Music, Memory, and Returning
By Cantor Alicia Stillman
In a few short weeks, as our summer wanes, Jews throughout the world will begin to hum the familiar folk melody that has lulled and led us into the High Holidays for generations: Avinu Malkeinu, chaneinu va’aneinu, ki ein banu ma’asim…. Avinu Malkeinu have mercy on us and answer us, for our deeds are insufficient, deal with us charitably and lovingly, and redeem us.
From the North End of Boston to the beautiful Berkshire Mountains, the collective musical memory is the same. Inwardly it taps against a hardened shell protecting our interior life – the season reawakens us to reclaim our spiritual north star, softening us to one another and the potential for deepened meaning in our lives.
Every holiday season we point ourselves in the same direction, and the ensuing year wears itself on us with pain as well as joy, unexpected disaster as well as unbelievably good fortune. The work of being a human walking through the world is exhilarating and filled with challenges, and each holiday that offers the opportunity to spiritually course correct is a welcome one.
Many of us are reluctantly getting back to our “real lives” – we are closing up summer cabins and unpacking suitcases, bidding farewell to visitors, taking sweaters out of storage. All of these activities lead us to and prepare us for t’shuvah, t’filah, and tzedakah: to return, to reflect, to come home.
Getting back to our real lives is exactly what the chagim do for us and to us. In Hebrew, the concept of t’shuvah laces our liturgical arc through the weeks of introspection and reckoning, apologies and forgiveness, a belief that the inner light of our soul is pure and good – and that we have the ability to recognize it as such, and to turn back toward that goodness. We bathe in hope and potential for sweetness, kindness, community, and generosity. It is the essence of optimism.
And yet, the mentioning of these familiar phrases dust off memories of sermons and of parents and grandparents who no longer sit beside us as we sing these words. The musical phrases and lessons that attach themselves to them usher in lifetimes of holidays and relationships: singing b’rosh hashanah yikatevun u’vyom tzom kippur yichateivun – the plaintiff and reflective refrain that on Rosh Hashanah the fate of the coming year is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
But in spite of that judgment, we have the power and agency to shift our actions and relationships to change the outcome as well as the world around us. No matter what the year holds for us, we are not passive actors within it. We have the ability to reflect, to help, and to heal. That is Judaism’s promise.
On Saturday, September 28, our communities gather for S’lichot, the candle lit, late-night gathering that puts us back into the Days of Awe with its desperate words of yearning to allow our prayers to be heard and answered.
With a midnight theological shakedown held by the spiritual CPR of Ashamnu, the season of return truly has begun, the serious reckoning of our behavior and who we are. Shema Koleinu..Hear our voice Adonai, spare us and be compassionate to us, and accept -–with compassion and favor – our prayer.
The inner poetry of this prayer is most poignant and for many captures the main work of our lives: “Do not cast us away from You; do not take Your holy presence from us. Do not cast us away or desert us as we grow old and our energy wanes.” There it is - the whole vulnerable human condition no matter your beliefs – I do not want to grow old scared and alone.
Cantors are beginning to massage these words in our mouths, songs, and sermons. And we hope that you will as well. Wherever you are this new year – may these words be meaningful for you, may their melodies lift you into the transformative experiences you seek, and may you find joy and safety in your beloved community.
Shana Tovah.
Alicia Stillman is the Cantor at Temple Israel of Boston.
Shalom Magazine edition 46
Jewish Brookline, Past and Present
By Zvi A. Sesling
Back in the 1980s Brookline was in its second decade of rent control, and seniors who could not afford otherwise rising rents comprised a large block of the town’s population.
Then in the 1990s, with rents rising along with property taxes, rent control went on the statewide ballot and voters determined it should be prohibited. At the time, Brookline’s Jewish population represented over 50 percent of the town. With the demise of rent control, landlords were able to raise rents to market rates. Students bunched up in groups of four, each paying what one or two seniors were paying, causing lower income residents to leave town.
While it was not at first obvious, a number of changes came to the town. More senior housing was necessary. Restaurants that catered to older people slowly lost business and eventually closed, replaced by eateries that appealed to a younger set. Coolidge Corner saw a number of businesses come and go, as did Washington Square and Brookline Village.
