When I Cried

It was 2:30 a.m. when I heard the first news flash, then saw the shaky footage of Hatzolah medics running, jarringly accompanied — like the sinking Titanic — by the orchestra that continued playing.

An hour later, the conflicting reports of collapsing bleachers and roofs had given way to the horrific images of ZAKA body bags lined up, some all too small. By 4:00 a.m., the front page of a special edition of Yated Ne’eman was making the digital rounds, finding words for the grief. “Our dancing has been turned to mourning,” read the headline.

But as the hours wore on, there was a certain numbness, a sense of a tragedy that had hit very close to home, yet that refused to sink in. Over the next two days, I fought the natural process of rationalization (“a disaster waiting to happen”) that is our defense against the violent uncertainty of our world.

And then came the video of the two fathers, and right there at my desk in Mishpacha’s offices, I cried.