Tzei Lanof, Al Titkof

I spend a lot of time in Israel for someone who doesn't live there. I've absorbed many of the cultural idiosyncrasies and actually internalized them — I find it perfectly natural to touch other people's children, call strangers by endearing names, and, unless I catch myself, stand uncomfortably close to people in line by American standards. Still, Israeli culture regularly surprises me.

A few years ago I was aggressively chastised by a stranger for picking a wildflower. I didn't see it coming. Another person kindly explained that it was "against the law." I thought: really? Picking a wildflower is against the law? I can think of a few other things I'd prioritize for legal intervention.

As it turns out, the story of Israeli wildflower protection is remarkable. In the early days of the state, its beautiful wildflowers — the kalanit, the rakefet, the chatzav, the iris — were being picked to the point of endangerment. This was a different Israel. Even in the 1960s, it was a country that still rationed rice and milk, that housed hundreds of thousands of new immigrants in ma'abarot — transit camps where families lived in tents and tin shacks — and whose very existence remained precarious. It was not, by any measure, a country poised to prioritize wildflower conservation. But it did, and it went all out.

In the early 1960s, artist Bracha Avigad was commissioned to create a series of posters and images of the country's wildflowers. Her work became iconic — you might recognize it today on tote bags and stationery. Her posters went up in classrooms across the country, carrying slogans like Tzei Lanof, Al Titkof — go out to see, don't pick. And it worked. The culture shifted, and the prohibition on picking wildflowers settled into genuine taboo. A law was eventually passed, though it may not have even been necessary. Today Israel is abundant with wildflowers, and an entire culture has grown up around celebrating them — kalanit festivals, hikes through rocky hillsides carpeted with rakefet. The country is also home to remarkable endemic species found nowhere else on earth, like the striking black iris of Nazareth and the purple irises that bloom exclusively on Mount Gilboa.

This past week at school we celebrated Yom Ha'atzmaut and commemorated Yom Hazikaron, with the special traditions we've built around both days. On Yom Hazikaron, we create a room of remembrance — a timeline of the country's history along the walls, alongside photos and bios of people killed in war or in terrorist attacks. Every name and photo was submitted by a community member with words of loving memory; every person on those walls is connected to our community. Every class from kindergarten through eighth grade visits the room. Each student brings a stone they've painted — one side in honor of Yom Hazikaron, the other for Yom Ha'atzmaut. They place their stone, spend time with each photo, share their noticings and wonderings, and add their own messages to a wall of commemoration. In some grades, teachers lead conversations or sing with their students. Small battery-powered candles glow throughout the room; this year the fourth-grade class arranged them to spell the word Yizkor — remember.

The next morning, Yom Ha'atzmaut begins with a communal shira b'tzibur — a singing ceremony that is joyful but also serves as a tekes ma'avar, a transition from the tone of one day to the other. Each grade comes to the stage and finds their stones from the day before. They begin by turning them over — the words and images now visible shift from mourning to hope and celebration. Each class performs a classic Israeli song with choreography and props, and the whole community sings along. The rest of the day is pure celebration: a sports day in the park, a communal art project, a catered whole-school lunch, and more.

In the years since October 7, needless to say, these days have taken on a different weight. We have been more intentional than ever in our planning, leaning hard into the theme of Tikvah — hope. When the people on the walls of the Yom Hazikaron room are people we actually knew, people killed recently, it is simply a different experience. When we celebrate Yom Ha'atzmaut during wartime or a fragile ceasefire, it is simply a different experience. We have to ask: what is the most essential message we are giving our students right now? We have chosen hope — not passive hope, not the hope of leaving things to chance, but a hope that obligates us toward action. A hope that is a choice: the choice to believe things can be better, and to do our part to get there.

That is a tough message to sell to a generation that has only known conflict in Israel and Palestine, that grew up after September 11th, that lived through a pandemic, that has been aware of climate change since birth. Which means we have to work even harder as educators to offer something those children don't have access to on their own: the arc of history. The understanding that nothing is permanent — which means things can also get better. That there were darker moments than this that ended. That people who come together to create change actually can.

So this year we turned to the wildflowers — an unlikely story of a community that chose not to accept an outcome that seemed inevitable, and instead seized it as an opportunity for something larger. Our students spent last week studying Israeli wildflowers: their geography, their biology, their cultural meaning. They listened to songs written about them. They learned about the campaign to save them — some of our Israeli teachers remember those posters in their own classrooms. They learned about Bracha Avigad as an artist and as an agent of change. They studied contemporary Israeli artists who paint flowers and nature — including the popular modern artist Kakadu — and then sketched wildflowers in those artists' styles. On Yom Ha'atzmaut itself, each student created a magnificent wildflower to contribute to our upcoming wildflower garden wall, Gan Habotani Beit Rabban, opening soon in the second-floor library. And as it turned out, this year Yom Ha'atzmaut and Earth Day fell on the same day. A lovely coincidence — or perhaps something more.

We learned what it means for a community to care deeply enough to act. How collective choices and sustained effort can pull something back from the brink. We hope that story stays with our students — as an inspiration to care, and to feel obligated by that care. May it be an inspiration for all of us. And may we soon see a collective decision to pursue peace — so that everyone can celebrate, safely and with dignity, among the wildflowers.