Why am I glad that Israel Railways carpets the floors of their train carriages?

Because it makes it a little more comfortable when there is an air raid siren and you have to lie on the floor and try to take cover under the seats.

People are usually very friendly in these situations, there is a certain camaraderie of lying on the floor on a moving train trying to figure out whether it's safe to get up yet when suddenly you meet all the people in the neighbouring seats to commiserate and make jokes about the bizarre circumstances we find ourselves in.

Like yesterday, the train was passing a usually quiet area, not far from Modiin when the sirens went off. The Arabic speaking mother and kids diagonally across the aisle from me were the fastest to react, instantly pulling down the shades on the windows, the smaller kids squeezing into the spaces between the seats which are meant for luggage, the rest of the family hitting the floor and covering their heads in a flash, clearly well drilled in air raid sirens, no panic, no fuss, just autopilot, while the rest of us were a few seconds slower, taking a moment to register what was happening.

Flat on the floor, half under the seats my eyes met those of my neighbour across the aisle, the mother shielding her kids and the woman on the next bench over and we all kinds of smiled sheepishly at each other, lying there with our hands over our heads trying to fit ourselves as much under the seats as possible.

"We made it all the way from Nahariya with no sirens, who would have believed it would happen here!" declared the mother ruefully. Turns out they were coming from a village in the much bombarded north of Israel (two people were killed yesterday in a direct hit on Nahariya) to get some respite in the relative quiet of central Israel.

I was coming home from a day volunteering on a kibbutz right on the Gaza border where yes, we had heard the chilling sounds of the fighting in Gaza, including at times the staccato of heavy machine gun fire, but it had all been in the distance, listening to a war that while only a few kilometres from us, did not directly endanger us, but rather the opposite, was mostly the sound of the IDF protecting us from the remaining ragtag Hamas gunmen attempting to regroup.

There have been very few sirens lately in the Gaza border area. I had to take the train from Ashkelon because the section of the line from Sderot towards Tel Aviv is still closed because it is very exposed to line of sight from Gaza, and the IDF thinks it is still at risk, though they are hoping it will be safe enough to start running again in a few weeks.

Ashkelon was thankfully quiet. Tel Aviv was thankfully quiet. But here, on the train so close to home, davka here, the air raids sirens wailed.

"At least the floor is carpeted" commented the young across the aisle woman brightly. "It might be filthy from all the people walking on it, but at least it's soft to lie on."

I've wanted to write about Yaakov and Bilhaa Yinon for so many months, almost a year now. Last October I translated and transcribed so many stories. Then I found myself by chance in Netiv Ha'asara standing in their garden by the charred remains of their burnt out home and I think I was just so overwhelmed by it for so long that I couldn't tell their story, I was literally standing at the place where they had been burnt to death just weeks after their murders (we didn't know yet for sure about Bilhaa). I didn't know them, have no connection to the family or moshav, but the surviving whimsical, vibrant, gloriously colourful art she made and the story of his agricultural work both touched me so deeply, people so devoted to life, love and tikkun olam butchered so horrifically. It wasn't until I saw the press release from Volcani that I felt able talk about them and hopefully do something to help honour their memory.

The legacy of wheat

Who was lost on October 7th? 1200 worlds and 1200 futures that could have done so much to make this world a better place.

Here is just one example. On my first trip to the Otef (Israel's Gaza border region) after October 7 I visited moshav Netiv Ha'asara which sits right along the border with Gaza, close to the northern Gaza towns of Bet Hanoun and Bet Lahia. On October 7 Hamas terrorists paraglided into the village and started on a murder spree of the moshav's residents. Yet more terrorists smashed through the nearby border fence in pickup trucks. In total about 35 heavily armed terrorists rampaged through the moshav while the small village emergency response team valiantly tried to mount a defence.

In total 21 Israelis from the moshav were murdered in their homes.

Among them were Yaakov "Yaacobi" and Bilhaa Yinon.

As long as I live I will not forget standing by the ruins of their burnt out home mere weeks after they were burnt alive inside it.

