Before Shabbat

I meet with every Bar/Bat Mitzvah student before their big moment on the bimah. We talk about all kinds of things. I ask them a variety of questions. What’s their favorite sport? Do they dance or do gymnastics? What music do they enjoy? How involved are they on social media? These questions enable me to see my students more clearly so that by their service, we’ve built a bond of support and confidence.

Of course, a discussion of their assigned Torah portion is included in our conversations. It’s often lots of fun engaging in text study with 6th-7th graders. They seek to make sense of material that is sometimes so disconnected and unrelated to their lives. There’s the wrestling with leprosy, skin disease, and black mold. They often understand this as how people deal with things they fear. Sacrificing animals as an exercise in humility and submission to God is always challenging. Kids think bringing a lamb to be slaughtered, skinned, and cooked on an altar at the Temple in Jerusalem is somehow approachable from their experiences today: “I’m sacrificing my time studying for my Bar Mitzvah instead of playing Minecraft.” When I gently suggest that this is not sacrifice as understood by our ancestors, it gets quiet in the room.

It is not unusual in the midst of these sessions that a child will state with apodeictic confidence, “Well, I don’t believe in God.” I love how certain they are, so clear and unbothered by their conviction. They are sometimes surprised that I am not scandalized. And I’m not. Because the young are so confident about so many things. The boundary between what’s right and wrong and who really knows. What decisions they have and their capacity to make the right call.

At the same time they tell me that they don’t believe in God, many kids, without a shred of irony, will answer affirmatively when I ask them if they’ve ever experienced the presence of God. They don’t see the logical inconsistency in this equation of theirs. They still need to work out the essential inconsistency of life. And they shouldn’t! After all, they’re too young to be forced to see the tragic limitations of life or the need for faith in God or peoplehood. They have to cram as much into their frontal cortex as possible. It’s necessary to build a solid emotional foundation to support the weight of personality and social interactions so that they can tolerate the disappointment as they age and experience the randomness of the Universe.

The notion of absolute certainty in the world and our experience of it and in it is a somewhat brittle worldview that hopefully begins to crumble under the weight of our trials and tribulations. Becoming a mature adult starts with acknowledging that there’s very little we can be sure of. Growing up is being able to shake our heads when asked specific critical questions about existence and saying, “I really don’t know.” It’s about embracing a set of truths we try to live by.

Faith is all about holding tightly to a series of hopes and dreams based on a sense of love and commitment while having no “proof” that it is so. It’s about choosing to believe that certain ideas are ultimately meaningful, enlightening, and occasionally transcendent. Faith is about acknowledging life has meaning, even in the face of brutality and evil. It is about finding one’s tribe and feeling known and acknowledged.

We are entering a time when, more than ever, we need to cultivate faith in our community, our ethical foundation, and our love of freedom for all. I’m not sure about much – this gets more true with each birthday. But I do know that I need my people and my community, that I have faith in our capacity to live proud Jewish lives. I believe in God, and I think God believes in us. But more importantly, we must believe in each other. We must keep the faith.

Time is a complex and multifaceted concept that extends far beyond the simple sequential accounting of our lives. Clocks and calendars provide a superficial representation of time, obscuring the profound and intricate truths about our individual, subjective experiences of reality.

In our youth, time seems to pass at a glacial pace. We are eager to move forward, to grow and burst through the obstacles that stand in our way. Parents, teachers, jobs, and homework all seem to slow us down, and we yearn to clear these hurdles as quickly as possible.

However, as we reach our 50s, time appears to accelerate at an astonishing rate. We find ourselves marveling at how quickly the sun sets on each day. Children we have known since birth seem to grow up in the blink of an eye, while we often fail to notice our own aging process.

Yet, the signs of aging are undeniable. Arthritis, hearing loss, and memory issues serve as inescapable reminders that our bodies – these precious, extraordinary vessels we inhabit – are not built for eternity. They begin to deteriorate, even if we don’t always “feel” our age, whatever that may mean.

Joni Mitchell’s famous song “The Circle Game” captures the cyclical nature of time, with its chorus:

“And the seasons they go round and round And the painted ponies go up and down We’re captive on the carousel of time We can’t return we can only look Behind from where we came And go round and round and round In the circle game.”

As a 23-year-old, Joni’s lyrics resonated with me and countless other young adults spanning three generations. We sat around campfires, tears welling up as we sang along to these wistful and evocative words.

Now, on the cusp of 70, I reflect on Joni’s poignant naivete with a smile. Time, I have come to believe, is not circular. Despite our varied and personal perceptions, time does not go round and round. We are not riding a carousel, but rather, we are astride the arrow of time, hurtling forward in one direction with no turning back.

As the Universe continues its infinite expansion, we ponder what the future holds – 5, 10, or 25 years from now. The truth is, we cannot know for certain. Despite our attempts to predict the future, and the occasional successes we may have, we are largely clueless. Life is filled with randomness and chaos, from the arbitrary nature of human behavior to the trajectory of a bullet, the rise of birthrates, the advancement of AI, and the looming threat of climate change.

While we may agree that nearly 70% of the Universe is comprised of dark energy, the nature of this mysterious force remains largely unknown. We hypothesize, experiment, and surmise our way forward, acknowledging the uncertainty that lies ahead. In the face of this unknowable future, we must embrace the present moment and reach out to our fellow travelers. At our best, we view one another through a lens of fellowship and empathy, holding hands and striving to maintain a sense of balance. We attempt to sing in harmony, appreciating the beauty when we find it. Riding the arrow of time with dignity and laughter is not merely a choice – it is our only option.

I can’t catch my breath. The news about the various student protests all over the country is ubiquitous. There is no break, no occasional sunshine breaking through the storm clouds. Add to that the ever-present shadow of antisemitism and the fear Jewish university students are experiencing. And who can purge the bad taste left behind after a small group of American politicians affirmed their belief that the Jews killed Jesus? And then there’s Hamas dragging their feet on a ceasefire that includes hostage release.

The list above is hardly exhaustive. It’s exhausting. If all this weren’t enough to scream, “Dayenu,” we now have the Newton Free Library imbroglio to add to our existential headache.

I won’t narrate this story of disappointment and insensitivity from the beginning. If you want a snapshot of events, read this letter from the mayor of Newton: https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#search/ruthann/FMfcgzGxStzdWCkKhNwBrZnRfrcBJrxJ

Here’s my take: This past July, an independent committee of artists and professors selected and scheduled a photo exhibit for one of the library’s gallery spaces. The photographer, Skip Schiel, titled his show The Ongoing & Relentless Nakba: The Palestinian Catastrophe of 1948 to Today. I don’t know who was on that committee; I hope they are identified. I don’t want to harass them, but I simply want to ask why. Did they want a provocative show? Were they looking to show more support and empathy for the Palestinian story? Did they anticipate the antipathy of some Newton residents?

Schiel’s show of black and white photos is, in and of itself, thoughtful and innocuous. There are no incriminating snapshots of Israeli border police beating back Palestinian demonstrators or, for that matter, no Palestinians throwing rocks at IDF soldiers. It is a small and unremarkable exhibit.

I have no trouble with the word Nakba, Arabic for catastrophe, which many Arabs and some Israelis use to label what is otherwise called the 1948 War of Independence. For many Palestinians, it is an accurate representation of their experiences following the war. After all, it did not result in their freedom.

I do have trouble with the phrase ongoing and relentless because it obfuscates a much larger and more complex story about Palestinians after 1948. And even more to the point, the photos have nothing to do with the Nakba. They have nothing to do with Israel! They are portraits of Palestinians and photos of Palestinian homes. So why name it something so unnerving to those of us who support Israel?

Looking at the photographer’s website, the answer quickly emerges. Schiel is an anti-Zionist who has done extensive work in Gaza and the West Bank. He wants to be a provocateur. This is not unique to Schiel. Artists and photographers have pushed the envelope for centuries; it is intrinsic to artistic expression.

I am neither offended nor threatened by this exhibit. The content is benign, genuinely harmless. I recognize its title is purposely provocative. I am not a fan of the creator of the exhibit. As a Zionist and lover of Israel, it makes me uncomfortable, but it does not seek to delegitimize me as a Zionist or as a Jew.

