What does "moving on" look like? I'm worried that it's this.

I can't help wonder how the hostages would feel if they saw us all celebrating Purim right now.

There is a memory looping in my brain all day that I can’t stop, so I decided to share.

One Thursday afternoon a few years ago, when I was completing my certificate in Spiritual Counseling, we were having a session about siblings. It was part of the program where we were studying group facilitation with a veteran psychologist who specialized in group therapies and processes. Each week the teacher, whom I’ll call Charlie, would have us tackle a different emotional topic, and we would practice exploring and sharing, learning about ourselves as we delved into the professional literature on the subject.

On this particular day, when Charlie announced that we were doing siblings, one of the women in the group protested.

“Ckan we please talk about something else?” said the woman, whom I’m call Chava. “Anything else.” She was visibly pale and upset.

Charlie demurred. Changing the topic wasn’t an option.

After a brief writing tast, we began going around the room to share. People talked about siblings they loved, they admired, competed with, or fought with. Others nodded, smiled, or just listened. When we got to Chava, she paused, and told us to skip her. She clearly did not want to be doing this. But Charlie would not let up. After everyone was done, he went back to her and pressured her to participate.

Realizing she had no choice, she shared with us that she no longer has siblings. They all died young, each in a tragic way — car accidents, war…..

I could understand why she did not want to be doing this entire exercise. Every single person who shared — even those who described challenging relationships — triggered her pain.

We listened and held space for her while she began to cry.

And then, just like that, Charlie said, “Okay, now, moving on to the reading.”

Chava, still in tears, got up and left the room.

I was in shock.

I said, “How can we move on when Chava is still going through this?”

I don’t remember what Charlie said, but what I know is that it was not, “Oh, ok you’re right, let’s pause and help her.” He did whatever the opposite of that was. He just kept going.

I could not participate in that. I got up and left the room. I went to find Chava. I sat with her for a while, let her talk and cry and do whatever she wanted for as long as she needed.

Eventually, when she was ready, we went back into the room.

We walked in, and people looked at her. For a brief moment there was silence. And then someone said something to me about how good it was that I went after Chava. And then someone said something to Charlie about why he didn’t stop the class.

Everyone looked at him.

And then the real discussion started. We talked about what our responsibiity is to the people around us. What it means when one person is strugging or suffering. What it does to all of us when the group “moves on” even when one person is in pain. Charlie never did get back to his lesson. But we learned something far more important. And he eventually apologized.

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The reason I went after her, I think, is that I know something about being left behind. It is a terrible loneliness, and one that I would not wish on anyone.

I have witnessed this often in my life. I have seen many situations in which a group moves on when one of the members is in pain.

A woman in an organization describes an abusive situation, and she ends up leaving while the organization continues.

A member of a synagogue is publicly humiliated by a big-shot in the community, and nobody seems to care, so she ends up leaving instead of the bully.

A child is feeling hurt or mocked or shamed or offended by family dynamics and ends up sitting alone in silence while the family continues with their celebrations or holidays or Shabbat meals without them.

So often, groups decide to move on rather than allow space for the person in pain. It’s much easier, isn’t it? It’s better for “everyone” if life goes on as usual. The show must go on. The games must go on. Whatever. It’s Purim. It’s Pesach. It’s Yom Ha’atzmaut. We need routine. We need normalcy….

(Ironically, to this day many Jews are furious about the line, “The Games Must Go On” from the 1972 Munich Olympics after the Israeli delegation was murdered… So there’s that.)

Even if normalcy or routine are considered important, I wonder what it means for the concept of community. Or family. Or peoplehood. What does it mean to be a “people” when some people’s pains are pushed aside for the sake of “tradition” or “routine” or “normalcy”? Can we really call that community? Or family?

I keep thinking of the line from Lilo and Stitch: “Ohana means family. And family means nobody gets left behind”. Some days I feel like, that is everything.

It’s everything.

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As we are entering this Purim season, I’m watching my people do this. Moving on. Sure, there are Purim parties dedicated to the hostages. Dancing, singing, playing music, with a photo of hostages hanging somewhere. Is that good enough? Does that say, “We care?” I don’t know. I can’t help but wonder how the hostages would feel knowing that people are having parties right now. Even if their photos are hanging there. How would you feel?

Perhaps I would feel differently if I thought that the current Israeli leadership actually cared about getting the hostages back. If we didn’t have a PM talking about “sacrifices”. If we didn’t have generals talking about months or years of war. If we didn’t have ministers like Smotrich saying out loud that “the hostages are not the most important thing here.” If we didn’t have religious politicians like Deri saying that saving the hostages is not a matter of “pikuach nefesh”. Let them languish….

There is no real sense that the hostages matter to our leaders.And so I’m asking myself, what does it even mean to be part of the Jewish community? Does Jewish peoplehood even exist if some people are kind of expendible? Sacrificable? Or are peoplehood and community just fictions we keep telling ourselves? So that we can have fun moments like Purim parties?

(Some people have been suggesting that if the hostages had come from the religious community instead of Shabbat-breaking revelers and kibbutzniks, the religious leaders would care more….But that only reinforces the thought that community isn’t even really community. It’s just “Whatever affects me.”)

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These tormenting thoughts have been playing in my mind, even as I want people to be happy. I want people to have joy, even during war, even at times of pain. And there are some people who argue that we have to hold space for all the emotions at once — for the joy and the mourning together.

I get that, to a point. Life is complicated and we all hold lots of emotions at once. But first of all, I’m not sure that is the most compassionate, or even Jewish answer. According to halakha, you’re not allowed to walk into a shiva house and get engaged. You have to let people have their thing.

But it’s more than that right now. It’s not even about mixing a moment of mourning with a moment of celebration. Becasue we aren’t in mourning — not yet. The implies that the tragic event has past. But it hasn’t. We’re still IN IT. We’re not PAST it. The hostages are still there, waiting for us to do something….

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I can’t do this.

I really just can’t.

I’m not doing Purim this year. That’s it. I am not moving on. It feels too cruel.

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