Why I am Angry
By Tom Grana
Tom Grana, a member of Or Haneshamah, offered the following remarks during our special Solidarity Shabbat service on Saturday, November 3, attended by many members of First Unitarian Congregation of Ottawa, faith leaders, and members of the broader Ottawa community.
I’m sad and grief-stricken with the rest of our community at the massacre in Pittsburgh. But I’m actually mostly angry.
I’m angry at the reactions (Jewish and otherwise) expressing shock and disbelief that such a thing could happen. Such a thing has been happening, both to our people and to others, for as long as we have recorded history. More specifically, I’m angry at the reaction of “not here”. The idea that it shouldn’t happen “over here” is frankly, naïve and offensive. We should not be saying “not here”. We should be saying “not anywhere”.
While I’m angry at these reactions, I also understand them as human. We don’t want to confront the fragility of our existence. We want to believe that we are somehow different than victims, and when it’s obvious that we are not, we want to believe that we are in a safer place than them. I myself at least partially want to believe that such a thing would not happen in Canada, with our gun control laws and our (perceived) climate of multiculturalism and inclusion.
Absurdly, I also find myself angry at the opposite narrative, the one that acknowledges the seeming inevitability of the attack. That it was not a matter of if, but when. I’m angry that we have to simply accept that we will be the target of hatred, of murder, as long as we continue to exist. I’m angry at this narrative, that we will forever remain separate from the rest of humanity. I’m angry at the consolation that because we haven’t been entirely eliminated as a people, we are surviving. That’s not enough. I want us not just to survive, but to thrive.
I’m angry at myself. I’m angry that the first target of my anger was my own people. I’m angry that I am not angrier at the terrorist (because that is what he is, not a “shooter”), that I have also accepted that these things will continue to happen. I’m angry that I’m not doing more, angry for being tolerant of acquaintances who have sung praises of a leader who has normalized violence and fanned the flames of hatred and bigotry.
As I sit with my anger, I remember that it is the emotion we feel when we believe we have been treated unjustly. The reality is that there is no inherent justice in this world, and that, in itself, makes me angry. It is up to us to bring justice to the world; us, the same beings who fall prey to tribalist divisions, to prejudice and hate, who constantly look for the differences between us, when in reality we are more alike than we are comfortable to admit.
This world, this reality, does not seem to make any sense. But I refuse to give into nihilism, to simply accept a world where the only two choices are being cynical and prepared, or hopeful and fragile. As I struggled with this tension, I looked for inspiration to my Jewish heroes, the partisan fighters of the Second World War. While others told themselves that it wasn’t going to get any worse, that it would not happen to them, these men and women understood the enormity of the evil facing them, saw their own fragility and simultaneously, with almost foolish resolve, decided to reject that reality.
In my mind, the Jewish experience is one primarily of defiance. While at first glance this may not seem to be the case, with the centuries of exile we have quietly endured, often under overt subjugation and oppression, a struggle still remained, even if only internal. Our people resisted the pull to assimilate, to disappear into the larger mass when given the opportunity, to give up our traditions as the cause of our suffering. Ultimately, no matter how many people point the blame at us, we refuse to be blamed for the violence and hatred we find ourselves the target of. All the way to the biblical narratives of our forefathers (which shape us however religiously observant or not we are), being Jewish seems to almost require being confronted with overwhelming odds – and charging forward nonetheless.
I don’t yet know exactly what to do with all my anger, but I do know I have to continue defying this reality, including my internal experience. We may not be able to control the world we live in, but we are in control of our reactions to it. Our enemies are not just those who want to hurt us, to kill us. They are also inside us: they are fear, divisiveness, anger, but also defeatism, escapism and denial.
A few months ago, I moved with my family into a new house. As we became busy with unpacking boxes, and renovating our home to “make it ours”, we kept postponing affixing our mezuzah. Even as the house became more and more our home, we kept putting it off. I tried not to read too much into this. For a brief moment, after the Pittsburgh attack, I wondered if we should not affix it after all. Not make ourselves more of a target. But I had to defy that reflex in me, even if on principle alone. I also remembered where our mezuzot came from. Tel Aviv, Chicago, one made in Ottawa by non-Jewish hands. The very physical markers of our Jewish home are, to me, reminders that we are home not in one place on Earth, but with those we love, with our community, and ultimately first and foremost in our minds. I realized that being home, to me, means staying alert, keeping my eyes and ears sharp and my muscles ready for the inevitable ugliness of this world, while keeping my heart open to grieve, to not fully comprehend, to have faith in a better future despite the evidence to the contrary.
Last night, against all reason, we affixed our mezuzah.
A reminder that all of our fantastic High Holiday member reflections are posted at: https://www.orh.ca/hhd18-reflections.html