If I were on the committee that chooses art for the library, I would’ve said no to the exhibit unless Schiel changed the name. I would’ve said that we don’t need such provocation. But others disagree.

I support the notion that artists sometimes want to make us uncomfortable. We come to learn more about the world in which we live when we are thrown back on our heels to question our values and the values of those with whom we disagree. I am a libertarian when it comes to free speech and free expression. Limiting, censoring, or canceling is toxic to the imagination and antithetical to democracy.

But after October 7^th, this show should’ve been postponed as a sign of respect for the collective trauma many Jews are experiencing right now. It is contraindicated to erect anything in a public space that includes provocation as its raison d’etre. It’s not the content; the lack of empathy and consideration from the library upset me.

The exhibit is up and running. I oppose any attempt to close it down for two reasons. 1. I am a firm believer in freedom of speech and expression. And 2. It would become a cause celebre; a local story would become a national incident. Which is precisely what Schiel would like for his cause and his career.

The next art installations at the library will be chosen and then supervised with much more attention. We have all learned from this moment. I hope that moving forward, we can lean into tolerance, perspective, and empathy. Because without it, every town hall every public square will look like Columbia – and that is an intolerable future.

As I do every year in the days leading up to Pesach, I’ve been reviewing my recipes, prepping ingredients, cooking up a storm, and delegating various side dishes to eager helpers. While I’m usually an adventurous cook who relishes trying new foods and bold flavor combinations, Pesach is the time when I find solace in the tried-and-true dishes of my childhood. I carefully retrieve my mother’s handwritten brisket recipe, now forever immortalized as a cherished digital file, and set to work. I quintuple the ingredients and multiply the sauce tenfold to feed our crew. As the brisket slowly roasts, its aroma transports me back to an idealized past, suffused with comfort and contentment. My matzah ball soup is another nod to tradition, though I’ve added a twist by preparing both vegetarian and classic schmaltz-laden versions. This year, I’m even experimenting with a few matzah balls infused with spicy Momofuku chili crunch – a daring endeavor!

Amidst the joyous feasting and celebratory atmosphere of Pesach, it’s easy to overlook the harrowing nature of the Exodus narrative. The story begins with the Israelites languishing in the depths of slavery, their spirits broken but their yearning for freedom undiminished. The Haggadah, our guidebook for the Seder, chronicles their perilous journey through hunger, fear, and uncertainty as they sought a path to liberation. With each taste of salt water, bitter herbs, and matzah – the bread of affliction – we engage our senses to internalize the memories of hardship and oppression. The journey to freedom is marked by death, darkness, and formidable challenges.

Yet the Passover story transcends any single moment in history; it is a timeless and ongoing quest for meaning, redemption, and the eternal longing for home. Along the way, we encounter daunting obstacles that make us question whether we have the strength to persevere. As Jimmy Cliff reminds us, there are many rivers to cross.

In these trying times for the Jewish people, we find ourselves grappling with immense sorrow and trepidation. The unrelenting conflict in Gaza weighs heavily on our collective conscience, and the loss of innocent Palestinian lives is a source of profound grief. We are haunted by the plight of hostages held in unspeakable cruelty, and the incursion of Iranian missiles and drones into Israeli airspace. The spectre of rising antisemitism looms large, as college campuses become hotbeds of hostility, where support for Palestinian rights often devolves into threats against Jewish students, the burning of Israeli flags, and acts of vandalism. The world seems to grow ever darker and more ominous, even as unspeakable atrocities unfold in Sudan, China, Russia, Myanmar, and India. Amidst it all, Israel remains a focal point of animus from all sides.

The reasons for this are complex and multifaceted, a topic I intend to explore further in future writings. For now, I simply wish to acknowledge the profound challenges of being a Jew in today’s world, of being subjected to venomous hatred and opprobrium from Tehran to Tel Aviv to New York City. Passover serves as a poignant reminder that our journey is far from over. Our resilience as a people, forged in the crucible of adversity, is more essential than ever. Our capacity for compassion and empathy will light the way forward as we navigate an uncertain future. We have crossed countless rivers, and there are undoubtedly more to come.

