The Communal Shiva

Dear Rachel,

Today, I rose from Shiva after mourning the loss of my father. My father was a quiet, simple man who led a humble life, yet his journey as an immigrant to this country was long and intense. Throughout Shiva, I found myself repeating the same stories, sometimes unsure whether I was comforting those who came to support me or finding comfort in their presence. I spoke of his struggles as an immigrant, much like our forefather Avraham, who left his homeland and started anew in a foreign land, learning a new language and culture. I shared how my father, as a child of a Holocaust survivor, defied the odds stacked against him. Yet, he did, and I recounted story after story.

This Shiva was my first experience on the other side—sitting as the mourner rather than visiting to offer comfort. Like I am sure you are, I learned many lessons from being on this side of Shiva. The mitzvah of nichum aveilim—comforting the mourners—is sacred, but people often struggle with how to fulfill it. They wonder what to say, what not to say, what to ask, and what not to ask. I’m sure people are coming from all over the world to offer you comfort, share words of strength, and hear yours. But sometimes, there are no words. Sometimes, all you want to do is cry, and that makes others uncomfortable. Sometimes, your visitors cry with you, for you, shifting in their seats, unsure of how to ease your pain. Even the strongest among us, and I know you are one of the strongest, can struggle with the questions or the odd comments that people might say.

Rachel, you and I sat Shiva together—me for my father, you for your son. This doesn’t make either experience easier, harder, or different; it simply is. I thought of you often when people said the words, המקום ינחם אתכם בתוך שאר אבלי ציון וירושלים, to me. The idea of a communal Shiva, the idea of the mourners of Israel, resonated deeply.

Rachel, it wasn’t just you and me sitting Shiva this week—our nation mourned, our community mourned. People felt frozen. Your bravery, your voice, your hope resonated throughout our nation, and I join you in that mourning, not just because we shared our week of Shiva. During Shiva, I often reflected on the idea that the first Jewish version of therapy is Shiva. It was against every instinct in my body to sit there and talk when all I wanted was to be alone. I didn’t want to be with others. And Rachel, I think of you—you have been a face of strength to the Jewish people for the past ten months. How do you feel now? Do you still feel strong? Do you, like me, long to be alone? Whether we want it to or not, it’s impossible to be a Jew alone. I felt this deeply this week. We are connected, even halfway around the world—me in Maryland, you in Israel. You and I have never met and probably never will, yet we are bound together by the words, המקום ינחם אתכם בתוך שאר אבלי ציון וירושלים.

The mourner is struggling with the sense of universal and human loss of context and belonging. This feeling is intensified by the fact that Jews have a strong support system within their community. This community provides the necessary support during difficult times. By being physically present with the mourner during Shiva visits, this form of therapy helps dispel the sense of isolation.

Rachel, this message is for both of us—that we are forever connected, even though we have never met and likely never will. 

This morning, I took my walk around the block and cried. And now, what? Now I sit here, wondering how life will go on, one foot in front of the other. We are forever connected as a community. Just as my father, רפאל בן משה, will never be forgotten, your Hersh and his heroism will never be forgotten. May we draw strength from each other and continue to move forward together.

המקום ינחם אתכם בתוך שאר אבלי ציון וירושלים.