Last week marked the most symbolic time of the modern Jewish calendar. Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha’Atzmaut awaken our deep sense of patriotism, Jewish destiny, and religious calling.
This year’s celebration was clouded by our ongoing struggle to defend our land and our people – darkened even further by the anguish of knowing that so many hostages still languish in unspeakable conditions. Additionally, and unexpectedly, these days of memory and independence were disrupted by wildfires that broke out in the hills of Yerushalayim.
I found myself reflecting on the symbolism of these fires on our days of remembrance.
The worst fires in modern Israeli history erupted just as our people sought to celebrate our hard-won independence. What does this mean?
We no longer enjoy nevuah or prophecy, and therefore struggle to decipher the messages that Hashem continues to send. Playing a navi – claiming to interpret divine omens – is risky and theologically fraught. Too often, it leads to smug declarations that misfortune is punishment for aveirot – typically the aveirot of others.
Moreover, the fires were fueled by natural forces – an act of arsonist terror, compounded by scorching heat and fierce winds. All of it can be explained through natural causes rather than divine messages.
Yet when events this symbolic unfold, it is worth asking what lessons might be drawn. Perhaps these messages aren’t directly communicated through nevuah, but the sheer timing stirs reflection.
Larger Forces
Looking up at the smoke-covered skies, listening to the howling winds, and watching images of blazing fires along the highways, it felt as if larger forces were stirring. Though everything was explainable through natural causes, the moment felt almost apocalyptic, as if something beyond us was breaking through.
This felt eerily consistent with the spiritual undercurrents of the past year and a half of war. From the very beginning, we sensed that this campaign was being guided by a Higher Hand. Much of this has defied explanation. Much of the actual fighting has unfolded in the skies, and Hashem – through the extraordinary technology He placed in our hands – has waged battle from above, intercepting threats before they reach the earth.
Watching the skies darken with smoke on Yom Ha’Atzmaut only confirmed that heaven has been guiding this struggle for quite some time.
I was reminded of the makkot in Egypt thousands of years ago. The first plagues struck the ground – blood, frogs, vermin and lice, diseased cattle, and wild beasts. As the Egyptians grappled with these afflictions, they looked downward, searching for the source of their suffering. But gradually, their gaze was drawn heavenward. The boils were triggered by soot cast toward the sky, the locusts appeared to descend from the heavens, and the most celestial of all – the plague of hail – rained down fiery boulders while thunder roared across the sky.
This shift revealed that the force behind these events was Hashem, orchestrating everything from beyond our world.
In Egypt, the skies lifted the Egyptians’ gaze, compelling them to recognize a higher will. In Israel, the winds and fire reminded us that our war is fought by Hashem who promised us this land.
Going Backwards
This year’s fires did more than disrupt celebrations and ceremonies – they scorched the core symbols of our national renewal. It felt as though they reversed the arc of our historical return.
First, the flames encircled Yerushalayim, shutting down Route 1 – the main artery into the city. The closed roads summoned memories of the desperate battles of 1948 to break the siege of Yerushalayim, battles that exacted a heavy toll on the newly formed Palmach.
The fires also forced tens of thousands of Israelis from their homes. One of the most powerful symbols of our return to Israel is our ability, for the first time in thousands of years, to settle this land and live in peace within our homes. Yet, seeing Jews displaced, even temporarily, felt as if history itself was reversing.
Finally, one of the great signs of national renewal has been our ability to transform a long-desolate land into a fertile, blooming country. But this year, the land burned. Once again, it felt as if we were regressing—on the days meant to mark our rebirth. It was painful to watch history unraveling.
Tire Fire
Last year, these days of Jewish history were overshadowed by the horrors inflicted on us by our enemies on October 7 and the ongoing toll of the war. This year, however, the disruption came from within. Though initially sparked by an act of terror, the ongoing fires did not feel like an external assault. Instead, our celebration seemed marred by self-inflicted wounds. The flames symbolized deeper, internal struggles within our own society.
I couldn’t help but think of an earlier moment in Jewish history when our destiny was derailed by fire. In the desert, after the debacle of the meraglim, there was still room for repair – some path forward. But that hope was shattered when internal strife erupted. Korach led a rebellion of 250 men against Moshe rabbeinu, tearing the social fabric and sealing the fate of that generation. A fire descended from heaven, consuming the rebels and driving the final nail into the coffin of a lost era.
Last week, the story of Korach crackled through the flames. After a year and a half of trauma, we find ourselves in desperate need of healing. We desperately need to continue our national mission: to build, to settle, and to grow in the face of hatred and terror. They break, we build. They destroy, we rise. We need to build and to rise.
And yet, we can’t seem to get out of our own way. We are hurtling into an abyss of ideological division and political infighting. We still haven’t learned the difference between impassioned disagreement and toxic contempt for one another. Still ensnared in the same strife Korach stirred, fire came down again – this time without casualties – but perhaps it was meant to warn us not to slip back into that destructive pattern.
A Nation of Firefighters
Despite the disappointments, there was something profoundly inspiring in watching our fire crews labor tirelessly for 48 hours, risking their lives to save others. For thousands of years, in exile and without sovereignty, we depended on foreign nations to provide safety and emergency aid. Now we have our own state – and our own fire department. It was comforting to watch Jews rescuing fellow Jews.
During the afternoon of Yom Ha’Atzmaut, while driving through Yerushalayim, I heard a loud, booming sound. My son, a paratrooper, was with me in the car, and we both feared a terror attack. He jumped out with his rifle, only to discover that a very severe car accident had taken place just a few vehicles ahead of us.
I was on the scene before the ambulances and was able to offer first aid to the injured. In those difficult moments, I felt privileged to stand “alongside” the firefighters, providing rescue to my own people.
After a few minutes, the rescue teams arrived. It was a remarkable sight – Jews and Arabs, charedi and non-charedi, all working seamlessly to save lives. This moment of unity reminded me of what I had witnessed the day before, when charedim from the communities around Yerushalayim were rescued by Israel’s “Zionist” fire department.
I remain confident that reality will always be stronger than ideology – though it takes time. Charedim and non-charedim remain deeply divided over army conscription, but the realities of living together and sharing life’s experiences will, over time, forge common ground. These shared moments speak louder than any ideological debate. We simply need time – and patience.
