My First Encounter with the Gaza Strip
A few days ago I returned from a mission to Israel with the Rabbinic Council of the Association of Reform Zionists of America (ARZA). Together with twenty-five other rabbis, including some of the leaders of the Reform Movement, we engaged in a whirlwind tour of the country, meeting with leading Israeli and Palestinian politicians, military representatives, the mayor of Haifa, the American ambassador, and the leaders of the Reform movement in Israel. Each one of these sessions was provocative and eye opening and provided us with an even greater understanding of the complexities of life in the region.

Yet, by far the most emotional experience I have ever had in Israel came towards the end of our visit. This was my eighth trip to Israel, and I have been to pretty much every region of the country with the exception of the Gaza Strip. I really have never even been close enough to see street signs pointing the way. So when our bus came within a certain distance, and we began to notice signs for Gaza, the mood and sentiment of the rabbis on board was somewhat surreal.

While we did not actually go any further than the border of the Gaza Strip, everything we needed to hear came in the form of a visit to a family in Sderot, the Jewish settlement alongside of the Gaza Strip that has recently been the target of dozens of Kassam rocket attacks perpetrated by terrorists inside of Gaza. We entered a very nice home of a religious family who has been living in Sderot for three generations. With heavy hearts, they welcomed us into their home and graciously began to tell us their story.

Two weeks prior to our visit, Kassam rockets had been raining down on Sderot in frightening numbers. While most of these unsophisticated weapons cause little damage and few injuries, occasionally one of them connects and causes substantial damage. During the most recent attack, the seventeen-year-old daughter of this family was walking home from school with her eleven-year-old brother. They heard the incoming attack, and, immediately, the daughter jumped on top of her little brother. As we sat in their parents living room, they slowly recounted the story to us. After the rocket struck, the younger boy realized that he had been slightly wounded while his sister lay on top of him. After several moments, he realized that she was seriously injured and bleeding profusely. Covered in a mixture of his and her blood, he ran for help. Moments later he returned and put his sisters head on his lap as he sat and watched as the life slowly drain out of her body.

Before the ambulance even arrived, he realized that his older sister had died saving his life.
Midway through our conversation with the parents, the young boy walked into the house, having just returned from school. He was a little thrown off by all the guests in his home and walked immediately over to his father and sat on his lap. We tried to ask him a question or two, but it became clear after a few moments that he was not able to respond with more than a word or two. We remained in our seats for several minutes before our visit was over, and then each of us shook hands with the father and his young son. Before we left, we prayed briefly, shook hands with the parents and the young boy, and reminded them that they do not mourn alone for their precious daughter.

I share this experience not only because it was emotional and unique, but also because of the underlying reason we were there. We visited this family to offer our condolences because even though none of us had ever met this family before, they are a part of our family. They are our brothers and sisters, members of klal yisrael (the collective conscience of the Jewish people). Their pain is our pain, and their story reminds us that wherever Jews suffer, wherever enemies rise up against us, we have an obligation to stand side by side with our fellow Jews. Whether we agree with their politics, their interpretation of Judaism, or where they choose to live, we must strive for a day when all Jews see other Jews not as rivals or enemies, but as brothers and sisters.

During the Passover Seder, the evil son asks, What does this service mean to you? He is deemed evil because he excludes himself from klal yisrael and from the responsibility of sharing in the emotional trials that other Jews endure. To us that son is despicable. We seek not only to include ourselves in the lives of other Jews, but to share in both their joy and their agony.
As we learn from our tradition: Kol Yisrael Aravim zeh bzeh
All Israel is responsible for one another!

L’Shalom,
Jeremy Barras