Sergeant Itay Amar was nineteen when he fell in combat in the southern Gaza Strip in June 2024, along with seven of his peers. After receiving his locked iPhone among his belongings, his mother, Lorin, tried to open it, insisting he must have left some kind of message behind. “He left one . . . I know my son. That’s what he was like his whole life, keeping me posted. It couldn’t be that he’d go in and not leave anything behind. It wouldn’t be grandiose, maybe just one sentence, but it would be there.”
Eventually Lorin got into the phone, and found a short last note: “Stay happy for me.” The words comforted her and the rest of Itay’s family and were engraved on his tombstone.
Like most armies, the IDF does not require soldiers to write letters of farewell to their families before entering combat. Still, these letters are written, on scraps of paper, unsent emails, or Google documents.
In 2024, copywriter Shlomo Kavas and journalist Racheli Palant-Rozen decided to collect and preserve these notes, working with researchers to contact each fallen soldier’s family. The result was If You’re Reading These Words, a book of forty-nine letters presented largely unedited, with notes explaining the context of each letter: inside jokes, family legends, quotations from songs, poems, and the Bible. Each letter is introduced with a brief biography of the soldier, a record of how they fell in combat, and an artist’s sketch of their face in blue and white. President Isaac Herzog wrote the Foreword, and interspersed throughout are essays by a wide range of Israeli public figures, from freed hostage Emily Damari and Fauda creator Avi Issacharoff to spiritual influencer Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi and singer-songwriter Eviatar Banai, offering their own kind of running narrative of tragedy and hope.
The book was first published in Hebrew in 2025 and was an immediate bestseller. Comedian and journalist Hanoch Daum called it “one of the most important war books ever published in Israel.”
Moving from the United States to Israel will inevitably impact your identity in profound ways. You may even find yourself assuming strange roles, like de facto aliyah ambassador or pseudo real estate agent, advising friends and family back in the US who are contemplating their own potential moves in the future. Honestly, it’s all good, I think every place in Israel offers something distinct and wonderful. Sometimes I even wonder what I, a religious mother of 7, who likes to read and talk about ideas, is doing in the overpriced lifestyle mecca of Ra’anana, the “pearl” of the Sharon, Israel’s version of Silicon Valley. But I adore it here, what can I say, and was glad to make my case in the Jewish Link’s recent Israel Real Estate supplement. Posting the full text here as well as a link to the original article (which may or may not also include a picture of Netanya).
General View of Ra’anana (1964)
When we announced that we were making aliyah to Ra’anana with our family seven years ago from Teaneck, we fielded the full gamut of comments and stereotypes. Some people called Ra’anana the “6th Town” (a reference to the Five Towns). Others joked, “it’s a wonderful place, only 5 minutes from Israel.” One acquaintance mused, rather memorably, “It’s just like Tenafly, without all the Israelis.” Upon arrival we were not too surprised to learn that the hype was rather off — we were very much in Israel, with all of the challenges and opportunities this entails.
Ra’anana is a small, diverse city of about 85,000 located in the Sharon region of Israel. It features crisp refreshing winters that never get too cold, when citrus fruits ripen all over the city, and a warm radiant spring season. Summers are hot. It’s about 25 minutes north of Tel Aviv, and a short 15-20 minute drive to the beach in Herziliya. Founded in 1924 by members of the Ahuza A–New York Society, many of them Polish Jews living in New York, it has always had a bit of an international flavor. The original residents were mostly of European origin, soon joined by an influx of Yemenite residents, then later waves from England, France and South Africa, and more recently Brazil and Latin America.
The majority of residents are still native Israelis, including many young families who work in hi-tech. Since olim in Ra’anana come from all over the world and not just English-speaking countries, the lingua franca in school and on the playground is Hebrew. Schools are largely experienced in dealing with the challenges of absorbing new immigrants. The rich variety of food and shopping reflects the diversity of the population. When Shabbat nears, my children ask for special treats like South African biltong, French pastries and Yemenite lachuch bread (with hilbe, a kind of addictive frothy fenugreek dip) in anticipation.
Ra’anana has a wide range of housing options, from large free-standing homes to compact starter apartments, and each year more attractive apartment buildings are built. The strong and ever-growing demand for housing in Ra’anana, both from native Israelis and olim, makes housing notoriously expensive: a 3- or 4-bedroom apartment averages ₪2–4 million (roughly $650,000–$1,300,000), and private homes can range from $2 million toward $4 million or more on the most sought-after streets.
