September 25, 2026

On Yom Kippur afternoon, I learned a new lesson about Jewish life and what it means to be Jewish. After spending time this past year trying to learn and study more about Jewish life under Communism, I decided that it was important to be sure those stories get told. Who better to tell those stories than members of our Beth Tikvah family who lived these experiences firsthand? I invited those members to be part of a panel on Yom Kippur afternoon which, we called Lights from Behind the Iron Curtain. Isabella Tabarovsky’s scholarship as well as her new book Be a Refusenik, along with a collection of post-Holocaust short stories from the former Soviet Union originally published in Yiddish entitled, In the Shadow of the Holocaust, inspired me to realize that this is a Jewish story which is often undertold.

For many of us living in America, it is hard to imagine what Jewish life is like anywhere else. Our connections to Judaism are largely defined by membership in a synagogue. In other instances, it is defined by membership at a JCC, attendance at Jewish summer camp, or perhaps even a connection to some form of Israel advocacy. As I sat listening to our congregants share their stories, I could not help but wonder if Jewish life in America today was largely shaped by the prevalence of houses of worship. In early America, these were largely Christian houses of worship. Synagogues then became the center of Jewish community. Jewish life in America has largely become defined by religion. When Pew studies reference “Jews of no religion,” they often do so from a pejorative viewpoint, indicating that such individuals are outside the traditional framework of Jewish life. Perhaps they are not. So many of us struggle with religion, a belief in God, or traditional Jewish practice. It does not mean that such a person is outside of the Jewish space.

One of the things I learned from our panel was that “Jew” was placed on their identity card as an ethnicity. The Soviet Union did not allow for religion, but they also tried to recognize that it was a place that every ethnicity could be recognized. While antisemitism was not state-ordained, there was rampant antisemitism in the Soviet Union. (Soviet anti-Zionism needs to be the subject of another reflection.) Every one of our panelists discussed their own experiences with antisemitism but maintained their own Jewish pride nonetheless. Our panelists had little connection to Judaism as a religion and were not familiar with many of our religious customs, but they knew they were Jewish. Their parents passed down Jewish culture through foods and stories. They might have gotten kosher food on occasion, and sometimes matzah was flown in from Israel, or they baked their own. They could get Israeli radio, the Voice of Israel. As a Refusenik, Valia Bergelson taught Hebrew without any materials.

After advocating for Soviet Jews to be freed, American Jews opened doors to welcome them in but perhaps we expected them to conform to the institutions we had previously established. Did we consider that they had little experience with religion? They joined Jewish communal institutions because that is where the community was, but did we really ever ask them about their Jewish identity or their experiences? I am concerned that many of these stories have never been told. My conversation on Monday afternoon with Valia and Vitaly Bergelson, Yulia and Mark Bar, Inna and Polina Litvak, and Adam Major really needs to be a first step in sharing such stories. There is so much more we can learn.

As I was reflecting on their stories and their lessons, I had Dara Horn’s definition of who Jews are floating in the back of my head. She explains that “Jews are a joinable tribe with a shared history, homeland, and culture. In a word, we are an am, a people.” The stories they shared are part of who we are as a people. We cannot limit ourselves to a narrow understanding of Judaism as a religion, though our religion is part of what we share.

This places a profound challenge on all of us to really think about what Jewish life will look like going forward. We must continue observing our holidays and Jewish rituals, but how is it that we can reclaim the seeds of our history, homeland, and culture that define who we are? We need to remember we are citizens of the Jewish people who have something to inherit and something to pass on.

At the conclusion of the session, I asked our panel to share one lesson or message they would want us to take away from their stories and experiences. They shared with us the following:

“Don’t be afraid to be a proud Jew.”

“If we want our children to know who they are, we have to do something about it.”

Let these messages dwell in our hearts. During the holiday of Sukkot, it is our tradition to invite ushpizin, guests, into our sukkah. Let these members of our community be your ushpizin by watching the conversation. Our congregants share an important part of who they are. May we be strengthened by their stories.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Rick Kellner

Watch our Lights from Behind the Iron Curtain program.

