By Tal Bahar
Have I Forgotten How to Speak About Israel?
It was strange when this thought struck me like a bolt out of the blue, and even stranger to put it down on the page, almost like a confession, but for several months now, speaking Israel has become a challenge for me. How can that be? This is what I’ve done for as long as I can remember. Always, in one way or another, I have worked for the state and for our people. Speaking for and about them has been my greatest passion. This challenge landed on me, of all times, out of great joy.
Let me take you back to the night before Simchat Torah this year. The night when all of us stayed awake, watching and waiting for the return of the hostages in the latest deal (which, sadly, has still not been fully realized; one hostage, Ran Gvili z”l, remains in captivity, and Hamas still controls Gaza).
I’m sure many of you, like me, stayed awake until the early hours of the morning. In a state of great euphoria, I fell asleep around six-thirty for an hour and a half, maybe a little less. When I woke up, I was overtaken by a strange feeling, a pressure in my chest I haven’t felt for long time. I feel terrible writing this, but it felt like a kind of emptiness, the kind you feel only when meaning suddenly disappears. The great dissonance, between the reason for such overwhelming happiness and the strange difficulty I was experiencing, only intensified the guilt and the sense of alienation.
Since the horrific massacre two years ago, I have been constantly occupied with remembering and reminding, to the point that, I myself, have forgotten so much. I barely remember life before October 7, 2023. I don’t remember how to speak Israel without all of this. Where to begin? How can I speak about my Israel, the Israel I no longer remember without war? Without October 7?
I will never forget the morning of October 7.
But is it possible that I have forgotten what came before it?
And so, it came to be that these thoughts would not leave me.
In November, I flew to a three-day conference of the Jewish Agency. At the end of it, about 25 of us gathered in the classroom, sitting in a circle for our closing session.
Before I begin to tell you about it, it’s important for me to say this: every single person belonged to JAFI and were there, truly all of them, were outstanding. They are in their roles by merit, not by luck.
They do sacred work on behalf of the State of Israel and the Jewish people - each and every one in their own community; each according to their values and worldview. With some of them, I deeply identify; with others, I see things differently. And that is, of course, perfectly fine, when the greater goal is shared and what drives all of us is love of Israel.
Let’s return to the closing circle.
On the floor, the group leader laid out many slips of paper with words written on them. Unfortunately, I don’t remember what those words were, because I didn’t look at them even once. She asked: Is October 7 the reason you went on shlichut?
I was moved. I thought to myself how wonderful it was that, finally, my thoughts would find a listening ear among my peers, who, I assumed, probably felt the same way I did. So, I was the first to answer this very relevant question. I said yes, and I explained my answer, one most of you already know.
In short: because I understood that this was the call of the moment, and that this was the best I could give the country right now, based on my character and my abilities. I described my feelings in big words, with sweeping hand gestures, speaking from the depths of my heart about who I am and about my life’s journey.
Silence filled the room.
For ten seconds that felt like an eternity; no one said a word. As I sat there, slightly embarrassed, one of the participants answered as well, with a response completely different from mine. I don’t even remember what he said, only the sense of non-identification and lack of belonging to it stirred in me. Those who spoke after him continued along the same line.
Surprised and taken aback by the direction the conversation took, I decided to avert my gaze and look at the iPad of the friend sitting next to me. I saw that she was drawing, and I asked if I could try too. I took advantage of the moment and dove into the deep sea and sunset I was sketching, and as I did, I listened only with half an ear to the words being spoken in the room.
It was said that we don’t need to talk about October 7 all the time, or at all, and that the connection that we can create through a good shakshuka, could serve as a substitute for any discussion of “the seventh,” meaning the war, the hostages, terror, or anything “heavy” about Israel.
And then, in an instant, like a snowball rolling rapidly down a white mountainside, growing at a dizzying pace; I found myself in an argument that turned into an avalanche.
Maybe because I was confident in my righteousness. Maybe because of that very guilt I feel about my own difficulty speaking Israel without all of this. Maybe because of my strange, almost instinctive need to protect Israel, at least, as I understand that protection.
It’s not that I insist on talking about “the seventh.” I don’t even like that title myself - the seventh. It feels almost unfair. After all, it can mean only that cursed moment when the clock struck 6:30, or that single day in October 2023, but it can also mean two years and several months since, and maybe even all the months that came before.
