Yom Ha’Zikaron asks us to remember and honor those who gave their lives in defense of the State of Israel. Yom Ha’atzmaut asks us to give thanks for the gift of Jewish sovereignty. These two days have always belonged together, and this year we mark them amidst ongoing war and uncertainty.
At a moment like this, Leah Goldberg’s words of “At Telchi B’sedeh” “את תלכי בשדה”–set to music by Chaim Barkani–feel especially resonant. We are sharing this recording by Rabbi Slakman and Philip Mayer to help mark these days.
This is not a song that turns away from suffering. It comes out of an all too familiar world “scorched by blood and terror.” And yet Goldberg asks: “Is it true that days will come of forgiveness and grace?” This is the courage of the poem. It does not deny pain but dares to believe that beyond pain, there can still be a future shaped by “forgiveness and grace.”
Maybe this is why this song speaks so powerfully now. It gives voice to what so many of us are feeling: sorrow, certainly, but also longing for a different path ahead.
As a Jewish community, we know that memory is sacred, but so too is the human capacity to imagine what does not yet exist, to hold faith with the world that is not yet here. And so, we honor the dead not only through grief, but through a renewed commitment to the hope of peace, even when peace feels painfully far away. In many ways, this too has always been part of the Zionist dream: not only survival, but a future.
May Goldberg’s words and the musical setting help us hold these days in all their complexity–with heavy hearts, and with a prayer that the One who makes peace in the heavens will help bring peace to us, to Israel, and to all who dwell on earth.
Ha’omnam, ha’omnam od yavo’u yamim bislichah uvechesed, vetelchi basadeh, vetelchi bo kahelech hatam.
Umachsof, umachsof kaf raglech yelatef be’alei ha’aspeset o shil’fei shibolim yidkeruch vetim’tak d’kiratam.
O matar yasigech be’adat tipotav hadofeket al k’tefaich, chazech,tzavarech veroshech ra’anan. Vetelchi basadeh haratuv veyirchav bach hasheket ka’or beshulei he’anan.
Venashamt, venashamt et reicho shel hatelem, nashom verago’a vera’it et hashemesh, bire’i hashlulit hazahov.
Uf’shutim, uf’shutim had’varim, vechaim, umutar bam lingo’a umutar le’ehov, umutar umutar le’ehov.
At telchi basadeh levadech, lo nitzrevet belahat has’refot badrachim shesamru me’eimah umidam. Uveyosher levav shuv tehi anavah venichna’at ke’echad had’shaim, ke’achad ha’adam.
Is it true? Is it true that days will come of forgiveness and grace?
And you’ll walk in the field, you’ll walk unburdened and pure.
And the bareness— oh, the bareness of the soles of your feet gently touched by lucerne leaves, or by the tips of grain stalks that might prick you, but the prick will be sweet.
And the rain will reach you, with drops that pulsate, beating on your shoulders, your chest, and your neck.
With your head refreshed you’ll walk in the field now wet, while the quiet within you expands like rays at the edge of a cloud.
And you’ll breathe. You’ll inhale the scent of the tilled earth, grounded and savored.
You’ll see the sun in the golden mirror of the puddle’s reflection. And they’re simple— oh, so simple, things like life.
You’re allowed to touch them, you’re allowed to love them, you’re allowed, you’re encouraged to love.
And you’ll walk in the field now alone, unconsumed by the flames. Though the path has been scorched by blood and terror, you’ll be guided back by the heart’s full sincerity, humble and accepting, like a blade of grass, like a soul growing out from the earth.