Sermon – Kol Nidre 5787

And…God…said, “No.”

From the depths of our souls, we pour out our deepest hopes and dreams. It takes courage to come before God expressing our innermost desires. As we enter the sanctuary, we bring our prayers and perhaps some of us are not sure if God is listening. We’re here because the time of year whispers to us, “Go.” When we arrive, we vocalize the words inscribed on the pages of our machzor; we express the supplications of our hearts. Sharing these words comes from a place of vulnerability. We cannot possibly know what the future will hold.

I recall the years of pain my mother felt when she was sick. Though the cancer was ravaging her body, and the pain she felt was profound, each time she went to the doctor she hoped for a good result. The doctor had no control of what the scans might say, but she prayed for good news or another treatment if the one she was on had stopped working. She wanted to reduce the pain; her doctors could manage that. She had one prayer, that she asked for repeatedly. She wanted more time. More time to be with her family, more time to watch her young granddaughters grow up. She wanted more hugs, more laughs, more joy. But God said, “No.”

Many of us have faced situations in which we have beseeched God for something we desire most, only for it to not come to fruition the way we want it to. Moses reminds us in the book of Deuteronomy that his deepest desire was to step foot in the Promised Land. He led the people through the wilderness and reminded the Israelites during the journey, “I pleaded with Adonai saying…let me, please cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan.” One might think that such a request would touch God’s heart, and God could not say no. But such anthropomorphic attributes don’t always work the way we mere mortals think they should. God responded to Moses, “rav lach-Enough! Never speak to me of this matter again.” Moses had proven himself; he led the Israelites through profound challenges. He had legs to stand on, but he never mentioned it to God. The book of Deuteronomy is a retelling of the journey. We might wonder why Moses shares this with the people. He is reminding them that there are times we will be disappointed, that the answer to our prayers might be no. A Midrash[1] tells us that Moses saw that God would not budge, Moses then drew a circle, stood in it and he would not move until God annulled the decree. He dressed in sackcloth and ashes and asked God 515 times[2] to enter the land.  The repeated requests would not change God’s mind. God reminded him that when the Israelites had sinned and built the Golden Calf, Moses wanted to save the people. While Moses eased God’s wrath, God reminded him that God made two oaths, one that Moses should not enter the land, and the other to not destroy the people, Israel. They cannot both be repealed, if you want to see the land, the people of Israel will be destroyed. Moses turned to God and said, “Let Moses and thousands like him be destroyed, but do not let one person in Israel be destroyed.”[3] Through all this God heard that seeing the land was important to him, so God let Moses climb Mt. Nebo and behold a full panoramic picture of the land.

What might Moses have been feeling in that moment? He might have shed a tear knowing he still could not step foot in the Promised Land. He had to change course; he had to think differently when God said no. Seeing the land would have to suffice. Was Moses soul still broken? Perhaps, but true healing comes when we embrace the brokenness, the disappointment, and accept our reality.

In her acclaimed book, When We See You Again, Rachel Goldberg-Polin pours out her soul and reminds us of her 330-day fight to keep her son Hersh alive. She writes, “In general, we human beings, we love our people completely, and we will do anything for them. Anything. Thankfully, ‘anything’ isn’t usually necessary. Unfortunately, even ‘everything’ doesn’t always work…all those prayers we said and say are heard, I believe that, just not always where and when and how we ask for them to be.” But the key aspect of her message is in what she writes next, “Sometimes the answer is no. It is an answer. We might not like it. I didn’t like the answer to the prayers I poured out for Hersh to come back to me alive.”[4]

It is there, in that space of pain or disappointment, that we have a choice to make. What do we do when God says no, when we don’t like the answer? Wallowing in our disappointment can lead to tremendous pain or depression. It can break our souls beyond repair. No one would blame us if that was our choice. Countless individuals cannot escape the darkness of the harsh decrees that befall them. Can we choose a different path? If the answer to that question is yes, then we should try to put one foot in front of the other and walk in a lonely place where it seems no one has ever walked before. We carry the wounds with us on our souls as we forge forward.