Bilhaa was an artist. In her beautiful garden, which was mostly intact, there were all kinds of whimsical ceramic sculptures and decorations, bright, vibrant, full of life as she had been, in stark contrast to the charred wreckage of their modest home. The parts of the garden closest to the fire bore the tell tale signs of the fierce heat from the flames, tips of plastic planters that had started to melt, blackened scorch marks on the ends of wooden railway sleepers. The fire burned so fiercely that Bilhaa's remains were only positively identified this August - from a few teeth that were all that was left of her.

The garden was a testament to Yaakov's life's work - agronomist, farmer, gardener, an agricultural mentor and guide to farms across the Negev. His specialty was field crops and he taught generations of agronomists and farmers across the Negev how to grow better yields, trained them in new techniques and pioneered farming suited to the harsh growing conditions of southern Israel.

He worked closely with the renowned Volcani Institute, Israel's premiere agricultural research centre founded in 1921 by agronomist Yitzhak Elazari Volcani. One of the prime goals of the Volcani centre has been literally making the desert bloom, adapting farming technology and developing new strains of crops suited to the arid climate to increase food security for all those living in similar environments.

For a hundred years the centre has not only engaged in research, but also trained local farmers. Agronomy students come from around the world to learn and engage in research while training programmes spread this vital knowledge to students from across the developing world, including from the Palestinian Authority.

Yaakov Yinon was deeply involved in all of this, passing on his knowledge to new generations, helping farmers around the Negev and around the world grow better and more abundant crops with limited water resources.

He participated in scores of Volcani research projects and in recent years advised researchers and supervised the field crops grown at the Volcani institute's research farm.

When Hamas murdered Yaakov in his home on October 7 they murdered an Israeli who's knowledge and research had helped to feed their own people in Gaza, a man who believed in coexistence and who was the father of a prominent Israeli peace activist. Maybe that was exactly the reason they murdered him. Maybe they had no idea who he was, they were just out to murder any and all Israelis.

In memory of Yaakov and his tremendous contribution to agriculture the Volcani Institute have named a new strain of wheat after him, Yaacobi wheat. This variety of wheat was developed jointly by Dr Ro'i Ben -David and Kamal Nashef to be a high yield bread wheat suitable for growing across the Negev desert region, able to provide a stable, quality yield even under challenging growing conditions.

In the wake of the 1973 Yom Kippur War when kibbutz Beit Hasheeta in the Jezreel Valley lost many of its young men in the fighting. Dorit Tzameret, a resident of the kibbutz, wrote a poignant poem, later put to music, about the seeming indifference of the natural world continuing the cycle of the seasons as the residents of the valley tried to come to terms with their terrible losses. At once a tragic song of grief and mourning it also came to symbolise resilience, the wheat will grow again, the promise of a future even in the face of such tragedy.

In the Gaza border area, another wheat growing region of Israel, this song has taken on extra meaning since October 7. The fields of wheat in the north-west Negev are here literally covering over the horrific scars of the Hamas invasion. I know that I'm not alone in feeling the tears well up this winter when I saw the fresh green shoots of wheat sprouting again, planted by farmers right after the invasion, a very physical sign of healing and also of defiance in the face of the Hamas assault.

And now Yaacobi wheat, wherever it grows, will continue Yaakov Yinon's lifelong mission to promote better agriculture and food security in the world's most arid regions. The wheat will grow and with it his memory.

May the memories of Yaakov and Bilhaa be blessed.

It's hard to hold 1200 people in your heart all at once. Here is just one of the Israeli families wiped out by Hamas on October 7 2023.

They weren't "collateral damage". They weren't killed by a stray shell or bullet. They weren't caught in a crossfire.

Hamas terrorists from Gaza willfully, intentionally, gleefully murdered them -

Father Yonatan Siman Tov, a farmer, man of the soil

Mother Tamar Kedem-Siman Tov, peace activist, aspiring community leader, running for office in the municipal elections

6 year old twins Shahar and Arbel

4 year old Omer.

