In the midst of ongoing trauma, how do we find words when words themselves are kidnapped? Can we hold doubt and faith simultaneously? Rabbanit Sarah Segal-Katz explores through Parshat Beha’alotcha the human yearning for direct revelation – “mouth to mouth” – while bringing voices of poets and creators expressing fresh pain, protest, and hope. From Hagit Zohra Mandrovsky writing about stolen words, through Rabbanit Rivka Lubitch challenging Psalms, to Kineret Samuel-Polk choosing to cultivate light from within – a journey into the ability to articulate the unbearable and find strength even without promises or protection.
Letting a “Cloak of Light” Grow from Within
It’s almost uncomfortable to admit how much we long for a strong and clear voice to speak to us directly, creating sense and logic out of all the chaos and grief. And here, Parshat Beha’alotcha features a description that implies a commitment to direct revelation between God and Moses, similar to what we might wish for in moments of trauma and even during routine: “Mouth to mouth do I speak to him, plainly and not in riddles; and he beholds the form of the Lord…” (Bamidbar 12:8). Commentators and thinkers have already noted that the revelation Moses experienced was direct and unambiguous, with Moses himself standing firm and confident.
The thought of the Divine Voice that could call out to Moses at any time is awe-inspiring. At the same time, it was God’s proximity that enabled Moses to argue against divine decrees, to demand healing for his sister Miriam, and to cause him to pay a high price when he failed to follow God’s instructions precisely. The description of direct communication between God and Moses not only establishes Moses as a man of God, an emissary and a leader, but also embodies an eternal hope for a clear and riddle-free revelation.
This year, every reading of the weekly Torah portion, and perhaps any text, evokes a longing to understand the present and future, both the immediate and the distant. We try to decipher and clarify current reality amid the fog of war, potentially falling into the trap of seeking signs and wonders around us and interpreting them as the living words of God, our reading of reality, without meriting the illuminating spectacle of Divine Revelation.
Can we, within the scope of our responsibility over our own lives, succeed in holding onto the ability to pray to God while simultaneously arguing with Him about what is happening in His-our world? Can we successfully grasp doubt and faith at the same time? Since the October 7 attack – the death, hostages, wounded, the civilians evacuated from their homes, and the dramatic disruption to routine – we have been counting the days. This week we finished counting the days of the Omer, which coincided with our counting of the days since the attack. Although Sefirat Ha-Omer is over, we continue the count until the return of all the hostages, as well as the return to a certain routine. Counting the days since the attack is something to hold onto within all the trauma and uncertainty. The constant anguish in our hearts leaves us with an immense longing for direct communication, a clear vision, and, primarily: “not in riddles,” our unbearable feeling being one of perpetual cloud and fog.
The traumatic present is proving fertile ground for new poems and prayers that express both the fresh pain and the attempt to negotiate it, to work with it, while bearing the associated wounds and uncertainty. Various questions accompanying this period: How to decipher the current situation? How to function despite everything, and what will become of our faith? Faith in any form of “providence,” faith in humanity, faith among ourselves.
A Poem by Hagit Zohara Mendrowski
I lack a word to describe
how much I am at a loss for words.
A single word is missing,
kidnapped,
someone is dismantling it into letters.
It has no way to call for my help.
Mendrowski describes trauma as muteness and a breakdown of existing order. After all, how can one speak of ways to cope with trauma while it is still occurring, while we are still contending with hostage taking?
A poem by Gali Ravitz
Sometimes it seems
as if the world’s sorrow
has accumulated in one person,
and a single cry generates a tsunami.Every day,
I cry a little,
and all the worlds around me are flooded.
In her poem, Ravitz expresses a broad and deep sorrow. This is the cumulative experience of countless losses. The image of the tsunami conveys a flood of upheaval and a surge of sorrow that triggers daily weeping.
Rabbanit and rabbinic advocate Rivka Lubitch wrote a poem that serves as a midrash referencing Psalm 121 and which expresses a grievance about our current situation:
The Guardian of Israel Slumbered and Slept – a poem by Rivka Lubitch
A Song for the fallen. I lifted my eyes to the mountains, but no help came.
I have no help from the Lord, Maker of heaven and earth.
He let my foot slip, my guardians slumber.
Here, the Guardian of Israel slumbered and slept.
The Lord did not guard me, the Lord did not protect my right hand.
By day, the sun struck me, and the moon by night.
The Lord did not guard me from all evil, nor did He guard my soul.
How will the Lord guard my going out and my coming in from now and forever?
This alternative psalm, mirroring the original almost word for word, testifies to the sense of absent Divine Providence and the lack of protection and help during difficult times of calamity. The choice to cry out during this time is not just an expression of frustration and pain but also a call to find inner strength and a hope that things will be different. Because even when the calm returns – may it return already! – we will still have a long-term struggle with grief, the disrupted routine, the erosion of a sense of daily security, and the collapse of faith in humanity.
The following poem was written after this inferno, and during the author’s evacuation from her home to a displaced persons’ hotel:
A Poem by Kinneret Samuel-Polak
I will no longer tell my children: “This is a safe place. The danger is over”.
The skin cloaks have been removed.
We are left exposed. There are no promises, no protections.
We are left with one choice, living and solitary,
To let a cloak of light grow from within.
Samuel-Polak writes about choosing to adopt a perspective of growth, even amid the cloud and fog; choosing a meaningful life and light that signifies spirit, inspiration, positivity – despite everything that has been shattered and, perhaps, precisely because of what has been shattered.
In the cumulative grief and the ongoing present, it is important to acknowledge the great significance of the ability to express traumatic pain. The capacity to verbalize, conceptualize, and interpret the events leads both to the expression of the present and its internalization. Such internal processes can be key in finding the necessary strength and in deciding “to let a cloak of light grow from within”.
Even without the experience of “mouth to mouth do I speak to him,” we can still strive to elevate the light while bearing the wounds.
I wish to thank Tamar Biala for drawing my attention to midrashim written since October 7 and which she assembled when editing the third volume of ‘Dirshuni’.
Translated by Jeremy Kuttner
