Federations, congregations, Hillels, JCCs and day schools gathered to mourn the tragic plague inflicted last year upon our loved ones in Israel, and through a connection cherished by us and exploited by our enemies, visited upon Jews everywhere. We brought prayers, candles, speeches, poems, music and cries. We spoke in the languages of English, Hebrew and Silence. We recalled the valor of those who defended them. We honored the heroism of those who fight still. We prayed for the safe return of the hostages. All of these emotions swirled together, forming ripples of hope and visions of peace that somehow emerged as a wave strong enough to carry us through our sorrow as the programs ended and we took leave to go on our individual ways.
This is a catastrophe large enough to have charred the Jewish world for generations. At the same time, it is a heartbreak intimate enough that we know every single name. This is a tragedy indelible enough that we must keep its observance as a People. At the same time, there is an undeniable trauma that we are still working through as individual people.
In addition to whatever communal commemorations evolve over time, perhaps there is a personal way to observe this historical marker.
The attack occurred on Shabbat, October 7. From year to year, the day may or may not be Shabbat. The Hebrew date may or may not fall on October 7. But it was and will always be on Shemini Atzeret, which, yes, is expanded with Simchat Torah observances in Israel, but is universally and forever Shemini Atzeret in our history and in our prayers.
After drawing closer to God during the month of Elul, after celebrating God’s coronation on Rosh Hashanah, after exoneration by God’s mercy on Yom Kippur, after joyfully exulting in our expansive relationship with God on Sukkot, we begin to pack up and go home. Shemini Atzeret is God saying to us, “We have spent so much time together. It was good. Your leaving me now is hard for me. Please, just stay for one more day.” (Rashi on Leviticus 23:36 and Numbers 29:36, based on BT Sukkah 55b) In all of our interactions with God throughout history, this is about as close as God ever gets to saying, “I love you.”
That is Shemini Atzeret. It is the day God expresses care for us, concern for us, affection for us.
For me, among the saddest memories of the massacre are the phone calls and video messages making their way from safe rooms, bomb shelters and hiding places along the road or in the bushes from people who might be moments from leaving their loved ones forever and taking the time—taking the risk—to make sure that one final message of love, care and connection came through.
As God expressed love for us, to us, on that first Shemini Atzeret, as so many kedoshim/martyrs expressed love for friends and family last Shemini Atzeret, this is a way in which we might commemorate our national tragedy on a personal level. Call someone. Text someone. FaceTime someone. Write someone. Tell them, “I am thinking of you,” “I care about you,” “I miss you.”
Those who were murdered on Shemini Atzeret will never be able to express these feelings again. I am not suggesting that we should do this for them because they can no longer do this for themselves. I am suggesting that we do this because that is what they did. That is what God did. God and they are my teachers. They taught me that I should reach out to you because you are important to me and I care about you.
May the memories of the kedoshim be a blessing. One that continues to teach us how to live.
Robert Lichtman lives in West Orange and draws upon his long tenure of professional leadership to teach and write about strategic issues and opportunities impacting the Jewish community, and other things. This article appeared in The Times of Israel.
