Meir Charash: Cyclist, father, and advocate who keeps on riding

Sarah Tuttle-Singer, The Times of Israel social media editor, is an LA expat (reluctantly) growing roots in Israel. She’s also a contributing editor at Kveller.com. Dangerous when bored.

On many mornings, Meir Charash takes his mountain bike and heads to the Jerusalem hills.

Some days he pedals to the Haas Promenade, where the city stretches beneath him in pale limestone and morning light, 3,000 years of Jewish history unfolding in a single panorama. Other days he heads toward Ein Lavan, where springs bubble up beneath ancient trees and the sounds of the city shift into birdsong.

For nearly half a century, Charash has measured his life not by lack of bumps in the road but by his willingness to keep riding — through war and peace, hope and disappointment, extraordinary joy and devastating loss.

When he boarded an El Al flight to Israel on October 16, 1979, none of that was part of his plan.

He was fresh out of Boston University, where he’d just been offered a job as a research assistant in organizational behavior — a position paying $12,000 a year, which, Charash says, felt like unimaginable wealth at the time.

He assured everyone he would be back in a year. His parents believed him.
His professor believed him. He believed himself.

He had come to Israel to participate in the World Union of Jewish Students program — a year of Hebrew studies, Jewish learning, and volunteer service. It was meant to be just a short adventure before returning to America.

Hebrew did not come easily. Nearly five decades later, his unmistakable American accent still gives him away the moment he opens his mouth.

“I guess,” he says, “I’ll always be an immigrant on some level.”

But belonging, he learned, has little to do with pronunciation.

Living in Safed after completing a Hebrew language course, Charash immersed himself in Israeli society. Without smartphones, WhatsApp, or social media, life unfolded face-to-face. He spoke Hebrew, met Israelis, and spent long evenings reading Jewish history.

One book in particular changed everything: “The History of the Jews,” by Ben-Zion Dinur and Haim Hillel Ben-Sasson.

Sixteen hundred pages later, Meir had reached a conclusion that would alter the course of his life.

He no longer wanted simply to support Israel. He wanted to help build it.

Reading the long history of Jewish vulnerability without sovereignty convinced him that the return of the Jewish people to political independence was one of history’s great transformations. The career waiting for him in Boston suddenly seemed less urgent than becoming part of that unfolding story.

He immigrated to Israel. He volunteered for the Israel Defense Forces, serving in the Armored Corps before completing 15 years of reserve duty. Then came marriage, children, and a career that spanned community work, Jewish federations, social work education, fitness training, and Thai massage therapy.

As Charash built his own life, he watched Israel reinvent itself.

He remembers waiting years for a telephone line, wearing a gas mask during the Gulf War, believing Oslo might usher in a new era of peace, and then watching those hopes collapse during the Second Intifada.

Like many Israelis, his politics shifted — not because of ideology alone, but because of experience.

“The Second Intifada altered the political and emotional landscape for me,” he says. “I moved from the Left to the Center, along with many other Israelis who lost trust in the Palestinian leadership.”

The devastation wrought by thousands of invading terrorists on October 7, 2023, only deepened that evolution.

Yet Charash resists easy political labels.

He believes Jewish sovereignty is essential. He also believes power carries moral obligations. “Israel is good,” he says. “But we need to be better.”

He speaks passionately about extending dignity and kindness to every citizen —Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Arab, and Druze — and believes that true leadership requires accountability, especially after national tragedy.

Even so, his greatest heartbreak did not come on a battlefield, but at home.

When his son, Ariel, died by suicide, Charash entered a landscape of grief few parents can imagine.

Rather than retreat into silence, he chose to speak.

He wrote “Ride Through,” created educational resources on suicide prevention, and began volunteering with Israeli nonprofit B’Shvil HaHaim, meaning Path to Life, supporting bereaved families while speaking openly to educators, soldiers, mental health professionals and community leaders about suicide awareness.

Charash readily acknowledges that suicide can never be entirely prevented, but he refuses to believe nothing can be done.

“If one less parent has to say Kaddish for a child,” he says, referring to the ritual Hebrew mourning prayer, “then everything I’ve shared has been worthwhile.”

The title of his book came naturally. He rides mountain bikes. Some hills are brutal. Sometimes he falls. And he always gets back on.

That, he believes, is grief: You don’t ride around it. You ride through it.

Today, Charash is also a grandfather to three young granddaughters, a role that brings joy alongside sorrow. He has learned that life is rarely one thing at a time.

“There is room for both,” he says. “Blessings and pain. Hope and grief.”

As Israel continues to grapple with the trauma of October 7, Charash sees echoes of his own journey in the country around him.

“We’re all riding through now,” he says. “We carry our losses beside us, but we keep moving.”

The war with Iran has been draining for all of us in Israel. But when I heard about a high casualty incident – ballistic missile impacts in Arad and Dimona that left nearly 200 people wounded – I drank a cup of coffee, packed a bag, and headed south.

There, I spoke with Shilgit, the head of an after-school program for underprivileged youth. Standing outside her destroyed center, Shilgit said it was a miracle that no children were hurt and spoke about the community coming together in the hours since.

As a Times of Israel reporter, I’m committed to telling stories of resilience like Shilgit’s. But my colleagues and I can't do this alone. If you value work like this, please consider joining our reader support group, The Times of Israel Community. Your financial support is essential to keep real human reporting like this going.

— Stav Levaton, military reporter