It was pretty quiet in Eretz Yisroel these past two weeks.
I don’t mean to say that nothing happened.
Unfortunately, the tales of tragedy continue to unfold. The sadness resonates with every new update from the battlefield, with each story of pain, bravery, and loss.
The terror on the streets has not subsided, and the battle for the soul of the country and the inimitable importance of lomdei Torah never ceases.
But for two or three minutes, it was quiet.
For the most part, in many parts of the land.
The quiet I refer to is a different kind of silence — the stillness that descends during the moments of silence commemorating victims of the Holocaust on what is known as Yom Hashoah, and for the fallen soldiers and victims of terror on Yom Hazikaron, the day before Israel’s Independence Day.
I remember, back when I was a talmid learning in Eretz Yisroel, how those moments were observed.
I am not sure if its sanctity still resonates with the same sacredness that it held fifty years ago when I was in Ponovezh, but the scenarios that I experienced during that period seared memories and thoughts into my mind that I may have contained within me until this writing.
Most of the time, when the designated siren (marking the start of the silent moment ritual) wailed, I was safely ensconced inside the bais medrash, the walls filled with the eternal hum of Torah learning. I don’t even know if I heard it.
But there were times when I found myself outside — on a street corner, at a bus stop, or walking between buildings. And the expectation was absolute: When that siren sounded, you stood still. Not a muscle moved. Heaven help the soul who so much as shifted a grocery bag or adjusted his hat during those sixty seconds.
There was a fierce seriousness about it, a sense that this silence was sacred, perhaps the holiest national observance available to a people whose formal religious framework, for many, had long been stripped away.
I understand the impulse.
This became the spirituality that was meant to replace a Kaddish, a kappitel Tehillim, or a hirhur teshuvah.
And I must admit, I would not have dared to defy the national mood or deride the custom — a custom that, I understand, actually began after World War I, in 1919, when King George V of England instituted a two-minute silence across the British Empire to remember the fallen soldiers.
But raised in America, when you cheer for the home run along with everyone in the first fifteen years of your life, somehow you also stand silently along with them, even when you are very confused about the spirituality of the ritual.
It’s hard not to feel the pull of solidarity, to mourn alongside brothers and sisters who have endured unimaginable loss, even if it’s not your customary way.
And yet, part of me has always felt a quiet sadness that the highest form of public mourning and an opportunity for yearning for so many is — silence.
Is it truly reflection? Or is it simply a pause, an empty moment when motion ceases but thought may not necessarily deepen?
I often wonder what goes through the mind of the average Israeli, caught mid-work, mid-errand, mid-struggle, when the sirens erupt.
The Gemara in Brachos tells us that tefillah requires preparation. One cannot transition instantly from mundane chatter or financial worries, even a deep Talmudic discussion, into standing lifnei Hashem in tefillah.
I remember spotting a secular Israeli moments after leaving the bank with a distraught expression on his face. Moments later, the siren blared, and suddenly the face of consternation froze in place.
I wondered what was going through his mind.
Surely, a man who had just learned that his account was short by hundreds of shekels, now frozen outside Bank Leumi at Kikar Shabbos, was not immediately transported to a place of pure spiritual reflection.
To a nation bereft of obligatory mitzvos governing the rhythms of daily life, the moment of silence becomes the closest substitute for religious experience.
A man-made ritual of restraint, a minimalist substitute for the maximalist demands of Torah.
No Shema, no Ani Maamin, no kappitel Tehillim — just silence, unstructured, unchanneled, and undefined.
And that becomes the untouchable symbol of concern.
Of course, we are a people whose symbols are infused with sanctity.
There are constant reminders to spark memory and reflection.
But symbols in Yiddishkeit are rooted in mitzvah and carry profound spiritual weight.
And of course, there is hisbodedus and reflection and self-introspection, but that takes work and preparation. It’s an avodah.
There is a first-grade rebbi in our yeshiva who employs something he calls a “Shivisi 10” in his classroom. Every so often, he calls out for a “Shivisi 10” during which the kinderlach are supposed to stop whatever they are doing and think about the concept of “Shivisi Hashem L’negdi Somid.”
Now that’s a moment of silence to kvell over.
There is a gulf of difference between a Torah-ordained sign and a human-created gesture.
Today’s world is full of such gestures.
Virtue signaling — performing an act meant to show alignment with a cause — has become the new form of religious expression in much of society.
And slowly, without even realizing it, we sometimes allow these man-made rituals to creep into our lives, confusing the symbolism for substance.
A ribbon worn, a hash-tag posted, a sticker stuck on a shirt — all can serve as powerful emotional connectors.
But are they real?
I am not negating the symbols that people wear to remind them of the plight of the hostages and of other tzaros.
But when symbols are not an impetus for spiritual action, they remain just that.
And when they become replacements for actual Torah responses, or when failure to participate in them is seen as sacrilege, we risk creating a new religion out of cultural movements.
It’s a subtle shift, but a dangerous one.
My father used to tell me about the Chinese philosopher who came to these shores to lecture at New York University. He was met by the embassy attaché, who decided to take him on the subway to travel from the Consulate on 12th Avenue to NYU’s campus in Washington Square Park. They trudged down the stairs into the belly of the beast.
A subway train came to a screeching halt at one of the platforms. The philosopher was about to board when the diplomat grabbed him by the arm.
“Wait,” he said. “In a few moments, an express train will arrive on the opposite platform. If we take that train, we can save ourselves four minutes.”
The philosopher looked at his guide and asked in all earnestness, “And what will we do with those four minutes?”
I’m not here to deride the two minutes of silence.
But what will we do with those two minutes?
