Hope is hard to find these days. I rediscovered it in the most unlikely and obvious of places: Israel.
Rabbi and scholar, Dr. Michael Marmur, who made aliyah from London 40 years ago, notes that the Hebrew word for hope, tikvah, builds from the root kav, meaning “cord, line.” He cites a Jewish mystical teaching likening hope to a thread capable of spanning from earth to the upper reaches of heaven. Without our efforts, hope hangs loose with unrealized promise. Rabbi Marmur directs us to grab hold of that seemingly flimsy, sometimes evasive thread, sewing ourselves into a better future.
This is part one of “Threads of Hope,” a blog series in which Rabbi Sarah Reines reflects on a finding hope for peace and a shared future during a recent solidarity mission to Israel. You can read about Maoz Inon, tourism entrepreneur and peace activist in part two, Threads of Hope: Maoz Inon and more about Rabbi Reines’ experience in part three, Threads of Hope: An Act of Kindness.
By Rabbi Sarah H. Reines
Grief and sorrow lie heavily palpable in Israel. And yet, threads of hope run with vigor throughout the fabric of society. I found them in Israelis and Palestinians from many walks of life: hostage families, people suffering under occupation, activists, artists, scholars, soldiers, farmers, politicians and political advisors, leaders of think tanks and NGO’s, and many (extra)ordinary citizens and residents. I would like to share some stories of people who are not letting these threads lie slack.
In April, I wrote a Passover sermon which led me to discover The Rana Choir (“Rana” meaning “singing” in Hebrew and Arabic) comprising Arab and Israeli women who are Jewish, Muslim and Christian. I emailed them to thank them for their gifts with the world, and they invited me to attend a rehearsal in Jaffa. That was my first destination as soon as I landed in Israel, and it provided the context for the rest of my visit.
The choir has been meeting and performing for 17 years, and in that time its members have created cords of connection and understanding that have withstood wars, COVID, and ongoing cycles of violence. But nothing has tested them more than these past eight months. After October 7, the group stopped meeting. About a month later, they decided to gather, even though they weren’t yet ready to sing; first they needed to talk, and perhaps more importantly, to listen. They hired two mediators – one Arab and one Jewish Israeli – gathered in a circle, and shared their feelings and fears. Some words were excruciatingly painful to hear, but they committed to staying in the room and honoring each other’s truths. After taking time to reacquaint themselves with the trust they had built over the years, they decided to try singing. For weeks, a lyric or melody would trigger someone’s grief, and the choir would pause while that person wept. There were moments when they weren’t certain the choir would be able to continue.
I didn’t know any of this when I was with them. As the women arrived, they greeted one another with smiles, chatting while setting up chairs. One entered and everyone came over to hug her – this was her first time back since her father died, and her arms were filled with pastries to share as part of her Christian tradition. During break, a Moroccan member shared the tradition of Mimouna, celebrating the end of Passover, by serving wine and making fresh mifleta, crepes smeared with butter and honey. Throughout the rehearsal, the women laughed and collaborated, swaying in their chairs, standing to dance, as they sang folk songs, love songs, and lullabies in Hebrew and Arabic. Clapping their hands and gesturing to each other, their voices raised in harmony and delight.
At the end of the rehearsal they thanked me for coming. One member said that for the last months they had been singing songs that matched their sorrowful mood. However, because I was visiting, they reached beyond their grief and sang pieces representing their full repertoire, music which, in their words, “shares textual and musical motifs that weave people and cultures together in a rich tapestry.” For the first time since the war began, joy was restored to them. Such is the power of music and friendship.
Until recently, the choir paused from performing for audiences; it was too emotional for some, and others felt it was inappropriate to stand on a stage receiving applause while so many are starving and dying. But they continued to rehearse, nourishing themselves, and preparing for the moment when collectively they felt they could perform again. On June 15, they gave their first concert since the war.
These women have everything to lose, and many have experienced loss – a Jewish singer is scarred by her cousin’s texts from a shelter in Kibbutz Kfar Aza on October 7. A Palestinian singer is haunted by the endless rings of calls unanswered by her family in Gaza. None of these women think that their group can solve the conflict. Individually, they carry fear and resentment. They feel misunderstood. And yet, as a collective, they work hard to stay connected, even by a delicate thread.
Rana is now planning a concert overseas to demonstrate living proof of a shared community. Their reason? “Since October 7th and the ongoing war, the need for visibility of mutual empathy, cooperation and peace is absolutely critical in order to present the possibility of an alternative from divisive violence, dehumanization and mistrust.”
These women have woven their differing perspectives and distinct lives into a web that caught them when everything came crashing down. They felt joy only after singing spirited harmonies for someone else. The thread of hope I carry from these brave and resilient musicians is to value relationships beyond everything else, reaching beyond deep emotion to do something uncomfortable, even for a stranger who happens to drop by.
