Reckoning with what we’ve lost; celebrating what we have
by Rabbi Shoshana Kaminsky
Early this year, I had one of those experiences where I could feel the ground shifting under my feet. In January I was the one Jewish speaker at a rally entitled “Never again is now,” which was held on the steps of the South Australian Parliament. It was a very peculiar afternoon: the rally was sponsored by an evangelical Christian group, comprised of the kind of people who come up to you, stare meaningfully into your eyes, and say, “Shalom!” They wore Jewish stars and even brought their own shofars. I resisted the impulse to run the other way. I was the final speaker for this gathering of religious and political leaders combatting the alarming rise of anti-Semitism in Australia and around the world.
Those shofars turned out to be really useful. About one minute before our rally began, a group of several hundred counter protesters started screaming at the top of their lungs. They continued to do so through the entire hour-long rally, attempting and often succeeding in drowning out words of conciliation and unity. Finally, it was my turn to speak. I thought to myself, “Let’s see if they actually try to shout down the rabbi,” and then they did just that, launching into one of their favorite chants, “Stop killing children!” I addressed them directly: I pointed out that they were making my own point about how Israel’s war in Gaza was now blamed on every Jew in the world, playing into that old trope that we were all in some evil cabal together. I found a steel within myself that I didn’t know was there, but just writing this words down is making me feel shaky all over again.
Later that evening someone sent me a clip from a local news network covering the rally. A well-known Muslim figure who affiliated with the radical left was justifying her organization’s decision to disrupt a peaceful gathering dedicated to fighting intolerance against Jews. Standing next to her and nodding his furious agreement was a former conversion student of mine.
Some part of me had known for months that Adelaide was no longer a completely safe place. In late October, a small group made up mostly of Israeli expats gathered quietly in a busy shopping area with photos of the hostages. They were surrounded by a much larger, threatening mob who shouted in their faces and blocked their escape route. Eventually, they were escorted to safety by police. I have lived a privileged Jewish life, and so the idea that being Jewish now placed me in harm’s way took a very long time to plant itself within me. I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that my world had shifted so fundamentally.
Tomorrow afternoon, I will invite you to dedicate a somber hour to marking a year since October 7. Yehudah Kurtzer, president of the Shalom Hartman Institute in North America, noted that those terrible events had devastating but different impact on Israelis and Jews living in the diaspora. Israelis experienced the disorientation that comes from seeing a border they had long believed to be absolutely protected breached with horrific consequences. The country came together with a unity of purpose and resolve that meant that all Israelis, including those who had suffered unimaginable loss, knew that they were part of something larger. We on distant shores felt their pain too, and tomorrow is a time for us to mark the year that has passed since that awful day. But our experiences in the months that followed have been very different.
Quite simply, a lot of us here in the diaspora feel more alone and isolated than we ever have. I know of many who have ended long-term friendships with non-Jews who were not able to affirm our pain without inserting the word “but” into the sentence. “...but Israel needs to show restraint” “... but see how many more women in Gaza are suffering.” “...but it was to be expected.” A few weeks after October 7, a progressive Christian minister for whom I had great respect issued an initial invitation to me to join him on his podcast for a nuanced, respectful conversation. And then he stopped writing to me altogether. When I arrived for that strange rally against anti-Semitism in Adelaide, I noted wryly how recent developments meant that the Christians now most likely to stand up for me were those with whom I probably disagreed on just about every other issue.
As I stood on the steps of Parliament House in January, I spoke with certainty about Israel’s war in Gaza as a just war. Hamas had invaded Israel. Over and over again, it had made clear its intentions to do exactly the same or even worse at the earliest opportunity. It had weaponized every inch of Gaza, building tunnels under schools, hospitals and private homes. They had diverted billions of dollars away from building an economy and providing for the population and fortified the territory instead. In its 18 years in power, Hamas had not built a single bomb shelter for the civilian population. They understood all too well how photos of suffering people in Gaza would leave Israel a pariah state.
All these months later, I have lost confidence in Israel’s war in Gaza, along with many of my Israeli friends. Prime Minister Netanyahu is holding on to the war for dear life, knowing that as soon as it ends he will be thrown out of power. He has prioritized the unattainable goal of eradicating every member of Hamas over bringing home the hostages, and Israeli society now is more divided than ever. The murder of six hostages whose lives might have been secured with a ceasefire deal broke something deep inside of me. Israelis continue to experience ongoing trauma, AND I am keenly aware of the unimaginable suffering of the civilians of Gaza, whose own government has done the exact opposite of supporting them. And now a second front has opened up in Lebanon, and who knows what will come next? The situation in the Middle East has become so complicated that even I, someone who talks for a living, can’t properly articulate all of my conflicting thoughts.
In the midst of this, I am left with that gnawing feeling that my safety as a Jew is falling away. I was blessed with 58 good years. Up until last January, I’d never experienced overt anti-Semitism directed right at me. I am painfully aware that my children and your children and grandchildren are living in a different world. Colleges are no longer safe places. Conversations with friends can suddenly turn hostile and threatening. I know parents whose adult children are not speaking to them because they have chosen the Palestinian cause over their own families. On Yom Kippur, we are called to take control and responsibility for our lives. This year, I feel that so much has spun out of my own control.
So what to do? Here are three suggestions as to how to move forward:
Remain engaged with Israel, painful and frustrating though it sometimes is. Israel has the largest Jewish population in the world, and it has a Jewish culture which is both incredibly alive and utterly different from Jewish culture in the US. I recommend subscribing to the website “Times of Israel” and, if you’ve got a bit more energy, also subscribing to the daily newspaper “Ha’aretz.” Watch Israeli films and television shows, listen to contemporary Israeli music, and read Israeli literature. Partnership is offering a three-day mission to Israel at the end of February at the crazy price of $100 plus airfare. But if that is your first trip to Israel, you’ll want to stay for as long as you can to get a sense of the whole country with its layered complexities. Get as far off of the tourist path as you can!
Reclaim the lost art of listening. It’s been said that every rabbi has only one sermon. I think this is probably mine. If we cannot learn to listen to each other, it is impossible to imagine a future together. We have become acclimated to listening only long enough to figure out how we are going to show that the other person is wrong. What we ideally should be doing is listening so that we can learn about what really matters to that person. To be clear: listening can really only happen when we are in the same physical location, completely focused on one another with an open heart. There are absolutely going to be times when we will have to make the difficult decision to walk away. But it’s also important to bear in mind that we have all experienced tremendous pain over the last year, and that pain has made it difficult to affirm that others are hurting as well. Let us begin with the assumption that all of us have suffered, and see where we might find common ground.
And finally, living well is the best revenge, and Judaism provides an amazing assortment of ways to live well. I invite you to embrace all of the celebratory parts of our glorious tradition in this coming year. If you’re feeling generous, invite your friends and neighbors to join in, so that they will understand the compelling reasons why we continue to hold on fast to our connection to one another. If there are gaps in your Jewish knowledge, take this year to fill them in. I’m considering offering classes in the history of Zionism, the Jewish people, and any other topics that might interest you. Feel free to make requests!
Israelis have been wishing each a shana yoteir tovah—not a good year, but a better year. It is hard to imagine a worse year than the one we’ve been through. Let us reflect on what we can each do to make the year the lies ahead the best possible year. Shana tova!