Last night, I found myself at a Hanan Ben Ari concert. The music, the dancing, the voices of thousands of Jews singing together—it should have been a night of unclouded joy. And yet, how could it be?
Our soldiers are deep in Gaza City, pushing forward in one of the most grueling stages of this war. Families still wait for word on their sons and daughters held captive in Hamas’s hellholes—some alive, some murdered but not yet brought home. The pain is constant, the uncertainty unbearable. And still, there we were, celebrating.
At first, the contrast struck me as almost impossible to reconcile. How do we sing when our brothers and sisters are in danger? How do we dance when our nation is bleeding? But then it hit me: this is Judaism. This is the Jewish story.
Because as the night went on, I realized that all the songs carried a different weight, a different meaning. Hanan himself kept dedicating them—one to the hostages, one to the soldiers, one to the units on the frontlines. He recognized the families, the sacrifices, the struggles that define this moment. Every lyric became a prayer. Every chorus became a rallying cry.
To choose life “ובחרת בחיים” doesn’t mean ignoring suffering or pretending the darkness isn’t real. It means insisting on light precisely within that darkness. It means sanctifying life even as death surrounds us. It means holding a wedding after a funeral, bringing children into the world even after exile, and yes—dancing at a concert while rockets fall and soldiers fight.
Choosing life is not naïve. It’s defiance. It is the ultimate rejection of those who seek to destroy us. Hamas traffics in death; the Jewish people sanctify life. The Nazis tried to strip us of our humanity; we rebuilt families, schools, communities. Every generation has faced those who sought to erase us, and every generation has answered with the same stubborn declaration: Am Yisrael Chai. The people of Israel live.
So as I stood there, I realized the singing wasn’t in spite of the war. It was because of the war. It was our way of telling Hamas, Iran, and every enemy before and after them: you can murder, kidnap, and terrorize—but you cannot kill the Jewish spirit.
We will bring home our hostages. We will mourn our dead. We will honor our soldiers. And we will keep singing, keep building, keep celebrating. Because to be a Jew is to live in the tension of grief and joy, exile and redemption, death and life—and always, to choose life.