As we conclude our Seder with the age-old affirmation, “Next year in Jerusalem,” we recognize that even as we celebrate being together and sharing in the beauty of tradition, our search for peace, hope, and understanding continues. The Exodus is an ongoing story, and while we may indeed find ourselves in Jerusalem next year, for now, we must keep walking.

the Stern Gang extends our warmest wishes to the entire TBA Team for a sweet and meaningful Pesach.

José Andrés is a superstar among the world’s most successful chefs. His restaurant empire numbers over 30 establishments, from funky food trucks to a steak house, to a veggie fast-casual spot, to the Michelin 2-starred minibar in Washington DC. Chefs are typically described as headstrong and driven. Andres fits the stereotype like a practiced hand on the grip of a Japanese Global knife. He is charismatic, funny, and just plain larger than life.

 In addition to Chef Andrés’ skills in the kitchen and the boardroom, he is a philanthropist of food. Specifically, he wants to connect people in crisis and trauma with the comfort of a good, simple, warm meal. He came to believe that the role of cooks and the power of food could change the world. He formed the World Central Kitchen in 2010 and then got a crew to travel to Haiti with him after a terrible earthquake. The chef and some fabulous aid workers made hundreds of thousands of meals. They saved lives and nourished broken souls.

 Since then, WCK has arrived after natural disasters all over the world. WCK gets international aid workers and local chefs together to feed anyone who needs a meal. They do it with compassion, cooperation, and determination. The chef’s indefatigable efforts infuse every meal. The workers, the local helpers, the authorities – everyone involved – speak with admiration for the work and the goals of WCK. Andrés’ work, says the Israeli newspaper Haaretz, transcends politics.

 WCK goes to war zones, too. We know this all too well. Seven people with WCK were killed in Gaza on Monday night by the IDF. The crew had unloaded tons of food and were heading back to camp in three clearly marked cars. Our hearts break for these lives lost. Saifeddin Abutaha, Zoni Frankcom, Damian Sobol, Jacob Flinkinger, John Chapman, Jim Henderson, and James Kirby. IDF spokesmen said it was a terrible, regrettable mistake, and that there would be an investigation. Chef Andrés, angry and grief-stricken, accused the Israeli military of intentionally targeting the cars. 

 In the fog of war, terrible things happen. Orders are confused, drones go off course, tired pilots fire without getting target confirmation. Friendly fire kills soldiers on the same side. Aid workers are not properly identified. In the fog of war, people lose their way.

 This awful incident that has left seven aid workers dead has cut deeply into the souls of people all over the world.  In the aftermath of the WCK fiasco, it seems clear that Israel is lost in the fog of war. This simply should not have happened. 

The situation is stalled in Gaza. There is a lull, punctuated by occasional raids. There are only four brigades in Gaza today. But there is no hostage rescue, and hostage families are taking it to the streets. They are enraged with the Israeli government that has been so unresponsive to their pain and their plight. To quote Pete Seeger, “We’re waist deep in the Big Muddy.”

 It’s time to pause. It’s time for a cease-fire. It’s time for Israel to examine what they’re doing today and what they plan to do tomorrow. It’s time to let the fog lift to better see the situation. To alienate every friend Israel has left – and they are dropping away by the dozen – is dangerous and foolhardy. A cease-fire is not surrender. It is a voluntary strategy that must be employed to maximize humanitarian outreach to hungry, homeless Gazans. The cease-fire is not just for the sake of the Gazans. It is for Israelis and Jews everywhere.

 It’s a shanda – a shameful truth – that the deaths of approximately 13,000 Gazan children was not enough to move President Biden – or me – to speak bluntly and directly about what must happen next. It’s a shanda that it took something like the WCK to lift a corner of the fog of war to see that Israel needs to pause, to do a form of heshbon hanefesh that we typically do before Yom Kippur. An appraisal is necessary. What are we doing? What are we capable of achieving? Who will help repair the damage in Gaza? How will the hearts of the hostage families be repaired? 

 This is the time for a blunt assessment. We are waist deep in the Big Muddy. 