And what does it even mean not to talk about it? What right do we have; we, the face of Israel to the world, to decide not to talk about “this”? I think what unsettled me most was the sense of pride I felt in that, in consciously deciding not to speak about our wound. To slap on a Band-Aid and assume it will simply heal on its own. And what’s the reasoning behind that? “It’s heavy. That’s not how you reach people. That’s not what our target audience is looking for. Even people in Israel aren’t dealing with this anymore. We need to move on.”
‘Memory is not Mourning, it is Strength’
“We don’t need to mourn or ask others to mourn.” And I told them that as I see it, memory is not mourning, it is strength. In general I think, that if we choose not to remember, not to touch what is complex and painful, thinking that this will make us stronger and improve public opinion of us, then we become victims of exactly what we claim we are trying to fight: the hatred and hostility toward Jews and toward Israel, which ultimately stem from our own self-denial and self-alienation.
As Theodor Herzl wrote in Altneuland, which I finished reading for the first time just a week and a half ago: “Judaism appears different today only because Jews have ceased to be ashamed of it.”
“We are not the face of October 7,” stood out to me, and I replied. For me, we are the face of October 7, just as we are the face of the Yom Kippur War and the Six-Day War; just as we are the face of the founding of the state and face of the Holocaust; face of the expulsion from Spain and face of the exiles, the persecution of Jews, the destruction of the Temples, and slavery in Egypt.
Just as we are the face of the Israeli pioneers and of Jewish heroism; the face of the Aliyah Bet and the ghetto uprisings; the face of a two-thousand-year longing for a state in the land of our ancestors; face of the Bar Kokhba revolt and of the kingdoms of Judah and Israel in all their forms.
The group leader, trying to calm things down, said: “Adaptations are important, because we don’t know how, or if, the people will remember this in the future. At some point, we’ll need to move on, and many are already doing so.” And I replied, sarcastically, “Of course. Right. It’s not like we’re still crying, fasting, and strengthening ourselves every year on the Ninth of Av.”
Some of the group said to me, “You don’t understand, that’s why you’re reacting this way.” And I said, “I understand all of you very well, I simply don’t agree.”
It’s important for me to say that I do understand the conscious choice to focus on one thing over another, and I believe it is sometimes necessary, whether that focus leans toward enjoyment rather than depth, or the other way around. It requires great sensitivity.
Bridges are built in many ways, not just one. They are designed by different architects, and no single person owns the blueprint. And yes, a lot of times food and a cultural activity are far more valuable and important for these bridges to be built, especially when we are referring to Israel.
“There is a time for everything, and a season for every purpose under heaven,” as Kohelet said, there is a season for all things. But the assertion that the desirable approach is not to touch this at all - that, in my eyes, is fundamentally wrong.
I don’t know why some of them said what they said, and to be totally honest with you, I don’t even know if maybe I got upset too early without listening to them all the way. But in hindsight, it doesn’t really matter. Because a lot of what this discussion did, was to flood me with even more questions and thoughts than I had before.
I felt a bit alone afterward, but I didn’t really mind. On the way to the dining hall, one of the participants stopped me and thanked me for my words. Then, in the dining hall, another said to me, “Seriously, I respect you for the honesty.” And another joined in and said, “Yes, I really agreed with you and appreciated it.”
So, I asked what they were talking about. He was referring to a conversation of mine that he had overheard; but she was actually referring to the discussion in the classroom. We laughed.
That night, memories surfaced of voices of my friends in Israel, who had told me in conversations that back home, this discourse already feels exhausted, that there is even a certain indifference at times. Maybe I’m the one stuck here, between past and present, insisting that the world remembers with me, while all my brothers and sisters are already moving on?
And so, I waited very much for the journey home; to meet the State of Israel and the people of Israel, for the second time since I started my shlichut, but for the first time in two and a half years without war.
Ten Days in Israel
My boyfriend, Tuck and I, flew for exactly ten days. We knew it would be short. Time seemed to slip right through our fingers, and we both tried very hard not to let the strange race against time take over our experience.