Our home in Israel costs a lot more than our home in Teaneck did (though carrying costs, like property taxes and maintenance, are lower). But we feel we receive many benefits in return, not just from the home itself but from the community and environment. We live in a dynamic, walkable city, with beautiful parks, enriching after-school activities for our kids and stimulating cultural events for our whole family. We have access to an exceptionally well-stocked English language library, world-class tennis, baseball and squash facilities, a superb skate park and “Ninja” style obstacle course, and Israel’s largest municipal music conservatory — all in a small, accessible city, so nothing is ever too packed and attendance always means seeing familiar, friendly faces.
Ra’anana is known as one of the more religiously strong cities in the Sharon area, though the religious population hovers around 30-40% and is not a majority like in cities such as Beit Shemesh or Efrat. Nevertheless, it often feels like one can’t walk half a block without seeing another synagogue. Within two blocks of my house are two Yemenite synagogues, a Moroccan shul, a Chabad shul for the French community, a Hareidi yeshiva hosting the “Leibadik” minyan, a raucous Carlebach shul founded by Australian immigrants, and a joint Sephardi-Ashkenazi “unity” minyan. This is just a random sampling within a five minute walk of my house.
There are several large shuls catering directly to English-speaking olim which include programming for youth and teens. There are vibrant batei midrash, including a community Kollel offering daytime Talmud Torah classes in English, and Matan HaSharon, a wonderful institution for high-level women’s learning. While living in Ra’anana has met our needs as a young, growing family, it’s nice to live in a city that also has extensive opportunities for residents of every age level, especially retirees. A friend in his forties recently built a house in Ra’anana with old age in mind, as he said, “I never plan to move again.” I wish him good health and a long life- a blessing that is sensibly grounded, as many studies cite Ra’anana residents as enjoying the longest average life expectancy in Israel or even the Middle East.
As for education, in addition to secular and pluralistic schools, Ra’anana offers a range of religious options: three “Mamad” style state religious public schools, a “Torani” religious public school called Noam with separation between boys and girls, several Haredi schools, and a new Chabad elementary school popular among olim. There are two religious boys’ high schools, including the massive AMIT boys’ school in its new campus, and a Bnei Akiva yeshiva high school with a rich history; one large dati-leumi girls’ high school, also under AMIT; and a Haredi girls’ high school called Horev. Students seeking more options, especially for girls’ high schools, sometimes travel to neighboring Kfar Saba and Herziliya and even as far as Petach Tikvah and Bnei Brak.
Ra’anana has a reputation as a safe city; crime rates and break-ins are quite low, and, like many places in Israel, it’s not uncommon to see an eight-year-old walking himself home from school or stopping into the makolet on his own for an ice-pop. Terrorism incidents have been few and far-between (with one tragic exception two years ago). The municipal security system is highly responsive and will come almost comically quickly in response to any sort of minor concern or complaint.
Yet, Ra’anana has not been immune to the larger challenges Israeli society has faced since October 7. As would be expected in a community filled with committed Zionists and general high-achievers, many heroic soldiers from Ra’anana have fallen in Israel’s wars. One famous son is Roi Klein HY”D, a talented religious IDF officer who grew up in Ra’anana and was killed during the Second Lebanon War when he famously jumped on a grenade to save his fellow soldiers, the words Shema Yisrael on his lips. Ra’anana suffered its share of losses on October 7th, including Aryeh Ziering HY”D, the son of American olim and an officer in the IDF’s canine unit “Oketz,” who was with his family in Ra’anana for Simchat Torah when he was called up with his unit to the south. The ensuing war brought more tragic news, but also a sense of awe and pride. Shauli Greenglick HY”D, a talented singer who had advanced to the final rounds of Israel’s version of “The Voice,” withdrew from the competition to rejoin his battalion fighting in northern Gaza, and was killed only a few weeks after his audition. Over these past few difficult years, the names of Ra’anana’s fallen heroes — Yaron Chitiz HY”D, Yisrael Natan Rosenfeld HY”D, and others — have become household names. Come Sukkot, sukkot citywide bear posters with their pictures; a charming new neighborhood coffee cart was dedicated in their memory.
In 2024, the newspaper Makor Rishon ran a remarkable piece about eight young fallen soldiers and their families, among them Greenglick, our daughter’s good friend’s brother Dan Wajdenbaum HY”D, and another friend’s brother Daniel Ben Harosh HY”D — all of whom grew up on, or adjacent to, one street (Ravutsky) in the Northeast section of Ra’anana. The boys had crossed into each other’s yards and played ball together, had gone to school together, and their parents were friends and acquaintances — native Israelis and olim alike, stretching from all quarters of the world. The thesis of the article, beyond paying tribute to these young men and their families, was that this one small street in Ra’anana — which has endured so much pain but also exhibited incredible bravery and resilience — is a microcosm of Israel as a whole.
