Today, we are hurting again, along with our families and friends, in Jerusalem and Gaza, all over Israel and all over Palestine.
It’s been a sleepless night for many, huddled in shelters or under stairs, counting the rockets and rocks, bombs and bullets, counting the wounded and dead.
Frantic calls and messages – Are you ok? No, but still here. My neighbor’s house is on fire. That was from my friend T. near Tel Aviv, at 4am.
Deaths, again, including babies. Tears, again, nonstop. Sirens, again, nonstop. Wounds and traumas, rage and fear, blood and fire fill the streets where the promise of a hopeful summer post-pandemic, had just begun to unfold. Lives interlocked in rage, as neighbors turn on one another in despair.
We all hold that familiar feeling of tightness in the chest, as our eyes search the news for any update, feeling dread with every incoming call and a silent prayer that it’s not bad news. Here we go. Again.
Where can we go from there? What can we do from here? What do I mean by “we”? Today, we hold the hurting, all who hurt, and commit to help and heal. As you read this, please pause with me and take a breath. And then another one. Again.
I want to say this. It’s a fragile, imperfect and fraught statement. “We” – means the greater we. It means solidarity with everybody who is suffering, regardless of who and why right now.
It’s on us who aspire to be human in divine design to hold and handle all the hurts, and all perspectives, all the misery and every single hope – for all of us, across all human realities and borders, across all lines of conflict. We are all in this together no matter how this cycle started. It’s all much older and more complex than the news cycle we are tuned into.
I am from Jerusalem and I am an Israeli-American, aware of the complexities, and I am aspiring to hold it all together, as a faith leader and father, as a son and brother, committed to co-existence and progress and peace. I am writing these words to my Jewish community and all friends in faith, and when I write “we” I do mean all of us, and I hope that we are all able, as best as we can, in the midst of this moment of continued anguish, to remember that many innocent lives are implicated, that children are killed and wounded, that civilians are once again victims of terror and warfare, in this continued situation which is unacceptable, painful and destructive.
There are political forces with agendas that defy love and justice. There is power that is being abused and there is fear that is being manipulated. There is systemic abuse, and there are deep-rooted causes that must be faced and dealt with, deeply and critically.
All our people deserve dignity and equity. All our people deserve a future of less pain and more prosperity and justice. To create that future we must face these causes, and until we face these systems, and commit completely to deep remedies.
These nights of rage come as our friends in the Muslim community celebrate the end of Ramadan, honoring the legacy of our shared ancestor Abraham and his sacrifice of devotion. The sacred Mosque in Jerusalem, on the mountain sacred to us all, was desecrated on the holy nights, and became a site of crisis as violence erupted and the anger of a few prevailed over the peaceful faith of many.
For the many Israelis celebrating Jerusalem Day this past week, the unification of Jerusalem is a rallying call of continued yearning for peace and stability. For others, it’s an opportunity for aggression. The heart breaks as sacred nights and days are desecrated by rage.
Next week we will celebrate Shavuot – the holiday of harvest and of Revelation. Let’s commit to the shared revelation of all faiths – that we are all created in divine image, all committed to make this world a better place, where we can all harvest hope and nourish each other.
“We” means solidarity not only in times of crisis. We are so blessed to be working closely and be in deep solidarity with other leaders and communities of faith, here in NYC and around the world. Our intersectional pain leads to collective commitment to justice and repair.
Yesterday as the scope of the news became apparent, we were able to reach out to our beloved friends in the Muslim community, offer them hopes for healing and a sacred holiday – and ask or their help in translating one of our ancient prayers of healing into Arabic. Within hours, we were able to co-create a message of healing in Arabic, Hebrew, English.
“We” means all of us together.
Let these holy nights be ones that elevate our spirits and not diminish lives.
So many join in tearful prayers that we all live up to the shared legacy of our ancestors and get beyond the divides that can be healed, building bridges that can repair the broken hearts and shattered trust. It’s possible. Maybe not today. But maybe tomorrow. Maybe in our lifetime. May it be.
Today, please let the blame game wait. Hold off for just a moment on the protests and demands, actions for change and accountability that we all must and will commit to and take on.
Today, let’s take a breath and take our fingers off the keyboard to focus on what we can learn, who we can listen to, who needs support, and how we can best respond and not get sucked into the swirl of us vs them venom, deadly despair, or silent apathy. This is complicated, and only patience and love and hope in our best human ability to transcend trauma can get us out of this mess. All of us, together. Today, reach out to someone you know who is torn by this crisis and offer support.
Scroll down for a few more suggestions and invitations.
I want to end this painful note with a fragment of a poem by Tawfiq Zayyad a Palestinian poet who was also an Israeli lawmaker that I am sad and glad to share with you on this dark day. I’m half way through reading The Optimist his riveting biography recently published by Stanford University Press.
Zayaad was a Palestinian activist and leader, a beloved poet, and also a member of Israel’s Parliament and Mayor of Nazarath. He never gave up on his vision for co-existence, repair and justice.
This is a fragment of a poem that he read from the podium of the Knesset in 1993, to mark the signing of the Oslo Peace Treaty. The treaty failed, but his words remain today, an optimistic promise:
Let the flower,
the bee,
the kiss,
the smile sparking in the eye
the right of speech.
Let the dew,
the lovers’ moon,
the bird
the right of speech.
Let the future,
borne on seagulls wings
the scent of lilac
the right of speech.
Let the peace,
today’s peace,
the right of speech.
With love, respect, and hopes for peace and healing
Rabbi Amichai Lau-Lavie
Watch
On Wednesday, May 13th many organizations who are working on the ground for human rights and peace, held a debriefing, on what we can do next. Watch the full recording here.
Saturday Evening
Join Lab/Shul as we end Shabbat and prepare for Shavuot. Join me, along with our leadership team, and with community partners who work for peace in Israel and Palestine, for a conversation that will enable us to hear updates and also shared what’s on our minds and hearts. Click here to join.
