I am Weeping and Enraged

In my hometown of Traverse City, a handful of people turned out to support Israel. I took comfort in community.

In my hometown of Traverse City, Michigan, where Jews are few and far between, a local Chabad chapter recently held a prayer vigil for the victims of the October 7 massacre. The setting was a tranquil park off the shores of Lake Michigan. The conservative Christian mayor of Traverse City was one of the speakers. Tone-deaf to his audience, he read from the New Testament and began lecturing the local Jews about the need for peace, love for one's neighbor, and other teachings of Jesus. Polite applause followed, but I had to restrain myself from voicing my thoughts on the whole turning-the-other-cheek philosophy.

We Jews are not Christians. Our traditions and teachings on forgiveness and peace differ significantly. In Judaism, forgiveness is not freely granted; it must be sought. We don't turn the other cheek; we believe in justice. Many well-meaning Jews are posting wishes for peace right now, perhaps to placate their non-Jewish friends. I'm not among them. I don't wish for peace. Now is not the time.

I am weeping and enraged for the murdered, the raped, the kidnapped, the tortured.

I am weeping and enraged for the beheaded and burned children.

I am weeping and enraged for the young women who were tortured and raped before they were murdered.

I am weeping and enraged for men, women, children, and elders who are locked away in Gaza, enduring unimaginable torture.

I am weeping and enraged over the bloodthirsty protests in cities and campuses around the world telling Jews that we had it coming and calling for more dead Jews.

I am weeping and enraged at antisemitic members of Congress who are quick to post lies of alleged Israeli atrocities in Gaza and the media who believe the terrorists without question.

I am weeping and enraged at those who comment regularly about rape culture and toxic masculinity who now say nothing about the brutal torture and rape of Jewish women.

I am weeping and enraged at the cowardly terrorists who hide their munitions in populated areas to increase the likelihood that their own people will be killed in war.

I am weeping and enraged at my fellow progressives, who try to justify the mass slaughter, torture, rape, and kidnapping of more than a thousand Jews.

I am weeping and enraged at my fellow writers who sign statements in solidarity with the people of Gaza but cannot spare a word for massacred Jews.

In Jewish tradition, the concepts of war and peace are deeply rooted in both religious texts and historical experiences. The Torah outlines conditions for what is known as Milchemet Mitzvah, or obligatory war, which is considered a commandment. This type of war is fought to defend the Jewish community from an external threat. When lives are at stake, especially within the community, action is not just allowed but required.

The literature in Judaism, including texts like Ecclesiastes, adds another layer. "To everything there is a season," it says, "A time for war, and a time for peace.” This acknowledges that while peace is the ultimate goal, there are times when war is not just inevitable but necessary. So, while Judaism does have a strong orientation toward peace, it is not a pacifist tradition. It recognizes that there are times when war is necessary, either to defend oneself and one's community or to fulfill broader ethical goals.

My daughter was born on September 11, 1991, a date that ten years later became synonymous with tragedy. On October 7, 2023, I turned fifty-eight. I ran a half-marathon on my birthday, a significant achievement after beating cancer. But as I crossed the finish line, my thoughts were far from personal triumph.

The next day, I was on the road, taking my kids to college. Each rest stop became a moment of sorrow as I caught up on the news. A mixture of guilt for the normalcy of my life and a profound sense of loss for those suffering thousands of miles away overwhelmed me.

This emotional burden is compounded by the echoes of history. My grandfather was a witness to a pogrom as a child in Paks, Hungary. He was hidden away, spared the immediate physical violence but forever scarred by the memories. Through his eyes, I've come to understand what a pogrom looks like, feels like. What happened in Israel was not an act of resistance; it was a pogrom, a targeted campaign of organized violence. I've written about this before, based on my grandfather's haunting memories, which you can read here. Below is an excerpt.

Outside the courtyard, he heard the mob approaching, hurtling rocks and chanting. “Dirty Jew!” and other epithets, many of which he did not understand. Jóska peered out the cork holes that framed the bizarre, terrifying images he was witnessing. Jóska could see women being beaten, their clothes ripped off, the beards of the men plucked. He closed his eyes when they were dragged out into the street and whipped.

Windows shattered, distant fires snapped, and deranged laughter came very near his barrel, then dopplered to the left and far away. Looking through the cork hole, it wasn’t so much what he saw that was terrifying — an angry or frightened face here, shards of glass there — but it was what he heard. The incomprehensible sounds of terror among familiar voices. Jóska looked out his peephole and recognized some of his neighbors darting by, carrying paintings, silverware, even clothing. The night came, and the air filled with the sound of drunken hate songs mixed with Jewish pleadings for mercy.

That pogrom occurred more than one hundred years ago, when the Jews of Hungary were helpless. Today, we are not helpless. We have a homeland. I don't call for peace or restraint. I demand an end to Hamas and a full denazification of the entire region. It will be difficult but not impossible. But I do not expect any help from the world, which has shown time and time again that it cannot be trusted with the lives of Jews.

Despite the Christian undertones in my local prayer vigil, it was wonderful to see my fellow Jews in one place. I don’t get that a lot where I live. I felt as though we really were all in this together, and I took comfort in community.

My advice is to take comfort in your own local Jewish communities. Attend your synagogue, go to community events, or simply spend time with Jewish friends and family. In these spaces, you'll find a unique form of solace and strength. We can find resilience and unity among our own. We have to because we cannot find this comfort in the world outside.