Churches remained fairly stable as did synagogues, except for Kehillath Israel which merged with Congregation Mishkan Tefila and built senior housing at the corner of Harvard and Williams Streets.
The late Robert Basile built not only in the Coolidge Corner area, but extensively throughout the town. Another developer is now constructing housing at the site of a retail building that housed a restaurant on Green Street. There is talk of future construction over existing buildings in the Village, with more housing on the way at Boylston and Hammond Streets, and possibly more at Boylston and Reservoir Road.
Newbury College is being replaced by more housing, and the town benefits from all the construction because the new projects are exempt from Proposition 2 1⁄2.
Then there are the schools. Brookline has seen the high school freshman building expand over the MBTA tracks, a revised front entrance and reconstructed science department. Add to that the rebuilt Ridley School, formerly the Devotion, which has been reconstructed twice. The new Driscoll and Lincoln schools also replaced older iterations and soon, for the second time in the last 40 or 50 years, the Pierce School will be leveled and rebuilt.
With so many changes Brookline is shedding its past and looking to the future. Around town some homes are being torn down and replaced by modern, architecturally updated houses. Some older buildings are having their facades redone and the historic Waldo Garage is about to be demolished.
And what of the Jewish population? A quick review reveals that the Modern Orthodox community is thriving and even increasing. The Conservative sector is stable and the Reform appears healthy. But following the elimination of rent control, many older Jewish residents have left Brookline.
Also consider that in the 1980s when the Jewish population was at its peak, we often saw a Select Board with a Jewish majority. Yet today the Board has a Jewish minority which reflects the Town’s overall population.
Even with all these changes Brookline still has some particularly Jewish establishments. While Eagerman’s Bagels is long gone, Kupel’s remains. Although Jack & Marion’s is but a fond memory for longtime residents, there is now Zaftigs in Coolidge Corner. The long gone B&D in Washington Square has been replaced by Mamaleh’s. In addition, all of the kosher butcher shops in the North Brookline area like Shafran’s and Handler’s are but memories. However, the Butcherie (originally Cape Kosher in Mattapan) has survived the many changes in town. Abe and Marcia’s on Washington Street in the Village is now a Turkish eatery.
Many longtime Brookline residents go with the flow of change. Some like the updated town, while others wistfully wish for the old days.
Zvi A. Sesling has lived in Brookline for over 60 years and has served in varied Town capacities. He edits the publications “10 By 10 Flash Fiction Stories” and the “Muddy River Poetry Review.” He lives with his wife Susan J. Dechter, a retired Brookline High School educator.
Unapologetically Zionist
The following is a sermon given at Temple Sinai, a Reform synagogue in Sharon, on August 9, 2024.
I hope our mission at Temple Sinai is clear: to pass on deep Jewish living lador vador – from generation to generation – with joyful Judaism, to engage in tikkun olam – the repair of the world by giving back to our community, and to instill of love of Zion, care for and support of the State of Israel. None of these objectives are at the expense of the other. In fact, each one complements and accents the other goal.
Even before October 7, support for the State of Israel was under fire. For certain, the State of Israel is far from perfect: ultra-Orthodox radicalism, corrupt politics, and gender discrimination – especially at the Western Wall – have all been met with large protests. However, the fact that there are protests demonstrate that Israel is still a vibrant democracy. No such protests would be allowed in any of Israel’s neighboring countries.
At the heart of everyone’s concerns is the humanitarian situation in Gaza. Yes, our hearts break as well. War is hell. Sparing civilian life in war is not just a matter of international law; it is an ethical issue that is discussed deeply in the Talmud and Jewish law. But we reject swallowing and regurgitating Hamas’ propaganda as much of the media has done. We place the responsibility for this situation on Hamas that has embedded itself literally underneath hospitals, schools, and so-called “humanitarian” centers. Civilians are also hostage-takers. Journalists having been holding hostages in their homes, and doctors are hiding weapons. Hamas wants as much carnage as possible, and the overwhelming majority of the Israeli Defense Forces has conducted itself admirably, full stop.
None of these challenges should make us apologetic about our Zionism. Libi b’mizrach – “My heart is in the East even if I am on the edge of the West,” wrote Yehuda HaLevi in the 12th century, and the same is true for us.
