the fact that we on
earth, are ultimately in a partnership with heaven.
And if we think that we of the earth are doing it all,
then ultimately we will not be doing it at all.
"Ya'arof Ka'Matar Likchi, Tizal KaTal Imrati...."
"Let my sayings slice down like the rain, and let
my words flow like the dew." (32:2)
Rainfall is the ultimate reminder that we are not alone.
However much we plan, however hard we work in cultivating
our fields, in the end, it will depend on the rainfall,
which is completely out of our control.
And of course, this is true for all the 'fields' we
cultivate: Our businesses and projects, our homes and
our families; ultimately they are all 'rain' from heaven.
"Ki Shem Hashem Ekra, Havu' Godel Le'Elokeinu."
"For I will call out the name of G-d; bring greatness
to G-d."( 32:3)
Greatest of all, Hashem allows us, even wants us to
be His partners, allowing His greatness to be dependent
on us. It is not accidental, suggests Jewish tradition
that the rain in Israel falls so intermittently. It
teaches us to appreciate it, and reminds us of how much
we need it. Ultimately we develop a healthy desire for
it. This, in the end, is all Hashem asks for: Hashem
just wants us to want what He wants to give. How alone
or together we really are in this world, will ultimately
depend on us. We have the ability to bring G-d into
this world so that one day the entire world will rejoice
in the knowledge that we are never really alone.
Our goals this year will become valuable not by virtue
of what they are, but rather by virtue of how they
are. If my goals for this year are not jut about me,
but about all of us, and if even those goals that are
about me, are really about the 'me' that wants to be
there for all of us, then those goals are not just mine;
they have the potential to be everyone's. And what an
incredible year that would bring.
Whenever I found myself in difficult battle situations,
whether in Lebanon or the Gaza Strip, there was a particular
sentence of Maimonides that stayed with me.
In his Laws of Kings, (7:15) Maimonides
suggests that when a soldier enters the battlefield
in a war to protect the people of Israel, "Yish'an
Al Mikveh Yisrael", "Let him lean on the wellspring
of Israel".
However lonely and desperate it may become on the field
of battle, a Jewish soldier draws his strength from
the sanctity and love of the entire Jewish people, who
are mystically carrying him on their shoulders.
For David Shirazzi it was never about whether he made
it up that hill, and I suspect it wasn't even about
his entire unit, or even his brigade. On that terrible
afternoon at Tel Fachar, David Shirazzi was carrying
the entire Jewish people on his shoulders. And while
some of us might consider that a burden too heavy to
bear, I suspect for Shirazzi it just made it clear that
he was not alone. He was leaning on the wellspring of
the entire nation of Israel.
Wishing all of us a sweet, happy, and healthy New Year,
full of Joy and blessing for us all,
Gemar Chatimah Tovah,
Rav Binny Freedman
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