The Limits of Empathy

When tragedy hits another, someone you’ve never met and never will meet, what is your response?

Very few people will brush off the news without even a second thought. Even fewer (probably none) will feel the pain like someone who was directly affected. But between these two extremes, what is your reaction, and what do you believe the proper reaction should be? Is it correct to feel pain, and if so, to what extent? Should one encourage feelings of pain and sadness, or try to dispel them?

There are, as I see it, pros and cons to each side. One might argue that you should encourage and experience sensations of grief: this is empathy, feeling for someone else, a compassionate human quality. When you suffer, I suffer, because we are all intrinsically connected.

However, on the other side, if I allow myself to grieve, if I dwell on the tragedy, cry, and feel pain, where do I draw the line? At what point do I distract myself from these thoughts, or allow myself to be distracted? At what point does my grief for people unknown become excessive, detracting from my ability to do other things, to be productive, to live my own life? Is it really right for me to be sad and depressed, even for just a number of hours, because of something that didn’t happen to me, and that only hurts me because I allow it to?

Why I Cried

As I sat in the back seat of my parents' rented car, departing three hours early for a wedding that was 1.5 hours' drive away (my father is ridiculously paranoid about traffic), my emotions were mixed. I was grateful to be well enough to be out of bed, happy to see my parents, glad to be going to a simcha; but also weak and drained from my illness, nervous about the week and a half of school I'd missed, and stressed by the rush from class to meet my parents. My feelings sloshed around messily inside me. And then my phone buzzed, a text message from my friend.

"Terrorists infiltrated yeshivat merkaz harav and have killed at least 7 yeshiva boys. Please say tehillim and please pass the message around….."

My heart stopped. It didn't sink in. "Um, bad news," I stuttered aloud to my parents. "There's been a terrorist attack at a yeshiva in Yerushalayim."

For once my news-conscious father had not been listening to the radio. He turned it on.

"…at least seven killed and dozens wounded in a terrorist attack on a religious seminary in Jerusalem. Sources say the attacker infiltrated the school by dressing up as a student…"

When I heard the anonymous American news anchor say these words in his flat, emotionless American voice, the tears began to spill out of my eyes faster than I could catch them. Even I was surprised by the violence of my reaction. I didn't want to make a scene or alarm my parents, so I tried to cry noiselessly, unobtrusively, in the back seat. My father noticed, and tactfully said nothing.

I cried.

....

I love my land, my people; I feel connected; but I am not usually the type who cries so easily for tragedies that I haven't experienced firsthand. So why today?

Lately, I think, I have been far away. While my ideals of unity and connectedness were still intact, the emotions that accompany them had been gradually diminishing. My mind had been full of other ideas, other emotions. Important ideas, important emotions, yes, but my head and my heart can only focus on a certain amount at a time. It is part of the limit of being human; every choice requires a sacrifice, whether conscious or not.

And suddenly, I found myself confronted with a tragedy. A reminder.

In my head, I saw Yeshivat Merkaz Harav as I most vividly remember it: the night of Yom Ha'atzmaut after maariv, hundreds of young men, dancing with pure joy, full of gratitude to Hashem, celebrating our ability to live in our homeland. And then I imagined the same place, filled with emergency vehicles, stained with blood.

I cried.

I felt it, I felt the hurt. How could they do such a thing to us?

And then, to hear the bored anchor continue tonelessly on to other news, treated as equally, if not more, important—trivial news, most of it—ripped me apart. I yelled silently at the radio: "What do you mean!? That's all?! That's all you have to say? Do you understand what you just said? How can you just move on from that? How can you talk about the stupid tiny details of the primary vote tallies, or the four-year-old girl who showed up to school drunk? They just killed at least seven members of my family!"

But, of course, the news anchor really didn't care much. Why should he, in truth? Israel is a tiny country, far away; for him, the people there exist only in the same way that all theoretical people exist, the ones we've never met and never will meet.

Realizing this, I felt, anew, that connection, that pull, that reminds me why I care, why this feels so different to me than it does to Mr. News Anchor. Kol Yisrael areivim zeh lazeh: we are one family; we are connected.

It is not a question of politics. It is not about the right solution, the wrong solution, whether there is a solution. And for me, it doesn't feel like a time to ask God why, either. It feels like a time to feel. A time to experience the emotion of connectedness; to hurt because of my brothers' and sisters' hurt, to stand together as one people, united against those who wish to exterminate us.

Am Yisrael chai.

