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Frimet Roth is a New York-born Israeli whose daughter Malki, 15, was murdered by Palestinian Arab terrorists in the massacre at the Sbarro restaurant on August 9, 2001.
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By Frimet Roth
April 16, 2003
More than any other, Pesach is a holiday cherished by all Israelis, whether religious or secular. A time to serve up favorite delicacies and to revel in family togetherness around the sparkling Seder table.
But not for all. Not this year.
"Every day is difficult," explains S. whose son was killed in a terror attack on a Jerusalem bus, "but holidays are the worst of all. You're reminded of how good they used to be and how painful they are now."
Even the pre-Pesach clean up, when cupboards are emptied and old possessions are sorted through, can be oppressive. I found forgotten drawings, letters and clothes from my daughter Malki. Yesterday I came across her brand new diary for the year 5762. She had dedicated it with a brief poem about choices in life, and with a good-luck note from a friend. But Malki did not live to write even a single entry. The diary is singed and riddled with holes from the nails her Palestinian murderer had packed into his bomb.
Last year, Palestinian terrorists made their presence felt with the shocking Seder night attack at Netanya's Park Hotel, killing 29, seriously injuring 140. Everyone's prayers are that the relative respite we are currently enjoying from such horrors will continue. But this does not mean the victims should be absent from our thoughts on Seder night.
Alongside the joy over our liberation from slavery in Egypt, the Seder has traditionally been the setting to remember Jewish suffering at the hands of a succession of tyrants. Thus we drink four cups of wine and no more, symbolizing four of G-d's five expressions of his promise of redemption. We omit a cup for the fifth expression "And I will bring you" as a reminder that our exile has not ended and the ultimate deliverance is yet to come.
Another Seder custom, the opening of the front door while we recite the prayer "Shfoch Chamatcha" ("Cast your Anger") arose in the Middle Ages as a response to the rampant libels against Jews of theft and murder of Christians. Jewish doors were ceremoniously opened to demonstrate to the accusers that the Jews within were innocent and had nothing to hide. (An alternative explanation is that it was done to ascertain whether incriminating objects like blood or church wafers had been planted at a Jewish door in order to frame those dwelling within.)
During the 1970s, the custom arose among Jews in Western countries of setting an extra place at the Seder table to remember the Prisoners of Zion in the Soviet Union. And before the Passover of 2001, the Jewish Agency for Israel urged Jews around the world to "set one symbolic place at the Seder table in honor of the Israelis who have fallen into captivity and for those Israeli soldiers missing in action and to recite the special prayer for their safety."
We're now in the midst of a war brought upon us by our neighbors. Is there a specific need for us to remember the human losses of these past thirty months? Could it be that our victims are already forgotten?
Israelis have earned plaudits for their "resilience" and determination to "carry on with their daily routines" in the face of unrelenting threats of terrorism. And rightly so.
But this achievement has exacted a price. Some psychologists have noted that Israelis are growing inured to suffering - that they don shields against their emotions. Dr. Yoram Yovell of the Department of Psychology at Hadassah University Hospital and the Israeli Psychoanalytic Institute was asked about our reactions to terrorism in a recent interview for the Jerusalem Post Magazine. He said: "We have learned to isolate our feelings. It's not that we don't have them; we have compartmentalized them. The price in the long run is that you become less sensitive to suffering in general... You can see it for example, in that we are totally oblivious to the suffering of children on the other side. We've stopped caring about the deaths of Palestinian children."
Israeli victims would point out to Dr. Yovell that "compartmentalization" has actually made many Israelis oblivious to the suffering of their own people too - even of their own children. Many of us, the bereaved, sense a reluctance in friends and family to draw close or discuss our losses and pain. That this defensive mechanism produces "resilience" is hardly a comfort for us.
I am aware that touching the raw pain of a terror victim can be disturbing. And I know parents are keen to shield their children from those encounters. But what exactly are we teaching them about the value of life when we sweep hundreds of murders under the carpet, the better to "soldier on"?
The more than 700 Israeli lives lost were not only precious to their families and close friends. They were national treasures. All of Israel should mourn the devoted youth leaders, teachers, doctors, soldiers, the head of Magen David Adom volunteers, the Hadassah oncologist, my Malki who volunteered with disabled children, the chiropractor who treated disabled children free-of-charge, the orphaned soldier who was raising her younger sisters on her own. The list of heroes is long.
Aviva Raziel, the mother of Malki's friend Michal who was killed with her as the two teenagers stood on line in the Sbarro pizzeria, often reminds me: "Our daughters did not die in vain. They died so that Jews can live freely in their one and only State. Just like brave soldiers on the front line."
Some thoughts to ponder at the Seder.
Views expressed by the author do not
necessarily reflect those of israelinsider.
 
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