Moving In

Israel’s displaced Jews wait to go back home

At first glance, it looks like the most amazing summer camp, with piles of donated toys, clothing, games, and colorful balloons, and a dining room with a five-star menu. But look carefully at the faces of the adults, and you’ll see an expression that doesn’t say anything like, “This hotel is the best vacation.” It’s more like, “We’ve survived a massacre.” Or, “Our homes are no longer safe. Where do we go from here?”

When the makeshift orchestra of dozens of children playing darbukas struck up Baruch Levine’s classic “Vezakeni,” a prayer for one’s progeny, few adults at this improvised concert in a Jerusalem hotel lobby could stifle their tears. The youngsters, concentrating on maintaining the song’s rhythm, likely paid scant attention to their surroundings. Yet, each parent appeared to be mentally sifting through their memories — perhaps reflecting on what they had witnessed or lived through, contemplating those no longer present, or pondering the path forward after the unimaginable blow endured by the Jewish people in southern Israel.

This Jerusalem hotel lobby isn’t exactly the hospitable terrain of the yishuvim these families left behind, situated just a few kilometers from the Gaza Strip. They are not alone; tens of  — thousands have adhered to the IDF’s request to evacuate the conflict zones. In a matter of hours, shrouded in uncertainty about their return, these families hastily assembled toothbrushes, basic toiletries, and a change of clothes and departed their homes in protected convoy. Conflicting emotions vied for attention: the hardship and trauma of being uprooted from their homes, juxtaposed with the joy and incredulity of surviving to recount the horror of Shabbos, October 7. Yet there is a palpable feeling here that the only way forward lies in the unity of the nation.

As the “orchestra” conductor segues into “Am Israel Chai,” the parents join in. This emotional paradox encapsulates the experience of the thousands of Jews displaced from their homes, collateral victims in the war against terrorism. It’s a narrative in which the undeniable pain of leaving home coexists with the certainty and joy of knowing that, even in the face of this formidable challenge, they are exceedingly fortunate: Death came perilously close.

At the Shalom Hotel at the bottom of Jerusalem’s Bayit Vegan neighborhood, Doron Vatkin is holding court. Even in the unexpected context he must navigate, Doron maintains a smile, speaking with the calm demeanor of a seasoned leader, even as the crowd around him clamors to seek his counsel.