Kumu. Arise.
October 9, 2026/28 Tishrei 5787/Shabbat Bereishit
Hevre/Friends,
When I was a little girl, one of my mother's favorite songs to sing to me was Yehoram Gaon's Ani Mavtiach Lach. "I promise you, my little girl, that this will be the last war…" The de facto anthem of the Yom Kippur War of 1973, it carried the pledge of a country shaken from the lull of its Six Day War victory back into the knowledge of its very real vulnerability: a promise to its young that things would change, that they would never know that suffering again.
Halevai. If only.
This past Wednesday, October 7, the Jewish world and our allies marked three years since the massacre and hostage-taking that once again shook Israel to its core, and launched a war against an enemy whose global tentacles have drafted us all into the Jewish battle of our generation.
Of all the memorials and ceremonies, one stands out for what it reveals about our world. Irish (non-Jewish) playwrights Ann McElhinney and Phelim McAleer have created a verbatim performance of testimonies from October 7 survivors. Their word-for-word haunting script has played venues across the country, including the Kennedy Center, and most recently a packed house at Cahn Auditorium on Northwestern's campus on the night of October 6.
The audience spanned ages, backgrounds, and faiths. Riveted by the unvarnished retelling of that dark day, people were terrified when, during one especially intense scene, the fire alarm in the theater began to blare. Some thought it was staged to punctuate the scene or to simulate the trauma. When they realized it was real, they bolted. My brother, Avi, who was present described the mayhem. Deafening sirens. Flashing lights. Elderly people with walkers trying to make their way to the exits. Younger people trying not to push but everyone confused and agitated. Hundreds of Jews standing outside in the dark feeling completely vulnerable; fearing an attack on them was unfolding.
The alarm was allegedly pulled by an angry, hate-filled, Northwestern student. Whoever pulled it, the effect was the same: an audience shaken to discover that campus life has grown so toxic that even bearing witness to the victims of a brutal slaughter is politicized and targeted.
Avi reflected on how until that moment, the sickening antisemitism and anti-Zionism here was something most of us read about in the news, fret over with our friends, and protest sometimes with our communities. That night it became deeply personal as he and his fellow audience members were plunged into the frightening reality of how fragile our safety here has become. Suddenly, millennia of stories about our people feeling at risk and helpless became very much alive.
In the audience that night were Hersh Goldberg-Polin's aunt, uncle, and grandmother. Friends of survivors. Friends of victims. That they could not honor their loved ones in peace casts an ugly light on the unhinged rage that has taken hold in this country.
Once campus officials gave the all-clear, about half the audience returned for the final 20 minutes. The actors picked up where they left off, and the show ended to a resounding standing ovation. The other half didn’t come back, some fearing for their safety, others leaving in disgust and frustration. In 2026, Jews in Chicago, and those who would stand with us, are made to think twice before gathering to mourn our dead.
Sadly, this was not the only October 7 gathering disrupted by hate. Those who side with murder and torture used the day to keep spreading lies and inciting violence. Shouts like "resistance is justified when people are occupied" and “Palestine from the river to the sea" crudely tried to drown out Yitgadal v'yitkadash. Union Square. Columbia University. London.
And then, three days later, tomorrow, we read Bereishit. We start our story again from the beginning. We scroll back to the days when the future lay open with all its possibilities. We suspend what we know of the whole narrative and bring to our re-reading every hope and dream for a good and peaceful ending.
This renewed story is written not only in ink, with a quill, on parchment. It is written on the streets of our city.
The NYC parking attendant who gave me VIP treatment because, he said, he loved my Jewish star necklace. The Hispanic dogwalker who proudly told me that his kids' mother is Muslim, their godparents are Jewish, he is Catholic, and every day he teaches his sons to respect and love all people. The non-Jewish man who calls his Jewish friends each October 7 to tell them our people are in his heart.
Shabbat Bereishit follows a week of tortured memory, of ongoing cruelty and crudeness, of hate and fear, and summons us to begin again.
To hope again.
To believe again.
To dance again.
In Hebrew, October 7 is Shiv'a b'Oktober. Shiv'a means seven, but it also echoes the grief of shiva, the mourning that will forever fill that day on the calendar. And just as shiva ends with the ritual call to the mourners to rise (kumu, kumu), Parashat Bereishit calls each of us to stand once more and make our way back into the world, open again to one another.
Rabbi Akiva taught that rebuking each other is one of the hardest mitzvot. For our times, I'd suggest this one is harder.
Chizku v'imtzu. Be strong and courageous; be loving and kind. Be open to a new story.
That's half the battle.
Shabbat Shalom, Dini
|
Comments