The State of Israel, like the United States, is a work in progress. Just as we can recognize that the United States is still working to be “a more perfect union” and still be proud Americans, so can we be Lovers of Zion even with Israel’s flaws. Now is the time to stand unambiguously by Israel’s side, even if we don’t like the current Israeli government. We are here for the long haul, trying to make Israel into not just the Promised Land, but the Land of Promise. And not just JNF-USA, Hadassah, Friends of the IDF, and Magen David Adom but also our Israeli Reform congregations through ARZA need our solidarity.
When Israeli paramedic Noa Abitbul visited us in June, she said that internal discord in Israel is like a fierce family fight. “No, you cannot borrow my sweater, but I will give you my kidney.” That is what family means.
As I write this, Israel is bracing for more war. Be unapologetic in your love of Israel. It is part of our mission, just as much as life cycle celebrations and cooking for homeless shelters. “All of the people Israel are responsible for each other” (Shevuot 39a).
Am Yisrael Chai, Od Avinu Chai.
Rabbi Joseph B. Meszler is the spiritual leader of Temple Sinai in Sharon, and a noted Jewish educator and activist. He is an active leader with the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism (RAC), the Sharon Interfaith Clergy Association, Project Bread, the Greater Boston Food Bank, Magen David Adom, and Jewish National Fund-USA. He is the author of several books, educational manuals, and illustrated children’s books through Prospective Press which he authors with his sister, Joelle M. Reizes.
The Jewish Homeland Today
By Bruce Mendelsohn
The Southwestern Israeli villages of Kfar Aza, Nahal Oz, and Kissufim are as close as Israeli civilians and visitors can get to the border of Gaza. Today, these once-vibrant villages are mostly empty and silent: Orange, lemon, and pomegranate tree branches bend under the weight of unharvested fruit; stray cats stalk rodents in the tall, brown grass; birds sing. The air is redolent with the scent of flowers, rosemary, citrus, and death.
Death came to Kfar Aza with the dawn of October 7. It came to Nahal Oz, Nir Oz, Re’im, Be’eri, Erez, Yad Mordechai, Karmiya, Zikim, and Sderot. On the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust, everyone in Israel knows someone who was murdered or taken hostage that day or who has died since Israel declared war on October 8.
In late August, I visited several towns overrun by Hamas. Escorted by a senior Israeli law enforcement officer, I accessed areas closed to most Israelis and foreigners and met with leaders of village Security Councils. They told their tragic stories slowly, lurchingly, angrily, and with resolve.
While most official accounts of October 7 are missing crucial details about the sequence of events, one fact is clear to all Israelis: The country’s intelligence and operational systems collapsed. Another fact has become increasingly evident as the war drags on: The economic fallout is adversely affecting Israel’s construction, agriculture, tourism, hospitality, and entertainment sectors.
In the months since the Simchat Torah massacre, more than 120,000 residents have been evacuated from a 10 kilometer archipelago of kibbutzim, moshavim, kfarim, and cities that stretches from the Mediterranean Sea in the West to Kerem Shalom in the South to Ofakim in the East.
Although the refugee “crisis” in Gaza garners media attention, reporting about Israel’s hundreds of thousands of internally displaced citizens — the largest displacement of Israeli citizens in the sovereign state’s history – is minimal.
For example, Kfar Aza — a major producer of corn, citrus, and dairy — was once home to 500 residents; its population is now less than 50. Down the road in Nir Oz, Hamas militants machine-gunned Thai workers alongside the cows that they helped the villages’ 438 residents care for. About 38 Nir Oz residents were killed by Hamas and another 75 seized as hostages. Will the residents return? No one seems to know.
And a key question is, do they even want to? Signs of Hamas’ rampage are everywhere. While the charred frames of modest houses and bullet holes can be repaired to remove the physical manifestations of terror; the memories of those who live there today will take far longer to repair. Asking about the holes scattered randomly throughout the detritus-strewn combat zone, we’re told they represent the Sisyphean efforts of a father who searches for his son’s head and tries to bury it in a grave dug months ago.
Crouched on a berm looking across the border at the destroyed village of Jabaliya, I hear the whine of drones and the distant boom of artillery. As a US Army veteran, I know these sounds well. As a Jew, I appreciate these sounds.
