Op-Ed: Ezra Schwartz was eighteen and so am I
Ezra Schwartz was eighteen. I am eighteen.
Ezra Schwartz went to a religious Jewish high school and
spent his summers in a Jewish sleep-away camp. I went to a religious Jewish
high school, and also spent my summers in a sleep-away camp similar to Ezra’s,
Camp Yavneh.
Ezra Schwartz made the noble and brave decision to go to
Israel for his gap year, to a religious, orthodox institution for overseas
students called Ashreinu. I too made that choice, and ended up in Yeshivat
Shaalvim’s American program- a religious, orthodox, institution for overseas students.
Last Thursday, Ezra was killed. I am alive.
I didn’t know Ezra. I won’t ever know Ezra. But since that
twisted nightmare of a day last week, I have heard and learned so much about
him. I felt my heart stop when my friend told me an American in Ashreinu was
one of the victims of a shooting attack in Gush Etzion, a well populated
and known area of the Judea and Samaria region of Israel. My stomach
churned when I heard he was the roommate of a close friend, one who happened to
have been sitting next to Ezra in the van during that hellish moment. I tasted
vomit when I read that he in fact had been killed, and was not in critical
condition, as so many news agencies that we rely on here for information
initially reported on Twitter.
And when his picture was published, I felt the tears begin
to flow.
I didn’t know Ezra, and I won’t ever know Ezra. But in a
way, I knew him- and know him- very well. The endless posts on his
Facebook profile do not take long to mention common adjectives… “his smile,”
“so kind,” and so often, “I love you and miss you.”
In his smile, I see so many of my friends. The clothes he
wears in his Facebook pictures- I recognize them from my closet. The look on
his face in the pictures of him with his friends- it’s eerily similar to the
one on my face, on my banner picture on my Facebook
profile, with my friends.
I know him through the dozens of friends I have that also
know girls studying in the Jerusalem seminary, MIdreshet Harova. In fact,
a close friend of mine’s roommate just happens to be Ezra’s girlfriend.
I see myself in Ezra, and I see my friends. I see the
hundreds of kids that flock to Israel from America to take their gap year (or
two) here. So when I heard about Ezra, when it had fully sunk in that a normal
teenager, from America, here for his gap year, was actually killed -
actually murdered - in a terrorist attack, I immediately imagined my
friends being killed. Myself being killed. This kid that I didn’t know, Ezra,
being killed.
I will not turn Tzomet Hagush (Gush Etzion junction) and
Ezra’s death into a political battlefield, like many people have decided to do.
I won’t cry, “It’s the settlers!” or, “No, we need more settlements!”.
I won’t demand revenge or demand mercy- no, not yet. It isn’t the time, and
this isn’t the platform. Right now, we still have to mourn.
So what I will do is talk about what it feels like to be
here right now, as an American Yeshiva student, as an American in Israel for my
gap year. On Thursday, so many of us were already saddened by the killing
of two Israelis in Tel Aviv, two middle aged men killed while praying, two
fathers, two husbands. But, as has become an unfortunate "normalcy"
in this trying time, we read the report, were silent for a few moments, turned
to one another and spoke about how terrible it was and how we just couldn’t
believe it. Then we put our phones away, went back into our beit medrash,
and continued on with our day.
That evening, information came in pieces. News agencies kept
reporting differently.
There was shooting attack near the Gush junction (the same
place where, two summers ago, three teenagers were kidnapped and murdered. One
of them, Naftali, was from the community where I am now studying).
There were ten injured, and at least two Israelis dead.
No, wait; one of them was an American 18-year-old.
He was a tourist- no, he was on birthright- no, he…
As usual with tragedy, the original confusion is almost
thick enough for you to reach out and touch. So many people were saying so many
different things. Soon another student and I learned that the 18 year old
American was a “shana aleph”, a “first year” student from Ashreinu. Then
we heard he was a roommate of a friend of ours, whom some people were saying
was headed to the hospital in critical condition himself.
I left the Yeshiva building. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t
see. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t feel.
You see, as Americans, we feel that we come from a very
secure, safe environment. Be it Sharon, Massachusetts or Teaneck, New Jersey,
we can walk around not having to worry about being stabbed in the back. Not
only do we feel that very security as Jews, but also as human beings.
If you’ve ever been in traffic, then you know how
frustrating being stuck for so long and moving so little can be. But try to
imagine constantly looking over your shoulder to see if someone is coming
to ram into you and shoot you in the back of your head. With this sense of
security that we have, as Americans, often when we hear or read about a
terrorist attack in Israel, we chalk it up to the "norm" -
because it has indeed become the "norm."
But an American?
