A Year Later, Opening Hearts in Surfside

By Rabbi Aryeh Citron

A year has passed. The pain has dulled. The shock has worn off. Life has moved on. Yet the memories still haunt us all. The chaos. The waiting. The hoping. The anguish. The briefings. The dreaded phone calls. The funerals. The shivas. The shloshims. The kadish. And now, the yohrtzeit.

The images of that time remain at the edges of our consciousness. The people that we knew so well and loved. Gone in an instant. No good bye. No closure. Can’t bring myself to delete them from our phones. Or our chats. Or our minds. Or hearts.

Why can’t this all be a dream? Why can’t we wake up and have them all back? To see them. Laugh with them. Pray with them. Sing with them.

No answers. Only tears. And a dull aching pain. And fear.

Fear that we are not doing enough to help the families. And the survivors. Not doing enough to perpetuate their memories. Fear that we might forget the pain. How can one memorialize 98 people? 98 worlds?

I turn to G-d and I cry. I cannot complain. I have no strength. I don’t expect to understand. But I plead with Him. Give me the strength to assist. To help mend broken hearts. And families. And communities.

My memories take me to all those who came to assist the families and the survivors and the town Surfside when we needed it most. The Hatzalah members, Chessed shelEmes, the Jewish Community Services, Chaveirim,Cadena, clergy members of all religions, the Mayor, the Israeli team, Police, Fire rescue, and therapy dogs.

Friends who flew in from around the world to be there for the families. Donors who gave so generously. Reporters who showed compassion. Neighbors who became our children’s moms. Old friends and family members who called or sent messages to say they were thinking of us. It made a difference. Random strangers who gave hugs.

The people who stayed up until all hours. Took off from work. Brought supplies. Brought coffee and cake to the first responders and to the search-and-rescue workers. And food to the families. And to whoever needed it. Who had time to cook? Time to care for our own families? Time to unwind?

Approximately one month after the collapse, a friend of mine asked if I would speak to a group in Toronto via Zoom on Tisha Be’Av and describe what we had gone through. It was a difficult talk. I couldn’t stop crying. The moderator asked me what lesson I took from this tragedy. I didn’t know. The scope of it was too large. Too much to fathom. Impossible to digest.

I still don’t know. Still too fresh for that.

But, now, when I hear of a tragedy anywhere in the country or world, I feel their pain more keenly. I feel it because I was there. And am still there. Talking to orphans. Bereaved parents. Seeing the gaping space on Collins Ave where the Champlain Towers South used to be. Remembering the majestic lobby. The glorious penthouse. Seeing the pictures. Reading the names. Wishing I could wake up.

When there’s a mass shooting (all too often), I wish I could be there for the mourning families. When there is a collapse, even in distant countries, I relate to their anguish.

During the whirlwind of Shivahs, I traveled to New York for a day to attend the Shiva for Chaim Rosenberg and his daughter and son-in-law. When I was driving out of JFK airport, I noticed a flashing sign that said, “We stand with Surfside.” I didn’t need an excuse to cry during those weeks. But I was particularly moved that complete strangers cared about us.

Maybe this is the lesson for me. To internalize the pain of others. To assist strangers. To lend a helping hand and a good word to people whom I may never see again. It’s easy to brush off people who ask for help. To think that they will be fine without me. That they may be frauds. That I’m too busy for them. And too preoccupied.

It’s time to open our hearts. To feel the pain of others. Jews and non-Jews. Black and white. Young and old. Everywhere in the world.

Their problems are our problems. And vice versa.

Can we solve their problems? Maybe. Maybe not. But if we care, we will try. And even if we cannot, we can daven for them. Cry for them. And tell them that we care. That really does help.

וּמָחָה ה׳ דִּמְעָה מֵעַל כָּל פָּנִים – May Hashem wipe away the tears from all of our faces.

The writer is the Rabbi of the Surfside Minyan, a shul in South Surfside.