How I’m Getting Through These Difficult Times

I sat at the play Leopoldstadt this summer, watching the events of the Holocaust unfold on stage. It’s a Broadway performance (now closed) that documented the life of one big family in the years leading up and through the horrific events of that time. I sat there, in horror at the evil I was witnessing even though I already knew how the bigger story ended. It never gets easier, and it shouldn’t.

The only solace of watching this was knowing that it was in the past, that we’ve moved forward, both as a Jewish nation and worldwide. We know that another Holocaust can never happen again, right? It should be a given, but I also wasn’t immune to all of the antisemitism around me. I’ve been aware of rising antisemitic attacks for a while now. Things have been getting worse, more tense. People in towns all over America have been the recipients of antisemitic flyers or swastikas drawn in schools. The musical, Parade, was protested by neo-Nazis right outside its doors. The building of new mikvahs were trying to be blocked, teachers and professors were saying questionable comments in their classrooms. The list goes on and on. Are we safe? Will we ever be?

A week and a half ago, our Jewish family was attacked in Eretz Yisrael. More than 1,400 people were brutally murdered and slaughtered in ways that are too heinous to even discuss let alone see. It’s been hard to find the right words to share. Thoughts flow through my head all day, coming in and out but I haven’t felt ready to put pen to paper, to really let it out, to process. How can an event so brutal, so tragic, be processed?

Since then, life has taken a turn. I question so much, hesitate every outing, wonder if it’s safe to send my child to school today. I smile at the Amazon delivery driver, unsure what nationality he is as I’m walking around the block with my son. He looks at me stoic. Was that a glare in his eye as he observes me with my Jewish head covering?

Will my neighbor continue to support us? Or will other false narratives seep into her brain? Was that a garbage can rolling down a driveway or is someone outside? Was that just a firework or a gun shot? Do people still do fireworks this far after the Fourth of July? Should we get a gun? Should I sleep with a knife next to my bed? How do I protect my children from the weapons I feel I need on-hand to protect them?

A neighbor and friend told me she started googling if washing machines had ventilation in them, in case she needed a place to hide her children. It’s easy to get sucked into a vacuum of hate and despair, wondering how we will ever get out of this, get through to a brighter place.

It’s so easy to just scroll through the doom on social media than it is to fight. But taking Hashem out of the picture, giving into despair is the worst thing I could possibly do in all of this. 

There are moments of brightness. I play with my kids after school, dance around to their favorite songs. I feel guilty that I’m not in the serious, mourning zone for a little bit, but then feel strength that I’m raising the next generation and keeping them from the pain of what’s happening. I tell myself it’s okay to be in that moment, to hold all of the things at once.

I change a diaper and wonder what the hostages in Gaza are doing without them. The pit in my heart and stomach churns further knowing that’s most likely the least of the horrors.

I see soldiers in Israel on Instagram, singing Aishet Chayil to their wives, the song that is traditionally sung on Shabbat night. I cry thinking of the wives that can’t be with their husbands right now, that are living in fear that they too, will be taken away from them.

I think about the Israeli children that know far too much about sirens and bomb shelters, more than any little innocent soul ever should.

I watch a video from a soldier on the front lines, giving me chizuk (strength). I realize that if I’m not strong for them, I’m not doing anything at all to help. 

Back to Leopoldstadt— the one character in the play that really irked me was the one who converted to Christianity and spent the days leading up to the Holocaust saying he wasn’t a Jew. It didn’t matter to the Nazis. To them, he was still a Jew and killed right along with everyone else. He could denounce it as much as he wanted but he only looked worse doing so.

It showed me that the only thing we have in this situation is our Judaism. We need to be strong and fight for it. If we were to turn our backs on it, G-d forbid, they would still want to kill us. So all the more so we need to hold onto it more tightly than ever. It’s that strength that will get us through this. It’s the moments of unity when I feel most connected. It’s seeing the positive ways our nation is coming together that makes me feel closest to Hashem. 

I say Tehillim, daven, learn Torah, give tzedaka, bake challah with a kavannah and frequency that I never did before. I like to think Hashem is preparing us. We’re doing all of this extra spiritual work not only to help us through this, but so we change as people and are ready to receive the ultimate bracha afterward. Hashem is getting us ready.

It’s that narrative that’s the only one I need to cling to. Not the hateful Instagram comments or posts just spewing falsehood and harm toward the Jews. Not the fear and anxiety. The only thing that feels good in all of this is clinging to Hashem and knowing He is right there with us.

Rebbetzin Esther Baila Schwartz shared in a class this week that Amalek, which represents evil, has the gematria of 240. Sofek, or doubt, also has the gematria of 240. When we let doubt in, we’re letting the yetzer hara in. We can’t let it get to us.

I can’t control what happens. If anything, these events have taught me how not in control I am in life. The one thing I can control however, is my response. It’s my choice if I engage or not, how much time I spend scrolling social media, how much work I do on the spiritual frontlines of this war. Focusing on the light and positivity I can bring into this world is the only way I’m going to get through this — the way I want to get through this.

Please Hashem, give me the strength to do so. Give us all the strength to stay close, to support each other, to continuously love each other, to love You and to never let go.

Xoxo, Alex