The pain of thousands and millions is the same pain that’s ripping my heart apart at the seams, but we know the pain is the greatest for only one. It’s a pain we will never understand and one we hope to never know.
And I wasn’t even there.
The images and pictures that are now burned into my mind like the ash that creates the silhouettes of bodies that once sat or lay on the ground. Pictures and videos I’ve only seen a fraction of while my imagination finishes them, feels 10 times worse than it was, but I know it’s barely one billionth of the true reality.
And I wasn’t even there.
The hurt in my mind body and soul, grieving the loss of people I never knew as if they were my own flesh and blood. The longing I feel not being in Israel giving anyone who needs a hug, a hug. The tears we cry all too often when we simply just wish it was October 6th again, or make it to October 8th.
And I wasn’t even there.
The horrors others witnessed that somehow I too carry the burden of. The fear, terror, stress and anxiety of having to find shelter and safety purely to preserve my life, while also fighting the urge to try and help others find shelter and safety to preserve their lives.
And I wasn’t even there.
The moments I catch myself pausing in the middle of the morning, day, night, even for a second, and think of the lives lost, taken hostage and worse. The single tear or flow of tears that I fight back as the swelling of my throat makes it difficult to swallow, trying not to draw attention even when I’m surrounded by others I know are feeling the exact same way.
And I wasn’t even there.
The worry of parents whose children are in school, at college, with friends or themselves, that they’ll be the target of an antisemitic attack – physical or verbal. Walking from dorm to class, car to work or anywhere else, wondering if today will be “the day” you’re called a kike, assaulted because your Star of David was visible or you looked to much like a “Zionist” because somehow we’re both proud and insulted when referred to as one.
And I wasn’t even there.
The constant questions of “why” and “how” as I try to find answers to give me some form of peace and-or closure. The wondering how my grandparents knew it would happen again because people didn’t keep their eyes open wide enough, speak up loud enough, fight back hard enough.
And I wasn’t even there.
The all too familiar feelings of unjustified discrimination, hate, prejudice or violence because I just so happened to be born a Jew. The same thoughts and feelings I witnessed my grandparents have afterward; their tears, pain, and anguish when they were persecuted for having been born a Jew.
And I wasn’t even there.
The yellow flicker of light off in the distance, made by the Yahrzeit candle, lit for the two little babies and a man whose heart was too big for this world, as their lives were ripped from them.
And I wasn’t even there.
The gatherings that have been all too necessary to make sure we keep our sanity, humanity and community. The tears cried by one are the tears cried by all; the sniffles echo throughout and the choked up breaths that fill the room while we chant, pray and sing. Because that is who we are.
But for this, I was there.
