An Empathy Deficit

This past week, I participated in a mission to Israel unlike any I had experienced before. The mission’s convener was a Jewish not-for-profit called “Encounter,” and together with other communal leaders, I spent the week in dialogue with Israelis and Palestinians – thought leaders, politicians, men, women, old, and young – from all sides of the political spectrum and both sides of the Green Line. Such cross-cultural exchanges are always charged, and you can only imagine what it was like with the backdrop of war. What made this particular visit unprecedented was not just whom we met with, but the make-up of our group: Jewish communal leaders – rabbis, educators, not-for-profit leaders – and also, our children. Each one of us was asked to bring one, and in some cases, more than one, of our Gen Z children. Of all the subplots of this war, one affecting so many American Jews is how it is being perceived differently by my generation and our children’s generation, all the more so if you are a parent running a Jewish institution or their child. The goal of our trip, modest yet bold, was that whatever we would see and whoever we would hear, we would do so together. This was a pilot program (aspects of which will be replicated with our just-announced parent/teen trip to Israel this coming June) aimed at creating a shared language with which Jews of different generations can navigate the uncharted and often tempestuous waters of our time.

I arrived back yesterday morning, so it is all still very raw and unformed. I have, as you can imagine, an incredible amount to share, and somehow it feels better to do so in a non-sermon format that will lend to a back-and-forth. For starters, for those who can make it, my Tuesday morning class this week, in person and on Zoom, will be given over to sharing my reflections and answering your questions on who I met and what I saw.

But this morning, I want to talk not about what I saw, but about what I did not see, or see enough of, what I wished I had seen, from Israelis, from Palestinians, from anyone. In a word: empathy. The ability of either side of the conflict to know that whatever their truth, their narrative, their hurt may be, the other side holds their own truth, their own narrative, and their own hurt. Call it humility, call it empathy, call it what you want – the small, but momentous act of knowing, and acknowledging, that whatever you are going through, someone else is going through it, too, but differently. That I did not see.

Let me explain.

Israelis are a people living through unspeakable trauma. The horrors of October 7th, the continued plight of the hostages, the soldiers killed and injured in defense of their country, all to ensure October 7th never happens again. The mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, and sons and daughters who go to sleep each night unsure if their loved one will come home. Not just the hostage families, soldiers, and evacuees, but everyone. There is not one Israeli family who is not directly or indirectly impacted by a brutal and now 463-day conflict. There is no post-trauma among Israelis; it is real time trauma, and it is all the time.

And, at the same time, Palestinians are a people living through unspeakable trauma. Tens of thousands of Gazans killed, millions displaced, cities reduced to rubble, family lines wiped out, orphaned and hungry children with no discernible path forward. The mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, and sons and daughters who go to sleep each night unsure if their loved one will come home. Not just the residents of Gaza, but Palestinians living in Ramallah, Nazareth, Jerusalem, and elsewhere, who – no differently than you or I feel a kinship, biological or otherwise, with our Israeli brothers and sisters –feel kinship with their Gazan family. There is no post-trauma among Palestinians; it is real time trauma, and it is all the time.

And while the fact that Israelis and Palestinians are two people in trauma is an observation so obvious it verges on unremarkable, what is remarkable, toxic, and ultimately tragic is that it is an observation that neither side is able to acknowledge. In my days in Israel, and I want to be careful to name the limited scope of my visit and interactions, the traumas of the two sides were, more often than not, hermetically sealed from one another. Israeli bookstores are filled with the stories of the victims and heroes of October 7th; Palestinian bookstores are filled with books on the victims of Gaza. The media and social media feed of each group are entirely independent from the other. Israelis are not attuned to the pain of Gazans, and Palestinians are not attuned to the pain of Israelis. In the news, at the rallies I attended, in group discussions and private side conversations, there is an empathy deficit resulting from an inability or unwillingness to engage with the sorrow the other side is experiencing.

