Back on the road - Shabbat Shalom from BGU president
Dear Friends,
As I write this, the war with Iran, if not fully over, appears at least to have paused. I deliberately avoid dramatic names for wars. Living through them is dramatic enough.
For me, this moment of pause coincided with returning to the road. I am writing now from Vancouver, having left Israel yesterday on what was still described as a “rescue” flight to Los Angeles. When booking first opened, only fifty passengers were permitted on the flight. A few days later, that number was raised to one hundred. By the time we took off, a day after the ceasefire, there were even more. Still, it felt strange to fly on a plane that was only partially filled, departing from an airport that still felt almost like a ghost town. This will change in the coming days as El Al and a handful of international airlines resume more regular service, but it will likely take months before air travel returns to anything resembling normal.
The cessation of hostilities with Iran carries immediate meaning for us on campus. This Sunday, for the first time in six weeks, we will welcome students back in person. That sentence alone carries a sense of relief that is hard to overstate. Universities are meant to be filled with students, not silence. Indeed, too many times over the past 7 years, have I waled through an empty campus. Our campuses, in particular, are meant to feel alive. The return of students marks not only the resumption of classes, but the restoration of that uniquely BGU sense of purpose and energy so characteristic of our community.
A few days before Passover, I traveled to the north. The timing of that visit was deliberate; just one day earlier, the government had allocated hundreds of millions of shekels to that part of Israel’s population who neither serve nor study. The following day, I stood with our students serving in the reserves along the northern border.
These were young Israelis in uniform, balancing two obligations at once: protecting the country and continuing their studies. Again and again, I heard about the challenges of keeping up with coursework while deployed. Unreliable connectivity, watching recorded lessons despite fatigue. And yet, I also heard something else: determination. A deep understanding that education is not a luxury to be postponed, but a responsibility to be carried forward, even under difficult conditions. I also heard appreciation for the financial support that you have given them, support that makes a tangible difference in their ability to persist.
While the direct confrontation with Iran may have paused, we remain entangled in Lebanon. Indeed, yesterday, while transferring flights in Los Angeles, my phone rang with an alert of incoming missiles, this time from Hezbollah. I had neglected to turn off my alerts, startling more than a few people in the lounge.
The continued fighting in Lebanon weighs heavily. Many in Israel, including those of my generation, carry memories of earlier wars fought along that same border. There is a shared hope that this generation will not find itself trapped in the same long, exhausting quagmire that defined so much of the past.
As I write, there are reports of direct peace negotiations between Israel and Lebanon. Whether these discussions will lead to meaningful outcomes remains uncertain. But even the possibility introduces a measure of cautious optimism. Perhaps one unforeseen outcome of these months of hostilities will be the opening of a diplomatic path that seemed impossible not long ago.
If that were to happen, it would mean something very simple and very profound for our students: the return of the word "hope." And that, ultimately, is what we owe the next generation: the hope for peace, rather than the normalization of war.
Universities embody hope. The pursuit of knowledge, the quest for discovery, are among the most hopeful endeavors a person can undertake, grounded in the belief that knowledge can ultimately lead to a better world. BGU must remain the space in which young people can learn, grow, question, and build their futures. Every time our students return to campus after weeks of disruption, it is a reminder that resilience is not abstract. It is visible in classrooms filling again, in conversations restarting, in routines re-emerging.
And perhaps, in moments like these, that continuation itself becomes a quiet form of hope.
Shabbat Shalom,
Danny
