Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

“Move up. Don’t sit alone.”

That was not me whispering to myself when I got to temple on Friday night, the night after the Bibas boys returned dead, murdered in Gaza, and the day that their mother, Shiri, finally, returned, murdered as well. That was the rabbi, gesturing to me, encouraging me to join the congregation.

I moved up one row.

She came over to me, and asked me to move even closer to the front, to where people were sitting. “You look like you could use fellowship tonight.”

I moved up some more, to behind a new friend. Rather than staying on my own, pretending I hadn’t noticed her, I moved to sit next to her. When I turned around, I saw a man I met a few days earlier at a temple event and encouraged him to sit next to us. So, instead of being by myself in the back, I was now in the second row between two new friends.

At the beginning of the service, the rabbi tearfully called everyone to join her on the bima (raised part of the synagogue). She said that many of us were there that night because we were devastated by the deaths of the Bibas family, and that trans people and those who love them were fearful for the future, and there were researchers whose funding had just been cut off. Then she stopped, as if overwhelmed by the sheer amount of pain in and around her. So many of us were in tears, barely holding it together. After the introductory prayers, there was hugging.

Returning to my seat, I could feel that something within had moved. My sadness was still immense, but it wasn’t a solitary burden. Now, it felt like being within a communal pot of pain and compassion.

I have attended synagogues where intellectual discussions were the way to connect to and be inspired by Judaism. Sometimes the singing and music were how I engaged and rose above quotidian thoughts. Occasionally, the words of the prayers themselves made the connection between past and present. Rarely, though, do I feel G!d or the Divine Presence or the Spirit that connects me to beyond me—but that night I got what I needed without words and analysis. Perhaps I needed it so much, perhaps I pushed myself to feel beyond thinking, perhaps it is about wanting something and not preventing it from occurring.

A religious gathering that brought together people in pain, in fear, in solitude—needing to discover/uncover sustenance for the soul. To find that which aches and to realize it can be lessened, that there can be moments of entry of the connecting tissue. To acknowledge that I need more, whatever that may be, is to accept a level of unknown and unknowingness. It is not to make demands. I am one vessel. It is to keep being who I am and not close off myself. Knowing that to be open, to not seal myself off, mentally or physically, is the way into what may be.

This phrase from Psalm 92 is ringing in my ears: It is good to give thanks to the Lord, and to sing to Your name, O Most High. To declare in the morning Your kindness and Your faith at night.

https://www.jpost.com/israel-news/article-843061

Maybe We Can Smile Tomorrow, as an Act of Resilience and Affirmation

“Smile,” the woman said to me when I told her that no, she can’t take a chair from the table where I was sitting in this busy coffee shop. I had already given one of my tables to them and told a few people in her group that they can’t take any chairs from around my table, which I needed for my own group that would be meeting soon.

She reminded me of men in NYC whose lewd hoots and howls would often include demands to smile. It is not a positive connection. Her comment was annoying; though, I know it was not meant that way. My basic suggestion is if you don’t know someone, don’t tell them to smile. And my next suggestion is that if you do know someone, don’t tell them to smile—unless it’s for a picture.

Sorry, not sorry, lady, but I’m not in a smiling mood. I’m wearing a bright orange sweater today for, what I fear is in memory of, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir Bibas. I chose to envelop myself in this pain and to declare it; though, I assume that I’m the only one here who knows what it represents.

It’s hard to be alone in your specific awareness of the world. This is a time when it is especially hard to live outside of Israel, where the Bibas babies are at the forefront of people’s minds today. But it shouldn’t be. This should be everyone’s awareness. How are we enabling such monsters to continue terrorizing Jews and the non-them world?

Yesterday morning, I was at a social event at temple when I received a text from a friend confirming (we now have final, forensic confirmation that Ariel and Kfir were returned in coffins, their mother is still unaccounted for) that they had been killed. I went to the bathroom to cry in a stall. I didn’t share the news with anyone. Even in Jewish circles, my focus on Israel makes me an outlier. This is not a regret; in fact, I’m proud of this. It pushes me from what could be self-centeredness. But, still, it is always to be aware of a separation.

What do I live for? What do you live for? What would make you wear your broken heart publicly?

