During the fall of 2019, I found myself personally struggling to determine how I might mark the “one year ago” of the synagogue shooting in Pittsburgh. A shooting which occurred a short walk away from my childhood home. A shooting that brutally and with abrupt cruelty ended the lives of people who I knew, exceptional people who represented what is good in our world.
While considering, it quickly occurred to me that there is no day that passes when people aren’t struggling with how to adequately commemorate lives lost to hate crimes. Yesterday, next Thursday, the 8th of next month…someone, somewhere, they are grappling with the enormity of the consequences of violent hateful actions.
I can’t overstate how hopeless an exercise it can be.
So, rather than go inward with grief or lash outward with anger, I’ve decided to allow myself to push toward resilience and share a small story that left a big impact at a time it was most needed.
That previous spring, I was invited to a gathering at Alaska’s only Mosque. The idea for an event was born in concept after the Pittsburgh shooting as an effort to weave cultures.
We had been excited to meet under joyful circumstances. However, much to our horror, the day before our scheduled meeting 51 worshipers were murdered during the Christchurch Mosque shootings.
Anguished and conflicted, we decided to move forward with our plans, all in need of mutual healing, yet again.
Muslims and Jews, all women, all wondering why people who have never met them, hate them. Apart, in their exiles, a collection of individuals often fearful and isolated, who exist on a dwindling supply of hope. But combined, the group of five Jewish and eight Muslim women came together to reach past their segregations and tragedies to embrace one another in comfort and through sharing…tea. A cross cultural elixir that women globally have customized locally into the most elaborate, or the most simple, of traditions to pass through generations of daughters.
Seven selections of teas were offered. All pre-steeped and mixed from grandmother recipes, with spices, and sweet, milk, leaves and clove, presented in peacock like pots, boastful and ornate. Dozens of delicate teacups, some trimmed in gold and some glass in pewter, lined in rows along the flowered tablecloth. Over fifty cups for the thirteen of us to use. Pakistani Chai Tea, Adeni Tea from Yemen, Moroccan Mint Tea, each sounding equally evocative of Persian memories I wished I had. The scent of cardamom was unmistakable and it penetrated deep.
At the sight of it all I had a sudden and serious concern about how I could manage drinking seven cups of tea and if I should take a new teacup with each.
Our hostesses fussed. They kept rising to pour the contents of their stunning urns into a metal pot on a single hot plate at the end of the table. We were told it is a grave insult to serve tea that isn’t fire hot, thus the serious business of the perpetual reheat.
And the desserts.
Ten dozen desserts for about one dozen of us. Not to mention the dates, served in a variety of forms. Dates are obligatorily served with tea, akin to crumpets I expect. Having quite a taste for dates, brought about by a dear friend’s generous use of them in her Yemenite Passover recipes, I happily indulged.
While some of the scents and customs were new, the afternoon was actually more reminiscent of many Saturday afternoons spent at my mother’s table, my grandmother’s kitchen, in Mrs. Claire’s living room, in Mrs. Vogel’s kitchen and at Mrs. Horn’s dining room. Kichel, rugelach, babka, madel brot and sponge cake arranged tightly on sterling silver trays. China tea sets and sugar cubes but also honey and lemon, which were most preferred. My sister and I felt so grown, lace and cloth napkins on our laps, stirring with tiny spoons and using the miniature tongs to drop a few too many cubes to dissolve.
I was also reminded of similar scenes from my time in Israel. Tea each day on my Kibbutz. Dot, our British ex-pat Ulpan instructor, she would keep a cozy on her pot. The steam needed to be rising from the cups with a fury or she would dump it out. Milk and sugar were assumed. The blacker the tea the better. The color of it all swirling when mixed was a comfort to watch. She would offer kumquats, in a ceramic bowl, harvested daily from the tree outside in her yard. Dot wouldn’t allow us to speak English. We would suffer through the conversation as best we could, laughing continually as it was the one utterance we could make that was the same in Hebrew and English.
