My Broken Necklace and Rings of Grief

I was working in camp this summer and trying to do laundry. I grabbed a pile of clothing from the washing machine, and as I fed it to the dryer, my necklace got caught and the chain broke. This necklace, a dog tag that said ‘Bring Them Home,’ had been on my neck for almost two heartbreaking years. I hadn’t taken it off, not even to sleep. And there it lay broken on the rim of the dryer. My necklace was broken, and the hostages were still not home.

Something in me broke with that necklace.

Almost two years have passed since October 7th, and the small, minuscule, tiny thing I was doing to feel present for those suffering was gone. And, still, the hostages weren’t home. In times when it has felt so awful being unable to help, having the one small thing I could do, this show of solidarity and connection taken from me was harder than I would have expected. It made me wonder, “Why am I having such a strong reaction to such a small loss?” 

And I felt guilty. How in the world could I be upset about jewelry?!  I was getting emotional about these little things when people have suffered in unimaginable ways.

Where was my empathy?  Where was my sense of perspective? Where was my compassion?

Since October 7th, it has been so hard to know what to do with my pain. For all of these months, I have been witnessing others in the innermost circles of suffering. I have listened to stories of chayalim (soldiers) and their family members who have lived without them for months at a time.  I have listened to stories from those who lost family members, and stories from friends of people who were there and who survived, and stories of hostages and former hostages. 

I sit outside those circles of direct trauma and suffering, and yet, my heart is so broken, I don’t yet know how to piece myself back together again. I am heartbroken for the suffering of people I have never met. I am in pain over someone else’s pain. And I don’t know what to do with it. 

I know that I am not the only one who thinks this way.  So many of us compare our pain to others and contract our pain in the face of what seems like true suffering, or worse suffering. It is a form of tzimtzum (contraction)  and its essence is beautiful, gracious, and compassionate.  Just as in the kabbalistic idea of tzimtzum G-d contracted in order to make space for us to live in the world with free will, so too we are contracting our pain to make space for others who need to be held and heard more than we do.

But this respectful act of humility and kindness can sometimes be unhealthy.  Sometimes, denying our pain and experience of living through and witnessing a traumatic event (even if we were thousands of miles away) can have a negative impact on our health, our psyche, and be an expression of traumatic invalidation. Though this term is often used when other people deny someone’s trauma, perhaps we should also use it in regard to how we treat our own. 

I wonder: is it possible to create a space where Israelis and those living outside Israel can sit together and talk about the pain of October 7th and its aftermath? Can we honor both the direct circles of grief and the more distant ones? Can this be done with deep respect for those who suffered firsthand, while also acknowledging and supporting those of us grieving from afar?

In my work as a pastoral facilitator at SVIVAH, we are always bringing different circles of women together with a goal of learning with and from each other. This year, to commemorate October 7th, we decided to try to see if it is possible to have this conversation – to honor the different layers of grief that we are all carrying, so that our losses – large and small, personal and communal – are all gathered in one room to be seen and held by all. Can we dance together in and out of the circles and rings of grief, stepping in and stepping back gently with utmost respect for all, and with deep humility and compassion, but with embrace for everyone’s pain?.  My hope is that in doing so, we can emulate G-d’s work as described in the words of Selichot, (the special prayers reserved for these tender days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur) : קָרוֹב יְהוָה לְנִשְׁבְּרֵי־לֵב וְאֶת־דַּכְּאֵי־רוּחַ יוֹשִׁיעַ: G-d is near to the broken-hearted; and those crushed in spirit, G-d delivers.  

May we sit near all those who are broken-hearted—no matter the cause or distance—and allow them to be heard, held, and cared for. May we honor the memory of those lives who are lost, comfort the mourners, pray for the return of all of the hostages, and listen to the stories of all those who have experienced direct loss of any kind.  And may we have compassion for ourselves as well.