As summer turns to autumn, the Hebrew month of Elul sweeps in, bringing with it a tide of hope and renewal. Elul marks the onset of a new year of study in yeshivot, ushering in a period of rejuvenation and reflection. And in the current climate of war, a hint of sadness.
Typically, when the new students arrive to yeshiva, there is a current of excitement, a flurry of activity that fills the air with new class assignments, selecting chavrutot, purchasing new seforim, and of course, securing seats in the loud and bustling beit midrash. After a few days, the chaos subsides as everyone finds their places and the beit midrash comes to life with the energy and intensity of Torah study. Every seat is filled.
But this year, there are many empty seats. Seats that were once filled with yeshiva students that are now empty because of the war, because a talmid fell in battle defending our people and our land.
This year, many yeshivas, including mine, are immersed in tremendous sorry and grief. While there is great excitement over the record number of yeshiva students who have enrolled (amazingly, 64 overseas students in my yeshiva chose to return for a second year, many of whom are planning to conscript in the IDF), there is also a profound sorrow hovering over us like an ominous dark shadow.
The Shadow
At the edge of the beit midrash, an unmistakable dark cloud hovers over us, a pervasive melancholic shadow that drifts throughout the building. Tragically, among the fallen IDF soldiers, a disproportionately high number came from our yeshivot. The weight of our anguish it brings is unbearable. My colleague Rabbi Chaim Navon described the feeling that pervades our yeshivot in last week’s Makor Rishon: “The study halls teach hope, but are now enveloped in grief… I read the stories of the fallen and I am astonished: mild and gentle young men of great character who preferred holy books over rifles, but knew how to wield the sword to defend our homeland…. are now gone.
“The Gemaras our students hold were once held by war heroes of blessed memory. Above every young student in our yeshiva now stands an older brother, an angel, telling him to grow.”
As I walked through the beit midrash, passing the seats that were once occupied by those young men who fell in battle, tears welled in my eyes. I asked myself, “Are the new young students aware of the great talmidim that came before them but who are no longer here? Do these students understand the sacred spaces they now inhabit?” I tried to hide my tears in the quiet solitude of my broken heart and the silent recesses of my memories.
That first day, as I wrestled with my grief, I saw a father of one of my fallen students visiting the yeshiva, a place where his son had spent many years of profound growth and study. Our eyes met and I could think of nothing to tell him. There were no words capable of expressing the emotions I felt in my heart. We embraced; our minds heavy with the weight of profound loss as a quiet resignation settled over us.
Where words fail, silent consolation heals.
Rebuild, Rebuild
The Jewish response to tragedy is to rebuild. In exile, when we endured suffering, we rebuilt our communities, sometimes in the same location and other times in new lands. In Israel, we respond to tragedy by rebuilding the land and establishing new settlements. Currently, we face the daunting task of reconstructing an entire region of the country that was ravaged by vile hatred and barbaric violence. After welcoming new students into my yeshiva in Gush Etzion, I traveled with my own son, who is beginning his hesder yeshiva journey, combining Torah study and army service in a five-year program. We headed south, near the border of Gaza, where he joined a new hesder yeshiva, aiming to breathe life and spirit into a landscape filled with sorrow.
We drove along roads haunted by the tragedy they had witnessed: the death, the horror, the lives lost. I hope my son will help rebuild the south through his Torah study and unwavering commitment to safeguarding our country. We are now tasked with rebuilding not just our land, but our Torah as well. On that fateful day, we were not just attacked physically. Our enemies sought to desecrate the heart of our nation, targeting us on Simchat Torah, a day when we rejoice in Hashem’s word. They believed that we would be unprepared and vulnerable, so they exploited our sacred holiday. It’s unfathomable that on such a day, dedicated to the joy of Torah study, our enemies would turn it into a weapon against us. Now, more than ever, we must restore the luster of the Torah with renewed strength and devotion.
Reflecting on the immense task of rebuilding our Torah world, my mind wandered to moments in history when the Torah was restored after great tragedy. I thought of Rabbi Akiva, who lost 24,000 students in a devastating plague. Yet, he did not surrender to despair or succumb to the enormity of the loss. Instead, he taught five extraordinary younger students who transformed the Torah landscape, leaving an indelible mark on the evolution of the Talmud. Rabbi Akiva’s resilience and determination showcased the power of resolve in the face of overwhelming loss. I thought about the German rabbis of the 15th century. After the Black Plague, horrific pogroms swept through Central and Western Europe, especially in Germany. Hundreds of Jewish towns were destroyed by mobs driven by conspiracies of Jewish involvement in spreading the plague. Ignorance, as always, breeds hatred. An entire generation of Torah scholars was annihilated. Yet a group of determined German rabbis heroically revived Torah scholarship. Tragically, it wasn’t enough, and most Jews eventually migrated east to Poland and Central Europe.
Of course, my thoughts naturally turned to the Holocaust survivors who saw an entire world reduced to ashes, and with it, the obliteration of a rich Torah landscape. Visionaries such as Rabbi Aharon Kotler in America and Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman in Israel dedicated themselves to the monumental task of rebuilding the world of Torah from the depths of devastation.
New Tzaddikim
Despite similarities to previous generations, I recognized how profoundly different our current situation is. For the first time since the days of Rabbi Akiva, our students have demonstrated that Torah study and religion are not diminished by army service, but enriched by it.
Amid the sand dunes of Gaza and the falling bombs, they faithfully lit Chanukkah candles, read the Megillah on Purim, conducted Pesach Seders, prayed on Shabbat, and studied Torah while protecting the land of Hashem. These are our new tzaddikim.
When I recite the section of the Amidah that references the tzaddikim, I think of our boys who revived the sacred legacy of scholars and warriors, immersing themselves in Torah study while also understanding when to set aside the sefer and pick up a weapon to defend the Jewish people. Sadly, they also laid down their lives for their nation.
During that first week in yeshiva, I made a pledge. I vowed to find the strength and stamina to shower my new students with boundless love, dedication, and warmth.
A yeshiva schedule is rigorously demanding, and the relentless pace of deadlines and responsibilities can be overwhelming. But I owe it to these young talmidim to be as dedicated, kind, and loving as possible. This past year has proven how fragile and fleeting life is. I owe it to my students who perished in this war to make sure that the new students who occupy their seats will honor their memory with their learning.
Empty skies. Empty seats. Sad spirit. Renewed hope.
Hashem is with us. n
Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rabbi at the hesder pre-military Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush, with semicha from Yeshiva University and an MA in English Literature from CUNY. He is author of “Dark Clouds Above, Faith Below” (Kodesh Press) and the forthcoming book, “Reclaiming Redemption: Deciphering the Maze of Jewish History” (Mosaica Press).