Today, I craved a sufganiyah (jelly donut). As I walked to Voodoo donuts, I realized that Kfir Bibas was too young to have ever had one, which is such a staple of Israeli childhood—and adulthood, too. This is for Kfir and his brother Ariel, who won’t be able to compare whose donut had more jelly in it.

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And to those who continue to support and encourage the monsters who kidnapped and killed entire families, and young people from a peace festival, and today—today!—planted bombs on buses in the Tel Aviv area (thankfully they exploded when no people were on them—were they planted by newly released terrorists in this deal, ready to resume trying to kill Jews?)—you are monsters, too. This is not about politics or policies or politicians. This is about humanity. Find yours!

The former Emmanuel Shearith Israel Synagogue in Denver

For 501 days and nights (which is 43,286,400 seconds, each of which the hostages feel intensely; and we, empathetic humans are still counting, tearfully) the Israeli hostages have been held by savages in Gaza.

For 501 days, I have consumed and been consumed by news of seemingly non-stop attacks against Israel and vile acts of antisemites around the world.

Since this ceasefire started a few weeks ago and hostages have been released—with visible signs of having been tortured for being Jews—the horror has seeped even deeper into my moral being and my Jewish soul.

October 7 should have been the day on which the evil that erupted was promptly stopped. The outrage that should have reverberated should have ripped off the mask of false resistance and should have brought forth a reckoning with terrorism and its attempt to deny Jewish rights in Israel and around the world. But it didn’t.

What did happen is that too many people (in universities, the media, international “human rights” organizations, the UN, in governments) doubled-down on hate and support of a terrorist regime: one that is genocidal, apartheid, and colonialist.

For 501 days I have seen darkness in the guise of indifference: darkness that is accompanied by morally bankrupt words.

But for a few days last week I took a break from thinking of dank, hollow, twisted cavities within seemingly human bodies for whom life is about death.

I spent time at the BBYO conference where thousands of Jewish teens from around the world gathered in joy where their Jewish identity was a sign of friendship, purpose, connection, and continuity—and that has entered my heart.

My Israeli colleagues/friends, for whom this was a break from the constant pressure of war, and news, and demonstrations, and lack of confidence in leadership that constantly test their inner strength, could, for a few days, breathe air that is not infused with pain, fear, worry, sorrow, and anger. Their momentary relief, perhaps, gives them space to remember what normal life looks like, and to wonder—hope!—that it is possible again.

With one Jewish friend, we always talk about the eruption and infestation of antisemitism, pinpointing and then circling around how we have lost our naivete that the world had moved on from its own history, its allegiance to antisemitism. But now, talking to these teens I feel a strengthening in my core, in my DNA. To be Jewish is not just to experience the violence of antisemitism, it is to be defiant and proud of our Jewish identity.

Recently, I heard a rabbi say that Jews are not victims, meaning that we don’t wallow in our victimhood, but move on with life. (On a personal level, I believe in the need for some wallowing and self-pity, but I get what he means.) One teen seemed to exemplify this. She said that the antisemitism in Montreal wasn’t as bad as it has been. A realistic lioness.

Over our history, Jews have been victims of repeated violence and expulsions. Not everyone wants to deal with that. Apparently, historically, only 20% of Jews have remained Jews, going all the way back to the slaves who left Egypt with Moses. The others, for whatever reason—usually because they were forced to or made the calculation for themselves and their families—took the “let’s join the majority” route. This explains why so many people in Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa have Jewish DNA.

But those of use whose families stayed the course, didn’t lean on their victimhood, as painful as it was, because to be Jewish is to live, to move forward even when your heart is leaden, to try to be better—in whatever situation life brings your way. It feels like we are at a moment like this now where the world has erupted against us. It’s so clear that this is not the time for appeasement. For what? For whom? For those who think killing Jews is a cleanse?

In a conversation with two Jewish friends the day before flying to the conference, we talked whether we wear our Jewish identity in public. One woman puts the tape with the number of days the hostages have been held on her phone. I said that I generally wear my Jewish star. But now I commit to making it even more of a habit. Showing that I am a proud Jewish person will be my base-line. Writing here is another. Now I need to think about what else I will do.

What are you doing or will you do to not be a bystander or witness who lets evil against the Jewish people happen unchallenged?