One Family

I recently returned from an all-too-brief trip to the Holy Land where, among other things, I celebrated the wedding of my 20-year-old cousin to a wonderful (and very quiet) girl. The trip was amazing, and I did and saw and felt so many things. Since there’s no way to record them all, I’ll start with one event that made me think.

Two shabboses ago was shabbos sheva brachot, and there was a meal for the families and close friends of both the chatan and kallah—nearly 100 people—at a hotel on Friday night. Then on shabbos day the families ate separately. Those of us on the chatan’s side had lunch at his family’s house, where they fit forty people into their living room/dining room. One table was designated for the “under 25” constituent, and midway into lunch a heated debate began at our table. The chatan and his family moved to Israel from LA about 17 years ago and they are modern and extremely tzioni. Their cousins on their mother’s side, however, are chareidi, and this led to an interesting, um, “discussion.” Along one side of the table sat five chareidi cousins (ranging in age from about 17 to 6) and on the other side sat the chatan’s brothers, sister, and a few other like-minded friends and family. A very heated debate broke out in rapid Hebrew between the chareidi cousins and the chatan’s 15-year-old brother about serving in the Israeli army and the role of learning in modern life. Shortly all five chareidi kids were yelling at my cousin, as he sat and attempted to calmly respond to their arguments. A bemused crowd gathered to listen to a debate we knew would never be settled. A food fight seemed imminent, as all appeared on the verge of suddenly snapping.

As I watched, however, it occurred to me that as heated as the debate seemed to be, it was a very healthy phenomenon. The arguers were members of the same family. They are very close, they love one another, and yet they disagree passionately. When my uncle began singing zmiros loudly their argument was interrupted, and within a minute everyone was singing together as if the debate had never occurred. This drove home the point to me.

The ability to hear a perspective disparate from one’s own, to argue, to debate, and yet to love one another is a beautiful thing and extremely important. This ability comes naturally when dealing with one’s close family, but if only we could extend it to all of klall Yisrael, the world would be a much better place. Really, all Jews are family, and as much as we may disagree, we should listen to one another, hear a new perspective, and unite in the end, conscious and secure in our mutual affection despite—and because of—our differences.

The Value of Playing Devil's Advocate

This weekend was awesome. Having spent it with, among others, two illustrious Bloggers (and having discussed blogging-related issues far more often and at greater length than I ever have before), I felt it would be just plain wrong to neglect mention of it in this forum. As always, SerandEz were perfect hosts--the food was amazing, the company stimulating, and the baby absolutely adorable.

In addition to blog-related topics of conversation, we had quite a few other deep and fascinating (and lengthy) discussions. One of these related to whether it is necessary to acknowledge the validity of approaches that conflict with our own, and whether by doing so one is crushing youthful idealism.

I shall not even attempt to recap the majority of the conversation, but for me, the bottom line was that it is absolutely imperative to try to understand the point of view of those with whom we disagree, for two main reasons. One is that, though idealism is wonderful, it is impractical to refuse to see how the world functions (even if you disagree with the methods by which it does). Idealists are the only ones who will ever be able to affect change, and if they stay in lala land and never open their eyes to the real world and to points of view that differ from their own, how are they going to do anything? If you simply say “the other side is garbage” and dismiss it, no one will listen to anything you have to say. You need to understand the other side in order to argue against it.

Furthermore…and I think even more importantly...it is crucial to understand that there is another perspective. That even though you may disagree with that perspective, it is an approach. It is valid. People who hold that approach are valid, and it is not right to harbor dislike and animosity towards them. We have to understand them in order to love them, to promote ahavas Yisroel. For me, this is the bottom line. Love your fellow Jew. The End.

Kol Sasson V'Kol Simcha

This weekend I went home for a wedding. Leaving school smack in the middle of midterms: not a good idea. I missed three tests. Count ‘em—THREE. Yeeeah. However, despite the mess that I am in now that I have returned, the weekend was super duper incredible. The wedding was that of a very close family friend—a 36 year old baal teshuva whose new kallah is a 33 year old baalas teshuva. Both of them are amazing people, and have been searching for their beshert for a long time. There were a lot of things about the weekend and the whole experience of the wedding that I found truly inspiring:

1) The wedding was simple by today’s standards. The couple didn’t have a big budget, so a group of close friends pitched in and really took over many of the important details. My mom was in charge of the flowers and decorating (since there was no florist), among other things. Though I wasn’t around for most of the planning, once I was home, I was included in the mad rush to make the wedding a success. It was amazing to see how everyone in the community rallied around the chassan and kallah. The wedding was such a community effort, with everyone contributing and participating to make the wedding beautiful. This was expressed this most clearly to me when, after the shabbos kallah, the overwhelmed kallah asked if the women who were still there (her closest friends and family) could chip in and help her say sefer tehillim. It is a minhag for the kallah to say it on her wedding day, but our kallah simply needed help. So we all volunteered and split up sefer tehillim between us, each woman taking as many as she could handle, depending on her time constraints and level of skill in Hebrew. It really made it so clear that we were all pieces of one whole, as we all shared in the kallah’s experience and her joy.

