Israeli Movie Fill The Void

[Glynis Waughtal]

Itwas Asaf's father - the child of Holocaust survivors - who had defended our country with a daring strike on Iraq's nuclear reactor in 1981, declaring that "If I can prevent a second Holocaust, I am ready to sacrifice my life."

So when the news came this week of Asaf's tragic crash in the Hebron Hills, our nation was plunged into double-grief. Grief over the loss of this bright young star, and grief over the loss - once again - of the Ramon family's magical story.

When comforting mourners, the traditional Jewish words of condolence are: "May God comfort you amongst the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem." Here, the Hebrew reference to God is an usual word, Hamakom - literally, The Place. The message is that when a person dies, it is up to us to identify their unique contribution - their "place" in the Grand Eternal Plan. And then, the more we endeavor to fill that place, the more God will bring us comfort.

This year, we must redouble our commitment to fill the aching void that Asaf Ramon's death has left behind - to unite in achieving our national mission, and truly be a light unto each other, and unto all the nations.

Rabbi Shraga Simmons is the co-founder of Aish.com, and co-author of "48 Ways to Wisdom" (ArtScroll). He is Founder and Director of Aish.com's advanced learning site. He is co-founder of HonestReporting.com, and author of "David & Goliath", the definitive account of anti-Israel media bias. Originally from Buffalo, New York, he holds a degree in journalism from the University of Texas at Austin, and rabbinic ordination from the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem. He lives with his wife and children in the Modi'in region of Israel.

I grew up at the largest reform temple in North America, Temple Israel, in West Bloomfield, Michigan. As the great-granddaughter of a founding member, all of the major milestones in my life occurred there. I was given my Hebrew name on the bimah (pulpit), attended the first pre-school class at the Temple, was consecrated, became a Bat Mitzvah, was confirmed, and graduated Hebrew High School from there. Later, as an adult, I married my husband under the chuppah (canopy) and named each of my three daughters from the very same bimah in which I received my Hebrew name years before. We had a special relationship with our clergy, notwithstanding the size of the congregation. The clergy took me and my peers to Israel in high school, and when I moved to Cleveland, the Head Rabbi came to visit our home. We moved to Cleveland eight and a half years ago, and while moving to a terrific Jewish community, I felt a rather profound sense of loss without Temple Israel in our day-to-day lives. As we made our new home in Cleveland, we looked for some place or some institution to fill that void.

Upon moving to Cleveland, my husband Jason and I were immediately introduced to other Jewish couples and young families, and were introduced to the Cleveland Federation. We attended Super Sunday and thought about the best way to get involved. A few years passed and I was asked to participate in the Mandel Symposium. Not knowing what to expect, I hesitated but ultimately agreed and started my journey with the Federation. Throughout a six-month period, I was exposed to the arms of the Federation, the inner-workings of the organization, and met key influencers like Mort Mandel and Albert Ratner. These inspiring individuals spoke about their upbringing and their journey at the Federation. The Symposium made a profound impact on me and helped me to understand the true strength of our community, the vast network of agencies that provide service in partnership with the Federation, and where I might be able to make a difference.

After graduating from the Mandel Symposium, I took a position as a Co-Chair for Women 2 Women, part of the Women's Philanthropy Initiative, as well as a board position at The Agnon School, where my daughters are enrolled. The former has proved to be rewarding, as I work to shape women-focused events and welcome Jewish women to the Federation. I am currently serving my first of three years on the Agnon board which affords me an opportunity to understand how the larger Federation impacts and helps its partner agencies. It is truly a gift that this community provides support to ensure that every Jewish family who wants a Jewish education for their child can make that a reality.

My Jewish Cleveland journey has only just begun, but it is through the Federation that I have found a home, a community, and a connection like that of my experience at Temple Israel. I look forward to continuing to contribute to the greater society through social welfare, volunteer work, and involvement in tikkun olam (repairing the world).

It wasn't until I started attending Indiana University where, for many of my new friends, I was their first Jewish friend. This was a startling experience and with all the questions they asked me, I began to feel being the only Jew was a weight on my shoulders. They were so intrigued and eager but, I didn't feel that I knew enough about Judaism and especially the State of Israel to fill their void - and led me to the realization that I have a void where I should have knowledge!

