by Fayga Marks
Over the past few years, I’ve visited countless Jewish heritage sites across Israel—some famous, some nearly forgotten, and many that are only accessible under special security arrangements. Each visit has been a chance to reconnect with our history, but this time, I knew it would be different.
When I saw the rare opportunity to visit the Kever of Rav Ashi, buried near the Israeli-Lebanese border, I understood this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Few people have ever stepped foot here, and visits are almost never permitted.
Just a few weeks ago, a group of 20 Breslov chassidim arrived at the site without proper IDF coordination. Their attempt to access the tomb caused a serious security incident, as they snuck across the Israeli-Lebanese border without permission, which could have led to dangerous consequences. This was a place where every step required approval, every movement was monitored, and every moment carried both spiritual weight and real risk.
I knew the journey would be long—at least 6 to 10 hours—and that security restrictions would be tight. The IDF only approved a very small number of visitors, and out of nearly 800 people who went, I was the only woman.
Our journey began in Jerusalem, with a short stop at Meron to visit Rashbi’s kever before continuing north. As we approached the border, the reality of what we were about to do set in. We were walking through a military zone, in complete darkness, knowing that our enemies were watching us from just meters away.
The Kever of Rav Ashi, together with that of Rav Papa, is mentioned in Sefer Yichus Avos as being located on Har Shanan. But for over two decades, the site had been inaccessible. It was abandoned in 2000 when Israel withdrew from Lebanon, and for security reasons, the IDF stopped allowing visitors altogether. Now, the site is divided by a barbed wire fence, with an IDF outpost stationed on the Israeli side. Access is only granted under strict military escort.
We were told to stay within a specific area, not to use flashlights, not to take photos—every action had to be carefully measured. The kever itself had recently been repainted blue by Breslov chassidim, marking the first effort in years to maintain the site. But even that was a quiet battle, a reminder of how much effort it takes to preserve our history in places where our presence is not guaranteed.
This was the first officially approved visit to Rav Ashi’s kever in five years. That fact alone is staggering. It made me realize something painful: so much of our history is being forgotten. How many sites like this—holy places, places of deep significance—are being left behind? How many will disappear in 50 or 100 years if we don’t fight for them now?
I’ve been to Kever Yosef in Shechem countless times, a site that also requires heavy security. But this was different. The tension, the weight of history, the feeling that if we don’t stand here today, there may not be a tomorrow for these places.
I didn’t just go to say a prayer. I went to take responsibility. To walk, to see, to feel—to understand, with my own eyes and hands, what it means to fight for our heritage.
For centuries, Jews have preserved our past through learning, through prayer, and through storytelling. But we must also preserve it through action. We cannot just visit the places that are easy and convenient—we must fight for the places that are fading from memory.
I want to thank Netanel Snir and the Kever Yosef Administration for making this possible. Their relentless work, along with the IDF soldiers who risk their lives to protect these places, is the reason we can still stand at sites like this today.
This wasn’t just a journey. It was a statement. That we will not forget. That we will return. That no place is too far, too dangerous, or too forgotten—because our history lives in the land, and we will never abandon it.
And for me? It was worth every moment.
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