The roof that protects us

I will begin my words tonight with a disclaimer: this will be my painful cry, therefore I have to talk to you from where I stand, from who I am. I really hope that each one of you can find yourself at least in parts of my lament.

In 2019, around this time of the year, I woke up to the news that two friends of my oldest son had a terrible accident: the roof at the entrance of the building where one of them lived collapsed on them. One died and the other was seriously injured. My son had just moved to the States to study, and every possible fear of any parent was added to My already broken heart. That week’s Parasha was Vaierah, which we read last week, and the haftarah for that shabbat reminds me of that terrible shock, fear and sadness.

That Haftarah text tells that a Shulamite woman receives Prophet Elijah in her house, and after being very generous in her hospitality, the prophet decides to give her a present: his blessing for a child, since she has none. One year later she gives birth to a boy who, some years later, feels a severe pain in his head and drops dead at the fields. She desperately goes after the prophet and asks him: “Did I ask for a son? Did I not say, ‘Don’t deceive me?’” It seems that she is in fact asking him: why did you showed me this much love, such happiness, if it was only for me to lose it?

It’s a similar pain to the one I see every time I read or listen to the news from Israel. We are waiting in pain for the captives to return for already 413 days, and as rabbi Dr. Donniel Hartman said this week in his podcast[i]: “they are dying”. However, every day a mother loses her child to the war. Every day parents are forced to feel the void and the unimaginable pain of knowing that they knew the most beautiful love which is now gone. Forever. These painful family traumas are being experienced by Israeli and Palestinian parents, by Ukrainian and Russian parents. We are learning again and again as humans: war is an eternal violence that makes parents taste the bitterness of grief.

Last week’s Torah portion ended with Isaak almost being killed by his father. This week’s parashah begins with the death of Sarah. According to a midrash[ii], when Sarah heard about what happened to Isaac, her pain was such that she began to cry, and moan the sound of three painful wails, her soul burst forth from her and she died.

As a mother, I can understand this cutting pain that Sarah felt. I understand the desperate cry and anger from the Shulamite mother. I try to not let myself imagine the pain that each mother is feeling right now, during this war. They didn’t ask for any of that, they shouldn’t be in pain.

The very roof that should be shielding their children from the several different dangers which they could face is their children executioner. The physical roof in the case of my son’s friends, and the metaphorical ones in the cases of Sarah, the Shulamite woman and the mothers in Israel and Gaza.

Jewish bereavement rituals are small steps into healing: one day, one week, one month, one year. Every day you recognise your pain, you feel it, and you are one more step nearer to your full life again. But there are some pains that leave scars in your soul forever, although you may find an apparent healing. There are wounds that are the end of our lives.

Sometimes, belonging to a congregation, being a part of a community, is a source of shared support. We stand with the mourners, we hear the names, we express our concerns with an open heart, and hands that offer a wordless message of kind concern. However tonight, I can only offer a lament for those who are gone, for the seemingly hopeless situation of those who are still waiting to be freed, for the parents who fear for their children’s lives here and everywhere.

We should be able to trust the roofs over our heads to protect us, and when they fail, to scream and fight: We should never feel this pain.

May we be strong to scream and fight, may we be sheltered, may we find unending love.

Shabbat Shalom.

[i] https://www.hartman.org.il/program/identity-crisis-podcast/ 

[ii] Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer