If you had walked into UJA’s conference center on Tuesday evening and seen the raucous circle dancing, the DJ, balloons, photo booth, and the smiles on the children’s faces, you might have thought you’d stumbled on a typical bar or bat mitzvah celebration.
In a way, it was. But in every way that truly mattered, it was something else entirely.
In partnership with the IDF Widows and Orphans Organization, a significant UJA grantee, we hosted 33 Israeli children — all marking their b’nai mitzvah with a trip to America — each one having lost a father defending Israel, many of them since October 7.
Before arriving in New York, the children traveled to Chicago, staying with host families, and then headed to a Jewish camp in Wisconsin, where they spent 10 days experiencing the wonder and magic of Jewish summer camp while making friends with kids their own age. Then off to Deal, New Jersey, where they spent this past Shabbat before arriving in New York for four days filled with new memories, including a Broadway show, sightseeing across NYC, and our b’nai mitzvah celebration.
Looking around the joyful room on Tuesday night, watching the kids dance and limbo, it was impossible to forget why they were there. And even now, writing about children coping with the grief of a killed parent stretches the limits of language. As is often the case, when we struggle with how to process the incomprehensible, our tradition offers the words we can’t find ourselves.
And so, I’m sharing the Torah reflection below, written by Rabbi Menachem Creditor, UJA’s Pearl and Ira Meyer scholar-in-residence, who provides a beautiful framing for Tuesday night’s celebration — and all we enable together.
Shabbat shalom,
Eric
Reflections by Rabbi Menachem Creditor
The double Torah portion we read this week, Mattot-Massei, concludes the fourth book of the Torah, Sefer Bamidbar — Book of Wandering — with a vision of rootedness. And not just any vision, but one of intentional community, of justice, and of mercy. Before our people cross into the Promised Land, they are instructed to prepare. To imagine what kind of society they are going to build. And one of the first things God tells us to do is create arei miklat — cities of refuge.
These cities were not just geographical locations. They were societal declarations: Sometimes, terrible things happen. Sometimes, events result in the loss of life. And even in those horrific moments, we must protect life. We must create places where those caught in unintentional tragedy can find safety, until the storm of grief and vengeance has passed.
The Torah tells us that such a person must remain in the city of refuge until the death of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. It’s an odd measure of time — one that has nothing to do with calendars or courts. The tradition suggests that the very presence of this person in exile can influence who becomes the next high priest. Their pain impacts the shape of leadership. That’s Torah.
This week, I witnessed a city of refuge built in real time.
Together with nearly 100 volunteers and professionals at UJA-Federation of New York, we welcomed 33 Israeli children — all of them b’not and b’nai mitzvah, all of them having lost their fathers. We danced, we laughed, we ate pizza. A DJ donated his set. There was a photo booth. Balloons. It could have been any bar or bat mitzvah party — and yet it was sacred beyond description. This was organized by a holy group UJA supports, the IDF Widows and Orphans Organization.
These children had just come from celebrating in Jerusalem, with the President of Israel, with rabbis at the Kotel. And last night, they were ours. They are ours.
I looked at a table toward the end of the night. A few balloons had drifted off-center. There were paper plates and half-eaten pizza. I thought to myself: I’ve seen this table before. At every simcha. And then I realized — this is our simcha. These are our children.
We held back tears, as long as we could. These children should not have lost their fathers. And yet, here they are. And here we are, their family. And we will be here. Tuesday night, the seventh floor of UJA became a makom kadosh, a holy space, a city of refuge.
There’s a teaching in the Chassidic text, the Meshech Chochmah, that suggests that the person in exile, even though they committed no intentional crime, influences who is anointed as Kohen Gadol. Their pain, their presence, their humanity shapes our leadership.
So too now. These children shape us. Their presence demands of us — all of us — to become high priests of refuge. To build spaces of healing. To say with clarity: You are safe. You are seen. You are ours.
May the memories of their fathers be a blessing.
May our community be worthy of the task ahead.
Amen.