If there is one thing we hope for, it is that we never have any pain; we never suffer. While our heart hopes that to be true, our heads know that suffering will come. The natural rhythms of life remind us we will encounter periods of suffering in our lives. We often wonder why a person falls ill. Why do we have to miss an important moment of our lives because of illness or injury? Why didn’t we get the job we longed for? What happens in the moments following suffering defines who we are.

The Talmud, in tractate Brachot[5], invites us to think about this same question. Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba became ill and his teacher, Rabbi Yochanan came to visit him and said, “Is your suffering dear to you? Rabbi Hiyya responded neither the suffering nor its reward. Rabbi Yochanan said to him, give me your hand. Rabbi Hiyya gave Rabbi Yochanan his hand and was healed. The scene repeats itself with Rabbi Yochanan falling ill and Rabbi Hanina visiting him. Rabbi Hanina asks the same question, is your suffering dear to you? And Rabbi Yochanan shares the same answer, neither the suffering nor its reward. Rabbi Hanina then offered his hand and brought healing to Rabbi Yochanan.

As I share with you this story, you might be struck by the question each rabbi asks his friend, “Is your suffering dear to you?” What kind of question is that? I could not imagine walking into the hospital room and asking any of you such a question. Of course, the suffering would not be dear to us. Rabbi Yochanan understands Jewish tradition which teaches just a little earlier in the Talmud a reflection on Isaiah 53:10 which says, “The one in whom God delights, God oppresses with illness.” The Talmud teaches us that this verse means we must knowingly accept our suffering with love and if so, what is the reward? The answer is in the second part of the verse which says, “That the individual might see their children, and their days would be lengthened.” If you’re as uncomfortable in your seat as I am sharing this, you’re not alone. Suffering to lengthen my days, no thank you. Suffering as a sign of God’s love, I don’t think so.[6] If we limit our understanding of lengthening our days to the promise of time, then perhaps the limits of our mind would lead us to anger. If, however, we can think about lengthening as finding purpose in our learning from our suffering, then perhaps our anger at our tradition will be quelled and we can begin to reflect on what we might do now that we have suffered. If instead, because we know what it is like to feel such profound pain, can we be more loving, can we become more patient, can we have insights about the world we didn’t have before? If the answer to those questions is yes, then our lives will walk a different path, a more meaningful and compassionate path.

Writer Arthur Brooks reflects on this course of suffering in an opinion piece for The Free Press,[7] he references Bruce Feiler who observed that every 12 to 18 months we experience a major change in our lives. Big changes, life quakes, as Feiler calls them, happen three to five times in a person’s life. Feiler talks about the real suffering a person experiences during these changes and quakes. The negative feelings tend to overshadow our emotions in those moments. But Feiler found that 90% of the time, people looked back on the challenge and suffering and saw the transition as a success. Brooks points out the paradox, “We hate negative change and resist it, but we need it to find the meaning in life we crave.” Brooks suggests one tool to alleviate our suffering. Many people, he explains have a gratitude journal, or a list of joyful events and past blessings. He says he would not do this because it only serves to contrast between the joyful times then and the crummy moment now. Instead, he keeps a journal of failure and disappointment. When something is bothering him, he opens an encrypted file on his phone or laptop and writes about it in a few words. Under what he has written, he leaves two blank lines, and a note to come back to it one month later, and write on the first line, and on the second line, the month after that. Brooks has learned that when you come back to the frustrating moments, they have often been resolved, or even some blessing may have come from it. Then he says, after several months of entries, you can look back and see the pain and the learning. What comes from these reflections are moments of growth, resilience, and perhaps a newly found sense of purpose.