Just before landing, we looked down at the beautiful land stretching out beneath us. I told Tuck how in love I was with how our agricultural fields look from above, and how Israel’s landscape is unlike anywhere else in the world. Upon landing, of course, everyone applauded, and we joined them. As we stepped off the plane, we took a deep breath and agreed that Israel’s clear air is unlike anywhere else.
On the way to the arrivals hall, along the two well-known paths through the airport and its exits, the railings looked different. They had once been covered with posters of the hostages who had not yet returned home, but now only one image remained. Just one. Ran is still not home. My heart ached. But we continued.
In the baggage claim area, there are large, wide iron pillars, and for the first time I noticed that they were covered in hundreds of stickers commemorating the fallen of the recent war. I recognized a few familiar faces among the stickers and moved on. My mother came to pick us up, and the excitement was immense.
A friend greets Tal.
When we arrived in our neighborhood, the memorial signs for soldiers and victims were more numerous than I remembered, and all so young, so much younger than I remembered. I, who had been 22-and-a-half, am now almost 25. And the years of life of those familiar, distinguished faces remained frozen. It’s strange; some were younger than me at death, yet even stranger, some were older, but not anymore.
We arrived home. During those ten days, we tried to make the most of the time with my parents, with my sister and brother, with Grandpa Ben Zion and Grandma Lea, with Grandpa Avraham and Grandma Estee, whose birthday I was even lucky enough to celebrate with her, along with the extended family we invited for a meal at our house (thanks, Mom, for hosting over 30 people), with all the family friends, and with most of our own friends, especially the closest ones. See some photos with the article
Tuck makes a toast with Tal's grandfather.
We even managed to visit the beautiful north to see the Gan family, whom many of you know, who lived in Richmond for a year and became a second family to us. The weather didn’t always cooperate. Believe it or not, the largest storm to hit Israel in recent years (even got a name, “Byron”), visited right during our trip. But the rain and relative cold did not ruin our plans; on the contrary, it added to the experience. Who wouldn’t want to dive into the Mediterranean (Tuck) and paint on the beach (me) during a rainstorm?
Undoubtedly, one of my goals was to find an answer to my question. And so, instinctively, I was fully attentive to every sign. On our very first drive, I noticed something had changed in the landscape of flags.
Previously, the country’s roads and streets had been full of yellow flags and Israeli flags alike. Now, most of the yellow flags and “Until the Last Hostage” signs were worn, some even slightly torn, a precise metaphor for the struggle against forgetting and routine, a distant memory of a nightmare that once was and one day changed the face of Israeli society.
Dizengoff Square in Tel Aviv had become a memorial square, and the protests from all sides remained, like an old lady in a new dress, but they had multiplied because every group felt the reasons to protest had multiplied.
And between all of that, life continued. Suddenly there was room for ordinary conversations, ordinary feelings, ordinary joys, and ordinary pains. Most of my friends are no longer in the reserves, at least for now, and there’s no fear of waking up in the middle of the night to sirens or the risk of rockets hitting us on the highway.
Immediately after the ceasefire agreement was signed, a community member asked me if Israelis would be able to sleep better at night now. I told him, no. After all, every war, or attack, started after a ceasefire. We are simply in a state of readiness for what comes next. It’s a sad answer, but it’s the truth.
And because of this, there is a sense of temporariness to all this ordinary life that colors the Israeli landscape. The ground bubbles slightly. Perhaps it’s trauma speaking from the gut of us all, but we already know the next thing is on its way, whether it arrives tomorrow or in two years.
Since arriving in Richmond in June of 2024, I’ve been amazed by how significant Hanukkah is for American Jews. I had always felt that in Israel, aside from the crazy donuts (which I don’t really like) the delicious latkes made by my mother, and lighting the menorah each evening together, Hanukkah feels like any other ordinary day. But here, with the scale of the celebrations and events, Hanukkah is far more meaningful. At least, that’s what I thought, until this visit.
We flew from Richmond in the middle of the first snowstorm of the season, the city full of the beautiful Christmas lights that feel so “abroad” to Israelis abroad. We chose Hanukkah because of the holiday vacation many people get during that time. And during those ten days, almost as if I hadn’t lived a full life in Israel, I noticed, for the first time, how there truly is no atmosphere like the one in the land of the Jews anywhere else in the world.