A family of five from Kibbutz Nir Oz.

When the Hamas terrorists invaded their kibbutz they tried to break into the home safe room where the family were sheltering from the rockets Hamas were firing from Gaza. Yonatan barricaded the door.

Unable to break in the Hamas terrorists decided to smoke them out. They set fire to the house. As the family felt the fire closing in and it became harder to breath they realised they had to get out. Yonatan messaged his sister one last time “They’re here. They’re burning us. We’re suffocating.”

Yonatan and Tamar had no choice but to risk opening the heavy steel blast shutter to let in fresh air.

The terrorists were waiting outside for just such a move.

They shot the parents through the window.

Trapped in a burning house with terrorist snipers waiting outside the family were doomed.

The bullet riddled corpses of parents Tamar and Yonatan were found in the burnt out house along with those of their little children who had choked to death in the smoke.

Yonatan's mother who lived nearby on the kibbutz was also murdered, along with her pet dog.

And this story played out over and over again throughout Israel's border region, in Nir Oz, in Beeri, in Kfar Azza, in Nirim, in Sderot and Ofakim - over and over, family after family. Murdered in their homes, in their cars, in the fields and farms. Murdered because they were Jews, because they were Israelis.

Premeditated murder.

Symbols of hope and renewal

How to process this year's discordant mix of war and hostages still held captive and hope for the new year and gratitude for the good that we have experienced throughout all this and trepidation of what might yet be to come and prayers that we will yet know safety and peace?

It seems overwhelming and yet as Jews this has more often than not been our people's situation. Our Rosh Hashanah has never been about partying and celebration, but a rather tries to find a balance between the solemn and the joyous, facing the new year with open eyes all too aware of the fragility of human existence and yet ever optimistic that we can find a way to bring change for the good and fix what is broken to avert potential calamity in the coming year.

More than ever I find that our traditional simanim, symbolic foods eaten at the Rosh Hashanah eve dinner, fit with this year's painful reality.

This Jewish tradition is very much part of modern secular Israeli culture, our poetry and songs are steeped in this bittersweet wondering what terrible decree is round the corner and a firm belief that things can get better, that it is within our ability to repair a damaged world.

Maybe Naomi Shemer is the classic Israeli lyricist who best epitomised this duality, most famously in her hit "Al Kol Eleh" in which she prays "Please my good God, watch over these, the honey and the sting, the bitter and the sweet, do not uproot that which has been planted, don't forget the hope."

I find comfort in these traditions, in the connection with generations of our ancestors who endured and hoped and persevered. This Rosh Hashanah more than ever we are preparing our traditional siman foods and their blessings which more than ever feel immediate and relevant - May the Almighty quash all evil decrees, erase the plans of those who wish us ill, bless us with a sweet year, may we be as full of good deeds as the seeds of a pomegranate, end those who wish to destroy us, banish sorrow, plague and suffering, bless us that we merit to see the fruits of our labours...

Some of the simanim have added meanings for us this year:

Kiddush wine from the Dalton and Ben Zimra wineries in the north - a siman for all the people of northern Israel who are refugees, who have spent the past year under Hizballah bombardment. May Hashem bless the IDF with success in restoring security and peace to northern Israel and southern Lebanon and defeating the evil plans of Hizballah so that all those displaced can return home in safety. To honour all the vintners and farmers who have continued tending their crops and working the land under fire. In profound gratitude to all our sons and daughters, sisters and brothers who this holiday are in uniform defending us.

Pomegranate from a local farm - may Hashem bless Israel's struggling farmers with a fruitful year and bountiful rains at the right time. Hashem watch over all the farm workers and volunteers and keep them safe especially out in the open fields and orchards.

New fruit for Sheheiyanu blessing: pomelit (oroblanco, sweetie) that I picked this week in kibbutz Beeri and last week in kibbutz Re'im, across the road from the site of the Nova massacre. To remember the horror of a year ago and the many hostages still captive in Gaza, but also to give thanks for the resilience of our people and the sacrifice and acheivements of our IDF that have made it safe for thousands of displaced Israelis from the Gaza border to start returning home, and to work the citrus groves of these kibbutzim next to the Gaza border.