While Brooks offers one approach, Rabbi Nachman of Breslov teaches us that we should get in the habit of singing; it will give us new life and fill us with joy.[8] Did Sagui Dekel-Chen know this teaching when he was in the depths of the tunnels in Gaza?[9] Sagui Dekel-Chen lived on Kibbutz Nir Oz with his family. On October 7, when terrorists invaded his kibbutz, he fought back in defense. He was shot, wounded, and then taken hostage. He spent 498 days in captivity. On that morning, his pregnant wife Avital, and young daughters, Bar and Gili were in the safe room of their home. As part of the Kibbutz emergency team, Sagui armed himself to fight the terrorists. At one point during the battle, he headed home and was taken captive. How did Sagui make it through his painful captivity? He sang music in his head. There were 44 songs he knew well, Israeli ones from Shlomo Artzi, classic rock from Bruce Springsteen, and pop from Adele. He imagined romantic dates with Avital and singing his daughters to sleep every night. He didn’t know his family was still alive until days before his release and he wondered what his daughter’s name was. While in captivity he did something more than singing songs in his head; he wrote his own songs.

Upon his release, he began to look up Israeli singers who could help him bring those songs to life. Last month, more than 3,000 people gathered at Kibbutz Nir Oz for a concert of his music, he called the night “Captivity in Lyrics”. He told everyone he was not a singer, not all the songs were sad, and that they should expect to laugh and dance. With a band of eight musicians and three backup singers including several famous names in the Israeli music scene, Sagui Dekel-Chen brought his songs to life. The lyrics were displayed on a giant screen behind the stage along with photos of his family from before and after October 7^th. While in the tunnels, he started to imagine his wife in labor and hear the cries of a newborn. He wrote a song entitled “Lo yodea et sh’meich”[10], I don’t know your name. It sounds like a lullaby. The song begins with the chimes of a mobile and with a sweet voice Sagui sings, “I have not yet sung you a lullaby. I have not yet hugged you tight. I have not taken you for walk in the flowery fields. I haven’t given you a kiss at night when you were sleeping. I still don’t know your name.” His song expresses the pain and the longing, but also the promise and the hope. At the concert, Sagui shared that he thought of his new baby as a kind of deposit waiting to be redeemed upon his release. He asked audience members if they had held Shahar Mazal before he did and thanked them for being there when he couldn’t.

There is an album to accompany Sagui’s performance and the final song on the album, one of the final songs he sang that night, is called Hashir bishvili, A song for me. In that song he considered the possibility of not returning home or returning home to an empty house. While he convinced himself in the tunnels that his family was ok and waiting for him, he began to think shortly before his release about where he might bury his loved ones and what songs might be sung at the funeral. This moment gave everyone the opportunity to think about Yarden Bibas who lived that reality as he buried his wife Shiri and young sons, Ariel and Kfir who were murdered by Hamas in captivity.

For 498 days Sagui Dekel-Chen was in the depths of the tunnels. He felt the pain and the sorrow. He survived through song, and he turned his suffering into a collection of teachings that might help others navigate our own way through crisis, pain, and sorrow. When we are in the depths of our suffering, and we call out to God in prayer, and God answers no, perhaps in those moments, we might recall any story from our tradition about how we can turn our pain and suffering into something. Sagui taught us to hope. My mother, when she was looking for more time and couldn’t get it, she vowed to make the time she had meaningful and create the most amazing memories for her family. She lengthened her days by deepening the meaning.

How did Rachel Goldberg-Polin do it? She says, “We ran and chased and begged and pleaded and dealt and paid in every way you can conjure and imagine and prayed and worked and cried and suffered, we suffered in the most sickening ways…we proved that the engine of love can entirely fuel and propel us…to keep going…we forced ourselves to have hope.”[11] She teaches us that the recipe for hope is internal, it is mustered from within. It isn’t an option, it is a mitzvah, God commands us to hope. Goldberg-Polin writes, “Now, my prayer, my pursuit and quest, more than any other is still Hope.”[12] She does this by carrying Hersh’s mission and purpose in life forward. Hersh’s purpose is now her purpose.

Suffering changes us. When God says, no, we say to God, I am still going to hope. I am still going to be here God. I am going to find a different prayer, a different response. Say no God, ok, I am going to emerge stronger and better. I am going to find meaning and purpose. I am going to grow.