I welcome these sounds, because they communicate that the IDF — which includes two of my nephews — is fighting back. These sounds tell me that the phrase “never again” isn’t merely said to console thousands of years of heartbreak. Today, “never again means now” reflects the strength of the Jewish homeland.
To those who protest Israel’s actions — the actions of a sovereign state — I say: Come to Kfar Aza. Come to Yad Mordechai. Come to the Nova Festival site. Come to Erez, Be'eri, Nir Oz, Netiv Ha’asara, Alumim. Come. See the carnage and devastation wrought by so-called “Freedom Fighters.” Perhaps then you will reconsider those for whom you protest and why.
Bruce Mendelsohn is Deputy Vice Commander of Jewish War Veterans Department of Massachusetts. He owns The Hired Pen, a boutique content creation and management agency.
Jewish Resilience and Coping with Antisemitism Groups
Shalom Magazine
By Hadassah Margolis, MSW, LICSW
“Since October 7, I’ve realized that I have never felt so profoundly alone as a Jew.”
I was leading a workshop at a local synagogue on Jewish resilience and coping with antisemitism. One man shared in his breakout group that he had this intense feeling of isolation. His neighbor replied, “Really? Since October 7, I have never felt less alone as a Jew. I feel so much more connected to my Jewish community than ever before.”
The man leaned towards her and asked, “Can you say more?” The two of them went back and forth, sharing their experiences over the harrowing months.
When I asked the small groups to come back to the main space and offer takeaways, the man raised his hand: “We just had this amazing discussion, how I shared that I felt so alone and she” — he kindly pointed to the woman — “she shared that she feels completely not alone. It just goes to show that both can be true.”
This opportunity to learn through listening to others is one of the biggest reasons why I love being a group therapist. There is power in talking out loud about your experiences — and in hearing how others cope with or make meaning of similar experiences.
Since 2018, I have had the privilege of working with close to 30 area synagogues on this intersection of spirituality and mental health, providing these communal spaces.
After October 7, I tried to figure out what I could do. A clinical social worker by training, I have consistently been in action mode. I ask my clients to brainstorm and try out new behaviors or coping strategies, and not to do so in isolation. So, I decided to do what I do best: hold online and in-person spaces for Jews to come together to ask how are we each to make meaning of our experience of how we see ourselves and the world?
A collective trauma like October 7 requires collective spaces, to both sit with the pain and uncertainty, and explore ways of healing.
I’ve had parents describe how their college students are being harassed on campuses. I’ve had nonagenarians express a sense of dread that they never felt before, even during WWII. I’ve had twenty-somethings vent about coworkers making hurtful antisemitic comments in meetings. I’ve had people in their 50s cry over losing deep, long standing friendships. I’ve worked with people who have put on their chai necklaces and people who have taken down their mezuzahs. I’ve sat with people as they questioned how they were going to incorporate the hostages into their Pesach seders.
I’ve witnessed people grapple with holding both the horror of 1200 Israeli lives cut short and the ongoing devastation in Gaza. I’ve seen people reduce their news intake or decide to attend the Auschwitz exhibit.
And they disagreed. Disagreed on how they interpreted situations and how they managed them. Groups don’t have to be echo chambers to be helpful. In fact, one of the goals of a group is tolerating different perspectives or opinions. One woman, when reflecting on what participating in the group meant for her, said, “What I love about this group is that this is the one hour a week that I can show up as myself. I don’t have to hold back. And even when we disagree, we respect each other. I belong here.”
At the end of each session, I asked people the same question: Now that I have learned about myself and others after these weeks together, how do I want to respond? Everyone has had a different answer, ranging from “reminding myself to bring more light into the world, needing space to grieve the friendships I have lost, being more religiously observant, going to Israel, learning more about my Jewish heritage and joining more groups like this, to adding more semitism.”
There has been one golden thread throughout: We are all still here. We are all proud to be Jewish.
Even in the face of all this traumatic uncertainty, hope entails being seen as fully human, tolerating different opinions, sitting with the unknown and welcoming questions, and to do so in community in these groups.
And if that isn’t profoundly Jewish, I don’t know what is.
Hadassah Margolis, MSW, LICSW is the Director of Inpatient Group Therapy at McLean Hospital. For more information, visit https://hadassahmargolis.com/ or email margolis.hadassah@gmail.com.