As a young man, I assumed that the world would only come into sharper, crisper focus with every passing year. It seemed logical that the older I got, the more eternal verities would emerge, like watermarks on fancy stationery. Truths about life and death, beginnings and endings, war and peace would fill my soul. That when asked, “Does life have ultimate meaning?”, I would answer in the affirmative before the interviewer even finished asking the question.

Alas. That grand assumption of obtaining clarity like putting on a new pair of glasses has not come to pass. In fact, it is quite the opposite. I feel like I’m walking around in a foggy forest with next to no accurate, dependable signposts. The version of the world that I had hoped for in the 60s, filled with peace, love, and harmony, is now derided like a punch line. Some of my most valued ethical standards of freedom and equality and social justice are now mocked with a mean, derisive backhanded sarcasm. The Reform movement’s embrace of an open tent for all Jews and our Jewish-adjacent partners and children and friends, and our upholding tikkun olam (repairing the world) for all people, are seen as naïve and counter-productive ideologies.

I am less sure now than I was 20 years ago. The gap grows all over the world between those with a progressive agenda, and those who see change and evolution with contempt. The emergence of fascism and the selective vision of some on the Left all over the world today clouds everything. It blurs natural alliances and encourages name-calling and racism and antisemitism and Islamophobia.

The other day during an adult learning session, someone wondered out loud if maybe it was time to leave America for a safer haven. I never imagined that was a question to take even half-seriously. And where are we supposed to go? Israel? That’s the most dangerous place on the world right now for Jews. Europe? I’m not sure there are many nations that are happy about the Jews right now. New Zealand? The citizenship process can take years.

With all the darkness and the clouds on the horizon, I wonder what the world will look like in these next years. It sure doesn’t look like I thought it would.  I can’t afford a luxury underground bunker or a private island or whatever the top 1% of the world’s wealthiest have in mind for the stormy weather. I don’t have a gun or a generator. All I have is a lot of toilet paper and paper towels and Kleenex stored in my basement since Covid.

And yet, I do have something else. Call it crazy naivete. Despite it all, I have hope. “Hope… is the ability to work for something because it is good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed.  The more propitious the situation in which we demonstrate hope, the deeper the hope is. Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”     (From Vaclav Havel, Disturbing the Peace, 1986)

What makes sense right now is a collaborative partnership between people of good will who can stretch beyond internecine rivalries to a vision of a better world. How can it be that we can’t share a common goal of keeping our children safe and then commit to spending time and money to pursue that goal?

I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. I don’t see things clearly right now. This period may be an inflection point, a transformation of enormous consequence. It could be a stunning sunrise or a crushing flood. In Israel right now, I see no light, only shades of grey and darkness. I have absolutely no idea how the story evolves or devolves. I can’t even find a place to insert hope. But I know that here in our community, despite so many incidents of anti-Jewish vandalism, I hope. I don’t know how it will turn out. But I do know that dialogue is the only way. Common truths. Common dreams. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And that hope remains, clear, in focus, alive.

Purim is a genuinely unhinged holiday. It invites raucous, transgressive behavior right into the sanctuary. The more noise produced, the better. It’s as if the tradition wants us to install a decibel screen and get the groggers and foot-stomping to over 100dbs. We are allowed, only on Purim, to cross-dress. And all of this is fueled by liquor. In the Talmud, Megillah 7b, it is written that a person is supposed to drink on Purim until they cannot tell the difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.” Really.

Essentially, Purim is the official opening of a collective Jewish steam valve. It provides some room to play for the deepest part of the human personality, the unruly id. For Jews who live in a tight system of boundaries and communal expectations, Purim cracks open all kinds of transgressions, but just for a day. It’s costumes, whiskey, and carnival—yay!

There is, however, another side to this revelry. The Purim story narrative emphasizes the plight of a Jewish community whose security depends on the goodwill of non-Jewish sovereigns. The decision of Queen Esther, a hidden Jew who comes out of the closet, turns the tables on her people’s persecutors, setting the stage for a massive score-settling—the Jews of Shushan and surrounding parts of the kingdom slaughter 75,000 men. Everyone is terrified of the Jews, and they live happily ever after.