Eloheinu veilohei avoteinu v’imoteinu, God and God of our ancestors, when the answer to our prayer is no, empower us to take ownership of our lives.

Even though our suffering and its reward are unwelcomed, teach us to make meaning out of our suffering. Guide us in growth and reflection, may the hope that lives within be the flower that blooms from the dark soil. Kein yehi ratzon.

Rabbi Rick Kellner

[1] Otzar Midrashim, Drash on Petirat Moshe #5 https://www.sefaria.org/Otzar_Midrashim%2C_Midrashim_on_Moses_Our_Master%2C_Drash_on_Petirat_Moshe.1?lang=bi&lookup=%D7%A2%D7%95%D7%92%D7%94&with=Lexicon&lang2=en

[2] The number 515 is equivalent to the gematria of the Hebrew word ואתחנן

[3] Midrash Tanchuma Vaetchanan 6, https://www.sefaria.org/Midrash_Tanchuma%2C_Vaetchanan.6.1?lang=bi

[4] When We See You Again, by Rachel Godlberg-Polin, p. 215, 218

[5] Talmud Brachot 5b

[6] Talmud Brachot 5a

[7] Don’t Waste Your Suffering, by Arthur Brooks, The Free Press, April 6, 2026, https://www.thefp.com/p/arthur-brooks-dont-waste-your-suffering?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email

[8] The Empty Chair, by Reb Nachman of Breslov p. 104

[9] This story is told in the article this article from Times of Israel on August 11, 2026 https://www.timesofisrael.com/former-hostage-sagui-dekel-chen-returns-home-to-perform-songs-he-composed-in-hamas-captivity/

[10] Theissong was played at the conclusion of the sermon, https://open.spotify.com/track/5hEKP232hddtAlV18sfqjX?si=f5f3db3994074ad8

[11] Goldberg-Polin, p. 215-216

[12] Goldberg-Polin, p. 217

Sermon – Rosh Hashanah 5787

When we behold the night sky, we become captivated by the heavens. Awe mesmerizes our souls as we look at the blanket of stars sheltering us like a chuppah. We recall God’s promise that we will be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore. By now, we have realized the promise is not about our numbers, but perhaps has Rabbi Chayim of Volozhin explains, it is about the largeness of our souls. The promise reflects our ability to behold wonder, reflect on our past, and our obligation to teach the next generation. Gazing towards the night sky, the mysterious power of the moon captivates us. As it cycles from darkness, to light, and back to darkness, controls the ebb and flow of the tides, the moon’s cycle invites us to reflect on our people’s complex existence throughout history. We have also experienced cycles of darkness and light, exclusion and acceptance, fear and hope, pain and comfort.

Looking back through the annals of history, we listen to stories distilled through memory. The Jewish experience in recent years counters the bucolic memories of the last half century painted on the canvas of our minds.  For most of us, the latter part of the 20th century felt like a golden period for Jews in America. However, Pamela Nadell, professor of American Jewish history, writes that “Golden ages appear in retrospect when turmoil in the current moment propels longing for an imagined idyllic past.”[1]

In writing the story of this season in history, Nadell shares the abject challenges Jews faced. The history books remind us of synagogue bombings in the deep south and renowned historian, Deborah Lipstadt, defending the Jewish story against a Holocaust denier.  The 20^th century saw the Soviet campaign tainting world opinion against Jews and Israel by labeling Zionism as racism at the United Nations, an antisemitic claim which stained history. Nadell tells the story of a young woman who grew up in the early 1970s in a New Jersey suburb with a large Jewish population who came to Ohio State and moved into campus housing with fifteen women from rural Ohio. On her first night on campus, her roommates lined up to watch her undress; they were looking for her tail. Nadell tells us she laughed at their ignorance, but she was churning inside.[2] Such experiences were different than immigration and university quotas and the barring of Jews from certain professions in the early part of the 20^th century.