2) The wedding was in the chosson’s hometown (which is also my hometown), so the kallah’s friends and family all had to be put up at different people’s houses in the community. On Friday night a family in the community hosted dinner for the 35 out-of-town visitors and their hosts. We were there, and I had the opportunity to meet the kallah’s side. It was so lovely to meet so many new people, every one of whom was so incredibly nice and friendly. Both the chassan and kallah have hashkafically diverse families and backgrounds, so at the wedding, there were all different types of people—from Aish, Chabad, Modern Orthodox, non-religious, even Breslav—and everyone got along so well, and joined in together to be mesameach the chassan and kallah. Though unfortunately the Jewish community often has problems of sectionalism and a lack of unity, an experience like this weekend reminds me how beautiful it is when Jews are united.

3) Since the chassan and kallah are both baalei teshuva, many of their friends are as well. I met and spoke to so many amazing baalei teshuva this weekend, and meeting them just gives me hope for the future of klall Yisrael. I am so awed and inspired by people who have come to yahadus later in their lives and embraced it with hearts so full that the enthusiasm and joy that Torah brings to their lives simply overflows. I have so much respect for them, and just being around them and hearing their stories makes me so incredibly happy.

4) The chassan and kallah themselves. I’ve known the chassan for years, so his uniqueness is already old news to me (though he’s also great)—but the kallah, who just came into our lives a few months ago, is one of my new favorite people in the world. She is amazing. About a month and a half before the wedding, she was getting ready to move from her old city to her new city (the chassan’s hometown). She had all her possessions packed in a U-Haul truck, ready to be moved. She left the truck, locked, in front of her apartment while she went to spend shabbos away, and when she came back, the truck had been stolen. The kallah lost all her physical possessions in the world. I cannot even imagine handling a catastrophe like that, but the kallah did, with grace and a positive attitude. I can’t even fathom it. Plus, she is just so warm and knows exactly what to say to each person to make him/her feel appreciated and special. Anyone who knows me will know that I am not the type to say something like this, but…that girl just has the most beautiful neshama. She’s truly incredible, and I am so so happy for her and her chassan and wish them the happiest, most wonderful life together. (Sniff, sniff, ok, wipe away my tears)

Anyway, the wedding came off beautifully, the chassan and kallah were glowing, and we were all going out of our heads with joy. The weekend was a wonderful experience, and it made me appreciate my home and my community all the more. Hoorah! But now I’m back, and it’s time to return to the drudge of school and midterms. So off I go…drudge, drudge, drudge…

New Yorkers: To Bash or Not to Bash?

Last week, over on Ezzie's Blog there was some discussion of the issue of “New York bashing.” As a proud out-of-towner, I must admit that I am guilty of possessing some negative stereotypes about certain NY Jews and their attitude. However, I acquired these stereotypes based on real-life experience, and of course I don’t apply them across the board. The truth is that before I went to Israel for a year after high school, I had practically never met a New Yorker in my life. It was only then that my eyes were opened with a vengeance to the concept of in-town vs. out-of-town. I quickly found out firsthand about some of the issues with the stereotypically “New York” mentality. When I started going to school in NY the following year, I found out even more. No one will deny that the differences between being a Jew in-town and out-of-town are plentiful. I’m not going to discuss the pros and cons of these differences here, but I will weigh in on the appropriate time, place, and way to point out flaws within certain segments of the Jewish community in New York.

