The terror attack against the Har Nof synagogue was barbaric. Once again, too many Palestinians have demonstrated their murderous hatred against all Jews. It doesn’t matter where Jews are, what they believe, what they are doing, or how old or young they are. That anyone could commit these crimes, that anyone could justify them, that anyone could distribute candies and wave mock axes to celebrate them, is unfathomable – yet this is the enemy Israel faces.
As Israelis struggle with teens killed while hitchhiking, babies being run over, and rabbis being butchered while praying, the coping and mourning mechanisms from previous terror waves have returned.
The geography of terror demonstrates the mental games people play, and the mind games terrorists wish to impose on us. Jerusalem is a safe city in a safe country. Israeli men have the lowest mortality rate in the civilized world. Still, the terrorists’ spectacular crimes prey on people. Jerusalemites know where each crime occurred. Many calculate how far those sites are from their normal paths and, being human, how convenient it is to avoid those spots. Others, of course, defiantly maintain their routines. Regardless, the awareness of what happened and where lingers and chills the soul.
The chronology of coincidence emphasizes these events’ randomness. We trade stories about the victim who usually prayed earlier, but slept in that day, or the synagogue regular who would have been there, but slept even later. For the non-victim, contemplating coincidences can be soothing, as most of us trust our luck. Alas, I know victims of terror who relive the moment, or the moment before, frozen in the woulda, shoulda, coulda that didn’t happen and now tortures them constantly.
Finally, the topography of loss offers us different gates into the devastating narratives of sorrow. The Har Nof slaughter created five widows, 25 orphans and dozens of other grieving relatives, including some elderly parents forced to bury their sons. To process all that pain is overwhelming. Instead, we link to one story, then another. Sometimes, the media emphasizes one particular heartbreak or act of heroism. Often, a personal connection orients our anguish.
For me, the death of Rabbi Moshe Twersky hit extra hard, because he was the son of my professor, Rabbi Isadore Twersky. Prof. Twersky was a legend, both Harvard professor and chassidic rebbe. When I was a graduate student preparing for my oral exams, he supervised me in modern Jewish history, despite his expertise being medieval Jewish thought, especially Maimonides. Nevertheless, because other historians were on leave, he took me on – and broadened my understanding of modern Zionism to include modern religious thought, while modelling the kind of rigorous scholarship and love of learning that made him a great teacher and thinker.
Watching him closely, I admired what I called his “open cloister” approach. He lived his life in a traditional bubble. Yet, intellectually, he was far more open and bolder than most colleagues who dressed more fashionably.
As we studied the clash between traditional Judaism and modernity, I was embarrassed to tell him that my grandfather had been a Talner Chassid who followed his father, the Talner Rebbe. After Prof. Twersky’s untimely death, when I eulogized him in these pages, his widow wrote me a lovely letter, which, of course, made me regret my reticence and taught me not to forgo such opportunities. People are people and enjoy making personal connections.
Since Rabbi Moshe Twersky’s horrific death, my love and concern for all the families has been channelled through this particular tie. I urge everyone to read about one recent victim, to think about one life, to contemplate one grieving family. Making that personal link helps us take these killings personally – which we must do. All of us who care about Israel and believe in democracy were targeted. And until the entire western world takes these murders more personally and connects to the victims as one way of stirring outrage, the epidemic of terror will continue.