Forever Faces

‘What was.’ (Este Abramowitz)

A familiar word relating to Jewish history and practice, genizah refers to sacred texts held in the cellars and attics of synagogues before being properly buried for posterity.

We’ve heard of the Cairo Genizah, the city in which a man named Solomon Schechter, back in 1896, explored the depths of a huge repository of Hebrew texts hidden in the Ezra Synagogue. Subsequently, Schechter’s discoveries revolutionized the history of Middle Eastern Jewry in the medieval period.

Another notable genizah was the Dead Sea Scrolls found in a cave by the northwestern shore of the Dead Sea by a young shepherd in 1947, a year before Palestine became the State of Israel. This lucky boy chanced upon the first set of a whole series of manuscripts, which was later found in various locations nearby. Although the first set of manuscripts was uncovered near the Dead Sea, whereas the others were not, these hundreds of Jewish commentaries and Biblical texts were all referred to as “the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

Now as of present, we as Jews practice the custom of Sheimos, literally “Names”: We refrain from throwing away the names of Gd and instead put these texts aside for shul drop-offs and the like—our own mini genizot—to be buried later on.

Recently, on an outing to the grocery store, I visited my display of hostage Tehillim packets, replete with Gd’s Holy Names, to gather what I needed for a Sheimos delivery. From recent news, I knew exactly which packets I had to sort out that were no longer relevant for the prayer of release. Of course, the prayers of ilui nishmas (the elevation of the soul) and refuah shleimah (total recovery) were always relevant.

After my rounds through the grocery aisles, I circled back to these holy names and familiar faces among a large array of magazines and flyers. Some were faces of freedom, while others were of sheer tragedy, and more of uncertain fate and pain and utter bewilderment.

I then took the whole stack and went through the pile, sending the names of both freedom and tragedy into my shopping cart. I hoped that piling these pamphlets among the eggs and bread and milk didn’t lack the respect they called for, against the mundanity of my pantry ingredients. But I saw the contrast more as a highlight of how I thought of them day and night through my simple routine.

As I finished this job with purpose, I was filled with sadness—closing in on the hope I could no longer have for some, while longing to see more faces belonging to freedom.

As a Jewish history student, I was transported back to my studies of the Holocaust and the time period in which the United States finally woke from their egregious slumber, ceasing their heinous passivity. During this time, as Nazi Germany was defeated and the camps were liberated, the strong-spirited U.S. troops entered the gates of “O’ work will set you free” and trekked out to rescue the souls of the living.

Assigned with this task, the soldiers had to sort through piles upon piles of bodies, of the still skeletons of the dead and the unmoving ones of the living. In her memoir The Choice, Dr. Edith Eger, a ninety-six year old survivor of Auschwitz and a renown psychologist, recounted how she tried to get the troops to notice her among the dunes of the deceased but was barely able to wave her hand or speak a syllable to announce herself. Decades later, she, along with the many others among the doomed, built themselves up and not only survived but eventually thrived.

After this brief silence as I stood in front of the display of remaining pamphlets, looking back at my cart to see if I did a good job, my heart was like an unopened well topped with a heavy stone, which no Jacob could budge or remove, no matter how powerful and determined.

I felt like crying but instead decided against it, hurriedly bagging them up and exiting the store, as I tried to carry my mind away to the business of the next part of my day. While I distracted myself with the continuity of my errands, I couldn’t help but think that even though we aren’t the parents or siblings of our hostages, we have dutifully and unwaveringly given them of our love, of our fears and pain. It’s hard to say good-bye.

After my circuit around the neighborhood and parking my car, I left the collection of used Tehillim pamphlets in a bag on my bookshelf, with the hopes of filling it once more with faces of freedom and happy Torah newsletters. The bookshelf itself stands in my living room, and even now as I pass through, I catch their haunting eyes each time—almost as if they are a passing memorial (“Do not forget me”) or an honored reminder of my responsibility as a Jew in looking out for others.

Back to the genizah of our most recent history: After all the Dead Sea scrolls were discovered, all the books of Tanach were present besides one: the Book of Esther. In our havdalah tonight, we read a pasuk from this curious Megillah, ליהודים היתה אורה ושמחה וששון ויקר כן תהיה לנו, as we imagine times of dancing and joyful occasion, yet we ask ourselves how will we get there?

I’m not sure at this point that any of us feel ready for a time of ultimate joy, of even the simple gift-giving and laughter of Purim.

But I think that this is the exact idea. We’re in the middle of unfathomable persecution, of the impending doom of “י״ג אדר.” We need to have faith that things will turn out good after all this mourning—a word we are now using where there is absolutely no adjective, in all of the world’s seventy languages, to contain its intense feeling and rage.

Just like within the gates of Shushan, the Jews congregated in prayer to save themselves, all we can do now to preserve our sanity when we have witnessed evil like nothing we once knew and lost faith in most people, is to turn upwards and look within.

A few months ago, around Chanukah time, I needed an extra push of encouragement. I was suffering at the hands of someone and wanted chizuk. I remembered at the time that my good friend, from the Satmar community next door, spoke highly of the Sklener Rebbe. (Unbeknownst to many, there is no vowel in the first syllable!) She called him “a holy man.”

After my experiences in the last decade of my life, I lost much faith in people in being helpful, so naturally I was very choosy with whom I sought out for a blessing. But I thought about it and exceptionally holy was a decent recommendation in my eyes, so I messaged my friend for the gabbai’s number (weeks after her initial suggestion), to which she responded, as religious and Rabbi-adhering as she is, “Why can’t you give yourself your own blessings?”

I stopped for a minute, maybe out of shame at first for my unexplained necessity to go to such lengths for a good prayer, and then out of bewilderment why I hadn’t thought of this myself. Have you ever had an Aha! moment? Well, here I was having a Huh… moment.

Yeah. Why was I not able to give myself a bracha?

Many times we give ourselves less credit than is due. That is, we are more powerful than we could know, in uplifting ourselves from tremendous pain and charging ahead. Honestly, as I’ve learned many times, we rely too much on others!

In these difficult moments of Jewish unity, I want to highlight this and underscore our Jewish spirit that has withstood the ages. Our tune of “Am Yisrael Chai” has endured the Crusades, Tach v’Tat and Chmielnicki, as well as the piles upon piles of graphic images of our national memory.

And still after all this, we bless the sweet-smelling wine and the flaming redheads of fire—our forever symbols of freedom and destruction—with the exclamation, ליהודים היתה אורה כן תהיה לנו. Quietly, with our heads bowed, we draw from the strength of Queen Esther as we enter the unknown and mumble to ourselves, אם אבדתי אבדתי. If I’ll be ruined, then so be it. But at least let me sacrifice myself for my people!

With her resolute gait and balled fists, Esther then barged through the intimidatingly heavy doors holding her back, as she finally confronted the worst of her enemies—because all she could think about, despite her fear and despair, was her people.

Let’s remember this היתה, from what was, and believe that one day we will have the שמחה—the will to pick ourselves up from the ashes and piles of bones, becoming an exuberant people once again.