Looking at our experiences in recent years, the violence and danger against us causes great concern. In the last year alone, we witnessed a massacre of Jews on Bondi Beach on the first night of Hanukkah, an arson attack on Beth Israel Congregation in Jackson, MS. That same synagogue was one of those southern synagogues bombed in the 60s. We were horrified when Temple Israel in West Bloomfield was attacked in March, nearly harming 140 preschoolers and their teachers. In New York City, over 57% of the hate crimes target Jews. When Shira went to Dollywood during intersession at camp, the girls she was with all discussed taking off their Jewish stars while they walked around the amusement park. Taking this precaution in the south might not surprise us, but the need to put a baseball cap over one’s kippah or hiding a Jewish star necklace in New York City in 2026 certainly does. In an era dominated by algorithms on social media shaping the viewpoints of those who encounter the lies of AI controlled bots, the spaces that were once safe and the people who were once allies are fading into a sea of hate.

The rest of us must navigate these uncharted waters, perhaps guided by the stars that tell the stories of those who came before us. Such stories appear on the pages of our history books, but when we draw them into our hearts, their lessons are the lights that can guide us. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, once wrote, “Judaism… it’s an identity. And you can’t sell an identity. But you can lose it. And many Jews are now losing theirs. Our ancestors have given us the gift of a past… [W]e should not relinquish it simply because we don’t know how valuable it is… If we truly wish to hand on our legacy to our children, we must teach them to love it… What we love, we inherit. What we fail to love, we lose.”[3] We are obligated to know our past because it is the essence of who we are. But perhaps even more than our identity, the lessons offered by the people who navigated their own challenges shine a light on our pathways forward. It is our very nature as Jews to look at our past for inspiration to help us navigate the present. As a people of the book, the stories shared by one generation inspire the next.

When we enter the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, we read the story of Hannah and the birth of her son Samuel. The book of Samuel begins by telling us that a man named Elkanah had two wives, one named Hannah and the other Peninah. Hannah was childless, while Peninah had children. Peninah made Hannah miserable through repeated taunting because God had closed her womb causing Hannah to weep and not eat. With all her pain, Hannah turned to God and prayed, “Adonai Tzvaot, if you will look upon my suffering, remember me, and if you grant me a male child, I will dedicate him to the Eternal all the days of his life.” As Hannah prayed, Eli the priest was watching her. Hannah was praying with her heart full of devotion but only her lips were moving. Eli accused her of being drunk and making a spectacle of herself. In response, Hannah opened her soul and shared her brokenness with him, informing him of her heartfelt prayer. Struck by her candor, Eli responded to her, “L’chi l’shalom, go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant what you have requested.” Hannah became pregnant and when her son arrived, she named him Shmuel, Samuel, indicating that she asked God for a child and God heard her prayers.

As witnesses to Hannah’s story, we empathize with her pain, and anguish. Those who rise up to harm us, drive us deeper into the abyss of our own distress. Hannah offers us a powerful example of how we might respond when facing our own darkness. Nechama Aschkenasy, Professor Emerita of Comparative Literary and Cultural Studies at the University of Connecticut teaches us, “At the story’s heart lies Hannah’s iron-willed ambition to go beyond the temporal, to make an impact on history, for herself and for her son…Hannah is the sole architect of her own redemption.”[4] Jewish tradition understands redemption in the context of the Exodus as we went from slavery to being a free people. Hannah’s redemption comes when, after the birth of Samuel, she has broken free from the pain flooding her life.

Hannah had a choice; she could have given up, instead, she took matters into her own hands. Hannah was not one to let something go. Her choice to act guided by her faith, conviction to God, and her people was profound. Hannah’s actions inspire us to do the same when we are faced with despair, bitterness, and pain. The instinct to stay connected, rather than retreat, is especially critical in Jewish life today.