Honey from kibbutz Erez, near the Gaza border - to remember the honey and the sting: the pain suffered by the Gaza border communities last October, the bravery of those who defended them, including the manager of Erez Honey, who was seriously wounded in defence of his kibbutz during the Hamas attack last year, the strength and faith in the future of the people who have rebuilt, restored and returned to their homes.

Please Hashem, bless us this year with life and renewal in the face of those still seeking our destruction, with the hope and strength to continue rebuilding and restoring, that all those still in captivity will return home, with success and protection for our soldiers working so hard to protect us and most of all with peace for us and our neighbours and all of our troubled region.

The Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, is a time for introspection, for reflection, for repentance, for seeking forgiveness, for examining one's behaviour over the past year and trying to fix wrongdoings or mistakes.

It makes the timing of tonight's Iranian onslaught all the more eerie.

The piercing call of the shofar traditionally blown every day in the month of Elul leading up to Rosh Hashanah was instead replaced tonight with the chilling wail of the air raid sirens.

Just as before Passover we felt that we had experienced a modern Pesah miracle, the hand of the destroyer literally passing over us, so now, this repeat Iranian missile attack and our salvation from it raises the hairs on one's nape, the plans of an enemy seeking our destruction ending instead once again with what to us feels like miraculous salvation.

Maybe it's a cliche to say that a brush with death can be a wake up call to do better, be better, but just because it's a cliche doesn't make it less real.

The call of the Elul shofar is a call to do teshuva, to repent, to make amends. All month long we've been hearing it at morning prayers, a deep, primal sound to stir the soul and the mind, to wake them from their everyday routine and realise their potential to be so much more, to do so much more in our world.

How much more so when that primal, natural, call is replaced by the mechanical shrieking of the sirens, a nation huddled in sealed shelters throughout the country awaiting its fate while the thuds and booms shatter the night overhead and everyone wonders which are impacts and which are interceptions and if his or her number could be up and what kind of world we will emerge to see when this is over.

To have experienced that massive assault once this year was enough, to go through it again on an even bigger scale, and to thank God emerge once again to find that the destroyer's plan was thwarted, and the hundreds of missiles were mostly intercepted or fell without causing injury, and for all this to have happened on the eve of Rosh Hashanah?

Of course we have tremendous gratitude to all the men and women who created Israel's impressive life saving missile defence system, I hope that goes without saying. And to our allies who played their part too. But being thankful for human success does not contradict the sense of having witnessed something greater at play.

Tonight our people were once again saved on a massive scale, we dodged this literal bullet. We need to reflect on that, take time to absorb the enormity of what we as individuals and as a nation just experienced.

Rosh Hashanah is also known by other names, Yom Hadin (The Day of Judgement) and Yom Hazikaron (The Day of Remembrance). Tomorrow evening we will usher in the New Year with communal prayers and meals that while festive also include sombre reminders that according to Jewish tradition our fate very much still hangs in the balance but we have the ability to make a difference.

Honey and remembrance

For many of us time seems to have stood still this year, stuck in the horror of Simhat Torah last year when our world came crashing down, a horror film made real, claiming the lives of so many. 

And yet somehow a whole year has gone by, the Tishrei holidays are once again upon us, in a few days time we will be sitting down at the traditional meal of blessings for the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah and still our country is at war. How do we balance all these conflicting emotions, the sorrow and pain of war, the hope for the coming year? How do we permit ourselves joy in the middle of war, at a time when over a 100 of our brothers and sisters are still held hostage, when so many of our family and friends are fighting on the frontlines? 

I don't know that I really have any clear answers, but these questions were all very much on my mind in the past week as I volunteered in three related areas, as always finding solace and optimism in doing, in following the teaching of the Esh Kodesh: in your time of trouble or sorrow, find a way to do good for someone else.

1) Helping a local ceramics artist to make ceramic anemone flowers for memorial sites around the Otef, including the site of the Nova festival. While volunteering on a farm I met a woman who since November has been using her art to create memorials for the murdered and fallen, and in doing so bring comfort to so many bereaved families. For many months now she and other ceramicists have been guiding hundreds of volunteers to help realise this huge undertaking.

2) Picking oroblanco (sweetie, pomelit) fruits in the citrus groves of kibbutz Re'im, right across the road from the Re'im woodland and picnic areas where the Nova festival took place.

Though I've volunteered in the kibbutz Re'im citrus orchards several time during this past year this is the first time the farmer warned us that we might find "things which are not citrus" among the trees, and to please not touch anything like that, to call him and keep people away should we find anything suspicious. My friend looked at me and I looked at her and our minds went to some very terrifying places. Maybe seeing the looks on our faces the farmer clarified that a recent group of volunteers came across spent Hamas RPG ordinance. During the Hamas massacre of the Nova festival goers many people fled to these orchards and were chased by terrorists through the trees. I'ed always found that thought in itself chilling, picking oranges or oroblanco fruits in these serene looking groves, wondering who might have sought cover here, who might have been fleeing for their lives, what horrors these trees must have witnessed, what the previous rainy season had to cleanse from the powdery soil.

3) On kibbutz Erez we once again volunteered in the apiary helping to pack orders of honey for Rosh Hashanah. Each time I've come I meet volunteers from around the country who've made the trip to help bring sweetness to all of Israel especially in these painful times. The kibbutz residents who run the apiary always welcome us so warmly and have always been a pleasure to work with, kind, patient, humorous, even when we make mistakes. As we worked we heard stories about the kibbutz. They and many of their neighbours lost massive amounts of beehives and honey bees to the arson balloons and incendiary laden kites Hamas has been sending over the border in to Israel for the last several years. Israel's "allies" pressured a succession of governments not to respond, because these were "just toys", "just balloons", "just kites", all the while these primitive but effective weapons (flying molotov cocktails) were setting fire to fields and woodlands, nature reserves and farms, and everywhere burning down the bee hives that are set up all over the area to pollinate the crops, as well as to produce honey. Maybe it seems petty to feel sad for the bees, but maybe because on October 7 those same Hamas terrorists were setting fire to people, I felt extra empathy for the thousands of bees torched by terrorists in their homes just as Hamas burnt so many Israeli people alive in theirs. Today as then the Israeli border communities are about life, growing, creating, developing, while the Hamas ideology remains mired in death and destruction. We heard about the kibbutz residents finally able to return home, but also about all the local kids suffering from such severe PTSD that they hardly eat, burst in to tears all the time, not just a function of October 7, but years of constant attrition from Hamas rockets and mortars, of living in this beautiful Israel kibbutz right by the border. Some children have learnt to take it in their stride, grown up with the stress and the danger, others have over the years become shattered by it. Throughout the Otef we've heard the same, a generation who've been born and grown up in the shadow of Hamas terror out of Gaza. A year after the Hamas invasion we've met many in the Otef who are finally daring to hope that maybe now something will have changed after so much of the Hamas war machine and terror infrastructure has been dismantled. On the way to the kibbutz cafeteria for lunch we met a beautiful dog with a luxurious fluffy coat. "You see that dog?" said our kibbutznik "boss". "That's one of hundreds of feral dogs that wandered in to the kibbutz after October 7, when the border fence was ripped to shreds." A few kibbutz members working in essential industries returned to the kibbutz at a time when it was considered too dangerous for the rest of the residents to come home. They found all these dogs, some in viscious packs who'd ransacked porch furniture and were a menace to livestock and wildlife, dogs gone so feral they were a danger. There were other sogs though who gravitated to people, who had made friends with soldiers stationed in the area. With love and patience they were able to rehabilitate many of these dogs, some of whom are now part of the kibbutz, adopted by its residents and given loving homes. "Maybe they are a sign that something good may yet come from this situation."