“Be sure you go outside on Yom Kippur. You won’t believe how quiet it is.”
Our friend Shai said this to me on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. As an olah hadasha (new immigrant under the Law of Return) from the United States, I was about to experience my first Yom Kippur in Israel.
Now I know quiet. I grew up in the Society of Friends (Quakers) and from an early age learned to sit quietly in silence and to appreciate the divine quality of purposeful stillness. So I was prepared to enjoy the silence, but didn’t really think it would strike me as impressive in the way Shai was describing.
My first hint of how wrong I was in my smug assessment was after Kol Nidre on Friday night. That was when I realized that I wasn’t getting a ride home from the synagogue after the service. (Because I have difficulty navigating the dirt & gravel path up the hill to the synagogue, we had been given a ride to the service before sundown, the official start of Yom Kippur.) But even in this Reform synagogue, where members regularly drive to and from services on Shabbat without a moment’s hesitation, nobody was driving anywhere on Yom Kippur. They leave their cars in the parking lot, and they walk home.
I made it down the hill and back to our apartment very slowly, clinging to Seth’s arm, and hoping that no animal had left something I couldn’t see in the dark and wouldn’t want to step in. Despite my success I decided not to try the uphill climb the next morning or the slow shuffle back down after the service, so Seth went off to the synagogue on his own.
We have a small balcony (mirpeset) attached to the apartment with a 180 degree view of many miles in all directions. On the far right is the Mediterranean coastline; straight ahead a wide stretch of flat agricultural land; and on the horizon large villages and towns gleaming white in the foothills and mountains of central Israel.
Next door to us is a hotel with an outdoor swimming pool, just below is a large scrubby section that is home to numerous birds, up on the hill is an elementary school, and construction of homes is going on everywhere. The roads in town are usually filled with cars, the sidewalks with pedestrians, children’s voices echo over the town during school recess periods, and people swimming and splashing in the pool are a background melody during the day.
On any random day, sitting on the mirpeset soaking in the view can be a spiritual experience. So I went out there to discover what Yom Kippur sounds like in Israel.
I encountered Silence.
This was a silence so profound, that I (the expert on silence) was stunned.
There were no cars moving anywhere, including on the major highways in the distance. There were no planes flying overhead. The airport is closed on Yom Kippur. (A major international airport is closed for a Jewish holy day! I had never experienced that phenomenon before.) No children’s voices, no neighborly conversations on the lawn, no radios or televisions playing, nobody lounging by the pool.
Nothing.
I was enveloped in a silence that had an almost physical presence.
Except the birds, who seemed to be taking advantage of the absence of human noise. There are numerous species of birds I see every day—parakeets, swifts, blackbirds, doves, pigeons—all calling and chirping at the same time!
I tried to capture how I felt in that silence by writing this poem, but it falls short. Perhaps only silence could fully describe the Silence of Yom Kippur.
On Yom Kippur the Land and the Sea
are quiet, and the Mountains
hold their ancient wisdom in silence.
Humans walk slowly in the footsteps
of their mothers and fathers,
the winds of time carry them toward eternity.
In this Divine Silence the Birds chant
ancient prayers in words the People
no longer remember or understand.
As the Sun settles gently into the Sea,
Trees dance in the evening breeze,
three Stars call out Tekiah Gedolah.
Gates close, but Redemption remains.
The Land and the Sea, the Mountains
and the People sing and dance in joy.
(c)marthahurwitz2026