The room we were in at the Mosque was large, empty and fluorescent bright. The building, being relatively new and a bit devoid of the character that years bring, it might have felt cold along the edges. But to the center where we sat, where we were present with one another, there was warmth and color.
The hijabs worn burst up the plain white of the walls. Magenta, orange, purple, sequined black, gold, all popping rich vibrancy. Fitted tight on their skin, the fabrics outlined each set of dark eyes, each luminous smile. I wondered how I might look wearing one. I later thought of the many Muslim women who intentionally do not wear them and the complexities societies have woven into the lengths and drapes of fabric.
We went around the room to make introductions. Our eight new, but somehow instantly familiar, friends each told of the origin of their names. They spoke about how there were only four women named “Afshan” in the state currently, there had been another but she moved earlier in the year. Another mentions she had chosen her Arabic name because it meant queen. I explained that “Malka”, a close version to her name, translates to queen in Hebrew. We all nodded in agreement when she said, “we are true sisters, aren’t we”.
Tea and talk, that alchemy is powerful.
In honor of what also happened to be International Women’s Day, our hostesses thought we could each talk about a woman who most inspired us.
The first mentioned, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. We all likely had the same moment of panic realizing we each now needed to come up with another name.
Next, someone said their mother, for all the wonderful reasons one would expect.
At that point a couple of the Muslim women needed to excuse themselves, with profuse apology. Their help was needed setting up for the quickly organized community vigil to be held later that night, in honor of the memories of those killed the day before in New Zealand.
We were overcome, but quickly continued.
The next woman, a Jew, unaffiliated with a synagogue, is an immigration attorney by trade and has been responsible for bringing about immigration justice in Alaska for years. Her list of accomplishments in life sets her apart. She is a political wonk, she is a devoted mom, she is most highly regarded in the community. And, at one point during her answer, she turned to me, looked me straight in the eye, and used the opportunity to let me know the impact I have made in her life. She said my speech, after Pittsburgh, it changed her. She said my “quiet conviction” was incredibly inspiring to her and that she was thankful for my presence in the group.
Numbly saying “thank you”, feelings of embarrassment and shame reflected my discomfort with the praise.
We continued on.
My sister, my friend…all compelling stories.
When my turn came I talked about my husband’s Aunt Fran. She, through grit and determination, managed to raise $600,000 over 31 years to help the Gay Men’s Health Crisis in New York. The agency had been the only one able to help a close friend who she lost to the disease in 1988. I tell the group she overcame obstacles in increments of $20 donations and perhaps we can do the same with cups of tea. It resonates.
The two women return, again apologizing for their absence, with regret for not being there to hear each story. They are encouraged to tell theirs.
One, a young Muslim woman, the daughter of a couple I’ve known since the late 90’s, she spoke about her grandmother. She recalled that she was staunchly traditional in the most modern of ways, which gave her hope that she could find a way to balance Islam, culture and her progressive worldview. And then she began to cry. “Robin”, she says trying to gather strength as she grabs the hand I extend to her, “she is always the first…the first to get in touch when hate reaches up in the community. She never hesitates to embrace us, physically, in front of any crowd. She is one of the kindest people my family knows.” And then there were many tears…and I was speechless.
I felt like a fraud receiving such honor in a room of women who had fled war torn countries. Muslim women who each had stories about counting heads every morning and always having escape plans, even in America. Women who have been separated from their husbands because of draconian U.S. policies.
What has the world come to when people view me as an example?
It hit me then, the power in being genuine. Showing any kindness isn’t unimportant. And, at least in this room, it was not taken for granted. The fact that a small act of mine made such an impression, it gave me hope. For surely if I could be an agent for change, we all could.
I wished for pen and paper, wanting to take down all of their stories, each detail, and spin them in my words. It seemed paramount in that moment to let others know that the twelve other women in that room, their lives and the way they lived, and all they shared with me, it was deserving of praise and was worthwhile of honor.
Instead, I’ve relied on memory and chronicle now, in reverence for the everyday heroes who have shunned hate in this world. Their message translates in all languages as a force multiplier of respect and unity.
