Community in Isolation
By: Daniel Fruman
I was always amused by the idea of an Ancient Greek philosopher. An old man sitting in a garden surrounded by ornate columns, drinking expensive wine, and contemplating everything from free will to the meaning of life. Yet I had never thought that I’d ever find myself in a similar position and to be honest, I still can’t fathom how these thoughts started, but there I was contemplating away, and the more I contemplated, the more empty I felt.
Now, I’m certainly not going to go on and on about how this pandemic altered my world, simply because this was an issue that I had as far back as last year. And as more responsibilities piled up on my shoulders, I found myself in that state of melancholic contemplation more and more. Fortunately, I was kept busy. I’m the type of guy who likes to have things to do, never be finished with something, to have a constant stream of challenges thrown at me from all directions, so that I may succeed and move on. So when all those challenges got taken away, and my life became a monotonous stream of tedious online classes and aimless wanderings around the house, singing long Wagnerian arias, I felt those melancholy thoughts rush back into my life, like Achaeans bursting through the gates of Troy.
When school ended, it got worse, I simply had no purpose, except a play I was (and still am) writing. I felt worn down and, to be really honest, hopeless. (Here I must say that a lot what I’m talking about was heavily amplified by an event that happened to me and my family in late October, that I really don’t want to share at this current time. If you wish to know, just search up my last name). Until a certain stream of events, as if by miracle, came along and altered my life.
The play that I’m writing had a lot to do with this. It is a story that is steeped in religious themes. I myself am a Jew and have been all my life, though looking back, I never really cared for the faith, often breaking Passover mitzvahs, and only celebrating when I absolutely needed to. Sure, I took a few Torah lessons, but I never took them to heart, I never learned Hebrew, nor did I have a Bar Mitzvah. Despite coming from almost an entirely Jewish background, I never felt any true connection to the community. But while I wrote this play, I began to do more research, and the more research I did, the more I was grabbed, I asked my father for a Chumash (The Five Books of the Torah [Old Testament to the Christians]) and finally, on Friday, July 10th, I finally decided to go to Shul, and not to sound cliché, but my life was changed. Though I needed to get used to the prayers and the songs, while I was there I felt an overbearing sense of purpose and community. Everyone knew each other, everyone was here for a common cause, and everyone somehow felt like family. After welcoming the Shabbat, I got to meet the Rabbi of our Synagogue, who presented me with a beautiful, annotated Chumash, which I began reading the very same night.
As I read, I began to ask questions, lots, and lots of questions. Questions ranging from the trivial to the profound. I felt fulfilled, a facet of my life which was hidden for so long was suddenly uncovered. I felt that I was part of something bigger than myself. When I came to Shul the following Friday, I asked the Rabbi a few of my burning questions, which he duly answered, yet upon answering, he changed my outlook not only on religion but on the world. (Since I come from conservative, Ashkenazi and Hasidic descent, and so does most of the community I go to, some questions I naturally, though perhaps out of a sense of cowardice, I did not ask). He told me to interpret the scriptures however I saw fit. He said, “There is no such thing as dogma, not in Judaism, not in the world. God has granted all of us with free will so that we could come to our own conclusions, and not seek to conform with those made by others.” I felt a burden lift off my shoulders. I could ask, I could look at things however I wanted, without the fear of judgment, I could even doubt. I came back to Synagogue that Saturday, and have been doing so every week since then. Because I felt that sense of acceptance and community all around me. When the prayers were sung, I learned to tell which voice belonged to who, or who said or did what, without really knowing anybody. It was, in a word, wonderful.
That is where I chose to change the way I do certain things in life, to try to, in some way, get back to my roots. I started tying the Tefilin and wearing a kippah, now I’ve started reciting the Amidah three times a day. Every time I did a mitzvah, I felt fulfilled, I felt like I had a purpose, like my life wasn’t empty. So I will continue to do so, I will continue to dive back into my Jewish heritage, while being unapologetically proud of it, a pride that was destroyed in my family by the Nazis and the Soviet Union.
If there is anything that I’d like to leave you on, it’s that community matters. It is a sense that was key in the lives of our ancestors. Seek a community that is close to your heart, a community that you contribute to, a community that envelops you in a sense of comfort and home. Embrace your culture and customs, live for a purpose bigger than yourself. Do anything except sitting and waddling on the empty void of your existence like a Greek Philosopher, instead go out into the world and fill it.
Daniel, your insights are remarkable. I really appreciate you opening up about your religious and cultural awakening because I too struggle with understanding and accepting my own heritage. Keep on writing sir -you have the ear of this reader.