My final disclaimer is this: I am close friends with a ton of in-towners, whom I love to pieces, and many of whom display none of the negative stereotypical characteristics of in-towners. There are far too many Jews in this area to make a generalization about any group—inevitably, every group has an infinite number of variations within it. If you are a New Yorker reading this, it should in no way be taken as a personal attack. It is very possible that you are among the New Yorkers who are as well-mannered, considerate, and sensitive as any out-of-towner could ever hope to be. That said, it must be acknowledged that, unfortunately, there are many New Yorkers who do not share your attitude. Any negativity is directed solely at those who display behaviors that merit it. Ok, now to what I wanted to say:

The bottom line is this: Orthodox Jews need as much good publicity as they can get. If I was to write an article for a non-Jewish publication, I would never ever write about problems with pushy NY Jews. Instead, I would write about positive examples of Orthodox Judaism. And if a non-frum person or a non-Jew out-of-town said something negative to me about New Yorky Orthodox Jews, I would respond with an adamant defense, and tell the person that that’s not the case at all. I would say that the problems the person encountered were probably the result of the hectic NYC mentality, which affects Jews and non-Jews alike, and is not a problem unique to the Jewish community. If the person persisted, and cited examples, I would say that it is unfortunate that he/she had encountered people like that, but that the majority of Orthodox Jews in New York are not like that, and that those people, who should indeed change their ways, are exceptions and not the rule.

However, I think it entirely appropriate to discuss problems with the mentality and actions of certain NY Jews in a private setting. If there is no discussion of these issues, then the problems will only be propagated and ignored, and we are all at risk of falling into the same kind of behavior. As someone who lives in NY (temporarily), I am, of course, prone to the possibility of acting in the ways that so disturb me. By talking about the issues that undeniably exist among certain populations of NY Jews, I attempt to keep myself and those who hear what I have to say away from those behaviors. There is a delicate balance between speaking out to correct behaviors when needed and perpetrating sinas chinam. However, the fact that it is tricky does not mean that we must keep entirely silent about the problems we see. If nothing is said, nothing will be done, and no Jew should feel content to merely sit back and watch the amount of chillul Hashem that sometimes occurs. As frum Jews, we are all responsible for one another, and the actions of any one of us affects the image of the entire group. We need to offer mussar in whatever way we deem will be most effective--but without being overly harsh or allowing personal bitterness to infiltrate our reaction.

A friend from NY pointed out that sometimes we out-of-towners don’t realize that what we say may be offensive to NYers—that our flippant comments may often be insensitive. I think that we should always be conscious, and avoid making comments purely out of annoyance or spite. Yet, when necessary, we should offer tochacha in whatever way we think may actually get the message across and keep people from acting that way again.

What is the purpose of taking the arbah minim?

Over the course of this week, I, like my fellow Jews all over the world, have been dutifully shaking my palm fronds and citron each day. But as I was doing so, I felt that something was lacking. I realized that I didn’t know what to be thinking about while performing this somewhat strange commandment. I mean, when I sit in the sukkah I know exactly what I should be thinking: I should be focusing on commemorating our experience in the midbar, and recognizing human vulnerability and God’s protection. When I hear shofar, I know what I should be thinking: wake up, do teshuva. When I drink four cups of wine: I am demonstrating my freedom, freedom given us by our miraculous redemption from Egypt. Lighting Chanukah candles: miracle of the oil. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I realized that shaking the lulav and etrog is the only holiday-related mitzvah (that I can think of) that really has no immediately apparent reason. Of course, I know the ideas from Chazal about the arbah minim representing different parts of the human body, or four different types of people—but neither of those feels to me like a solid, concrete explanation for why we are performing this strange ritual.

I was discussing this issue with a very wise friend, and we came upon an insight that has really helped me understand this mitzvah better. (I have no outside source for this, so feel free to correct me if something is inaccurate or, if you know of one, to cite a real source to back this up.)

If you read the yehi ratzon that is said before bensching lulav (printed in the Artscroll siddur), it describes the act of taking the four species as a means of bringing together the four letters of Hashem’s name “in perfect unity.” (Kabbalah identifies each of the arbah minim with one of the letters of Hashem’s name). This explanation of the mitzvah is similar to the other two already mentioned, in that all three are based on the idea of unification. This indicates that, in whatever sense, this is the underlying purpose of taking the lulav and etrog—the bringing together of different components to form one unified whole.

This is also an important part of the theme of the holiday of Sukkot. Hashem’s protection in the midbar was an experience shared by all the Jews together, as a unified whole. The holiday itself equalizes people, bringing everyone out of our respective mansions or houses or apartments into pretty much equal huts. Also, according to Zechariah (14:16-19) in the time of moshiach Sukkot will bring an even more expanded type of unity, as it will become a universal festival, where even the goyim will come to Yerushalayim to worship Hashem.

The holiday of Sukkot is all about unity, and the lulav and etrog express that idea—bringing different components together—whether they represent the letters of Hashem’s name, parts of the human body, or types of people in the world.