Ha-matzav (continued)- The Other Shoe

After the outburst of sorrow, fear, and anger comes change.

Our synagogue is among the largest in Toronto and the building hosts a number of services every Saturday morning – an early-bird version for two parents who need to split child-care duties or for those who just like to get things done quickly; a learners’ service with more explanatory matter and discussion but less actual text covered; a ‘downstairs’ service held in a smaller hall for those who want to avoid the echoing hugeness of the main sanctuary, the flourishes of the cantor, or the murmurous gossiping of the attendees; and the main sanctuary for those who enjoy cantorial music or appreciate the formality and impressiveness of the ‘big hall’. (I’m a downstairs gal myself.)

But the first ‘regular’ shabbat after the Hamas attack, the ancillary services were cancelled and we all met in the big hall.  As the first shabbat after the holidays, we read the first portion in Genesis and it usually has an optimistic, starting-over feeling. It was heartening to come together and share worship.  Then the other shoe dropped.  At the announcements spot which follows services, the President did the usual congratulations and condolences, and then asked us to remain in our seats. Then the board member in charge of security stepped up to the rostrum and spoke to us about security.

He explained why, even though we might be well-known and consistent attendees, our bags would be searched before we were allowed into the building.  We were not setting up metal detectors (yet?, I thought) but we had to be on guard.

He explained why so many doors that were usually open would now be locked – because, if we were under attack, we might not have time to lock more than one door.

He explained which rooms in the building were designated as safe rooms and that, when we heard any kind of alarm, we should go to the nearest safe room and remain there.

He explained why some hallway doors would have to be left propped open – so that we would have an unimpeded line of flight if we needed to run.

He explained that, after consultation with the rabbi, our ushers were being equipped with walkie-talkies – equipment usually prohibited from use on the sabbath. The only reason for violating the laws of shabbat is /sakanat nefashot/ – human lives are in danger. Not that he said that, but we all know that.

He explained that, at least for that shabbat, we would not have our usual post-worship kiddush – a collation where everyone catches up with everyone else.  They were still working up security arrangements for the events hall.

He explained that from now on, events would be rescheduled so that the synagogue building could be locked up on Saturday afternoons.

My heart was sinking as he went on about these ‘elementary precautions’.  I had seen the police presence (as they like to call it) in the street on my way to synagogue that morning.  I had seen the marked cars in the parking lot and the two civilian SUVs parked across the lot’s entrance – presumably to block any attempts to ram a way into the building.  I had seen the police tape stretched across the little back-lane shortcut used by almost everybody coming from north of the synagogue.

So this is where we now are: gathering under guard, looking over our shoulders, unable to take the risk of rejoicing – even if we had it in our hearts to do so.

And the news from overseas continues to be dark. No one imagines that anything like a victory will emerge from this. As Ecclesiastes/Qohelet wrote: One who increases knowledge increases pain.