As summer turns to autumn, Elul sweeps in, bringing with it a tide of hope and renewal. This month marks the onset of the new year of study in yeshivot worldwide, ushering in a period of reflection and rejuvenation. Typically, there is an electric buzz when new students arrive. A flurry of activity fills the air – class assignments, chavrutot selection, purchasing the necessary sefarim, and, of course, securing seats in the loud and bustling beit midrash. After a few days, the chaos subsides, everyone finds their place, and the beit midrash begins to brim with energy, intensity and Torah study. Every seat is filled.
But this year, heartbreakingly, there are too many empty seats. Too many seats, once filled by talmidim who fell defending our people and our land, now stand empty and forlorn. Though they are physically occupied by new students, to me they feel empty.
This year, my yeshiva, along with all the other yeshivot and mechinot whose talmidim serve in the IDF, is immersed in sorrow. On the one hand there is great excitement, as a record number of talmidim have enrolled. Amazingly, 64 overseas students in my yeshiva have chosen to return, many of whom are planning to ultimately draft into the IDF and to protect our nation.
The Shadow
Yet, there is a profound shadow that hovers above us like an ominous cloud, a dark sadness on the edge of the beit midrash, and a pervasive melancholy which drifts through the beit midrash. Tragically, among the many fallen soldiers from all sectors of Israeli society, a disproportionately high number were students of our yeshivot. The weight of our anguish is unbearable.
As my colleague, Rav Chaim Navon described our yeshivot in last week’s Makor Rishon: “Their study halls teach hope, but now they are also enveloped in grief…I read the stories of the fallen and am astonished: young and gentlemen of great character, who preferred the sefer over the rifle, but knew how to wield the sword in defense of their homeland. The gemarot they hold were once studied by war heroes, alav hashalom … Above every young student in our yeshivot now stands an older brother, an angel, telling him: Grow.”
As I walked somberly through the bustling beit midrash, tears welled up as I passed the seats once occupied by those who have fallen in battle. I silently asked myself “Do they truly know? Do these younger talmidim understand the sacred space they now inhabit?” I kept my tears to myself, in the quiet solitude of a broken heart and the dark recesses of sorrowful memories.
That first day, as I wrestled with my joy and grief, I saw a father of a fallen talmid visiting our yeshiva – a place where his fallen son had spent so many years of profound learning and growth. Our eyes met and, of course, words faded. There were no words capable of capturing the overwhelming emotions. We embraced, our eyes heavy with the weight of profound loss, and a quiet resignation settled over us.
Rebuild, Rebuild
The Jewish response to tragedy is to rebuild. In exile, when we endured suffering, we rebuilt communities – sometimes in the same location and sometimes after migrating elsewhere. In Israel, we respond to tragedy by rebuilding the land and establishing new settlements. Currently, we face the daunting task of reconstructing an entire region of the country that has been ravaged by vile hatred and barbaric violence.
After welcoming new talmidim to my yeshiva in Gush Etzion, I traveled with my own son, who is beginning his hesder journey – combining Torah study and army service in a five-year program. We headed south, near the border with Gaza, where he joined a new hesder yeshiva, aiming to breathe life and spirit into a landscape heavy with sorrow. We drove along roads of death, haunted by the madness and horror they have witnessed. I hope he will help rebuild the south of Israel through his Torah study and through his unwavering dedication to safeguarding our country.
Rebuilding Torah
We are now tasked with rebuilding not only our land but our Torah as well. On that fateful day we were not just attacked physically. Our enemies sought to desecrate the heart of our nation, targeting us on Simchat Torah, the day we rejoice in G-d’s word. They believed we would be unprepared, exploiting our sacred celebration as a moment of vulnerability. It’s unfathomable that such a day, dedicated to the joy of Torah, could be turned into a weapon against us. Now, more than ever, we must restore the luster of Torah with renewed strength and devotion.
Reflecting on the immense task of rebuilding our Torah world, my mind wandered to moments in history when Torah was restored after great tragedy. I thought of Rabbi Akiva, who lost 24,000 students to a devastating plague. Yet, he did not surrender to despair or succumb to the enormity of the loss. Instead, he taught five extraordinary younger students who transformed the Torah landscape leaving an indelible mark on the evolution of the Talmud. Rabbi Akiva’s resilience and determination showcased the power of resilience in the face of overwhelming loss.
I thought about the German rabbis of the 15th century. After the Black Plague, horrific pogroms swept through Central and Western Europe, especially in Germany. Hundreds of Jewish towns were destroyed by mobs driven by fantasies of Jewish involvement in spreading the plague. Ignorance, as always, bred hatred. An entire generation of Torah scholars was annihilated. Yet a group of determined German rabbis heroically revived Torah scholarship. Tragically, it wasn’t enough, and most Jews eventually migrated east to Poland and Central Europe.
And, of course, my thoughts turned to the Holocaust survivors who saw an entire world reduced to ashes, and with it, the obliteration of a rich Torah landscape. Visionaries such as Rav Aharon Kotler in the U.S. and Rabbi Kahaneman in Israel dedicated themselves to the monumental task of restoring and reviving the world of Torah, rebuilding from the depths of devastation.
New Tzaddikim
Yet, despite the similarities to past reconstruction efforts, I recognize how profoundly different our current situation is. For the first time since the days of Rabbi Akiva, our talmidim have demonstrated that Torah study and religion are not diminished by army service but enriched by it. Amidst the sand dunes of Gaza and the falling bombs, they faithfully lit Chanukah candles, read the Megillah, conducted brief Seders, prayed on Shabbat, and studied Torah while protecting the land of G-d. These are our new tzaddikim. When I recite the section of the Amidah that references the tzaddikim, I think of our boys who revived the sacred legacy of scholars and warriors – immersing themselves in Torah study while also understanding when to set aside the sefer and lay down their lives for the Jewish people.
During that first week in yeshiva, I made a pledge to myself. I vowed to find the strength and stamina to shower my new students with boundless love, smiles, and warmth. A yeshiva schedule is rigorously demanding, and the relentless pace of deadlines and responsibilities can be overwhelming. But I owe it to these younger men to be as dedicated, kind and loving as possible. This past year has proven how fragile and precious life can be, and I owe it to the students who perished to give everything I can to those who now sit in their seats.
Empty skies. Empty seats. Sad spirit. Renewed hope.
G-d is with us.
