Every morning for the past few months, I walk along Gaza St. in Jerusalem towards my yeshiva. Every morning, I walk past the house of the Prime Minister of the State of Israel. Every morning, a volunteer for the campaign to free Israeli prisoner of war Gilad Shalit asks me to sign a petition. 

The Gilad Shalit camp is elaborate. Banners and a counter for every day he has been gone. Table and chairs. A tent to protect against the elements. And a rotating army of volunteers. A few weeks ago there was a large rally. When I walked along Gaza St. that night it was littered with protest debris.

Yesterday, while I sat through an epic Shabbat service, Gaza was attacked by Israel. As we sang Hallel for the new month, the bombs fell. During our prayers for the festival of Hanukah, fires raged. While we read from three different Torah scrolls, 280 were murdered. The haftarah was read from the Book of Isaiah, the prophet so famous for saying “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

This morning, as I walked past the Prime Minister’s house and the camp for Gilad Shalit, the only difference was one man. No crowd. No megaphone. Just one man with a sign calling for the end of the attack on Gaza.

I asked him, “Why isn’t there a bigger demonstration?”
He looked at me sadly, “She’elah tovah”. Good question.