The decision to move to Israel, especially in this current climate, is an admirable one. The choice of community is filled with complicating factors: career opportunities, the type of community one envisions, budget, and more. Some are moved by the sweeping views and sense of pioneerism in a small yishuv in the North or the Shomron; others by a bustling city and its opportunities. Sometimes when I visit Jerusalem I feel a bit of a tug — to live in a place with so much spiritual power, so much intellectual and artistic vitality, has a special appeal to me. Yet in moving our family across the world, from American suburbia, grandparents and cousins, to a great unknown, the strong communities, wide avenues and well-manicured parks of Ra’anana made for an easy and pleasant adjustment. Ra’anana is a great choice for a life that combines cosmopolitanism and community, exposure to different Jewish cultures, and the comfort of being among others who made the same choice you did. As for those people who teased us by saying “Ra’anana is only 5 minutes from Israel” — they are still in New Jersey. We find ourselves in a warm community and growing city, enjoying the benefits of each, at the heart of Israeli life.
In the early hours of June 13 my family and I, like all Israelis, were awakened by the shrill sound of a phone alert. Israel had preemptively attacked Iran’s nuclear facilities. Momentous news, but I promptly put my pillow over my head and went back to sleep. Only when we woke up again later that morning did we realize that something historic had occurred. We also understood that a challenging period lay ahead.
We had only recently moved into a new home and, despite Houthis sporadically firing missiles in our direction, we had grown lax about running to our safe room, what Israelis call a mamad. Ours was filled with dust and leftover construction material. But on the day of the phone alerts—once we’d grasped the gravity of what was happening—we got to work. We spread a plastic mat over the floor, brought in a spare mattress, and set up a pack-and-play crib. The missile fire from Iran began in earnest that evening.
As the days wore on, we adjusted to the confines of this small space where emotions vacillated between fear, comfort from the presence of those we loved, and occasional irritation by those very same people. One mattress turned into four—each of our seven children laid claim to their own little spot. The more time we spent in our safe room, sometimes joined by friends or near strangers who needed a place to shelter, the more we acclimated ourselves to its deprivations and, occasionally, to its surreal benefits. Sociologists talk about the “third place,” which is an additional living space beyond home or work, like a synagogue, for example. These places expose us to people, ideas, and experiences beyond our immediate family and daily routines. During Israel’s twelve-day war with Iran our safe rooms also became a third place, introducing a new mentality and way of being that removed us from our day-to-day lives.
“Books, even works of genius, are not incandescent orbs that exist independently in some kind of ether. For books to have enduring value, they must be read by people. For those readers to exist, they must be born and raised.”
Was a pleasure to review Ilana Kurshan’s fantastic new book for the Summer issue of Tradition, now available online.
In Chaim Potok’s classic novel My Name Is Asher Lev, a young Chasidic boy tries to integrate his religious faith with his prodigious artistic talent. In school he scribbles on the margins of his sacred books. On weekends he takes clandestine trips to view Renaissance art at the Brooklyn Museum. Throughout the novel he grapples with the question: Is art something that brings us closer to G-d and to the Jewish people, or does it operate on another plane entirely?
Asher Lev is a member of the Ladover sect, a thinly disguised stand-in for Chabad-Lubavitch, and the beloved Ladover Rebbe gently explains that it makes no difference whether a man is a shoemaker or a lawyer or a painter; rather, “a life is measured by how it is lived for the sake of Heaven.” Yet, despite the Rebbe’s encouragement, ultimately Potok’s book insists that the chasm between the life of a Chasid and that of an artist is impossible to fully bridge.
The role of visual art in the religious Jewish worldview has always been somewhat tenuous. This may be rooted in the Torah itself: the second of the Ten Commandments prohibits the creation of graven images and the “likeness of any thing that is in the heavens above, that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.” But it may also be an accidental byproduct of history: the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem in all its aesthetic glory, the exclusion of Jews from artistic guilds, and the overwhelming dominance of Christian iconography in the history of Western art. While Jewish decorative arts abound—micrography, illuminated manuscripts, silver Judaica items—Jewish representation in the fine arts, at least prior to the modern era, is decidedly less pronounced. And while Jewish individuals have achieved prominence as modern artists, they tend toward secularism and individualism in both worldview and artistic language. We have yet to see a uniquely Jewish artistic idiom arise—that is, a path forward for an artist who wishes to tie him- or herself to a Jewish tradition in visual art.
