A people alone

“I am so proud of being Jewish, but I don’t want to be killed.”

That was our 13-year-old daughter’s response (shared with her permission) this morning at 7:30 a.m., when my wife and I sat our children down to “talk.” This wasn’t the first such conversation – these moments have become increasingly common over the last 20+ months.

What happened late the night before in Washington, DC, was that two young people, one Jewish American, one Christian Israeli, were gunned down in an act of targeted violence outside a Jewish museum. A museum where I’ve taught Torah. A place where I’ve gathered with my community for moments of celebration and joy.

Our children attend a Jewish day school. We knew there would be heightened security. We knew they would hear something from friends. And we wanted to be the ones to tell them – once again – that Jews are being targeted with hatred, violence, and harm.

It is painful to write those words. It was far more painful to say them aloud to two 13-year-olds and an 8.5-year-old.

I could almost perfectly predict their reactions. One cool and externally calm. One not-so-tiny second grader, absolutely petrified and shocked. And then our daughter, who without hesitation, pulled her knees in close and said the sentence that’s echoed in my mind all day:

“I am so proud of being Jewish, but I don’t want to be killed.”

I’ve tried to understand why her words landed so deeply. Why they rooted in my soul.

They were with me all day. As I swam laps to release my rage into the water. As I binge-shopped at the grocery store. As I tried to offer comfort on several pastoral calls. As I put together a text sheet, hands shaking. As I wept into the challah dough while kneading. As I cooked dinner with quiet resolve.

In all these moments, as I thought about Sarah and Yaron, I thought about Ayla.

The Ayla who has been joyfully living her Judaism long before she could choose it consciously.

The Ayla who stood on the bimah three months ago and took on the yoke of Torah and Jewish peoplehood as her own.

The Ayla who often tells me my way of practicing Judaism is “terribly annoying.”

The Ayla whose parent holds a visibly Jewish job.

The Ayla who sees me wear a visibly Jewish head covering every single day.

This Ayla is taking the tedious, courageous steps onto what Rabbi Nachman of Breslov called “the very narrow bridge.” He wrote, “the entire world is a very narrow bridge, the essential thing is not to be afraid.”

She knows – she’s no fool – that to become the Jewish person she is unfolding into, she must walk across the bridge – And the bridge looks pretty darn risky.

And perhaps sooner than most, she’s learned the lesson Torah has taught us for millennia:

Long before we had to explain that “globalize the intifada” is a call for our deaths.

Long before we had to plead for others to understand that “from the river to the sea” means we’d be in the sea.

Long before every concern we raised was dismissed as imagined, the voice of privilege. The privilege to be killed I guess.

The Torah taught us:

“There is a people that dwells apart – הֶן־עָם֙ לְבָדָ֣ד יִשְׁכֹּ֔ן.”

This apartness makes the bridge approach terrifying. Sometimes, if we are lucky, we have a Yaron – someone who holds our hand as we cross, who maybe isn’t the same as us, or whose identity is multi-faceted and complex. Those people are our people too. They dwell with us.

But often, we walk alone.

I think this is the fear Rabbi Nachman warns about – not the feeling of fear itself, but the instinct to turn back, to run away from the narrowness, to try to blend in, to hide. He doesn’t tell us to be unafraid – he tells us not to let fear dictate our steps.

As my friend Rachel says, the only way to deal with fear is through it. If I could, what follows is what I would say to Ayla.

*With gratitude to Rachel for her wisdom, her Torah and her many many phone calls today. And to our moms group for our newly found connections.

Dear Ayla,

One of the most insightful Chassidic masters once said, “The world is a very narrow bridge. The essential thing is not to be afraid.”

As you approach this bridge, it will seem narrow. The drop below, endless. The slats, rickety.

Things look bad, dangerous, and risky – because they are.

And I’m sorry, Ayla, that I’ve brought you to this precipice. This moment.

You’ll want to turn around. You’ll want to run away or find another path. And you’re smart, very smart (smarter than Ima and Mommy). But here’s what I know with certainty:

Whatever workaround you come up with – and you will come up with one – it won’t ever fully “work.” Our people have tried everything: to be more like the surrounding culture, to change our path so it looked more like everyone else. We have tried to run away or to quietly go about our business to avoid being noticed. But no matter what, Ayla, to discover who you are, to be Jewish in the fullness of that word – religiously, culturally, ethnically, to embrace your people, your tradition and your God you have to cross the bridge: That is simply how you get home.

Your home. Your people. Your soul. Your God. Your land.

To come close to those things – to feel their warmth, their love, their sorrow, their joy, you must step forward.

To dance at weddings and walk together at funerals.

To pray as a Jew. To live and love as a Jew. To study Torah and argue with it.

You must take one step after another. Into the breech.

Each step may feel unsteady at first. But the more you move toward the other side, the steadier you will become. The fear is still there. The rickety bridge, you are still on it. Dangers are still all around.

The bridge will always be narrow. Risky. Scary.

But Rabbi Nachman didn’t say “don’t fear.” He said:

“The essential thing is not to be afraid.”

That doesn’t mean fear isn’t real. I feel it too.

It means: don’t let the fear stop you from stepping forward.

Step into your Jewishness with pride. With reverence. With strength, hope, passion, peoplehood. With Torah’s wisdom. And yes, Ayla – with love for your homeland, too.

The good news? I’m on the bridge with you. And so is Mommy. So are Baba and Zada. And my grandparents, of blessed memory. And so many generations before us and so many who love you now, who walk right alongside you – fear and all.

We cannot erase the danger that is very clear. Sarah Milgrim looked so much like how I imagine you will someday. But Ayla, you are not alone.

You are part of generations of this people.

You are not alone. And on the other side of the bridge, the home you will find there still has fear, but there – right there next to the fear – is a rich tapestry of meaning and purpose, of love and hope, of peace and potential and of joy. And there is a place where you are obligated to others and others are obligated to you, mutually caring for each other, even when it is risky. And there you can shine for being the beautiful, brilliant, sassy Jewish woman you are.