I flew over the Atlantic Ocean and continental Europe. I walked through Kiev, ate at a strange diner dedicated to Depeche Mode, and saw how much America's community service has influenced the Ukraine. I ate apple crepes and read magazines. I suffered through 30 hours of transit. I was excited to get to Kazakhstan.
Then we went to Babi Yar.
Our tour guide, an active member of Kiev's Hillel, told us matter-of-factly how Kiev's Jews were brutally murdered in the spot where we stood 70 years ago. There are cyprus trees now, and evergreens, where my people were killed. I wanted to cry, but the pain was so raw that I couldn't: we walked to the edge of the ravine where Jews, just like us, were lined up and shot, and James asked in bewilderment, "Wait, there are bodies down there?"
We said Yizkor and Kaddish and read poetry mourning the loss of so many beautiful lives. I closed my eyes and crossed my arms tight as I recited the Aramaic words quietly; the sun was shining, and I desperately wanted to ignore the beauty of the spot, so that I could properly remember those lost at Babi Yar. It seemed profane for the breeze to blow, for birds to chirp, for life to carry on unaffected where such evil had happened.
James said our prayers made him feel better, that they were our way of telling the Nazis and their Final Solution to fuck off: Here we are, praying and living and thriving; here we are, despite what you thought this massacre would achieve.
But I wasn't comforted. Our prayers seemed like one drop in a giant, empty bucket. When we reached the end of the pathway leading to the ravine, a young Ukrainian woman walked by on the sidewalk, chatting on her cell phone, totally unaware. How often, I wondered in horror, have I walked by an atrocity unknowingly? How often have I stood idly by? Is our best effort not enough?
Today, in Almaty, the head of the JDC in Kazakhstan was asked what the biggest challenges are for the Kazakhstani Jewish community. I expected him to say reintroducing lost culture, or a lack of money, or anti-Semitism.
"The youth," he immediately replied. It's extremely difficult, he explained, to find young Jews who are willing to get involved and to take action to shape their community.
I sucked in my breath sharply, and the rest of his words blurred together in my ears as I sat in shock. Are you kidding me??? I flew halfway around the world to help this community, to gain inspiration, to be reminded of the blessings of being an American Jew. I was sure that the NYU community -- despite its inability to get liberal Jews in the door, its red tape, its shaky pluralism and solid cliques -- was superior to what I would find in Kazakhstan. But now I've been told that Jews in Central Asia have the same major problem that we do in NYC. We are no better. We cannot help them solve their problems.
I'm embarrassed. I'm angry and sad and confused and frustrated and exhausted. Apparently, the only leg up that we American Jews have on Kazakhstanis is that our toilets can handle flushing TP.
Our generation of Jews, and those that will follow, are in so much more trouble than I thought - no matter the country, economic standing, political dogma, or religious practice, we cannot seem to organize. My peers, worldwide, seem to have trouble giving a damn. Not enough of us are willing to step up to the plate, to take a risk, to make a difference.
Going to sleep off my disappointment and hoping that tomorrow's volunteering will change my mind. There's so much to be done - and 20 stupid Americans crazy enough to come to Kazakhstan can't do it alone.
Yeish tikvah?
