Friend from the past

Aine and I met during a semester in Ireland. We became close friends, traveled together, and stayed in touch on and off over the years. Our connection was rekindled especially deeply during the scary days of COVID. We began connecting somewhat regularly (although not frequently) over zoom. Once the COVID threat began to diminish, I drove four hours to visit her in New Hampshire. She later reciprocated for a weekend visit to us with one of her daughters. 

Aine is an ordained minister. She does not have a congregation now, preferring instead to connect with people through InterPlay, a program which I think I understand to use body awareness to connect with the soul and with each other. She’s worked with communities, using InterPlay to help them dialogue. 

In the shock-ridden days of mid-October, she reached out to me, checking in and telling me that she held me in her heart. As our texted conversation progressed, she expressed her hopes for peace and safety, her empathy for Israelis as well as her empathy for the Palestinian people. It was here that I began to feel uncertain of our conversation but I couldn’t verbalize why. 

The best that I could understand was that I didn’t want to talk about others’ pain. I only wanted to express mine. (This is not normal for me. Gd forbid I should be so selfish.) In my text responses, I took a safer path, ignoring references to Israel or Palestine and instead focusing on my own personal experience. I sent her articles about America hatred towards Jews. I told her about a local attack in Bergen County. My last text to her in this exchange said:

I’m in a constant state of not-okay-ness along with the rest of the entire Jewish world. Having a few allies outside my community means a tremendous amount.

And then months passed without a word.

I didn’t think about it too much. As I said, we are used to being out of contact for long periods of time. On the other hand, I’ve recently been discovering hostility in surprising places. So maybe there was a reason she wasn't writing to me. Maybe I should be worried.

Then on Friday I checked my mail. In typical Aine fashion she had handwritten a beautiful heartfelt card with curling beautiful handwriting. To paraphrase the letter, she felt a bit sheepish that we'd been out of touch and wanted to connect again. She went on to express much that was similar to the original text exchange. She hurt for the world. She hurt for Israelis. She hurt for Palestinians. She wanted to be there for me as a friend. She hoped we could be in touch.

Sounds great, right? 

It uncorked a volcano. I spent the next 48 hours between rage, tears and a constant mental patter trying desperately to understand my own reaction. 

Why hadn't she been in touch? Was it because she cared too much about Palestinians and risked the possibility of my saying something objectionable? 

Had she not been in touch because I was a Jew?

I thought about my people who were murdered in their beds on October 7th — the murderers’ hatred they feel toward me and mine. And I thought of the number of times I've felt pressured to prove I don't hate others. The double-standard.

In the 48 hours of obsessing, I planned. I made a promise to myself that I would not self myself even an inch short on behalf of our friendship, and then early Sunday afternoon, we got on a call together.

I asked questions.

Why had she reached out now and not before?

I'd spent plenty of time trying to build connections with the Muslim community, and now I was raw from things I'd heard of these same friends posting online. Was I going to have lie and pretend I wanted to be in contact with them again? Was I going to have to prove anything to Aine about what I believed anymore?

I spoke to her about Jew hatred. I explained what she may or may not have known, that this hatred is unique, taking the form of a society’s values. When communism was bad, Jews were communists. When capitalism was bad, Jews were capitalists. When Christianity became popular, Jews became killers of the messiah. In our world today, White Supremacists say, “Blacks and Jews will not replace us.” Liberal extremists see us as white colonialists. We will always be seen as the enemy. (And I hoped she had the clarity not to see me that way.) 

She answered and she listened. She reassured me that she reached out now because she just felt it had been too long. At my request, she promised that I didn't have to prove anything to her and she promised not to try to convince me of anything.

She asked me about my personal experiences, about our safety. She didn’t ask my opinions and didn’t make me justify anything. She sat with my description of feeling constantly under attack, even when no attack is present. I didn’t apologize for the fear I felt. She only thanked me for sharing it with me.

At the end of all this I felt some relief but also was mostly just exhausted. I admit I was surprised to discover I still have this friend but too worn down to rejoice over it fully. Nevertheless, I also just noted with gratitude that it takes not only compassion but also skill and mindfulness for Aine to listen the way that she did. I hope my writing about this can help model just how valuable that kind of listening can be.

In the hours after our conversation, I flirted with embarrassment for the strong emotions I experienced the few days prior. Along with so many other things I’m learning, though, is the skill of self-compassion. I needed to feel everything I felt. I needed to think everything I thought. I needed to prepare and I needed to speak. I’ve done those things now and will not be ashamed when new experiences engulf me. This is how I face the world.  

Epilogue:

Within an hour of my drafting the post above, I received a text from a friend. She sent me a screen shot of a post from a former Muslim friend of ours. The post said that there were no attacks on October 7th. 

There were no rapes. No babies were beheaded. 

Is it any wonder I am a smidgeon self-protective?