Israel guest
My little brother, William, is spending a gap year between high school and college studying in Israel, as is tradition in the Orthodox Jewish world. In the past few months, as Palestinians have mounted increasingly violent and horrific attacks on innocent Jews, my family has grown uneasy with having my brother so close to all the violence. This past Thursday, as I sat in my first class of the day, William sent a message that nearly stopped my heart: one of his best friends, Ezra Schwartz, had just been shot by Palestinian terrorists. William did not have much information at the time, but he asked us to pray for his friend. I did, and I forwarded the message to dozens of my contacts, hoping and praying that his friend would be alright. But, and I am embarrassed to admit it, as I went about my day at the University of Maryland, thoughts of final essays and looming exams drove Ezra from my mind. I did not remember him until I received the next message from my brother: “He is dead.” I read that message as I stood outside my final class of the day, waiting to enter the classroom. I stood there, surrounded by fellow students chattering about class and the weather and TV shows and Adele and God knows what other stupid, insignificant things, and I was numb. I sat through my class not taking in a word my professor was saying, because how could I care about some poem Milton wrote 400 years ago when an 18-year-old’s life had just ended? I wanted to call my brother and comfort him, but what do you say in a situation like this? What words are there to offer that don’t seem hollow and meaningless?
And then I was furious. I was not expecting President Obama to unconditionally demand that the Palestinians stop their unjustified and senseless attacks immediately, as he never has and never will. But I had expected him at the very least to treat Ezra’s murder with the same level of importance and tragedy as he had other, lesser injustices. Instead, the State Department only issued a release Friday strongly condemning the attacks and then Obama called the Schwartz family Monday to offer condolences. In the past, he has taken time out of his busy day to proclaim that if he had a son, he would “look like Trayvon Martin.” He has moronically declared that “no challenge poses a greater threat to future generations than climate change.” He has taken it upon himself to tweet about some Muslim kid’s “cool clock.” But Obama could not bring himself to do more than punt off the responsibility to the State Department and then place one private call to a family he clearly does not value. Where is the Schwartz family’s invitation to the White House? Where are the Twitter trends #JusticeForEzra, #JewishLivesMatter or #SayHisName? Where are the marches, the protests, the hunger strikes, the list of demands for him? They are nowhere to be seen, and Ezra’s blood is everywhere I look.
It took me a long time to be able to translate the incoherent anger I have been feeling into words; every time I started this column, in my mind, all I could see was the last picture William ever took of Ezra. In the picture, Ezra is surrounded by his friends, wearing his headphones and a small half-smile, unaware that the end of his life is very near. He does not know that he will never grow up. He does not know that he will never get married, or go to college, or dance at his friends’ weddings, or hold his baby in his arms, or hug his mom and dad again. He does not know that the next time he comes home, it will be for his own funeral, which will be attended and watched by thousands of strangers around the world. But he does not know any of that. And now, I know nothing.