I had been so used to seeing all of this that I had never really looked. Never really noticed the small menorahs in every window, the lights strung across the streets, the giant menorahs on every avenue, the menorahs on cars, Chabad walking among the citizens lighting menorahs with them, how the madness of the donuts is even more insane than usual, and how the light, emanating from every heart, merges into a great, bright light of tikkun olam, of brotherly love, of unity.
When we arrived at the airport to leave, I could no longer hold back my tears. We entered, and the lines were long, as befits a time of calm and routine. Without burdening you with the details, the boring wait in line became another race against time, because we almost missed our flight.
We ran like we hadn’t in a long time, knowing we had only a few minutes to spare. Exhausted and sweaty, we boarded the plane, and our window was completely blocked by the wing, so we couldn’t see anything. It hurt. I was certain this drive to the airport wouldn’t be the last for months that I would see our beautiful country’s landscapes, I wanted to say goodbye once more, from the skies. So, until now, I haven’t really said goodbye, and maybe that was for the best.
Moments after takeoff, Tuck said, “There’s no other people that could have put every inch of the land to such good use.” I closed my eyes and imagined once more the modest, stunning agricultural fields, the density of the buildings, the desert and the mountains, the sea, and the juxtaposition of modernity and simplicity.
I was sad to leave, but happy to return. That joy moved me. Even here, this is home.
Suddenly, we landed in New York. How surreal it was. We had been boxed in for twelve hours, unable to look outside even once, and now, suddenly, we were in another country.
We collected our luggage to continue to international security, and to our great surprise, a “warm” welcome awaited us at the exit of El Al: a pro-Palestinian protest. To give you an idea, it was 6:00 AM. Well done, really, on the anti-Semitic effort.
After all these many words, if you still remember the title of this piece, you deserve a prize. And for those who don’t, I hope I haven’t yet exhausted your capacity for words: Kintsugi for Israeli Society.
Kintsugi: An Ancient Japanese Art Form
Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese art form that appeared some 400–500 years ago. It involves repairing broken pottery using resin and powdered gold. The art expresses a philosophical view that sees the break, and its repair, as part of the history and character of the object. Therefore, the repair does not hide the flaw; it highlights it, giving it new value and beauty.
I first encountered the art of Kintsugi as a commander at Havat HaShomer. There, in a place where beautiful people arrive, many of whom had often been told they were broken, and ultimately felt it themselves, broken and irreparable, they likened this Japanese art of repair to the human soul. They likened it to the shards of our own spirit, which, until a moment ago, may have seemed to us and those around us as trash, as a broken, unusable vessel, as something that was and henceforth no longer is.
‘We Cannot Erase Our Past’
But, we learn that whole does not always mean perfect. We must break, gather complex experiences, and piece ourselves back together. If we choose to see the beauty in our cracks and breaks, we will cease seeing them as destruction. Only then can we discover the gold within the fragments. We cannot erase our past, but even if we could, we wouldn’t want to. It’s easy to say in hindsight, of course, but this is who we are; as individuals, and as a people.
After October 7th, every morning and night, I prayed for the wheel to turn back. I prayed to return to October 6th. I prayed. Hard. But it didn’t happen. And it won’t happen. One cannot reconstruct, piece by piece, the previous version of this vessel called the people of Israel, shattered into sharp fragments on October 7th.
You could perhaps search Amazon, order one that looks similar and almost impossible to tell the difference; but then we ignore, we erase, and in the end, the new vessel would probably break in the same cruel way. We could throw the broken one away and create an entirely different vessel. But then both our history and our character would go in the trash along with it.
But what if we gathered all the pottery shards scattered among the different groups of our people, symbols of this distance between us, these fragments of ourselves, and pieced them back together? What if we used love as our glue, mixed with the “Israeli mind,” our powdered gold, and adhered piece by piece? Could it be possible that this new-old vessel might be stronger than it was before?
Hanukkah in Israel placed another, even more important answer upon my heart. What do we do with all this division, with the pain, the emptiness, the lack of trust? We amplify what unites us: the light in our hearts.
How do we do that?
We glue it together, sealing the cracks with gold.
To participate in Tal's Take on January 14, 6:30 p.m.,Can Japanese Art Explain Israel's Future, visit