Dear friends,
There used to be tzadik stickers. Kids collected them, pasted them into albums, and traded them. I once saw the Trade of the Century.
The kids were on the living room floor. The cards were scattered, and the intensity would have put Wall Street to shame. I heard one of them say, “Okay, I’ll give you 15.” There was awed silence as the little boy across from him slowly counted out 10 Chofetz Chaim stickers. “No!” “Chofetz Chaim is ‘pusht’ (ordinary).” “15 or no trade.” A slight nod was his answer as he held out the card that was the most “yakar” (expensive) of his whole collection. It was my dear brother-in-law, Rav Moshe Pindrus, a highly esteemed maggid shiur at… Ohr Sameach. The Chofetz Chaim was famous, so there were many pictures of this gadol. Moshe Pindrus is rare, the ultimate big ticket.
THIS YEAR’S LESSON: SMALL CAN BE BIGGER THAN BIG IF THAT’S WHAT HASHEM WANTS
This Lag’Omer was so different. The decision to try to get to Meiron or not was taken out of our hands. The security issue involved both fear of what could be done to adequately get 200,000 into shelters in less than 3 minutes, plus the pseudo secret that Mount Meiron (Israel’s highest mountain) is a military target, added salt to the stew.
My initial plans included walking around Har Nof and watching the 14-year-old pyromaniacs play with fire while singing Bar Yochai off tune, or watching Meiron of yesteryear online. Then the reports began to come in. There would be bonfires in Beit Shemesh, in Beitar, in the heart of the chassidic shopping paradise, Shefa. And more. At Shimon HaTzadik, Shmuel HaNavi Street, and still more. And yes, there were those who managed to go through the forest to Meiron, eluding the security authorities. Not the unmanageable hundreds of thousands, but about a thousand or two, enough to feel the intense joy. This made me think of the yeshiva of Volozhin.
This is a bit of a jump, since the heavy-duty Litvish are usually happy to leave Lag B’Omer to the chassidim, sefaradim, and Various Others (although in recent years there has been a bit of a defrost in that regard). Still, between Meiron and Volozhin was a common thread.
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THE CLOSURE
In Meiron, it was the birth of many mini-Meirons. In Volozhin, the story was more complex. What was there before Volozhin?
Volozhin was the first time a yeshiva as we know it (3 sedarim, dormitory, financial responsibility for a building, and more) came into being. Around 1803 (some date it to 1802), Rav Chaim Volozhiner founded what came to be known as the Etz Chaim Yeshiva in Volozhin (in present-day Belarus). This was something entirely new.
And most importantly, it was built on an idea: that Torah learning is not simply one value among many – it is the central, defining, occupation of life for those who enter it.
Rav Chaim himself was, of course, the first Rosh Yeshiva.
But more than that, he set a tone: depth, intellectual honesty, independence in thinking, and a certain seriousness about Torah that would shape generations.
AFTER RAV CHAIM
Rav Chaim passed away in 1821.
He was succeeded by his son, Rabbi Yitzchak of Volozhin (often called Rav Itzele), who led the yeshiva for many years. Under him, the yeshiva not only continued but expanded its influence.
After Rav Itzele, leadership eventually passed to his son-in-law, Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin (the Netziv) – a figure of enormous depth, whose warmth and breadth gave the yeshiva a somewhat different tone. Alongside him, toward the later years, was also Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik (the Beis HaLevi), who served as a Rosh Yeshiva there as well.
Already, you can begin to see something important: even within Volozhin, there was not one single expression. Different personalities, different emphases – but one core.
THE CLOSURE – EXACT AND PAINFUL
And then came the breaking point.
The Russian government, in its efforts to reshape and “modernize” Jewish life, demanded that the yeshiva introduce secular studies into its curriculum – not as an optional addition, but as a structured, enforced component, with government oversight.
For the Netziv, this was not a small adjustment. It was a change that would alter the very Neshama of the yeshiva.
He refused.
And so, in January 1892 (often given as January 21, 1892), the authorities forced the yeshiva to close.
Try to sit with that for a moment.
Nearly ninety years of uninterrupted Torah learning. Generations shaped. A world centered there.
Closed.
Not because it failed – but because it would not bend.
And then… what happened next?
If the story ended there, it would simply be tragic.
But it didn’t.
The talmidim did not disappear. The ruach did not disappear.
It spread.
In the decades that followed, the great yeshivot we think of as pillars began to rise – Mir, Grodno, Slabodka (which later gave rise to Chevron in Eretz Yisrael), Ponevezh, and others. Each one, in some way, a continuation – but not a copy.
Mir developed a certain expansiveness and warmth in its learning environment.
Grodno became known for depth and analytical sharpness.
Slabodka emphasized gadlus ha’adam – human greatness – and from it emerged Chevron, carrying that dignity into Eretz Yisrael.
Ponevezh, later, would embody rebuilding after destruction, almost carrying the memory of what had been lost in Europe.
Would they have emerged as they did if Volozhin had remained the singular center?
It is very hard to imagine.
The closing did not end the world of Torah – it multiplied it.
And the same pattern, again and again
When Chassidus emerged, it did not remain one derech.
There were paths of fiery joy and emotional closeness, paths of deep intellectual contemplation, paths of simple, unembellished sincerity. Different neshamos, different openings.
When Mussar developed, it too unfolded into distinct streams:
Kelm – structured, measured, almost architectural in its precision.
Slabodka – uplifting, focused on the greatness and dignity of the adam.
Novardok – intense, breaking illusions, demanding radical honesty.
All emes. All needed.
And all, in some sense, emerging from challenge – from moments where something had to be rethought, rebuilt, or rescued.
So what are we meant to hear this year?
Maybe something very quiet, but very demanding.
When one great fire is not accessible, we are not meant only to mourn it.
We are being asked: what will you build instead?
Love,
Tziporah
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