While podcasts are not yet entirely in my comfort zone, I appreciated the invitation to talk to Lori Fein Ramirez about family life and some of challenges as well as opportunities that we’ve encountered. Lori’s hilarious summary below:
Sarah Rindner Blum, an author, literature professor, and mother to a “steps and stairs” family of seven children in twelve years, shares her insights on why having “one more kid” is worth the investment. Join us for deep reflections on how each child offers something unique and priceless, how different roles for mom and dad make it work, Israeli vs. American cultural attitudes toward children, why Shabbat is the center of her homemaking all week long, spontaneity versus planning, lots of candy, her semi-broken set of devices for her family, some favorite children’s books, making literature a part of your family lore, her trash-into-treasures child, a mouse named Bob, having a home life different than you had imagined, why there’s nothing like an American minivan, and why a Jewish mama only needs to cook once a week.
“Shortly before the 1991 Gulf War, Rabbi Yaakov Smith, a father of six and an emissary of the Chabad Hasidic movement in the Old City of Jerusalem, hosted a Shabbat dinner. As the guests were leaving, one took Smith aside and said something that would reverberate with his host: “That was an amazing act you performed. Whatever is wrong, take care of yourself.” Fast forward thirty years and Yaakov has become Yiscah Smith, a transgender person who still lives and teaches in Jerusalem. Smith’s transformation is the subject of the documentary I Was Not Born a Mistake, created by the Israeli filmmakers Rachel Rusinek and Eyal Ben-Moshe. The film premiered at the Jerusalem Film Festival this past Hanukkah and made its U.S. debut in January.:
“In the last two weeks of seger (lockdown) in Israel, an almost laughably long list of public figures have admitted to violating the Covid-19 lockdown restrictions. Some of them are lawmakers who are themselves directly responsible for initiating the lockdown.”
Earlier this year, our family left a suburban Jewish community in New Jersey that we loved in order to fulfill a dream of making aliyah to Israel. In the years leading up to our move, we frequently discussed the merits and drawbacks of life in Israel versus the US. We discussed matters like the dangers of living in an isolated enclave surrounded by enemy states versus our seemingly comfortable and secure American lives. My husband often pointed out the spiritual dangers of life in the diaspora as well as the potential for established ways of life to degenerate rapidly, even in advanced Western societies. We boarded our aliyah flight against the backdrop of a common web of excitement, anticipation, and doubt.
Once in Israel, however, our commonplace constellation of concerns was complicated, perhaps overshadowed, by a new set of events. A wave of antisemitic incidents in the New York City area in late 2019 left us to glued to American news sources for updates. I grew up in the idyllic religious community of Monsey; in my mind it was the peaceful foil to whatever uncertainty we encountered in Israel. Yet the attack on a local Hanukkah party by a machete-wielding lunatic revealed that this place was hardly immune from hatred and violence. Sitting in Israel with rockets from Gaza falling in the distance, my heart was nevertheless in New York and New Jersey, concerned about family members and friends. I had the stomach-churning sense that the problem was unlikely to dissipate anytime soon….
For the full essay (which includes a discussion of Yehuda Halevi and Yehuda Amichai) see The Lehrhaus.
My young daughter was playing in my mother’s living room and approached me holding a battered prayer book she found on the shelf. When I realized what it was, I gasped. I hadn’t thought of it in years, but the siddur is a family treasure. My grandmother, Raizel Berger, a native of the Maramures region of Romania, was sent to Auschwitz along with her family in 1944. She managed to smuggle a small siddur into the camp by hiding it in her stocking garter. The young women in her bunker, mostly Chasidic Jews from Romania and Hungary, took turns praying from it each night. One of the girls worked in the kitchen and snuck out a potato sack to use as a cover for the siddur, onto which she used a rough yarn to beautifully embroider a Star of David in the center. The pages of the siddur are delicate with age, but the section of Tehillim (Psalms) is particularly worn from repeated use.
After the war, my grandmother married my grandfather, a Holocaust survivor from Poland. They moved to the United States and had four daughters in quick succession. The siddur continued to be used on a daily basis in their brownstone home in Brooklyn. Each holiday, my grandparents lit dozens of Yizkor candles for their many murdered family members. But their resilience to transition into loving parents and industrious new immigrants almost immediately after surviving such horrors still baffles the mind. So too the siddur, once hidden in the bowels of a dark dungeon and used by inmates of the most horrific and debased place on earth, transitioned to use for mundane, though still holy, daily prayers. In unsentimental fashion typical of Jews of my grandparents’ type, the siddur was not treated as a talisman. At some point, someone even scrawled a phone number on the inside cover…
