Day of Attunement Observing 9/11 The Jewish Way

By Richard Goldstein, Village Voice. Posted September 4, 2002.

I will never hear a bagpipe playing "Amazing Grace" without thinking of its performance at a funeral for dogs that died at ground zero -- attended by their canine survivors. In fact, I will flee from any bagpipe in the hands of a kilted civil servant for some time to come. The memory of girder crosses raised from the ruins, books with titles like "Chicken Soup for the Soul of America," and endless evocations of the phrase "Let's roll!" makes me want to move to France, where they know how to put on a good funeral and get on with dressing well. Mourning in America never ends until the last commemorative coin is sold. Closure is another word for nothing left to show.

But I'm aware of a mood below the merch, a deeply private melancholy. There's a potential in this sadness, especially when it leads to meditation. 9/11 has the power to evoke a meaning beyond the sanctioned mandate of righteousness and renewal -- if we let our sorrow show.

I FIRST sensed this potential on the day of the attack, when thousands of people streamed past my home. There were no cars in the street, no subways to take, no stores open or ATMs to be found, and when I joined the crowd -- gripped by a need not to be alone -- I had the odd sensation that, under the terror and confusion, there was a certain pleasure in the total suspension of the ordinary; a somber joy in strolling through the streets, sharing bottled water, and contemplating the terrible event. The cafés were full (there was nowhere else to go), but the crowds were quiet in a way New Yorkers never are. The silence, the solicitude, and the sense that human flecks were in the dusty air resonated with memories that had nothing to do with 9/11. It felt as if I'd suddenly arrived at a place where everyone is Jewish, just in time for the special occasion when shabbos coincides with Yom Kippur -- the highest of holy days.

This year, the 11th falls right in the middle of the week that runs from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, which Jews call the Days of Awe. And the holidays begin, even more auspiciously, on the Sabbath. I doubt that the networks will notice this confluence, and that's a shame. The spirit of these days could do much to enrich what promises to be nonstop glop.

I'm not talking about fasting and prayer. That's only one way to achieve the state of reflection at the heart of Yom Kippur. But there's also a domestic side of this day. In my family, it meant turning off the TV (a major sacrifice for us), wearing real clothing at home instead of the usual shmattes, strolling through the neighborhood, and trekking to the synagogue at sunset to hear the shofar blown. When it comes to primal sound, there's nothing like a ram's horn. The Hasidim would riot, but I wish there were a way to blow a thousand shofars at ground zero. It would summon up all the feelings that chicken-soup inspirationals are meant to suppress.

Aside from its penitential rituals, Yom Kippur allows people to remember the dead, stripping away the defenses against lasting grief that are such a specialty in this society. And sorrow is the true measure of 9/11. It teaches the temporality of not just life but buildings, even skylines. If they are mortal, these structures are also animate -- alive with meaning and memory. The view from your window is all the more precious because it may vanish some day, along with everything you hold ordinary. That's the lesson in the dust that rained down on that aw(e)ful day.

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