Dear Simchat Torah 5785,
I don’t know what to do with you this year.
You have always been my favorite day. You have always been the day on our calendar that represents infectious joy. The joy for Torah, the joy of feeling special and chosen. Dancing around our bimah with the Torah hugged in our arms with all the wide-eyed children around us, with their flags and signs, shaping their love for Torah for the next generation, has been the most special moments of my year.
I’ll dance this year, but how could I dance on a day when dancing led to bloodshed? How can I avoid the flashbacks from all the videos and testimonies I have seen and heard from Nova? How can my joy be unmitigated knowing full well what the families of the victims will be feeling on that same day?
I’ll cry this year, but how could I cry on a day that is literally called “the Joy of Torah”? Is there room for tears when our tradition commands us to rejoice?
Forgive me if I laugh when I’m supposed to be crying. And forgive me if I cry when I’m supposed to be laughing. I’ve always known where to place my emotions on Simchat Torah, but now the lines are blurred. You used to be so simple; now you’re complicated.
This year, the Torah will feel different in my arms. Not lighter, not heavier, but full of stories we know too well – the stories of exile and return, of brokenness and healing, of joy and tragedy walking side by side. I’ll dance for sure, not because I can forget the pain, but because every step reminds me that joy must live alongside grief. Maybe this year the dance is more like a prayer than a celebration.
And still, we will finish the Torah and roll it back to the beginning, as we always do. Even though it feels like we’re trapped in the middle of an endless chapter of pain, you teach us that the story never really ends. Bereishit – a new beginning, even in the chaos.
I imagine this must be hard for you too. How could you, a day so full of light and celebration, become shadowed by such tragedy? I’m sure you never wanted your joy to be stained by violence, your dancing to be remembered alongside bloodshed. You’ve always carried our laughter, our hope, our unity – how heavy it must be for you now to carry our sorrow too.
But I will hold the Torah close, as I always have. In its ancient words, there’s space for everything: for my laughter, my tears, my confusion, and my hope. And maybe, even in the most broken of moments, the dance will continue.
With tears and joy intertwined,
A Jew Seeking Light
