In second grade, in the face of injustice, I committed a terrible act of cruelty. It’s an incident that I have shared before, although not in many years, so please forgive me if you recall the story. A new child joined our second-grade class. His name was Zinatalli; when he first arrived, I was as excited as could be, because for the first time, I was no longer the shortest child in my grade.
Having just returned from a trip to Israel where I viewed some of the unspeakable devastation from the terror attacks on October 7 and heard from survivors and families of hostages, I cannot wrap my mind around the perspective that Israel should simply back down altogether. Breaking a cycle of mistreatment will never be a one-sided endeavor.
November 18th, 1978—that’s when the mass suicide occurred, forty-five years ago. November 18th is also my birthday, so perhaps that is why the story of Jim Jones and the Jonestown Massacre has always haunted me. Jim Jones began as a social activist, working to ameliorate some of America’s racism. Over time, the forms of his social activism and his associated beliefs became more extreme, even as his ability to manipulate and exert control over his followers grew.
As the problem solver I strive to be, I’ve had to learn not to critique the plan or point out flaws until I have a viable solution to offer up. Perhaps our Torah portion can remind us that the first “solution” is to find common ground and work together. That’s how the hardest problems get solved.
Carl Jung once said that “Every form of addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol or morphine or idealism.”
I’m writing this in the final moments of our downtime before we head to dinner and the airport. I have no clue what day of the week it is, and the last few days are a jumble, but I wanted to get this reflection out before I got on the airplane.
Today was the reason I came on this trip. I came to bear witness to the atrocities of Black Shabbat, October 7. Houses blackened with soot. Safe rooms covered in blood and bullets. A bottle of wine left on the table outside from a last sukkah party the night before. In this house, a friend, in that house, a young family. Doors with a “Bring Them Home” poster of their owner taped to the door.