An American isn’t supposed to be killed in a terrorist attack…
that happens to Israelis....
Because that’s become the "norm".
(In fact, just as I am writing this, a young Israeli woman
very close to mine and Ezra’s age was stabbed to death, in the exact same
spot where Ezra was gunned down.)
So I couldn’t believe it. I was in shock. I walked around
thinking how how how how why why why why. I simply couldn’t
understand.
At around seven thirty at night we knew what had
happened. Ezra Schwartz, 18, from Sharon, Massachusetts, who went to Camp
Yavneh and who liked to play baseball and help people and laugh and who had a
girlfriend in Midreshet Harova and who went to Ashreinu and who was roommates 
I walked around thinking how how how how why why why why. I simply couldn’t understand.
with
my friend and who wears the same clothes as me and who had a future and dreams
and aspirations and heroes and questions about life and God and religion and
was probably so excited for Rutgers next year and who probably caught colds and
had headaches and fevers and who cried and had favorite foods and probably had
a favorite one that his mom would make every Shabbat and got into
arguments with siblings friends and parents and lived such an eerily similar
life to mine, was dead.
I walked around thinking how how how how why why why why. I simply couldn’t understand.
with
my friend and who wears the same clothes as me and who had a future and dreams
and aspirations and heroes and questions about life and God and religion and
was probably so excited for Rutgers next year and who probably caught colds and
had headaches and fevers and who cried and had favorite foods and probably had
a favorite one that his mom would make every Shabbat and got into
arguments with siblings friends and parents and lived such an eerily similar
life to mine, was dead.
And I was alive.
In my broken, distraught state, I did what any good Jewish
boy should would and could do: I called my mom. I called my mom and cried. I
curled up on the dark steps of our chadar ochel and wept for forty
minutes. I thought of how it could have been me delivering food to soldiers, it
could have been me going to see a friend in the Gush. It could have been
anyone.
I wept and wept. I even begged God for a break, and asked if
someone else could be the chosen people for just a few weeks, until we heal and
get back on our feet.
I find myself here, in Yeshiva, asking myself questions I
should never have to ponder. When I lay out my clothes at night, it really
shouldn’t cross my mind whether or not these clothes will be what I’m wearing
when I die. When I’m debating going out to see some friends, literally asking
myself if it’s worth risking my life to drive to the city should stay far away
from the equation. And I really, really should not have to write a
letter to my family with “Just in Case” written on the envelope. The situation
here really reminds me of the old Wild West. It seems that ordinary people
just, well, die, with no rhyme or reason except that someone evil decided to
end their life.
So how do we move on? How do we continue?
The Torah portion of this past week, the week Ezra Schwartz,
Yakov Don, Avira Reuben, and Aron Yesiab Hy"d, zichronam l’vracha,
may they be remembered for a blessing, were killed, is the portion where
God Appears to Jacob in Beit El, and tells him the land that he is
sleeping on will belong to his children.
The offspring of Jacob will return to the land.
I had the privilege of being in Beit El (a
community north of Jerusalem) this past Shabbat, and it was
during that very emotional, very inspirational weekend that I realized is that
we’ve returned, but there’s a caveat: the land comes at a price. And that price
is Ezra. That price is every single terror victim in the land of Israel.
But we pay it.
And we are here because we pay it.
And if we are here, we will live.
And we must live in order to move on.
To quote Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, “No matter how
difficult [the] times are, no matter how great the loss is, however dreary and
bleak the present seems, the future shines with a brilliant glow full of
promise. The messianic hope has never vanished; the people have never been
enveloped by the dark night of despair.”
Life goes on. It is dark now, but it will become lighter.
We will live.
We will pray, and study, for we will not hide our faces from
God just because He hides His from us. We will live; we will go out at night
and have dinner or see a movie. We will go on walks if we so please. We will
thrive here, and we will tell our children and our grandchildren that we stayed
in Israel, we lived here, during a year so bad and so wild that
people were killed to the point of normalcy, that people were stabbed almost
daily, that people were killed praying, eating, driving, walking, shopping,
talking- living.
A year when people like Ezra Schwartz, a”h, were killed
bringing food to soldiers that were protecting him.
We will live.
We will live like how Ezra and everyone else would have:
with laughter, love, and kindness.
On Friday I etched Ezra’s name into my siddur and
my shtender, my bookstand. I will live every day I have left of my time
here like I believe Ezra would have. And that is how I will continue to know
Ezra- through myself, and through those around me, doing the same thing.
We will continue.
We will live.
And through us, through our living:
Ezra will live.
May God comfort the Schwartz family and all
the families of victims of terror- and all of us- among the mourners of Zion,
speedily in our days
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