Our congregant, Rick Lipof, sent me a piece from Jewish comedian Elon Gold’s pre-Purim stand-up shtick. Gold says that Hamas doesn’t know Jewish history, that had they read the Megillah, they would realize that “those who seek to destroy us will be destroyed.” The crowd cheers, and the monologue continues.

Gold is a funny guy. But then, as I listened, I began to think about the Purim story more deeply. Previous generations of persecuted Jews may have viewed the expression of joy at the triumph of the Jews of Persia at the expense of their would-be exterminator and his accomplices as a delicious revenge fantasy. But here, I emphasize “fantasy.” Rounding people up we define as our enemy and murdering them has never been a big to-do item on the Jewish list.

Sure, there are times throughout history when Jews have sought vengeance. It is inevitable that some would succumb to that deep, primal reflex. There are also examples of ultra-Orthodox rabbis who justify such behavior. But Jewish teachings on vengeance challenge individuals to rise above the instinct for retribution, advocating instead for a pursuit of justice tempered with mercy and forgiveness, where possible. This approach seeks to break cycles of violence and reflect divine attributes of justice and mercy.

We avoid the last verses of Megillat Esther. We don’t teach it. We don’t cheer about it. We don’t put it on the Jewish ethical smorgasbord. It is repellant. As a fantasy, it certainly gives us that feeling if only we had it. If only we could casually dispatch every enemy of the Jewish people. But we do have a higher standard, as awkward and nagging as it may be. We will defend ourselves always. And even in battle, there must be standards.

It’s hard to be a Jew. It’s hard to uphold a standard of justice and mercy in a world of pain and violence. Celebrate Purim with joy. Acknowledge this once-a-year loosening of Jewish norms. And then return to the endless work that lies ahead.

Experiencing nostalgia evokes memories of people, objects, places, events, or experiences from the past. These memories are often smoothed over. The hardships of the past are often overlooked, and the positive aspects are emphasized, and sometimes exaggerated. This selective memory contributes to the overall warm and comforting feeling that nostalgia can bring, along with pangs and sighs and tears.

Some folks love nostalgia. They like to wear vintage clothes. They have lots of photo albums: hard copies and online, too. They’re big on oldies but goodies. They often say things like, “Life was so much better in the old days.” Or, “They don’t make them like they used to.” They won’t listen to any music made after the Beatles broke up (April 1970, by the way).

I’m not big on nostalgia. I don’t reach into that bag too often. I tend to lean into what’s next, not what was. I’m aware of the extent to which the Jewish calendar can seem, at first blush, to be all about nostalgia. “Remember the Shabbat and keep it holy.” Tell the Passover story every year. Build a sukkah every year, etc. But I relate to these dicta not as cherishing the past but rather engaging the future with the strengths gained from history. Yes, it says in the Haggadah: “In every generation, it is incumbent upon each one of us to see ourselves as if we had personally left Egypt.” But that’s not an invitation to relive the pain of slavery and the hardships we endured. The purpose of bringing it up is to remind us that the journey is not over. It’s the opposite of nostalgia.

Nostalgia crept up on me the other day as I walked into Blacker’s Bakery. Picking up the challah for my family and for the temple is a standard Thursday ritual. I shmooze a little with Karen and Becca Blacker. If I’m lucky, there’s a pastry sliced up for a taste or a crinkle cookie with my name on it. As I wafted in, following the aroma of freshly baked bread and sweets like Pepe LaPew following the scent of perfume, it struck me. Like Proust’s madeleine from A la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), that overwhelming bakery sensory experience brought me back to Covid time. Life was so fundamentally different then. We were filled with anxiety, feeling unsettled and unsure of what was next. But getting into that long line outside Blacker’s bakery to get my challah made me happy. I wasn’t sure of much, but I did know my Shabbat would be a good one. As I walked home, challah in my backpack, I felt such a deep appreciation. As the nostalgic moment enveloped me in memories, I understood that it was important to appreciate that moment again.  

Mixed feelings of joy and sadness is an apt definition of nostalgia, and it fits so many recollections of Covid time. It’s hard to believe how we’ve managed to fire up the engines and blast off again into space. It’s odd how such a life-altering time has faded in so many ways to the back of the mind. But Covid time changed everything. Nothing will ever be quite the same. What those changes are continues to be a colossal question. What remains true throughout time is that sharing appreciation and gratitude is vitally important. For challah, for love, for hope.

