As summer turns to autumn, the Hebrew month of 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 seforim 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 yeshiva students who fell defending our people and our land, now stand empty and forlorn. Though they are physically occupied by new students, they feel empty to me.
This year, my yeshiva—along with all other yeshivot and mechinot (pre-army seminaries) whose students serve in the ID—is immersed in sorrow. On the one hand, there is great excitement, as a record number of yeshiva students have enrolled. Amazingly, 64 overseas students in my yeshiva have chosen to return for a second year, many of whom are planning to draft into the IDF 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 that drifts through the building. 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.
My colleague, Rabbi Chaim Navon, described the feeling pervading 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 gentle men of great character, who preferred the holy book over the rifle, but knew how to wield the sword to defend our homeland. The Gemaras [the current students now] hold were once studied by war heroes, of blessed memory… 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 as I passed the seats once occupied by those who fell in battle. I silently asked myself, “Do they truly know? Do these younger students 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 student visiting our yeshiva—a place where his son had spent so many years of profound study 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 students to my yeshiva in Gush Etzion, I traveled with my own son, who is beginning his hesder yeshiva 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 my son will help rebuild the South through his Torah study and through his unwavering dedication to safeguarding our country.
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 Hashem’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 the Torah, could be turned into a weapon against us. Now, more than ever, we must restore the luster of the Torah with renewed strength and devotion.
Reflecting on the immense task of rebuilding our Torah world, my mind wandered to moments in history when the 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 Rabbi Aharon Kotler in the U.S. and Rabbi Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman in Israel dedicated themselves to the monumental task of restoring and reviving the world of Torah, rebuilding from the depths of devastation.
New Tzadikim
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 students have demonstrated that Torah study and religion are not diminished by army service but enriched by it.
Amid the sand dunes of Gaza and the falling bombs, they faithfully lit Chanukah candles, read the Megillah, conducted brief Pesach Seders, prayed on Shabbat and studied Torah while protecting the land of Hashem. These are our new tzadikim.
When I recite the section of the Amidah that references the tzadikim, 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. 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.
God is with us.
The writer is a rabbi at the hesder Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush, with ordination from Yeshiva University and a master’s degree in English literature from the City University of New York. He is the author of Dark Clouds Above, Faith Below (Kodesh Press), on religious responses to October 7, as well as the soon-to-be published book Reclaiming Redemption: Deciphering the Maze of Jewish History (Mosaica Press).
