Last Thursday, I found out that I would be joining the New York Board of Rabbis, who organized a visit to the families of Imam Maulama Akonjee, and his friend Thara Uddina. They were murdered in Ozone Park, Queens on August 13 on their way home from praying in their Mosque. They were each shot in the back of the head.
I had, just a moment before learning about the visit, completed reciting the Mourner's Kaddish, (a prayer said by mourners) as it was my father's Yahrtzeit (the anniversary of my father's death). I had just chanted the words "yitgadel veyitkadesh shmeih rabbah," "magnified and sanctified is the name of God". Whenever I say these words, I think about how we magnify and sanctify the name of God. When we come together in friendship, love, and in fellowship, we see that all human beings are created bselelm elokim, in the image of God. This is one way God's name is sanctified.
I have, many times before, visited houses of mourning for those who were murdered because of hatred, prejudice and terrorism. Yet, as much as I am "experienced" in this area of my Rabbinate, I do not find these visits any less agonizing. Instead, I find them increasingly difficult, especially of late. There seems to be such horrible anti Muslim rhetoric out there in the world today. While talk may often be just talk, it can other times lead to action. Words need to be used so carefully.
The visit was planned for Monday, so I had Shabbat (the Jewish Sabbath) to think about the upcoming trip. Shabbat is a time in which I often reflect on events in my life and in the world. I focused on the Imam, his friend and their families, and what I could potentially say to them.
That Shabbat was a special Shabbat. It is called Shabbat Nachamu, the Shabbat of comfort. It is the Shabbat that follows Tisha B'Av, the day that commemorates the destruction of both the First and Second Temples in ancient Israel. It is also a national day of mourning for many tragedies throughout Jewish history. Shabbat Nachamu is meant to comfort us after this time of mourning. The weekly Haftorah, the portion read from the Prophets (Isaiah 40:1) says "Comfort, comfort my people says your God." As I heard these words ring out, I said to myself, how will I comfort these people? Then in Line 6, the text reads "What shall I say?" This was my question exactly - what shall I say to these people?
I continued to learn, pray and think about my visit for the remainder of Shabbat and the rest of the weekend. However, I still had no answer when Monday came. As I was getting ready to go to Ozone Park, my daughter and I were talking about my visit that morning. My daughter decided to make a card for the Imam's family and friend's family as well.
During the whole ride to Queens, I reflected on my daughter's small, sweet gesture. I thought about what happened in Ozone Park from the perspective of a child losing a father who was a clergy person like me, walking home from his or her house of worship. All murders are tragic. All lives are equally sacred. However, there is something about an attack on a religious leader. When something like this happens, it makes a troubling statement. It also means it could happen to any member of the Clergy, an Imam, a Rabbi, a Priest, or a Minister. The attack for me was very personal in my mind.
The visitors were comprised of rabbis of every affiliation, as well clergy members from other faith communities. We entered. We sat. We listened. Rabbi Joseph Potasnick, the Executive Director of the New York Board of Rabbis (who coordinated the meeting), made the introductions and offered some thoughtful words. When we introduced ourselves, we essentially said that we wanted to come as fellow people of faith to be there for them in this trying time. We spoke together, we learned together, we prayed and sang together.
Rabbi Angela Buchdahl of Central Synagogue sang a soulful version of Psalm 23. My own teacher, Rabbi Avi Weiss led us beautifully in Psalm 122 and the Priestly Blessing. There was something very holy about the experience of people of different faiths coming together at this very painful time. I was particularly moved by a text chanted from the Koran by Officer Erhan Yildirim, the Community Coordinator with the Police Commissioner's Liaison Unit. Perhaps some of us have heard stories of non-Muslims, who, when they walk by a Mosque and hear chanting, sometimes feel vulnerable, scared, or angry. If such a person was with us and the Imam's family that day, I think he or she would feel a sense of connection. I believe it would forever change the way he or she experienced the sound of Muslim chanting.
When tragedies happen, people want to know why they occur. During such harrowing times, answers are incredibly difficult to come by, and as well-meaning as they are, people inadvertently provide meaningless or hurtful answers. Their feelings of hopelessness in this time of sadness sometimes leads to over-simplification. Instead of trying to answer questions for them, we came before the mourners as listeners who were simply there to be there with them.
As for me, I had an opportunity to speak to Imam Akonjee's family and Thara Uddina's family about the experience I had with my daughter that morning. I gave them her cards and I hugged them. I believe that a hug is worth a thousand words.