On Thursday last week, a suicide bomber murdered forty three human beings in Beirut and injured two hundred and forty. On Friday last week, a suicide bomber murdered nineteen human beings in Bagdad and injured thirty three. In Paris, seven men murdered one hundred twenty three human beings, and injured four hundred thirty. On Tuesday and Wednesday, this past week, forty nine human beings were murdered and over two hundred injured in Yola and Kano, Nigeria. That is more than 1,140 human beings, murdered or injured. In Israel, as for the last couple of months, attacks have come almost daily. On Thursday, a terrorist attack in the West Bank killed five Jews, including an 18 year old American student. (239 lives, 903+)
It is so much. We have witnessed so much violence this week. I’m angry and sad, my heart hurts, I am filled with grief and fear.
This has caused some to lash out. This desperate response is fueled by one thing, and one thing only: Fear. It is fear that prevents us from thinking clearly, responding appropriately, and from feeling all of our naturally conflicting emotions, in being whole selves. It is ok to be afraid, I feel afraid. When we allow that fear to push away everything else, that is when there is a problem.
In one of my favorite books, Dune by Frank Herbert, he writes the following mantra for his character to remember.
“I will not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
The question becomes, what kind of person remains, how does that person respond? Who am I, when my fear is gone?
The way we must respond, the way the Tradition would have us respond, the way a Jew should respond, is with love. I’m still angry and I’m still deeply saddened. It is this tension that the Tradition guides us the way it does.
In Masechet Yoma, the tractate of the Talmud primarily focusing on Yom Kippur, transmits a Tradition that the Holy Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed due to שינת חנם, through baseless hatred. Let’s break that down for a moment. God’s residence on Earth and among the Jewish people was destroyed because we hated each other for no reason. We kicked out God because we would not stand beside each other, because we did not try and understand each other, because we allowed ourselves to be drawn in by hate. Take a moment and think about that, because the Rabbis are telling us something truly profound.
Hate causes God to leave us.
It can be easy for us to place all of the terrorists into the tight little box and blame all Muslims for their actions. But this response is hypocritical. In Israel, the group Tag Machir, Price Tag, attacks Christian, Palestinian, and left-wing Israeli institutions. Do we blame all Jews for their acts? When settlers in the West Bank attack Palestinian farmers, are they a reflection of your beliefs?
Only a couple of weeks ago, a Jewish man attacked Rabbi Arik Ascherman, the Director of Rabbis for Human rights, for protecting those Palestinian farmers. Were we expected to denounce them on behalf of all Jews? No, we weren’t asked to do that. Why? Because, it is ludicrous to do so. Despite that, there were many statements decrying such terrorism from the Jewish community. Muslim leaders, scholars, and communities around the world decry the terrorism of Daesh regularly. To blame any whole population, much less a billion and a half individuals is simply racist and hateful.
Rav Abraham Isaac Kook was the first Chief Ashkenazi Rabbi of British Mandatory Palestine in 1921 until his death in 1935. He teaches: “If we were destroyed, and the world with us, due to שינת חנם, baseless hatred, then we shall rebuild ourselves, and the world with us, with אהבת חנם, with unbounded love. Unbounded love is the way we respond to hate. It is the way we bring God close.
In Conservative/Masorti siddurim, you will see something special. In the morning blessings, we recite first, the blessing for our physical bodies. Praised are you God, who made us with bodies that have the ability to function. Following that, we recite the blessing for our souls. Without our souls, without the spirit that makes us all unique, we could not be here.
After this, there is the following line:
הריני מקבל עלי מצות הבורא: ואהבת לרעך כמוך.
Behold, I accept upon myself the commandment of the Creator: And you shall love your friend, neighbor, fellow human, as yourself.
We take it upon ourselves to fulfill God’s will, to place ourselves within the divine flow of the universe, when we love. ואהבת לרעך, and you shall love your neighbor, כמוך, who is just like you, who is you. This power is already within us, it is contained by us to see the other. The other who is like me.
What does it mean to be a part of the Jewish people? It means that I strive to bring forth God’s vision of love into the world devoid of fear and hate. We must live up to our potential, we must stand up and love.
It means that I don’t blame or hold responsible all Muslims for the acts of individuals. It means that I will not turn my eyes away from the refugees from Syria fleeing the violence of Daesh. It means that I will not stand idly by as presidential candidates, state governors, and our elected officials spout fear and hate. To be a Jew means that I love you. It means that I love Jews. It means that I love Muslims. It means that I love Republicans and Democrats, Europeans and Africans. It means that I love Palestinians and that I love Israelis.
You may have seen on the news, or through social media, an interview with a man and his son in Paris, themselves previously immigrants to France. His son, who is maybe five or six years old, is asked by the interviewer, “do you understand why those people did this?”
“They are bad guys and are not very nice” the boy explained, “and we must be very careful, otherwise we might have to move to a new home.” His father places his hand on his shoulder and says, “Don’t worry, we won’t have to move. France is our home.” His son looks up at him and says, “But there are bad guys here.” “Bad guys are everywhere,” his father tells him.
“They have guns and can shoot us because they are really nasty.” the boy responds. And here, the father says something really important. He says, “They might have guns, but we have flowers.” Our response to this statement might be just like his son’s, “Flowers don’t do anything.” His father points to the people placing flowers and lighting candles at the public memorial in Paris. “Look, everyone is leaving flowers. [The flowers] are to fight against the guns. And the candles are so we won’t forget the people who have gone.”
After a moment of watching the people, the boy turns to the interviewer and says, “The flowers and candles will protect us.”
This is not a naive response. What this young child understands, and what we need to remember, is that no amount of violence can take away our love of each other.
While, the heat of my anger still consumes me, and the cold of fear and sadness still comes to me at night, and the struggle to sleep remains. I refuse to let that bring me to hate. The only response for me, is to love. Even when it is hard, especially when it is hard.
Jeremy Markiz is a fifth year Ziegler student.