Personal Grief After October 7th and Bondi Beach

My father passed away on November 11th. Abba was a Holocaust survivor, a Jewish educator and an ordained rabbi who lived well into his 90s. He died surrounded by loved ones and even had the zchut, the privilege, of having his children recite the Viduy or Confessional Prayer for him just a day before he left us. His funeral, in a packed house at Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun on New York’s Upper East Side, was more a celebration of his life than a grieving memorial service. 

By any measure, he had a good run. For most of his years he was vigorous, healthy and of sound mind. He loved life and was grateful to the Almighty on a daily basis for every minute granted to him. I miss him terribly. I still want to pick up the phone and tell him about my day, brag about my grandchildren and ask him for advice. The pain is deep. I lost my mother when I was a young teen. That was tragic, but my father was a constant in my life for 62 years and it makes his loss more visceral. 

And that makes me feel guilty. It is not a rational reaction. Grief is personal, I know. But as a Jew and an Israeli, I have been surrounded by truly tragic deaths. From young innocent festival goers, to our soldiers, the vital pulse of our people, dying in battle defending our Homeland, to Hanukkah revelers in Australia. Abba went in the most natural and comfortable way, the partiers at the Nova Festival, the children in Beeri, the hostages in the tunnels of Gaza, the Jews at Bondi Beach all died in terror and way before their time. How can I grieve him so deeply in the shadow of those tragedies?

I made the decision to say Kaddish for Abba with a minyan, every day. That was not a foregone conclusion. I left religious observance a few years back and the last thing I could see myself doing was getting up early to go publicly glorify the name of a God I no longer believed in. Jewish tradition teaches us that the soul is purified after death before it reaches Heaven. The longest it takes for the soul to be purified is 12 months. That is reserved for the biggest sinners among us. Kaddish, literally a prayer of glorification of God, is recited to help in the purification process. We only say Kaddish for 11 months because we must never assume that anyone ever reaches the level of needing 12 months. 

I have 2 observant brothers who would have Abba covered if I chose not to say Kaddish regularly. To say that I am doing it to honor my father, or because he would have wanted me to, simplifies it in my mind. I am doing it for me. And yeah, in the process I am honoring his memory and I am pretty sure he would want me to, even if I believe he had zero expectations that I would. Davening is like riding a bike, you never forget how. I got right back on and haven’t missed a beat. 

When I don my Tefillin, and read the Tefilot, I know that I am supposed to have Kavana, intent to speak to God. Instead, I speak to Abba. I say the words, but my mind is asking my father things or telling him things and I am projecting what he would say in response. One of my earliest questions to him was, “Abba, is it ok to mourn you like I do when our people are besieged and many are dying tragically and so many are dying so young?” I imagine my father, a glass half full guy his whole life, telling me to focus on what’s important and to take his loss in proportion. I push back. Grief is personal. My pain is not the same as the mother who has to bury her 21 year old son who fell in battle, or the father whose daughter was raped, brutally murdered and her body mutilated, I get that. But, I remind him that he, a survivor of the Shoah who saw his own father killed before his eyes, told me that losing my mother at age 45 to cancer was the most tragic thing that ever happened to him. Grief is personal. 

I understand that this mental conflict is not rational, I feel my pain, others feel theirs. It is not a competition. But Judaism mandates a year of mourning for parents, not for spouses, siblings or children, is that fair? I look at the words in the Siddur, I say them and I remember how deeply religious my father was, how he loved God and thanked him for everything at every opportunity despite having every right to turn away from Him. I don’t understand it, and I don’t think I ever did. This same God that granted my father a long life and so much nachas is also responsible for October 7th and Bondi Beach. Abba is telling me that I don’t understand His ways, no one really does, but if He let it happen there is a reason and we need to accept it with love just as we accept the good. 

Yitgadal V’yitkadash Shmei Rabbah – Glory be thy Name. 

My wife pointed out to me that many of the hostages released from captivity in Gaza held onto religious practice to get through the trauma they were going through and to help pass the time. Polling shows that after October 7th Jews in great numbers are turning towards rituals and observance to help get them through painful times. Add me to those numbers. It took my father dying to get me back into Shul, not October 7th, but the concept is the same. I go to Shul every day. I say words meant for God, but speak to Abba. I find comfort in the ritual. I remember that so much of my life was spent with my father in Shul. I touch the pews, smell my musty Tallit, feel the burn of the leather straps of my Tefillin on my arm, bow at the appointed time, and take in the spirit of daily ritual. In Shul, Abba is with me and for now, that is enough to get me through this.