It’s been five long, excruciating months since Hamas launched their heartless, brutal terrorist attack on Israel. They murdered 1200 men, women and children. They raped and looted and pillaged. They’re currently holding over one hundred hostages. Their goal was to take the heart and soul of Israel and mercilessly squeeze them dry with the ancient tools of fear and unspeakable violence.  

Israel’s war, launched to erase the name of Hamas like Haman’s name on Purim, has been relentless. With awful, stone-hearted resolve, the IDF has marched through Gaza, searching out the enemy, entering the subterranean tunnels where they hide. The Israeli air force has dropped bombs, strafed homes, and fired missiles, essentially transforming cities and towns to wastelands reminiscent of Europe after WWII. And in the rubble, there are innocents, large numbers of women and children with no place to go, no place to hide. 

The Holocaust is, of course, for all Jews, an eternal source of pain and trauma. For we who live in the Diaspora, over time, some of the sting has dissipated, though not the essential truth of abandonment subjugation and genocide. Our younger generations still learn about the Holocaust and experience its bitterness and angst. But it feels distant, a part of history. They don’t know the names of the perpetrators or the places of mass death. This is what happens over time. Is that a sad truth? I don’t know, but it’s something for us to consider over and over again. 

In Israel, the Holocaust lurks right below the surface. It is a shadow that never quite fades. It is mentioned all the time, referred to in political addresses, at demonstrations, in IDF training, in primary school curricula. When American Jews say, “Never Again”, we are thinking more historically and metaphorically about violence and genocide. When Israelis say, “Never Again”, it has an immediate reference to the present and the horror they promised each other to never have to endure again. 

When Hamas murders innocent people, burns bodies, and decapitates children, they break down the wall between the vulnerable past and the strong, resilient present. And that is unbearable. The terrible trauma of October 7^th has ripped open the hearts and the hopes and assumptions of Israelis.  

This terrible wound of October 7^th connects so deeply to the Israeli psyche. It contradicts the standard assumption that Israelis will never be so vulnerable to the enemy. And this fact, this trauma, has made many Israelis feel like the war in Gaza, with all of its violence and the loss of so many innocents is regrettable, but necessary.  

Out here in the Diaspora, we try to understand this. We want to stand with Israel. We want to do whatever we can to come to the aid of our stricken brothers and sisters. But we also see what those who are traumatized may not. We see the grief of Gazan women and children, true innocents. Our hearts break for their suffering. We seek some means by which to ameliorate their misery.  

We are also experiencing the corrosive effects of the war on Diaspora Jews all over the world. We who love Israel are feeling hostility and condemnation: on campuses, on city streets, on social media. The binary judgment: Israel bad, Palestinians good, based in ignorance of history, is bleeding into our lives, making us feel vulnerable and alone. The most frightening aspect of all of this is how it now, around the edges, certainly looks like and feels like antisemitism. It’s not just Israel is bad – it’s now the Jews are bad.  

It is with enormous humility and respect for our Israeli brothers and sisters that I say, as a Diaspora Jew: we must redefine what we’re doing in Gaza. We must shed a ray of light to see that continuing to bomb and destroy Gaza is ultimately counterproductive. For every Hamas fighter killed or captured, ten orphaned children of Gaza, tired and sick and slowly starving are filled with hate and revenge. They are the next generation of recruits.  

After the smoke clears, Jews and Arabs will still be living in the same neighborhood. We won’t leave our homes and neither will they. How do we begin to stitch together that which has been torn asunder? What are we to do? The occupation of the West Bank and the blockade on Gaza must end – not only because it is brutal and oppressive for Palestinians – but also because it does not guarantee any long-term safety for Israelis. We know that a negotiated peace agreement is the only way to ensure freedom, equality, and safety for both peoples.  

I may not talk about October 7^th as much as I did. I’ve had to learn how to navigate through the pain and the sorrow. I must get through the days, weeks and months ahead. But the Israel-Hamas War plays in the background of my life every day.