The recent pair of terror attacks unleashed by Anders Behring Breivik plunged the Norwegian public into almost inexpressible grief. At a poignant service in Oslo’s main cathedral, the king and queen wept. On the streets nearby, a memorial full of flowers continues to grow.
The depth of the tragedy is clear. The attacks claimed 172 victims, including 76 dead. Most were teenagers, future leaders and children of the ruling Labor Party which Breivik blames for diluting the country’s European character.
Further contributing to the pain of so many Norwegians is the murderer’s familiar profile and close proximity. The young man who carried out the atrocities – incensed by his country’s openness to multiculturalism and perceived tolerance of Muslim extremism – looks so much like them.
After 9/11, the American people banded together in an unmatched display of solidarity. Like the Norwegians, we too felt sorrow and anger. There was, however, one primary distinction. Whereas we on 9/11 were enraged at the international jihadists who committed the atrocities, the Norwegians do not have the luxury of pointing their fingers elsewhere. For them, there is no external threat at whom or at which to direct their rage. The enemy was among them all along, educated in their schools and working in their communities.
The traumatic shock experienced in Norway is in many ways similar to the enormous, numbing sense of pain the residents of Jerusalem felt in the days and weeks leading up to the churban of our Second Temple. They too would suffer terribly at the hands of their own. Many would not make it out of their beloved capital alive.
Yerushalayim at the time of the churban was comprised of a number of distinct factions. These included nationalistic Zealots, bent on completely casting off the Roman yoke; moderates, led by Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, who proclaimed the folly of battle; and wealthy collaborators with Rome, including many Sadducees, who wished to preserve the political and economic status quo. This fragmented populace would prove incapable of working collectively for the common good. This, in the end, doomed them far more than did Roman might.
From a military standpoint, Yerushalayim appeared practically impregnable, surrounded by valleys, stout walls and defense towers. In addition, the city was well supplied with vital resources and contained thousands of eager defenders.
Alas, it was not to be. In the face of a weakened government, a force comprised of the Sadducees and Friends of Rome, together with a group of moderate Pharisees, took control of Jerusalem’s inner city. Led by Chanan ben Chanan, they drove the Zealot forces onto the Temple Mount, where they would come under the leadership of Yochanan of Gush Halav. For some time, the two sides remained entrenched in their positions, waiting for the right opportunity to advance. Throughout, the Temple services continued uninterrupted.
Chanan ben Chanan’s men struck first, besieging the Zealots on the Temple Mount. In response, Yochanan acted treacherously, inviting nearby Idumean forces into the city to aid his cause. The Sadducee/moderate forces were surrounded and soon defeated, their leaders duly executed. In addition, the mercenary Idumeans inflicted intense pain and fear upon the city’s populace, murdering thousands and plundering the city. Zealot forces now seized control of Yerushalayim.
In a reprehensible act that would greatly accelerate the city’s demise, the defeated Friends of Rome now turned to Shimon bar Giora for help. Shimon, a former leader of Zealot military operations in Galilee and subsequently in Judah, was a man of violence. Though philosophically in line with Yochanan, Shimon’s hatred of the Zealot leader prompted him to assume control of the moderate military forces.