The barrier between the two communities runs deeper than any physical, cultural, and media divide. We met with one leader of the Israeli left, a person who opposes the present Israeli government with every fiber of his being, and yet, when asked how he feels about what is taking place in Gaza, he responded with words to the effect of “Give me back the hostages, and then ask me how I feel about Gaza.” We spoke with numerous Palestinian activists who, when asked if they could understand the trauma felt by Israelis on October 7th, could, at best, only bring themselves to see that trauma as self-inflicted in the context of a long-standing struggle for liberation and, for that matter, long since eclipsed by the carnage of their own people in Gaza. There was a Twilight Zone quality to it all – a willed refusal to engage with what is happening on the other side. While we did, to be sure, meet with folk committed to dialogue, neither side was prepared to give anything but lip service to the possibility that wounded as they were, so too, the other side as well.

I get it, war is a dirty business. The point of armies is not to have the other side understand you or love you, but fear you. Soldiers are sent into battle to achieve the goals of their mission, not to engage in the truth claims of their enemy. The Middle East is not a parlor game, the threats are real and existential, and here in this room, we prioritize the interests, defense and pain of our own people. That is what it means to be part of a family – biological, national or global. It is not rocket science. When you are in pain, the last thing you want to do is acknowledge the pain of the other side. In the face of trauma, it is both understandable and human to burrow into the moral purity of one’s own narrative and sorrows.

And while I understand the urge, and sometimes, if not oftentimes, follow it, when I stretch myself, when I think not of the person I am but the one I seek to be, I think to myself that I should always think not just of myself, but myself in relation to other selves and other people. One need look no further than the Joseph story which we conclude this week, to see the consequences of folks being unwilling or unable to countenance a reality different than their own. The young tale-bearing Joseph, who, as his father’s favored son, is insensitive to the effect his words have on his brothers. And the brothers, whose hatred for Joseph goes unchecked to the point that it transforms to physical harm and the near dissolution of the first family of our people. The resolution to our story comes only by virtue of the willingness of the brothers, after decades of enmity, separation, and hurt, to acknowledge each other’s humanity. Last week, when Judah admits the consequences the brothers’ youthful wrongdoing had on Joseph and their father Jacob. Or this week, when Joseph magnanimously embraces his brothers no matter their imperfections, not, perhaps, because he forgives them, but because he realizes he has to move forward and live with them. The resolution of the Joseph story is not neat and tidy, and it may not even be a resolution. It is, however, an object lesson in how to get through this world. From the moral purity of our youthful certainties to the mature willingness to engage, no matter how uncomfortably, with the truths of others, the Joseph story offers a roadmap by which families can journey through a complex world.

Returning home to the States, I find myself at a crossroads. On the one hand, I am more intent than ever to work towards bringing an end to the hostilities between the Israelis and Palestinians. On the other hand, I am more aware than ever of the limited role I play, that American Jewry plays, in this intractable conflict and insoluble drama. Besides, in a world inhabited by people who would seek the harm and destruction of my people, with the hostages still in captivity, is it really a good use of my time to ask such questions? What are my marching orders? What can I do? What role can I play, can you play, can our community play?

I am, as you can tell, searching for an answer – it was only yesterday that I got off the plane. What I know is that committed as I am to the well-being of Israel, Israel’s long-term well-being is inextricably linked to that of the Palestinian people. They are, by extension, by necessity and by the obligations of my humanity, the object of my concern. Cancelling ideas that make me uncomfortable is a moral cowardice I will not countenance. I must ask such questions, and, as a rabbi, I must seek to provide guidance for such questions. For lack of a ten-point plan, perhaps my first step is to do that which I didn’t see much of this past week, that I don’t see happening much anywhere lately. To champion those voices willing to see the humanity we all share. To see that the stories – all the stories – are heard, in a way that sometimes comforts and sometimes challenges. To teach, through my example, that authentic dialogue is the precondition for empathy. To model a community that affirms that holding our collective pain and defending the safety of our people does not preclude us from feeling the sorrow of another. To lead a congregation that rejects the illusionary appeal of moral purity and courageously embraces the uncertain and real world of moral complexity.

As we close one book of the Torah and turn to next, we know that redemption begins only when we endeavor to listen to those voices that seek to be heard. We may not be able to do it all, or even a fraction of what needs to be done, but let us resolve to do what we can do, the bare minimum. To listen to each other, to hold each other, as we hold the trauma coursing through our shared humanity – a grieving humanity, all created equally in the image of God.