Thoughts of a Diaspora Jew

The snow is falling lightly here in Chicago this afternoon as I think of the hostages and write these words. I don’t know what the weather is like in Israel or in Gaza or wherever the hostages are being held captive. I don’t know if they are suffering in the cold or hungry or in pain. I don’t know if they are even alive. What I know is that it’s been more than a year since they were abducted, and I keep praying, as I’ve prayed for the past year, adding my prayers to everyone else’s prayers, hoping the hostages are safe.

But, of course, I have no idea if my prayers, or anyone else’s prayers, are being heard. I have no idea if God exists, although I hope (and pray) God does exist. As a Jew, I keep praying anyway, despite my doubts, because praying is how I manage to stay sane (if writing these words can be considered sane) and preserve some semblance of hope. 

It’s my ongoing conversation with God—some days a whispered confession, other days a heated argument—that has sustained me for years as a Jew, and it’s what sustains me now. This relationship, even if it’s a relationship that exists only in my imagination, is the foundation of my Jewishness, my belief in a divine being who created the universe (and all that exists within that universe). It’s what gives my life meaning. 

But such a belief doesn’t relieve the suffering that people endure —mine or anyone else’s. Suffering is as much a part of the universe and of life as is joy, and it is just as unpredictable. Who suffers and why? Who experiences joy and why? Who is taken hostage and who is spared and why? Why does life unfold this way and not differently? Why does God remain silent? These are difficult and painful questions that I keep asking, questions that I find as mysterious as the universe itself.    

Here I am, a Jew living in the Midwest, far from the events unfolding in the Middle East, filled with questions to which there are no good answers. Questions that fill me with dread and that can undermine my faith in God and in the goodness of life. Questions that can make me wonder how to live my life as a Jew in the face of growing antisemitism. Questions about whether to shout my support for Israel or to march in protest. On which side of the barricade should I stand? Or perhaps it’s better (ie, safer) to keep my head down and remain silent?

When life is viewed through the lens of these questions, it feels like the world that we inhabit—Jews and Palestinians and everyone else—is balanced on a dangerous precipice, and one false move will send us all into oblivion. As I sit typing these words, it feels like we are living in a constant state of uncertainty. No one is sure which path to follow that will lead us out of this quagmire. No one is willing to trust another, and no one can take a step forward without this trust. So we are all stuck in the same place, and we will remain stuck until each side is willing to admit that we’re fearful of the unspeakable things each of us can do to one another in war and what will happen if this war continues. Instead we simply pretend our fears don’t exist, that we’re strong, that we can conquer our problems (and our fears) on our own. 

But this way of thinking only leads to more suffering, more pain, and more war. And the pain becomes a memory that will not be forgotten on both sides. And the more pain we inflict on one another, the harder it becomes for each of us to see the other for who he or she truly is and to understand what he or she truly wants. And the harder it becomes for us to hear each other, to listen to what the other has to say, and to respect what the other might want or need, whether or not we agree, the more likely the war will continue.

So I sit here, a Diaspora Jew, typing out my thoughts on a winter afternoon in Chicago with the snow falling gently against the window and the light fading from the sky, far from where the bombs are dropping, and part of me wants to push my laptop aside and open a door and scream into the gray sky for people to stop fighting and for the hostages to come home and for people to emerge from their bunkers and bomb shelters and embrace each other because we have forgotten the most basic and important fact of life: we are all human beings. And we are alive, each of us. For the briefest of moments, we are alive.