A recent study by the Jim Joseph Foundation showed that nearly 4 in 10 Jewish young adults say events affecting American Jews in recent years have led them to pull back from Jewish spaces or be more selective about where they participate. Though 75% of young people regularly do something Jewish, most find these connections outside of the synagogue and traditional Jewish institutions.[5] What happens when we turn away from Jewish spaces? Is that the equivalent of turning away from Jewish community or departure from Jewish life? Such an erosion of faith occurs for myriad reasons, but what if they acted like Hannah and brought their pain and distress into a Jewish space?

The Biblical Hannah is not our people’s only model for inspiration in response to challenges. Another Hannah, a 20^th century Hannah, is a shining star guiding us in the darkness. We know Hannah Senesh when we sing, “Eli Eli, shelo yigameir l’olam, Oh God My God, I prayer that these things never end…” Her famous poem inspired by her walk along the shores of Caesarea keep her memory alive, but it is her story that should inspire us as well. Some of us might only be familiar with her song, others might know she was a paratrooper killed in Hungary in 1944 at the age of 23 after being captured during her mission. Douglas Century’s biography of Hannah Senesh entitled Crash of the Heavens and Matti Friedman’s Out of the Sky, an account of the experience of the Israeli paratroopers who enlisted in the British military during World War II, are two books published in the past year giving us insight into why Hannah Senesh became a hero to the Jewish people.

Born Anna Szenes in Budapest in 1921, her parents were Bela Szenes, the famous writer, and Katalina Szenes. They raised Anna in a middle class, assimilated, cultured Jewish family. Though her father died when she was six, Anna had a happy childhood and she documented it all in her diary, which she began at 13. She wrote about Hitler’s rise to power and expressed her anxiety as Nazi troops marched through Austria nearing the Hungarian border. Antisemitism was exploding in Europe and Anna only began to think of herself as Jewish when her brother Gyori could no longer pursue his plans to attend university in Vienna. Hitler’s rise to power gave this young teenager new perspective on her identity, faith, and place in the world. In 1937, Anna Szenes was elected to be an officer in her school’s Literary Society, but they called for new elections and two other girls who had not previously been candidates were nominated. Anna wrote, “This clearly indicated that they did not want a Jew to become an officer.” She was deeply hurt by what took place and ceased involvement in the society. Anna realized at the young age of 16 she would not be accepted as an officer or by Hungarian society. She decided that there was no future for her in Hungary and in September of 1939 she boarded a ship making Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael.

In October 1938 she wrote in her diary, “I don’t know whether I’ve already mentioned that I’ve become a Zionist. This word stands for a tremendous number of things. To me it means, in short, that I now consciously and strongly feel I am a Jew – and am proud of it. My primary aim is to go to Palestine, to work for it.”[6] Upon arriving in Israel, she began using her Hebrew name Hannah and Hebraicized her last name becoming Hannah Senesh. Her pride in Judaism was a deep connection to her people. Months before she departed for Eretz Yisrael she read aloud an essay she wrote entitled, “The Fundamentals of Zionism,” in which she wrote, “’What is the purpose of Zionism, its basic aim?’ If we had to define Zionism briefly, perhaps we could best do so in the words of Nahum Sokolow: “Zionism is the movement of the Jewish people for its revival!”[7]

Like her biblical namesake, Hannah Senesh was a person who dedicated herself to bringing about the world she wanted to create. She, too, brought redemption into her own hands. As Hungarian life darkened and war in Europe raged on, Hannah realized in 1943 she needed to return home, to organize the youth and get her mother out.[8] A young man showed up on Kibbutz Sdot Yam, where Hannah was living, and told her he was organizing a top-secret military mission to rescue the Jews of Hungary and Central Europe. Hannah Senesh was ready to become a soldier.

After parachuting into Europe in early summer of 1944, more than a year after she decided to pursue this journey, Hannah crossed the border into Hungary. Soon after, she was captured and imprisoned for months. She was eventually executed. Hannah refused to be blindfolded before the firing squad. After her death, the captain in the prison told her mother, “Mrs. Szenes, I must tell you, I was impressed by your daughter’s courage and strength of character. She showed great composure until the very last moment. Imagine! She was truly proud of being a Jew.” [9] Just before crossing the border, twenty-two-year-old Hannah found herself in the woods about to cross the border into Hungary. She extended her hand to her comrade with a small piece of paper. On that paper were the words:

Ashrei Hagfrur -Happy is the match that flared and lit the flames.

