Every Life is a Miracle

Tonight was the first night of Hanukkah. I met my friend at a Columbus Circle event called “Chanukah for Ceasefire,” run by Rabbis for Ceasefire and a few other organizations. 

On this day, my social media feed has been pissed off because Time Magazine has named Taylor Swift “Person of the Year.” People are mad because we live in a superficial world where a pop star who participates in little to no activism is getting attention in the major media, all while tireless, grieving Palestinian reporters such as Motaz Azaiza and Bisan are not. I get people’s frustration– I do. It reminds me of how I’ve been feeling lately about trivial things. On halloween, floods of children and their parents walked the streets in costumes, filling bags with candy gleefully, meanwhile, entire families were being killed in Gaza. I passed a boy putting a quarter in the gumdrop machine, meanwhile, a boy in Gaza was throwing himself into the rubble searching for his mother. People are holiday shopping now, meanwhile, in Gaza… you get it. 

I’ve always been a believer in the idea that in order to live a true, real, authentic existence, we must be able to hold two or more truths at once. And I visualize this “multiple truths at once” thing often. It looks like: someone being both happy and sad about the same situation. Or, someone flying on an airplane for an important trip, aware that its emissions are fucking up the ozone. But when a duality is something like “Hamas attacked on October 7th, and our government is now assisting in the effort to wipe out a population of people,” it’s different. It doesn’t feel like something that’s meant to be, or can be, accepted as the complexity of war, or whatever. 

But what about these two truths?: We are tortured by the innocent people taken hostage by Hamas, and Palestinian people deserve to live.

Or these: We (Jews) have strong emotional ties to the land of Israel, and Palestinian people have their own rights to land and freedom. 

When I arrive in Columbus Circle, hundreds of Jewish people are gathered there, people of all ages. There is a menorah in the center of the circle that reads “ceasefire” (a letter for each candle) and a Palestinian flag illuminated by street lamps. This is the community I needed tonight; like-minded people whose identity doesn’t feel threatened by liberation of the “other.” People who don’t believe there is any excuse under the sun for a military intervention that kills thousands upon thousands of civilians. People who see humans as being more alike than different, and refuse to compromise on that belief. We light candles, hold signs, pass around donuts and sing songs that weave the traditions of Hanukkah with the Jewish cultural tradition of political activism. 

“Don’t let your people tell you that by calling for a ceasefire, you do not care about the hostages,” says the rabbi. 

This one hits. It has been suggested to me a few times that by speaking up about Gaza, I don’t care about Israeli hostages. I’ve come to accept that these are people who would be angry if I brought up anything but the hostages, but they are especially angry when I mention Gaza. I’ve never heard someone question why I highlight certain issues over others until now, but since I am asked, this is why: the way I see it, it should be evident that a mass murder of this scale becomes the main concern within any conflict. While it is happening, I see it as the primary and most pressing issue. It needs to stop. As an absolute first priority. 

“Every life is a miracle,” the rabbi reads. In my practice of Judaism, this remains a core value. 

I get so angry about the lack of regard for Palestinian lives that upon hearing certain phrases (i.e. “You want a ceasefire? Then release the hostages!”) I sometimes have to walk away and cry. As if it’s okay to kill thousands of people, many of whom are children, in the name of retaliation or self-defense or in the quest to kill Hamas or release hostages or really, anything. I wish we could all agree that this is not the answer to any problem, no matter how urgent.

I do not claim to know what the solution is here, but I can say with confidence that it is not doubling down on an already colonized population, and definitely not a “military solution.” With everything in me, I know it’s not that. 

I’ll admit something. For a while I was so devastated by the thousands dying in Gaza that I didn’t have room in me to be as angry and sad about the hostages, too. They felt like an afterthought in the larger scale of death and destruction. But the other day I was on my way to work when I glanced at one of those “kidnapped” posters. I pass this one every day. The person on it was an elderly woman with a big smile and gleaming eyes. On the poster, someone had written in sharpie, “Welcome home!” I broke down, so relieved that this poor old lady made it home, so full of grief for the time she lost and the trauma she’ll live with for her remaining days, the unthinkable impact this will have on her mind and body. Before, I had intellectually grasped these two truths: the heartbreak and fear of those whose loved ones had been taken hostage by Hamas, and the horrific day-to-day in Gaza. But until this moment, I hadn’t felt the pain of both. 

I’m glad to find out my heart is expanding. It is not pleasant to feel the pain of multiple parties at once, but I think if everyone could, the world would be a bit more just. 

“Every life is a miracle.” The rabbi repeats this simple phrase. “We light our candles to publicize the miracle. To say, ‘I need you. I need you to live for me to live. I need you to be free for me to be free.’ My life, my freedom, is ultimately tied up in yours.”  

I need you to live for me to live. I need you to be free for me to be free.