On the eve of Shabbat Chazon, right before Tisha B'Av 5784, it's easier to feel the destruction. The smoke from the Simchat Torah fire still lingers in the air, and the fear of sitting on the floor and reading about slaughtered babies is growing more and more intense. We're used to seeing it in the paper, familiar with it from the Holocaust. How did such a scroll end up in the Bible, and why do we flow with the text and events as if in every generation, a person must create their own legends of destruction?
In the biblical Tisha B'Av, enmity peaks, followed by exile. After the Holocaust in Europe, we sought an escape and were forced to settle in the Land of Israel, yet we left a magnificent trail in every possible diaspora. Over the years, a love-hate relationship developed between Israel and the diaspora, a relationship that now takes on a different angle. In our continuous Israeli destruction, one of the characteristics is the longing for exile and the desire for a foreign passport.
When we still lived under the illusion that the world loved us, we obtained foreign passports so that our children could study medicine for free in Hungary. During a global pandemic, we invested in foreign citizenship to make it easier to move around the European Union next time. When the judicial reform broke out, the trend was that the world is democratic.
On Tisha B'Av, we don't study Torah, but we are allowed to learn from the legends of destruction—an anthology of stories mainly found in the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmuds, dealing with the period before the destruction of the Second Temple, a bit about the dead of Beitar, and the Bar Kochba revolt—difficult personal content that illustrates the spirit of destruction.
This week, I returned from a short trip to the United States. I met people who had experienced antisemitism and couldn't help but think about how this time, waves of hatred are sweeping all Jews, wherever they are, turning those we used to mock into Zionist soldiers on American campuses, risking their lives just to walk across campus. It's like the legends of destruction.
Tikkun olam
Aharon Buch Sandikovsky is a 20-year-old student at the University of San Diego. He's in his fourth year of studying business administration, born in the U.S. to parents who came from the Soviet Union. Aharon was the first in his family to celebrate a bar mitzvah after years of fear of displaying Jewish symbols in public.
On campus, Aharon is active in organizations supporting Israel and participates in Jewish studies projects. "I love teaching about Judaism and helping other Jews connect with their roots and identity," Aharon shares. "Many people don't know what Judaism is about—for me, it's primarily about Tikkun Olam (repairing the world). And Tikkun Olam starts with being kind to people, helping, learning from history, and wanting to make the world a better place."
The common perception Aharon encountered from the beginning of his academic studies was that Jews love money and have long noses. The correct perception that everyone holds is that the tefillin booth on one of the side paths of the campus, where he and his friends occasionally perform the mitzvah, belongs to Jews.
That's why it was one of the first points attacked after Simchat Torah: "They shouted at us, 'dirty Jews,' slogans against occupation and against Jews. They spat on us. In the campus's main square, I organized a candle lighting in memory of the fallen and a prayer for the return of the hostages and for the elevation of the souls of the murdered. People wearing keffiyehs and stickers calling for an Intifada against Jews disrupted the event, and even weeks after the attacks began, we still felt afraid to walk around campus.
After my mother visited me, and a student who noticed the Star of David necklace she wore attacked me, I set up escort groups with friends to help students walk from the yard to the classroom, the library, the labs, to avoid the stone-throwing incidents that began to occur within the campus walls."
Just not Waze
The harassment didn't end with student life: "We were assigned to write about a successful economic company. How it was founded, grew, and became prosperous. I wrote about Waze, and I put a lot of effort into it. Suddenly, I received a grade of 20 via email.
"I couldn't believe it. I asked the teaching assistant why. He replied, 'Because you didn't write that Waze operates in an apartheid state that segregates Palestinians from society and ignores the West Bank.' I was very angry, went to the department head, who arranged a meeting with the professor and recommended that the professor correct the grade. Eventually, he agreed and changed it to 90. But there was no reprimand or remark for him, and I have no doubt that he wouldn't hesitate to repeat this with the next Jewish student."
Recently, Aharon applied to the student union. "I registered through the app like any other candidate, and suddenly I noticed that my name was removed. I asked other Jews who had registered—they found out their applications were also removed. I inquired with the responsible student, who replied: 'You support genocide and apartheid, so you can't run. Your values don't align with this place. You can vote, but not run.'
"I tried many times to explain to my friends on campus that they're relying on false facts, but it doesn't matter to them. They follow hate-filled media and aren't open to hearing what Judaism or Zionism truly are.
"Antisemitism doesn't need an excuse. There's no respect for someone else's faith. This hatred is a growing monster, and to be honest—there's no normative future for Jews here. When I was young, I visited Israel, and when we landed, I kissed the ground. I think about that and wonder if perhaps this passion for Zionism will ultimately lead me to make Aliyah. For anyone to whom Judaism is important, there's no future to build amidst such hatred."
I asked Aharon if he's aware of the challenges in Israel, and he answered me with a discussion about military service. I didn't challenge him with Israeli arguments about "religious coercion" in the public sphere or about prayers in urban spaces, nor did I ask if he thinks being Zionist is always a compliment in Israel. Somewhere within the destruction, only the vision sustains him.
