Reunion

A couple days ago, in the initial disorienting wake of the Hamas attack on Isreal, I watched as Biden delivered a message to the White House press corps and to the world: “Our hearts may be broken,” declared the President, “but our resolve is clear.” And then: “Let there be no doubt—the United States has Israel’s back. We will make sure the Jewish democratic state of Israel can defend itself today and tomorrow as we always have. It’s as simple as that.”

Tears came, and relief. I let out the deep breath I’d been holding and relaxed, just for a moment, into the security and safety of our leader’s unequivocal message. We are united, resolved and correct, I thought; we are on the right side. But then a niggling voice crept in: surely it cannot be—is not—as simple as that.

We the people, all of us together but also each of us individually, are nuanced. Endlessly so. Our stories, our histories, our fears, our joys, our loves, our hopes and dreams—here overlapping and intersecting, there bumping noisily up against one another, sometimes weaving together seamlessly and melodically and sometimes separating us—my hard lines scraping against yours in ways that leave us both raw.

I wasn’t raised in a Jewish household. My access to a variety of faith traditions came mostly through my closest high school friends, most of whom are Jewish, which in hindsight was a very lucky thing. As a teenager I attended many bar and bat mitzvahs, many Passover seders and many hours of Yom Kippur service delivered in a language that I didn’t understand. I registered these traditions as beautiful, mysterious and important, but not my own.

And yet: genetically I am 51% Ashkenazi Jew.

And yet: Large living branches of my Polish, Jewish family tree were brutally hacked off by Nazis—my very existence a miracle made possible only by the heroism of my paternal grandparents who, after unspeakable hardship, arrived at Ellis Island with their three very young children in 1950 and who, at every opportunity, made me promise so many years later, over and over, that I would never forget.

The conflict between Jews and Palestinians stretches back into an expanse of time long before Netanyahu, before Hamas, before Israel, before, actually, the New Testament was first written. There is an intricate and vast history woven into today’s headlines that I’ve never taken the time to try to understand until now.

But I think making some sense of human history is critically important, both because it helps me to feel some measure of control in a time that feels chaotic, and also because it is my responsibility as a part of a global, social, shared human experience. Neutrality is never an option, when it comes to important things. My Dad, who is very wise, taught me this when I was a child and I take it for truth. We all have our ways of taking a stand, of taking a side, of having the courage of our convictions—it can be messy, it can be unsure, it can be uncomfortable—but it is essential to have an opinion. My voice doesn’t have to be loud, but it cannot be hollow or uneducated, and it cannot be silent.

I stand with Israel, but not against Palestinians. (Who among us, I wonder, despises the Palestinian child, born into a lifetime of conflict, hatred and pure evil?) I stand, with every fiber of my being, against the terrorist organization, Hamas. I stand with humanity, against those who would choose to obliterate it. I stand with the power of light to overcome darkness, again and again and again.

Last night, lying in bed, flipping from side to side, I thought through all of these things. This morning I chose to care for myself by moving my body, raising my heart rate, listening to music and writing this. Tomorrow I fly to New York, for a weekend of plans centered on my 35th high school reunion, and will have chance to be with the group of friends from that tender and formative time in my life—women who are Jewish and so whose nuances are different from my nuances, but with whom I share so much that is dear. When I’m with them I will hold them very tight, look into their eyes and promise them, over and over, that I will never forget.