Personal silences and the collective voice
I consider music to be an absolutely integral part of my being. Melody—and harmony—has a unique power to fill my soul and to move me to another place. And in the immediate aftermath of my five-day March of the Living journey, I have found myself pondering the complementary aspects of silence and sound in the acts of mourning and remembrance. It was therefore not surprising to me that those moments during the trip when my emotions ran over and the tears rolled, were moments with an accompanying musical soundtrack. More unexpected, however, have been my subsequent thoughts regarding silence.
In the past, I have found moments of forced silence—as acts of remembrance—inhibiting. I think it is not unusual for these minutes to pass without any meaningful thoughts. Surely it is impossible to force profound reflections, en masse, at a set point in time? And what good do we achieve with these silent meditations? A silent thought is an undone action. It seemed to me that more sincere remembrance must therefore involve an act. An act that can be witnessed, experienced, and felt by other people. But in the last week, I’ve begun to see silence in a new light.
Our week in Poland coincided with the week of Parshat Shemini, in which we read about the death of Aaron’s two sons. We are told first that Nadav and Avihu are consumed by a fire sent from HaShem. And then we read of Aaron’s response. Quite simply, “And Aaron was silent” (Leviticus 10:3). Rabbis have long puzzled over this silent response. The Hebrew word for silent that is used here—וידם / vayidom—is rarely used within Tanach, and this is its only appearance within the Torah itself. When it appears elsewhere, however, it is translated as inertia or stillness.
We are also currently in the midst of the Omer—the period of collective mourning that lasts for seven weeks between the festivals of Pesach and Shavuot. During the Omer, Jews commonly refrain from celebrations and listening to music, i.e., it is a time of quasi-silence. It is as if these 49 days provide each of us with the time and space to internalize the horrors our ancestors experienced in Egypt, as well as the subsequent wonders and miracles they witnessed during the Exodus and the new experience of freedom. For each person, the journey from Egypt to the foot of Mount Sinai—either literally or metaphorically—is different. This period of silence gives us a time of stillness to internalize these events, to explore our faith, and to process our thoughts. As individuals—each with our own views on the world—there cannot be common words to perfectly reflect our unique journeys. This ‘silent’ period of mourning is completely personal to each and every one of us. Yet at the end of it, we come back together to celebrate the giving of the Torah—the book that binds all Jews together.
Similarly, I think that Aaron’s inertia and silence were indicative of a father grappling with a very personal and tragic loss, in a uniquely private way. Just like the many Holocaust survivors who did not speak of their experiences for many years afterward, Aaron stayed silent for as long as he needed. He required that space—to breathe and to let his wrath subside. For at that moment he was just a father. He could not act appropriately, during his raw grief, as the foremost religious leader of the Children of Israel. I imagine the survivors of the Shoah felt a similar way. They needed to just be the fathers, and the mothers, and the sisters, and the brothers, and the children of the people they had lost. They were not ready to be spokespeople for the entire Jewish world.
Eventually, however, those raw emotions subside and the mourning process proceeds. Eventually, Aaron was ready to speak again and resume his role as a leader and peacemaker. And the survivors—each in their own time—have found their voices once again. By putting their experiences into words, they allow us all to share in their grief. We, as a community, are thus able to surround them with love and support. It is the words—not the silence—that unite us.
Furthermore, Jewish liturgy provides us with the words for mourning. For me, the most powerful part of the March of the Living week was standing at the memorial on the site of the Belzec death camp with the amazing survivor, Chaim (Harry) Olmer, who accompanied our group throughout the trip. I am proud to have been there as we recited the Yizkor memorial prayer, and we listened to him recite the Mourner’s Kaddish for his mother and sisters who perished in that hellish place. I hope that by bearing witness to his testimony and by sharing in this short ceremony, we were able to provide him with at least some comfort and solace.
On the day of the march itself, I found the atmosphere as we stood in Auschwitz rather jarring compared with our previous days at the camps of Majdanek, Belzec, and Auschwitz-Birkenau. The almost carnival-like scene, of 11,000 people joining together in a celebration of survival, seemed at such odds with our earlier, almost silent explorations of the camps. But as we started to march, and as we started to sing, Rabbi Gideon Sylvester (one of our wonderful educators) commented that this singing of Jewish songs was really the most appropriate response—other than complete silence—we could have. So as the group sang about the wonders of G-d and of unwavering faith, I joined in. I sang with my people. I sang the highest harmonies that I could. I sang high notes that I sent up to heaven, to HaShem, and to 6 million lost souls.
And at the end of the once-in-a-lifetime Yom HaShoah ceremony in the fields of Birkenau, 11,000 people stood as one to sing Hatikva—the Hope. It was then that I broke. As the familiar words and tune washed over me from all directions, I started to sing. The tears I cried and the choke in my throat, however, made this simple act difficult. But I told myself that this was not the time to be silent, this was a time for the collective voice. So I took a deep breath, and I stood tall and proud like a soldier. I lifted my face to the sky and I continued. Because really, that is all we can do. We can be proud and we can continue.
Aaron’s response to the death of his sons teaches us that knowing when to remain silent—when words can do more harm than good—is an example of great leadership. As we discussed at the end of our week in Poland, it is now our collective responsibility—as March of the Living participants—to find ways to play our part in the Jewish community. We can take our time to be silent and to process, but eventually we must talk and we must educate. We must find a way to move the Jewish story forward.
So l’chaim. To life. And to Chaim, our hero, our survivor, our teacher, and our inspiration.
Image credits: Emma Nagli and March of the Living UK.