Happy is the flame that burned the secret in the deepest hearts.

Happy is the heart that knew when in honor to stop.

Happy is the match that flared and lit the flames.[10]

Matti Friedman explains that Hannah’s final message, Ashrei Hagfrur, is the essence of the mission. She was going to light a match that would ignite others but she herself would be consumed. The paratroopers’ mission was to write a Zionist story about the war – a story that would lead others to action, not despair. In this story, Jews will not be victims, but heroes. What took place wouldn’t change the war, but it would change how people remember the war and therefore change the future. When faced with tragedy, those who know the parachutists’ story won’t pull the covers over their heads, or bemoan the cruelty of fate, or wait for someone else to do something. They will look out into the night, and jump. Hannah knew the mission was not military, it was literary, it was about the story. And Hannah was the best writer.[11]

            While we are not standing before a firing squad, sometimes it feels like every time we step out in public and share our Jewishness, there is a target on our back. When Beth Tikvah sets up a booth on Worthington Square for Pride Day or the Festival of Nations and people come up to us sharing their support, those are moments that remind us we can continue to show who we are publicly as Jews. The antisemitic violence might cause us to retreat in our shells but like the two Hannah’s we can be proud of who we are and bring about the redemption with our own hands and actions. When you’re young and trying to make it on a college campus do you engage in a deliberate act of closeting your Jewish identity? Do you share with your professor that your Jewish? Do you share with your peers the story about your Bat Mitzvah or trip to Israel? Or do you show up at Hillel with pride? Do you wear your Jewish star outwardly? Translate these questions for any demographic and they are asking the same thing: are we proud of who we are or would hiding be better in the long run? In a time when the legitimacy of the Jewish story is under attack, the two Hannah’s remind us that we are the authors of our Jewish story and architects of the Jewish future. Every Jewish home is a Mikdash M’at, a small Temple to nurture the Jewish future.

            We have come too far and endured too much to run away from our Jewishness. The stories of the two Hannah’s are not only for the historical moments in which they lived. Their enduring lessons still guide us. When the moon in the sky is dark, the lights that peak out from behind the curtain shine through our pride, our commitment, and our dedication to the Jewish people and the Jewish journey. As Jews, we have agency to write our story and to live according to our purpose. It is a story that reminds us we are not victims, but heroes. We are not powerless; we have agency. We are not conformists, we are creators. We stand up to tyrants; we support the Jewish people across the globe. We bring our unique vision to a world that needs our light. As Jews we create worlds out of darkness. It would be easy to be consumed by the flame, but we are not, we light the flames that guide us into the future. May we have the wisdom to write our story and take action. May we have the faith to draw closer to our people; and may we have the power to be the architects of our own redemption.

L’shana Tova.

Rabbi Rick Kellner

[1] Antisemitism, An American Tradition, by Pamela Nadell, p. 179

[2] Nadell, p. 206

[3] Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks from In Judaism’s Life-Changing Ideas: A Weekly Reading of the Jewish Bible, as quoted by Rabbi Avit Perten in an article entitled “I’m not Jumping for Jewish Joy https://ejewishphilanthropy.com/im-not-jumping-for-jewish-joy-heres-why/

[4] Hannah: More than Just the Mother of Samuel by Prof. Nehama Aschkenasy https://www.thetorah.com/article/hannah-more-than-just-the-mother-of-samuel

[5] https://www.timesofisrael.com/some-young-us-jews-pulling-back-from-jewish-life-due-to-israel-discourse-study/

[6] Crash of the Heavens by Doug Century, p. 8

[7] Century, p. 9

[8] Century, p. 29

[9] Century p. 318

[10] Matti Friedman, Out of the Sky, p. 154-155

[11] Paraphrased and adapted from Friedman, p. 157