Today, so soon after the deaths in San Bernardino and the deaths at Planned Parenthood in Colorado—not to mention the unreported deaths in other locations from guns—I am feeling paralyzed. I am feeling helpless. And over all of this is the outrage, that all of this is preventable. All, or at least most, of this could have been prevented, should have been prevented. And I’m not sure how we get to that place.
I have to say my heart sank when I first heard the name of the male shooter. I dread hearing the two most commonly expected things: “Muslim” or “mentally ill.” I have very close friends who are Muslim, and I work with people who have mental health challenges so both of these are personal to me. I worry today about my friend, who goes to work in her hijab, and whether she will be safe. Whether others will retaliate. This dear friend, who is like a sister to me, used to work in the next office all day and then travel with me to graduate school at night. We did this routine for two years, starting in the early fall of 2001. Even before September 11, I saw people who noticed my friend’s hijab and they would pretend to aim a gun at her, or they would start shouting obscenities at her. On September 11, we had to go to school that evening—and I was terrified for her safety.
This week I heard a story on NPR about a man recently honored for his bravery in World War II. He was captured by the Germans and held in a prisoner-of-war camp. At one point, the camp commandant came into the barracks and asked this man, the senior officer, to point out all the Jews in the barracks. All the men stood up and said, “We are all Jews here.”
This kind of courage, combined with compassion, seems to have gone missing in many places. When I was going to school with my friend, I had recently heard a story about a town in Montana—and I’m sure I will get the details wrong because it was a much-repeated story, and I hope someone will correct me in the comments. The story went like this: a group of skinhead neo-Nazis started moving into this small town in Montana, which up until then had been tolerant of all its citizens. Winter came along, and the Jewish citizens put menorahs on display in their windows. The homes with menorahs were targeted by the skinheads. The town came together to talk about a solution, and the answer to this dilemma? The next night, every house in town had a menorah in the window.
The unmistakable message, both in the POW camp and in this town in Montana, is this: we are united. We stand together. We will not be pitted against each other.
So my friend and I had to drive across a large city to school, in the evening after work, on September 11. Before we left the office, I put on a scarf. I decided: if she is going to be a target, I will be a target with her. I wore the scarf for the rest of the week, and after explaining it to several other people at work, a number of other women put on a scarf—including a number of Jews. We wore a scarf on the first anniversary of September 11 as well.
Today I wonder: what is the symbol we can adopt to say that we will not be pitted against one another? We will not allow one small group of people—who are relatively politically powerless—to be thrown under the bus in order to help us feel safe, or special, or okay about having our assault rifles? What is the symbol? What will finally tell Congress that we don’t give a flying f*#@ about their funding from the NRA, that they must answer to us, the people?
I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. But I long desperately for us to find the magic symbol, phrase, button, wand, etc. etc. etc that will finally bring this humiliating and shameful episode in our country to an end.
