From generation to generation, we will rise
How does one compute celebrating a bar mitzvah and a terror attack? How does one go from celebrating life to a community in mourning?
As I walked off the dance floor following a very rambunctious hora, my husband walked up to me. He was calm, yet assertive. “There’s been a shooting in Bondi.”
My mind went to places I never thought it would go to.
Immediately, “Was it terror?”
His eyes said it all.
“You better check your phone.”
The smile, planted firmly on my face, wiped.
As I looked around, faces were lit up by phones as everyone scrolled.
My nephew … devastated.
How does one compute celebrating a bar mitzvah and a terror attack?
How does one go from celebrating life to a community in mourning?
On Friday, I watched my nephew wrap his tefillin for the first time. We then went to my 100-year-old grandfather’s nursing home as he was too frail to attend shule. Together my Papa and his eldest great-grandchild sat wrapped in their tallitot; the mitzvah quite literally carried down from great-grandfather to great-grandson.
The message of the tefillin is the unification of one’s entire being – heart, mind and actions. It’s a physical reminder that binds those who wear their tefillin to their faith and their heritage. It binds those who wear them to our rich and powerful Jewish traditions which are shared from generation to generation.
Traditions like tefillin and tallitot. Like standing as a kohen to bless the community. All of which my nephew took on this weekend as he became a man in the Jewish faith.
During his sermon, the rabbi spoke to this very topic.
Not only did my nephew wrap tefillin on Friday with four generations of our family watching on, but on Saturday morning he also read from our family Sefer Torah, donated in honour of my great-grandparents – linking him to the fifth generation.
And he stood next to his father, his grandfather and his uncles and blessed the community for the first time as a kohen, no longer under his father’s tallit, but under his own.
He became his own man.
Just one day later, I was reminded of his childhood innocence. An innocence that was shattered as a terror attack unfolded just a couple of kilometres down the road.
Moments before the attack, we had been surrounded by a circle of love. Family and friends celebrating this milestone. We lifted the family on chairs; my nephew jumped over a line of his friends; my sister, cousin and I danced with glasses on our heads, something fun that the Iraqi side of our family always does at simchas.
Smiles. Laughter.
Tears of joy and children whooping in delight quickly turned into tears of heartbreak. Children seeing things they should never see as messages trickled in. Tearful phone calls and messages to their parents assuring them they were safe.
And then the horrific messages as confirmations came flooding in of people who were there, people who were injured and sadly, people who were murdered.
A bar mitzvah is a time of great joy.
It marks the transition into adulthood and the commitment to Judaism. It deepens a child’s connection to not only tradition and faith, but also to family and community. And no more did we feel this connection to the community than on Sunday night as we moved from the hora into the heartbreak.
Moments after we heard the news, the music was turned off.
What was supposed to be a joyous occasion became a sombre affair as we mourned, together with our community, while waiting for more news. The adults in the room became collective guardians, circling the children to check on them, ensuring they stayed inside until their parents could take them safely home, counselling children who needed help. And then encouraging them to get off their phones and be there for each other physically, in the moment.
While a couple of speeches were made, they were toned down. Jokes and funny anecdotes were discarded.
One moment that was non-negotiable, despite the atrocities unfolding in real time, was lighting the chanukiah.
It was the purest example of light in the darkness. It was a message I gave my tearful nephew as the night came to a close. That every time we show our Judaism, it is an act of defiance.
That HE is an act of defiance.
Wrapping his tefillin, wearing his tallit, blessing the congregation as a kohen. All of these mitzvot were a big “middle finger” to those who try to tear our community down. And we all know too well how often this has befallen the Jewish nation.
But just as the Maccabees rose, so too will our next generation of bar mitzvah boys and bat mitzvah girls.
As the rabbi said, it is now up to them to take the traditions, hold them tight, and be ready to pass them down to their own children and the children that follow.
So no, the night was not what we anticipated. It was not the celebration we had hoped for. But it was a fierce display of strength, communal support and hope.
And it was a reminder of the generations that have come before us – from the Chanukah miracle of the Maccabees to the miracles we witnessed on October 7 and the miracles we witnessed on December 14 in Bondi Beach.
Because even through the darkest skies, the stars always find a way to shine.
Jessica Abelsohn is The AJN’s arts and lifestyle editor.
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