I think about that day often, the deadliest antisemitic event in the history of the United States of America. I remember sitting on the couch in our apartment in the village when the news alert lit up my phone. It started around 10 a.m. We were glued to the television for a seemingly interminable amount of time as reports flooded in. Multiple dead. At least 8, finally 11. Eleven people gunned down during Shabbat morning services. I sat there and wept. Our worst fears were realized, the protective veil of ignorance removed from our eyes as we saw in full horror the plain fact that it could happen here too. It was happening here too. I was paralyzed, mute, trapped.
More information about the shooter’s antisemitic motives filtered through, particularly highlighting posts condemning the work of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS). The week after participating in the HIAS’s first annual refugee Shabbat, we were reminded that the same evil forces which caused many of our ancestors to flee their homes are also present here. I felt so alone and scared, only worsened by my sense that the only people who seemed to care were Jews.
After Shabbat, Victoria and I walked the 14 blocks north to Union Square to join a Havdalah vigil organized by Jews For Racial and Economic Justice (JFREJ). We huddled together against the chilling rain in the comfort of community. To be so visibly Jewish in the wake of the morning’s events was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. But we were not alone. Our vigil was surrounded by a wall of humanity - volunteers from the Islamic Center at NYU. Every week, members of our community had been standing outside of the Center to greet people as they arrived for their Friday Jummah prayers. We showed up for them, and now they were showing up for us. For the first time all day, I felt safety and solidarity. Together, we made Havdalah and reaffirmed our commitments to one another and to build a world of lovingkindness as we sang “Olam Chesed Yibaneh.” We closed the vigil with a Yiddish phrase that has since become emblazed on my heart “Mir veln zey iberlebn, iberlebn, iberlebn” —"We will outlive them.” That night, surrounded by my community, I felt the words of the Psalmist (118) bursting forth with every exhale, “from the narrow place I called out, and I was answered with great abundance.” In my fear and solitude, I cried out, and I was answered with faith and solidarity.
Every year since the Tree of Life massacre, the United States has set new records for antisemitic incidents. The disease of hate continues to infect every stratum of our society. Reported hate crimes are at the highest level in at least a decade, and our country seems as divided as ever. Yet we must not despair. We must build bridges across differences and cultivate solidarity in every heart and mind. We cannot let the wounds of the past fester nor cause us to believe that we stand by ourselves. We are not alone; we cannot allow anyone to feel as though they are, either. May the anniversary of this horrible tragedy inspire us to rededicate ourselves to building a better world together. Never forget the names of these martyrs, who lived and died as Jews: Joyce Fienberg; Richard Gottfried; Rose Mallinger; Jerry Rabinowitz; Cecil Rosenthal; David Rosenthal; Bernice Simon; Sylvan Simon; Daniel Stein; Melvin Wax; Irving Younger. May their memory be for a blessing and inspire us to live our lives with purposeful commitment and dedication. May we strive to embody George Washington’s vision of this country, as articulated in his letter to the Jews of Newport: “giv[ing] bigotry no sanction, persecution no assistance…[where] everyone shall sit under [their] own vine and fig tree with none to make [them] afraid.”
Finally, I want to leave you with this acrostic poem by Alden Solovy, which spells out the name inscribed on our hearts today: Tree of Life.
9 a.m. Shabbat Morning Torah Study Study is in person only 10:30 a.m. Bar Mitzvah of Ruben Castillo-Kuperman, son of Anna Kuperman Service is in person and via Livestream
