The Short Vort by Rabbi Eisenman

It was a Monday morning, and I was in the midst of my long-awaited late summer trip to Eretz Yisroel.

Originally, my wife and I were planning to attend a simcha in Israel at the end of June; however, the twelve-day war against Iran canceled our trip.

I was very excited to be with family, and being in Yerushalayim is always a unique privilege.

I awoke Monday morning and went off to Shul.

At the end of davening, my friend, Rav Dovid Schoonmaker, approached me and asked if I would be interested in speaking at his yeshiva, Shapell College of Jewish Studies/Yeshiva Darché Noam.

It was perfect timing, as my family had other plans, and this was an ideal opportunity and privilege for me to share Torah at this wonderful yeshiva, whose many alumni have settled in Passaic.

I contacted friends in Ramot and asked if we could get together after the Shiur.

As I looked at the reply text on my phone, I was shocked.

“I am sorry, however, we cannot get together now as all buses have stopped. There was a terror attack at the Ramot Junction by bus # 62; all roads are closed.”

I immediately began saying Tehillim, and suddenly I understood why there was a constant wail of a siren as I exited the Shul that morning..

My plans to meet friends were put on hold, yet as anyone in Eretz Yisroel and Yerushalayim knows, life must continue despite the day-to-day challenges.

I therefore boarded the light rail and headed to Beit HaKerem to Shappel’s to deliver my Shiur.

It is always a zechus to teach Torah, especially in Yerushalayim, to eager, motivated young people.

 I relished the opportunity and thoroughly enjoyed my time there, especially spending time with my dear friend Rabbi Shaya Karlinsky, whom I have known for many years.

At the conclusion of the Shiur and after interacting with some of the talmidim, I headed back to the light rail to begin the trek back.

As the light rail approached the stop known as the “Mercaz”- the center of town at Rechov Yaffo and Kikar Zion.

I was not staying near Kikar Zion, and, besides Rechov Yoel Moshe Salomon, whose was my great-great-great-great-grandfather, I have no particular connection to the local goings-on there.

Indeed, Kikar Zion is certainly never defined as the focal point of Torah life in Yerushalayim.

If anything, nowadays Kikar Zion is filled with tourists, immigrants, overseas students, local youth, street performers, and lots of cheap tourist shops and money changers.

Not exactly the hub of Torah.

Yet, the fact that Kikar Zion is now the hub of “amcha”, the simple mass of Jews of all stripes, is precisely what drew me to the location.

As all of Jerusalem was concerned and shocked by the morning’s terrorist attack, I wanted to be among the “regular-Jews” of the city.

As I alighted from the train, I realized that the normally well-protected area was teeming with even more heavily armed soldiers and specialized police units than usual.

Indeed, as I began walking the pedestrian promenade, I realized there were dozens of uniformed soldiers and other security personnel on alert following the morning’s tragedy in Ramot.

I looked at the soldiers, most of whom were “not-yet-frum” and all of them young enough to be my grandchildren.

I thought of myself, dressed in my rabbinic uniform of a frock and hat, and looked at their army-green uniforms with their helmets and flak jackets.

Whose uniform is more regal?

I certainly felt humbled by these young people in their uniforms proudly displaying the Israeli flag.

After all, they were ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for the Jewish people.

Could I say that about myself?

Yet, we are connected through our shared common goal.

All of us are deeply invested in the continued survival of the Jewish people.

Yet, I also realized that there is too often a lack of recognition of this shared goal.

Too often, people look at those who choose a different path as “us vs. them” —in that scenario, neither side gains.

It was then that I decided there was a reason Hashem had had me alight from the light rail before my intended stop.

There must be a purpose in my strong feeling to be among “amcha.”

I approached each soldier, thanked them for their service, and asked whether they needed a drink or a snack.

Most of the soldiers were appreciative and nodded their gratitude.

Yet, one soldier remained stone-faced and expressionless.

At first, I did not react.

However, something in me said that this soldier was seeking something.

His apparent apathy toward my entreaties was perhaps indicative of something more than just a lack of friendliness.

I walked back to him and said, “I want to thank you for your service, and I want you to know that I daven for you and your fellow soldiers daily.”

He did not respond and kept looking away.

I then said, “I am in my uniform and you are in yours. Both of us are somewhat uncomfortable in the late-summer heat, yet we realize we have a task to perform. I want you to know that I care about you and recognize your sacrifice on behalf of the Jewish people. And I believe with my full heart that you are serving the Jewish people in the highest possible way. I respect and deeply care about you.”

I then turned and headed back to the light-rail.

As I reached the stop and was waiting for the train, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I turned and saw it was the formerly expressionless soldier; now, tears slowly made their way down his face.

I looked at him, and he looked at me as I heard the train approaching the platform.

As the doors were opening, he said almost in a whisper, “I just want to say, thank you for caring.”

Then, as I was about to board the train, he said, “Coming from someone in your uniform to someone in my uniform, your words entered my heart.”

He then gripped my shoulder and said, “Achi Ata”- “You are my brother.”

I lowered my head and entered the train, the words emanating from his heart penetrating deeply into mine.

As the train moved on to the next station, the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter.