I am writing as a mother, a professional, and a proud member of the Torah-observant community in Tzfat, Israel — not as an activist, and not as an alarmist. I am writing because I am worried that what is about to appear in the news will be deeply misunderstood, and I feel a responsibility to offer some context before that story is written for us.
This past Motzaei Shabbos, two days before Lag BaOmer, my daughters — seminary girls — made their way to Meron. Not to protest. Not to demonstrate. Simply to daven at the kever of Rashbi, as Jews have done for generations, and as they do nearly every motzi shabbos. They were met not with open gates, but with security forces in full riot gear, weapons loaded, drawn and at the ready. After two hours of confusion, they were turned away. They came home shaken. These are not dangerous individuals. They are young women who wanted to daven.
What is happening at Meron this Lag BaOmer is, by all accounts, the first complete cancellation of the hilula in modern history. The official justifications have shifted — first it was security concerns from Lebanon, then transportation issues, and the dry season and fire risk. Yet rain is expected from today across the country right through Lag BaOmer. And those following events in the north know that things have been notably quiet these past few weeks — no sirens, no imminent threat. I live in Tzfat, and while I am not privy to classified security information, it has been quiet here, after years of sirens and explosions.
Meanwhile, mass events elsewhere in Israel, including in the north, proceeded without restriction. Concerts, soccer games, you name it. Yom HaAtzmaut was recently celebrated in all of the country, with no fire or security risk. You would need to be blind not to see what is going on here.
And it is not only Meron. The National Fire and Rescue Authority issued a nationwide ban on bonfires — on beaches, in parks, and even in yeshiva schoolyards — through Lag BaOmer itself. So this is not about one hilltop in the Galilee. The message being sent is that we are not to celebrate anywhere.
For thousands of years, Lag BaOmer has been a time when Jews of all stripes come together to celebrate our heritage and our connection to the tzaddikim. It is, by any measure, the largest Jewish pilgrimage in the world. From the day a child is born in our community, parents look forward to bringing them to Meron for their upsherin. One need only imagine the international outcry if secular authorities in Saudi Arabia attempted to cancel the pilgrimage to Mecca — yet here, in our own Jewish land, the silencing of our most sacred gathering is met with little more than a shrug. Don’t delude yourself; this isn’t about security concerns.
There is a deeper dimension here that I believe deserves to be said plainly. The Gemara in Shabbat (138b) records that when the Sages gathered at Kerem BeYavneh, they feared that Torah would one day be forgotten from Israel. It was Rashbi — Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai — who disagreed. He brought the pasuk from Devarim (31:21): “כי לא תישכח מפי זרעו” — “For it shall not be forgotten from the mouth of his descendants.”
The Zohar goes further: it is specifically through the Zohar, through Rashbi’s hidden Torah, that the Jewish people will go out from exile. And Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, in the introduction to Likutey Moharan, points to something hidden in that very pasuk: the final letters of “כי לא תישכח מפי זרעו” spell יוחאי.
This is what is at stake. Whether those doing this fully understand it or not, the attack on our celebrations, our bonfires, our pilgrimages to tzaddikim — these strike at the very spiritual root of Jewish redemption. A world redeemed looks very different from the world many have made their peace with. It means a Beis HaMikdash instead of shopping malls, a different set of priorities than soccer on Shabbos. Those who are comfortable in exile, consciously or not, sense that our joy, our dancing, our unbroken connection to Rashbi and his Torah, is not merely a religious preference. It is a force. And that force unsettles them.
In the days ahead, there will likely be images of clashes at Meron. People will be described as extremists. I want to be unambiguous: I do not condone violence of any kind, and certainly not between Jews. Nothing written here is intended to justify those who may resort to it.
But I am asking you to understand what lies beneath. When a community watches everything precious to it dismantled — learning, livelihood, and now the freedom to celebrate its deepest traditions — some will respond in ways others cannot condone. These are people whose spiritual lives are being attacked at the root, who are trying to hold onto what is most precious to them.
I am not asking you to take sides in Israeli politics. I am asking you not to accept a story that has already been written for you. Look carefully. The Jewish people have always known what it means to have our traditions threatened. We did not expect to face it here, in our own land. But here we are.
May the zechus of Rashbi protect us all, and may we merit to celebrate together — in joy, in peace, and very soon.
Signed,
A Concerned Mother
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