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 two 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 the Rana Choir in part one, Threads of Hope: The Rana Choir and more about Rabbi Reines’ experience in part three, Threads of Hope: An Act of Kindness.
By Rabbi Sarah H. Reines
Maoz Inon, tourism entrepreneur and peace activist, understands that lines of connection are essential to a shared, secure future. He explained to my group of 13 colleagues that after serving in the IDF, he and his wife, like many young Israelis, traveled overseas. While in New Zealand, they learned about the Maori. In Nepal they learned about the Sherpas. Everywhere they went, they learned about that land’s early and indigenous communities. It made them realize that they knew almost nothing about the histories, religions and cultures of Palestinians living only miles and minutes away from them. They didn’t know the difference between Eid al-Fitr and Ramadan, where Jesus was born or where he was buried. Despite their openness and proximity to their neighbors, they didn’t have any real friendships with Palestinians. This inspired Maoz to create travel initiatives, such as hostels and tours in Palestinian communities, bringing people together to learn each other’s narratives and build relationships, while bolstering neighborhood economies and creating business partnerships.
This all could have ended on October 7, when Inon’s parents were incinerated alive inside their home by a Hamas missile. Yaakov, an agronomist and farmer, and Bilha, an artist, lived and died in moshav Netiv HaAsara. Our group visited this now-functioning community. We walked past buildings and shelters enlivened by Bilha’s hand-painted mandalas – charming weavings of color, pattern, and texture – finally arriving at the cement foundation of the couple’s home which lay bare, a chilling remnant of what once stood.
After sitting shiva, Maoz, his five siblings and their spouses decided that they would not respond to their grief with revenge. Instead they use it as fuel, energizing them with greater urgency towards their parents’ vision of peace. One of my colleagues expressed incredulousness at how Maoz so quickly amped up his activism after losing both parents and so many friends and neighbors. He responded that Aziz abu Sarah, a Palestinian travel activist whom he had only known by name, reached out to him in the wake of the massacre. As they talked, Aziz had that same reaction. Maoz told us what he told him: “To me, it makes perfect sense. When a person is lost in the desert, he cries out for water. When a person is lost in this kind of grief, it is normal to cry out for peace.”
Mandala painted by Bilha Inon on a shelter.
Since then, these two men have formed a deep friendship and have joined together in a campaign of hope and reconciliation. They speak wherever people will listen. They have met with diplomats and Pope Francis; last week they spoke at a small Washington, D.C. coffee shop and the next day had a televised interview with Bianna Golodryga.
Maoz explains that nothing prepared him for this moment, yet at the same time, his parents prepared him for this moment. His mother once gave him a paper mandala with a message that he put aside without reading. During shiva, he took it out and heard her voice speaking the words she had written: “All our dreams can be fulfilled if we have the courage to chase them.”
Maoz and his family look at the foundation where their parents’ house once stood, and draw inspiration to build channels of communication and understanding. Maoz cries for his parents every day, but pursuing the vision of a shared future energizes his life with meaning. It is hard work, but he isn’t slowing down. “Hope is not a feeling that I wait for. I make hope. Hope is a communal endeavor, something we create together.”
He invites us all to join him.
Mandalas that Bilha taught others to
create using upcycled materials.