After returning from that trip, I felt, for the first time, a deep connection to the Jewish people and a burning desire to look further into my Jewish identity. It was there that I got a taste of the history and a realization that I am a continuation of those who were almost exterminated. I could no longer ignore the void of knowledge or my disconnect to Judaism.

Perhaps not everyone will find themselves in Israel. This is another reason why I am pleased to be part of Israel Forever and the efforts to bring Israel to Jews, wherever they are and help them find their own way to connect and enjoy everything Israel has to offer!

I washed my hands in the bathroom sink and looked up. Damn. I'm in uniform. It's the first time I see myself like this. I puff my chest up, pivot a little sideways and check myself out. Some pride swells up. Oh shit, someone is coming out of the stall. Don't want to be THAT guy. I dry my hands and leave the bathroom.

When I get on the bus one of the commanders escorting us to base stops me and says, "Chayal, tisim et ha'chultza shelcha bitoch hamichnasay'im." I respond, completely oblivious to what was just said to me, "I'm sorry, I don't speak Hebrew." He sighs. With a thick accent he translates himself: "Soldier, put your shirt inside your pants." "Oh, yes, sir." He called me soldier!

After graduating from high school in 2009, I was living a different life, following my dream training for college football. I had received a Division I scholarship, bringing together five years of endless training and preparing and playing football. My life revolved around football in my Florida high school. I loved it like nothing else. Then, my own body took it away from me.

It always felt just a little more epic to train on my game field. I knew where our athletic director kept the key to the fence, and I snuck in every other day to run wind sprints. He knew I did it, but what did he care? One day, during the summer between high school and college, I was in the middle of my routine, listening to Rage Against the Machine as loud as my iPod would let me. I laid out a few cones to work on my footwork and ran a few warm-up sprints, just as I had done for weeks. I bent down in my stance and came off the block, but this time I felt the full force of the kick-off in my lower spine. I felt a horrible pop, my extended leg could not contract, and I fell flat on my face. It hurt like hell, like a butcher was gripping me right on the vertebrae.

I took a week off from training, hoping the pain would subside, but it did not. I had to go to the doctor. "Sorry, Joe. You're going to have to sit out a few years and let your back heal." My doctor informed me that I have spondylolysis, a developmental defect in my lower spine that many people have and that became a problem for me because of the contact of football and the strain of weightlifting. I hadn't even set foot on campus, and now he's telling me I was going to have to sit out for a while.

I could have gone to college without football, but I didn't feel ready. My school was gracious enough to honor the scholarship regardless, and I was accepted into other schools based on academic merit, but football had been my rudder for five years. Without it I was lost, adrift and directionless. My doctor said I could return to football after letting my back heal for at least two years, so I looked to take some time to learn more about myself outside of athletics before beginning university and returning to football. When I was 20 I'd be ready for football, and therefore university, but for the time being I needed something to do.

I wanted to spend time in Israel. I have always been proud of my Jewish heritage, and though the Jewish American community is thriving, there was something different about being in Israel, a country that is majority Jewish and proclaims itself to be "the Jewish State."

Judaism is a fundamental aspect of who I am, but that identity interacts with American society differently than it does in Israel. Israel is unique in that an individual's Jewish identity supports the state, and the state in turn fosters that Jewish identity. I wanted to explore that.

I was sensitive to the recurring wars and security concerns in Israel and thought that the greatest service I could offer was to enlist as a combat soldier. Anything else, I bullheadedly thought, would waste my time and skills. Nothing else was as important as defense, and I was confident that I wouldn't be as good at serving any other objective than defense.

At the time, the nature of the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict did not factor into my decision. This perhaps speaks to my immaturity at the time, but I simply put it out of my mind. I felt from my own experience and from general sentiment in the community I grew up in that Israel was a just state, so I assumed that the occupation, whatever the reason for it may be, was also just. I put on an air of pompousness that masked my ignorance, an attitude common to many volunteers at the beginning of their service. The occupation was a complicating factor that might have led me to question my decision, and I was not interested in questioning my decision.

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