Despite tears and pain, still ‘zman simchatenu’
As we conclude Yom Kippur, we are instructed by Chazal to start looking forward to Succot and begin constructing the succah immediately that evening.
We are to look forward to zman simchatenu, the time of our happiness, something that may be difficult, given all the sadness, tragedy, challenges and hardship that surround us every day. This is especially palpable in Israel, with social media amplifying it and incidents even in the most remote corners of the globe brought before our eyes and into our homes and souls. And these are just the global events that impact us; what about the personal heartaches in each of our individual lives? Yet the Torah commands us, v’hayitem ach samech — you shall be completely happy! (Devarim 16:15).
For me, the son of a Litvak, happiness is not in my genetic makeup. As the old joke goes: Why do we read a portion of Megillat Esther on Purim in the Eichah tune? Answer: So that even the Litvaks will have some simcha. Ah, so then why don’t we read the whole Megillah in that mournful tune? Because the Litvaks don’t want to have too much simcha! So I’ve got to work at it.
I’m fortunate that I found out from my uncle, my late father’s brother, may he have a refuah sheleimah, that my great-grandfather and grandfather were actually Gerrer Chassidim. But I didn’t know that until after my father’s passing, and since he grew up and lived in a town only kilometers outside of Vilna, I was raised in a Litvishe mindset. As I said, I have to work on the simcha.
• • •
This week was particularly difficult. Two incidents affected me profoundly, one that happened only days earlier and one that occurred eight years ago.
The first was the sudden, tragic loss of my dear friend, Avi. No warning, no recent sickness. He was an exceptional person, a gifted and caring physician, a brilliant scholar of Torah, politics, history, you name it. And yet you could sit and laugh with him about the most insane and frankly silly things, mostly recalled from childhood, until the tears of laughter rolled down your cheeks. I miss him terribly, as does everyone who knew him, and our love, affection and support go out to his wonderful wife and family.
The other was someone readers may know. Ari Fuld, h”yd, was murdered by an Arab terrorist in 2018. He was stabbed in the back, but rather than succumb, Ari bravely turned and chased after the attacker, his gun firing, wounding him. But the loss of blood in the chase turned out to be too much for Ari. Nevertheless his bravery stopped the attacker, likely saving many lives.
As I was sitting in shul the next morning, the day after my friend Avi’s funeral, thinking about him, I realized it was Ari Fuld’s yahrtzeit. Rabbi Yonah Fuld, Ari’s father, was leading the davening and I was overwhelmed with sadness. Even writing these words days later brings me to tears.
But as is often the case, when you are in Eretz Yisrael, and as they say contact with Hashem is a “local call,” I start to talk to Him. I ask Him, Why? How do their families bear this? What am I, what are we supposed to learn from this?
I was friendly with Avi, but he wasn’t my family. I didn’t even know Ari. Yet I felt as if each one was my family. The loss was as painful as losing a brother. And then immediately I thought of the word, the concept of areivut. A Hebrew word that really defies English translation, like the word nachat (or nachas as we said in the old country).
Areivut is the principle that every Jew is connected to and responsible for his and her fellow Jew, for good or bad. That is why when bad things happen, our first response is, was he, was she Jewish? Not because we are self-centered, but because we want to, we need to, we are genuinely programmed to share their pain.
When we hear of a terrorist attack on a Jew anywhere in the world, it’s our family who’s been attacked. When we hear of a lost Jewish child, or one left in a hot car — it’s like one of our own kids, even if we don’t know their name. When we hear of a car accident in the Galil or in Montana or Italy or anywhere on earth and a Jew is hurt, or G-d forbid, killed, we feel it acutely.
On the other hand, unfortunately, when a Jew does something less than noble, we feel a sense of shame and embarrassment, even though we had nothing to do with it. Yet on a positive note, when Jews do something wonderful we have a sense of elation, as if we somehow were part of the whole enterprise.
• • •
As I further contemplated this wonderful concept of areivut, given to us by Hashem as a people and accepted by us all, individually and as a people, regardless of level of observance, some of my pain of loss was somewhat alleviated. Not because the pain was less, but because the sense that we were all in this together, that we all shared some of the burden of the pain, made it slightly easier to accept.
I felt Hashem had answered my plea for understanding, and my mind started to connect this to the whole idea of eglah arufah. Eglah arufah is brought when an unidentified body is found between two cities. Someone has to be responsible for this Jewish loss of life. Of course the authorities must do everything to determine what happened, to whom and by whom. But besides that, someone in leadership must take responsibility for this Jew’s death, even if they had nothing to do with it. The city closest to the body is deemed responsible and the leadership of that city must perform the eglah arufah ceremony.
We are all arreivim zeh la’zeh, responsible, connected to one another. What an incredible people we are! This is our extraordinary superpower!
As I contemplated this wonderful concept of areivut, some of the pain became easier to carry. I know that this is little comfort for those closest to the tragedy, but it is akin to knowing when a loved one is injured there is a police officer, firefighter or paramedic there to ease your anxiety.
An even better analogy is when a soldier is injured in the field, it takes a minimum of two to carry the stretcher, and the more hands available, the lighter the burden. We are all soldiers in Hashem’s army, as close as any chevra can be, dependent upon one another and responsible for one another.
Mi k’Amcha Yisrael, Goy echad ba’Aretz! Who is like you, O Israel, One Nation in the Land!
Dr. Alan A. Mazurek is a Great Neck native who now lives in Jerusalem and Florida.
