All photos courtesy of Gili Getz

You’ve probably seen the news

On Sunday afternoon, 1000 Jews and allies in NYC, including members of Lab/Shul’s staff and our Justice Team, took over the flagship Amazon Bookstore on 34th Street and 5th Ave. There, we created a Tisha B’Av ritual and action targeting Amazon for its profiteering from and enabling of Immigration Customs and Enforcement (ICE). Our community chanted verses of Eicha– the Book of Lamentations– in Hebrew and English and Spanish. We invited many to take on leadership roles, and we engaged in call and response to involve our full community. We spoke of the tragedy of our past and the tragedy playing out in real time on our border. We sang and prayed. Since there were too many of us to fit inside the store, hundreds gathered outside the doors, replicating the ritual on the sidewalk. Together, and in collaboration with over 50 parallel actions around the United States, we mourned. 

The ritual itself was inspiring. If we had only sat in the Amazon Store and enacted our ritual, dayenu– it would have been enough. 

Instead, as planned, a group of us escalated our action and refused to disperse, linking arms in the universal symbol of civil disobedience. 44 were arrested, including 11 rabbis– more than a minyan. I was among them. 

The NYPD led us through the singing crowd gathered outside the store and loaded some of us onto a police van before realizing that there were dozens of arrestees and opting to requisition an MTA bus. You could almost have imagined that we were trying to get from the east side to the west were it not for the surprisingly painful plastic handcuffs. The person next to me sneezed and was horribly apologetic because she couldn’t cover her mouth. We sang Jewish prayers and American folk. As a person who loves to sing but can be shy, I stepped up and started a few tunes. We were all out of our comfort zones, and we all acted in ways that frightened us a little, because we had to do something. 

If you have thought of taking an action like this in the past but are afraid, I want to tell you that I see you. A few days ago, I was you. So here are a few reflections on what the experience of risking arrest for the purpose of civil disobedience was like. Next time I won’t be as afraid. Next time, maybe you too will be willing to act. 

Jail is gendered. From the time the police cuffed us until we were released, everything was conducted in the binary. On the bus, the NYPD sat people they identified as female together and people they identified as male together. When we reached the precinct, we were accompanied by our arresting officers through a process of ID gathering and photos, and then men were sent to one area and women another. Each of us was subjected to a TSA-level pat down before being placed in cells in groups of 3-4. The cells themselves were sparse and clearly intended for a single occupant. A bench built into one wall was covered with a gym mat, and right next to that was the tiniest of sinks and a 1-piece toilet. No lid, no rim, no way to weaponize. There was also no privacy to be had, but each time a male officer needed to pass by, a female officer walked down the row first, rapping the bars and calling out: “Ladies, are you decent?” 

We were there for about 5 hours, which was longer than most of us had expected. At first I had three cellmates from our group: a college student, a city government employee, and a professional organizer. We didn’t know each other when we sat down, but over the course of our time together we shared stories, hopes, and worries. None of us asked the others why we had chosen to take part in the action that day. We already knew: We were all out of our comfort zones, and we all acted in ways that frightened us a little, because we had to do something. 

Cell to cell, we sang. We cheered as each person was released and as our numbers grew smaller. One by one, each of my cellmates was freed, and then I was alone. I pulled my knees into my chest, placed my tallis– my prayer shawl– on top, and tucked my head onto my arms. And I waited. Even knowing that I would soon be released, I felt a loneliness– a loneliness I knew could only barely begin to touch upon the horrific, systemic loneliness faced by people in detention. My time alone in a cell was limited. Most people in detention have no idea when or if they will be freed. There is no predictability to their arrests or the trauma they’ll face inside.

When my paperwork was processed, my arresting officer brought me to a desk where someone handed me a court date: October 1, otherwise known as Tishrei 2, otherwise known as the second day of Rosh Hashanah. JFREJ’s legal team is working on changing it. 

My arresting officer walked me to the corner and told me to take care, and I crossed the street to cheers from JFREJ’s “Jail Support Team.” They greeted me with food, water, hugs, and a flower. It was 1:30AM when I got to my apartment, stepping up my stairs, through my door, and back into my comfort zone. 

I was in jail for a matter of hours. It’s been two days and I’m still feeling a little shaken up by it. And? I would absolutely do it again. I’m not allowed to get in trouble for the next six months though, so maybe next time there’s an action I’ll be on the Jail Support Team. I will continue to act. 

In the social media response to our action, those of us who risked arrest were called heroes. A friend of mine said she was proud to know such “badass activists.” But we’re not heroes, and I hope that before long we won’t be seen as badass. We’re people who can afford risk and who refuse to look away, and we need more of us. It is a collective task to fix our broken world, and so we must continue to act, even when acting is hard. 

Perhaps that’s the most important message for those of us who are not in immediate danger: We are all out of our comfort zones, and we all must act in ways that frighten us a little, because we have to do something. That “something” isn’t always going to be risking arrest. On Sunday, the arrestees mattered. The people who stood outside the store and chanted and sang and called out their support mattered. The negotiators who spoke with the police and the employees of the store mattered. The organizers who held our phones and wallets and keys for us while we were in jail so we wouldn’t lose them, mattered. The activists who waited for us on a street corner when we were released in the middle of the night mattered. The people who could not come to the action in person but shared the livestream on social media mattered. 

Each of us, acting for this shared vision, matters. 

– Rabbi Emily Cohen