The Silence of Heaven |
By sunrise on Simchat Torah, the skies over the Gaza envelope were streaked with smoke and the orange of distant fires. The sirens quieted, but the stillness that followed in Beeri and in Nahal Oz was not peace. It was the quiet after invasion. Doors were broken. Safe rooms were tested. Families clutched the handles and waited. Some whispered Tehillim. Some held their breath and said nothing at all.
We do not attempt to explain the unexplainable. We do insist on speaking within our Mesorah, our Tradition. The Jewish way allows tears, questions, and protest, yet guards the foundations of Faith. Our words here are offered with fear and with honor for those who suffered.
Beeri, known for its culture and its communal strength, lost many of its people that day. Nahal Oz, seasoned by years on the border, faced a depth of evil that defies speech. Calls went out to hotlines. Neighbors signaled each other as best they could. Local volunteers fought with what they had until help could reach them. In many homes there were long hours of hiding and of quiet questions.
Our tradition gives language for such hours. “How long, Hashem?” (Tehillim 13:2). That cry is not heresy. It is heartbreak spoken in Faith. In the Torah and the Neviim and the Ketuvim, protest and prayer live together. Moshe pleads for Israel after the calf (Shemot 32:11–14). Channah pours out her soul for a child (Shmuel Alef 1:10–11). David asks, “How long will You hide Your face from me,” and then affirms, “I have trusted in Your kindness” (Tehillim 13:2, 6). Lament does not cancel covenant. It is part of covenant.
Some survivors spoke about a renewed bond with Am Yisrael. Not always through added ritual, but through a deeper sense of peoplehood and shared destiny. Others could not speak. In our Beit Midrash of sorrow, both speech and silence are recognized as authentic responses. We sit with mourners. We listen. We do not rush to close the file on grief.
Our Sages also give a language for hiddenness. “I will surely hide My face” (Devarim 31:17–18). Hester Panim does not mean absence. It means that presence is concealed from us. Chazal teach that in such times human beings are called to act with responsibility and with kindness, revealing the Tzelem Elokim or the “image of God”, in the world. That is what we saw on that day and in the days that followed. Neighbors shielded children with their bodies. Volunteers in security squads held lines so that others could live. Families lay quietly for hour after hour and did not open a door. Medics and responders entered danger to save the wounded. ZAKA labored with Kavod Hamet, honoring the dead, and whispered Shema as they worked. Kitchens became distribution hubs. Communities opened their homes. Yeshivah students and schoolchildren kept Tehillim. The nation moved as one heart.
Beeri’s grief was also the breaking of a worldview. Many there believed deeply in the power of building and in the dignity of every human being. One resident said with simple honesty, “We believed in building. We believed in humanity. That belief is very hard to hold now.” Those words are not a theological thesis. They are a spiritual cry. Our response, within Torah, is to make room for that cry and to stand with it.
We are careful with what we say about G-d’s ways. “You shall see My back, but My face shall not be seen” (Shemot 33:23; Berachot 7a). We are not promised comprehension. We are promised a relationship that endures even when comprehension is withheld. The Brit Bein HaBetarim already taught that there would be long nights before morning (Bereishit 15). Hiddenness was written into the story. So was the promise that we would not be abandoned.
It is also true that Faith lives in small acts. A parent who no longer knows what to say still lights a candle. A neighbor places a hand on a shoulder and stays. A psalm is said in a whisper. These gestures do not prove or resolve. They bind. Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook wrote that the Jewish soul yearns for God even when the mind forgets. That yearning survives shock and carries many of us until words return.
We are cautious about claims of visible miracles, and we are cautious about denying them. We can say what we saw. We saw courage beyond calculation. We saw rescues that should not have succeeded. We saw narrow escapes. We saw a surge of Love, Ahavat Yisrael, across communities that had been far apart. In these acts many sensed a nearness that could not be mapped or measured. Each reader may name that nearness in his or her own way.
None of this resolves the question. The question remains a part of Avodat Hashem, the Service of God. We ask. We remember. We rebuild. We refuse despair. We bless the living and honor the dead. And we keep our footing inside the words that have steadied our people across every exile and every return. “If Hashem does not guard a city, the watchman keeps vigil in vain” (Tehillim 127:1). That pasuk does not release us from vigilance. It places vigilance inside covenant and purpose.
There were hours of silence in Beeri and in Nahal Oz. There were also hours filled with the sound of Jews taking responsibility for one another. When Heaven is hidden from our sight, we reveal our own faces through justice, through mercy, and through steadfast love. That is not a substitute for Faith. It is an expression of Faith.
Next week we will turn to the patterns that began to emerge, the things that did not happen, and the responsibilities that did.
Am Yisrael Chai. – This column is part of a weekly series drawn from the book Fire of Faith: What the October 7 War Taught Us About G-d and Israel, which explores the spiritual, moral, and historical questions raised by the October 7 war through verified events and Jewish theological reflection. Future installments will follow the book’s chapters in the weeks ahead. The book is available on Amazon or at FireOfFaithBook.com.