We Are in Mourning

Hello, friends.

Yesterday, an antisemitic terrorist walked into a Conservative synagogue in Pittsburgh, yelled, "All Jews must die," then proceeded to kill 11 people, and wounded several others. All those who died were in the synagogue on a Saturday morning, just as countless Jews go to synagogue during Shabbat every week--just as I went to synagogue Friday evening. They were there for a bris, a ceremony for a new baby boy that marks the belonging of that child to the Jewish people--a celebration of a new life. And these people were murdered in cold blood in their house of worship by an automatic weapon. 

This is the worst antisemitic attack to take place in the U.S. since the establishment of our country. There are no words for this tragedy, for the magnitude of this tragedy, and yet we have to find them.

I have said several times over the past 36 hours that this horror was not unexpected in my mind. Without going into too much detail the history of antisemitism (some of you may know I have done a fair amount of research into European antisemitism; I am very willing to share it offline with anybody who wants to learn more), the facts are thus: throughout history, from nearly the beginning of the Jewish people, other people have hated the Jewish people. While the excuses for this hatred have varied--whether claims about the Jewish role in the death of Jesus, criticisms in the Middle Ages of having some magical solution to the Black Plague and not sharing it (afterward largely attributed to Jewish hygiene practices, even perhaps ritual mikveh usage), claims to a worldwide Jewish conspiracy, to some now claiming criticism of the state of Israel as reason enough to hate all Jews--antisemitism has always, always been there. Periods of calm were few and far between, and they always ended. There were always killings. Burning Jews in front of an audience. Or pogroms. Or the ovens of the Shoah. Over, and over, and over again, people have targeted Jews. I am not going to even hazard a guess here as to why, as the fact remains that we are targets.

I have traveled a fair amount around Europe, and often try to go to synagogue on Friday nights in whatever city I am in. Rome, Barcelona, Dublin, London--many different places, many different synagogues. And guess what? All or almost all of them have security all the time, and will heavily question anyone coming for services that they don't recognize. In London I even had to send my passport information ahead of time in order to be checked out before Shabbat. When I lived in Rome, I remember feeling the tragedy of the major synagogue in Rome, which faced an attack in 1982 by Palestinian terrorists when they drove by and shot at the shul. Thirty-seven people were wounded, and a two-year-old child died that day. I understood why there is always security there, and why they were suspicious whenever I would come for services. In Barcelona, the questions for me and my friend went on for so long one Friday night that I wondered if they would bar us from the service altogether.

I have long figured that eventually, American Jews would need to employ similar tactics to protect ourselves. Already, major synagogues in major cities here do hire protection--but the suburban shuls have long felt safe without it. No longer.

When people say, "How could this happen here?" I think of how in 2017 in Charlottesville a Reform synagogue had to face down a group with guns standing outside their doors, and the president did not condemn it fiercely. Or how not three years before a gunman entered a Jewish community center and nursing facility in Kansas in 2014 and killed three people. That's not to mention the countless other attacks against Jews around the world--in a kosher supermarket in France, in southern France, the issues facing Jews in the U.K. today from their own political parties. No one who has been paying attention and watching these things unfold over the past few years could doubt that we are moving out of our relative period of calm, and back into a much fuller outward display of antisemitism.

So for now, as I think about how those in a synagogue in the state where I now live faced death at the hands of a terrorist, we mourn. We mourn, and we hold each other, and we pray. We all run through in our mind which Jews we know in Pittsburgh to reach out and see if they are alive. Jewish institutions around the country and the world are putting in place further protections. My rabbinical school has informed us already that the local police will be having a larger presence for us at school this week., and that "active shooter protocols" will be uploaded to our website shortly. My inbox and my Facebook timeline are filled with official statements by Jewish and interfaith groups. Vigils and prayer services are taking place everywhere, it seems.

But then, once we can find the inner strength, we need to cease our mourning and do something. 

One of the reasons I became involved in interfaith relations was because I had researched antisemitism, both past and present, and wanted a way to fight against this baseless hatred for my own and other people. And it is actually this line of work that has me hoping that this time around--as antisemitism obviously rears its ugly head in our world, in our backyards, once again--that maybe, just maybe, we'll be more effective at fighting it.

I have hope because of the many people of different faiths who reached out to me after the shooting, just to check on me. I have hope because when I posted about the tragedy on Facebook, Christians and Muslims and Jews all commented together. I have hope because Muslim folks came together to raise money for the families of the victims, and has already raised more than $50,000. I have hope because the statistics show that if you know just one person of a particular faith, you are more likely to have positive views of members of that faith. Yes, there were people in the past who cared about the Jews in times of trouble and fought to save them. But I am hoping against hope that this time around, even more people will stand up for us when these things happen. Just as I stand up for those of other faiths, I believe that there are people out there who will do the same for me.

And I especially have hope because this next week, from November 1-7, 10,000 people from over 200 faith and non-faith traditions are heading up to Toronto for the World Parliament of Religions, a gathering that happens every few years and seeks to promote respect and understanding among peoples. But that is a post for another time.

So how can you stand up after this tragedy, if you are not Jewish? Reach out to the Jewish people in your life, now. Send a hug or a heart or call them, but just let them know you see them, and that what happened is not okay. Then check in with them again in two days. And then a week. Let them know that this is not going to be forgotten. Encourage your spiritual leaders to speak about this in your own weekly faith services, because we need more people to care. Learn about the victims--learn their names, their stories, look at their faces, realize how much was lost in that synagogue yesterday morning. Support your local community by attending a vigil for those lost. And perhaps most difficult of all: when you hear people make comments about Jews or any group of people, however small or seemingly harmless, speak up. Yes, it is difficult and uncomfortable and may even hurt or even end relationships you have with some people. But until we all--Jewish and non-Jewish alike--start speaking out against all forms of prejudice with our collective voice, these things will continue happening...just as they always have. Let's make the future different.

Speak out, my friends, and make your voices heard.

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.*

I am speaking out for you--will you speak out for me?

Now go out, and especially today and this week, and love one another.

<3,
Allyson  
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*Credited to Martin Niemöller, a German Lutheran pastor speaking about the cowardice of German intellectuals following the Nazis' rise to power