Thoughts

There are stages of grief. Denial - Saturday, curled up in a ball in my bed and texting every Jew I know, "I'm safe, are you okay" playing across my screen, popping up, over and over. 36 hours of on again off again, spurts of action where I can feed myself, talk to people, maybe even do my laundry, until I am crashing, crying, the cavity inside my torso aching. Anger - Sunday afternoon, sitting in our Hillel, watching the responses on Facebook and Instagram, hearing stories from each other of unsupportive friends, #Pittsburghstrong and gun control, chants of voting and Christian music, responses that don't make sense and silence of non-Jews, erasure of the anti-semitism of this act, frustration with the well meaning people attempting solidarity. Actions that are a shout into the void, people screaming we won't be broken, but yet we already are. Depression - settling into a state of apathy, is this denial or depression I don't know but I can't talk about anything else and nothing is good. We're not to the rest of it yet.

I woke up Saturday morning to a phone call from my grandparents. Many of us have similar stories. "Are you okay?" Yes, I am home, and barely awake. I hang up and google Pittsburgh news, to see the horrifying coverage of a shooter at the synagogue I drive by at least weekly, where my professor goes, where some of the teens I work with go, a mile from me in my bed. The shooter has not been contained. I am shaking, and it takes me a few moments to realize that I am doing so. The next two hours are phone calls and texts to and from family and friends, Facebook statuses, emails to professors - are you safe, who was there, how can we support each other right now, do you need to come over, can I come there. Roommates come in and start discussing other things, I can't hear that now. I need to be around other Jews. A Jewish friend comes over and we drink hot chocolate and try to process what happened, laying across my bed. Another comes and we sit on the floor, talking and staring, crying and laughing out of sheer loss. We don't know what to do. I try to paint. We can't understand. We go to a vigil, but arrive late and only hear Amazing Grace - we feel alienated. We go to a havdalah where we don't know anyone and sit there because it's better than sitting home. We realize we haven't eaten all day and take a bus to a restaurant, but we eat so fast our stomachs hurt. We go to another havdalah, where the rabbi sobs as he recites the prayers and we hold candles, doing our best to protect the flickering flames. We sing kol haolam kulo at the top of our lungs, in community, in desperation. The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge, but the main thing is to never fear at all. There is hope. Then police congregate on Fifth avenue; we hear someone was hit by a car.

I get home, a friend reaches out and tries to be supportive. She shares how affected she was too - I start to feel uncomfortable. She talks about herself, her trauma, her connections to the Jewish community when she isn't a Jew. Another friend asks about actions she can take - I am still reeling. I do not know. I FaceTime a Jewish friend and we talk for hours so I don't cry myself to sleep.

Sunday. I wake up, struggle to get out of bed. I do it. I make toast. I dress myself. These are accomplishments. I go to Hillel, to be surrounded by other Jews. People are crying, hugging, there is tea. We try to do work. The Israeli Consul General to New York shows up, the CEO of Hillel appears. My professor is there, he was at the synagogue, drove a friend who was shot to the hospital. He talks to me and I start to cry. I marvel at his composure. He asks if I want to talk, I say no, afraid of my tears flowing.

Frustrations rise as it becomes clearer and clearer that non-Jews are not speaking up. Jewish friends are frustrated that people aren't addressing the anti-semitism. Why? Why does everyone rise up after every mass shooting, but there is deafening silence today? We hold each other; we are not held by our non-Jewish friends today. It is so, so lonely.

The official vigil. Music and different speeches. Singing the national anthem - why? This country feels synonymous with white supremacy, more than ever before. It's this country's leadership that emboldened this. It's this country that has never fully supported Jews, or any other marginalized group, yet we Jews assimilated into it. We hoped for acceptance, ignoring the daily subtle anti-semitism for promotions and a false sense of security. Shame on us? Shame on America. I do not sing. Do we support our country, try to change it within? Do we continue to assimilate, live? Do we break these structures down? White supremacy is in our constitution, and what little faith I had that we could create a better nation in the context of our founding documents has dwindled to nothing. But then what?

Home. People still talking about other things and I can't listen. Am I feeling too angry, divisive? Should I be chanting Pittsburgh strong? Yet this isn't specifically unique to Pittsburgh, even as it does affect Pittsburgh as a whole - this was anti-semitism, it could have been anywhere. People, Jews, from faraway places arrive to support. We can barely care for ourselves and each other; we are hardly ready to house and feed and support more. People donate to UNICEF, or the red cross, which the university supports, while victims face medical bills and synagogues struggle for funds. People want to volunteer, when there is no capacity to do the work to make those options. People change their profile picture as if that's enough. Emails from social justice warriors saying they are holding healing spaces when they have no experience with ancient Jewish pain. Endless cycles of social media feeds, overwhelming yet addicting, waiting for some shout from the emptiness, trying to add our shouts to the oblivion we see. People chanting vote - because voting is the tool of change? It is the bare minimum, existing in a broken system. Sad and betrayed by non-Jewish friends who are silent. Fearful that the Jewish community will try to move forward before we take time to process. We need to heal, to not just pass on our intergenerational, collective trauma. It's barely been a day at the vigil and these rabbis are expected to speak. They can barely breathe. They are likely in shock. Trauma of this magnitude requires a lot more than moving on. It requires mental health services, sobbing, holding each other, and time devoted to feeling, processing, pain and healing. Where's the call for that? Why is it all so confusing, so overwhelming? How do we make sense of it? We are lost, we have been hurt, we are bleeding.

I don't feel Pittsburgh strong. I don't feel strong at all. I feel hurt, broken. Of course we will be okay, we don’t have other options as Jews. There are helpers, there always are. Especially the Muslim community, other marginalized groups standing in solidarity, and our extended Jewish community, all of which are amazing. There is support, there often is. But focusing our emotional response on those helpers only helps us cope, it doesn't address the magnitude or source of pain. Yes, we can claim we are one human community, one Pittsburgh community. But we need to understand our divisions and oppressions if we ever hope to change them, and only coming together for events and vigils after a massacre is not the same as building community and working to dismantle white supremacy. We are crying. Cry with us. Talk about this. Don't center yourself. Donate to the temple, the families, and Jewish organizations working overtime to provide support. Disrupt anti-semitism, racism, ableism, homophobia, fatphobia - any incarnation of white supremacy you meet. We need food, mental health services, funds, real solidarity. We need a better world.