When Everything Becomes Political

Anonymous (By a very respected and good friend of mine)

I have been a friend of Rabbi Shmuley and of his wonderful family for more than 30 years. To be clear — in today’s increasingly intolerant world, even though it should be unnecessary to clarify — friendship has nothing to do with politics, or even with religion. I have many friends, including Shmuley, whose views on a range of issues are not my own. And yes, I have Palestinian nationalist friends too, and their views are not my own either — I like having my own views and debating them with friends from all backgrounds.

When I received the invitation to attend the memorial for Shani Louk, I accepted — just like I was glad to join Shmuley for book launches, birthdays and more over the past three decades. Because of security concerns, the exact location at Waterside Plaza was shared only at the last moment, and by that time I was unable to make it.

I regretted not being with Shmuley at a time of mourning. But I had no idea this would have become a political issue, and then I regretted even more not being with Shmuley to show my solidarity in what became an antisemitic saga.

Let us be honest: this controversy arose because the victim was Jewish, and because Shmuley is a rabbi.

Had this been a vigil for victims of a school shooting, led by a priest; or a memorial for those killed in an earthquake, flood, or hurricane with a Buddhist monk; or a gathering to mourn civilians in any other tragedy, it is inconceivable that the very act of remembrance would have been questioned, scrutinised, or politicised. In those cases, grief is usually treated as sacred ground.

Here, it was not.

Something profoundly human was turned into something political — and that should trouble us all.

I am appalled by what happened on 7 October, and equally appalled by what has happened since to civilians in Gaza. I am appalled by the suffering of innocents everywhere — whether in war zones, under bombardment, or buried beneath the rubble of natural disasters whose names fade from the headlines almost as quickly as they appear.

In moments like these, when we are shocked by human suffering or mourn the dead, we should not be interested in allocating blame. Being witness to human pain is a human act.

Compassion is not a political endorsement. Mourning is not a geopolitical statement. Standing with a grieving family does not negate empathy for any other family, anywhere else. Suffering is not a zero-sum game, and humanity is not divisible by identity, religion, or nationality.

To mourn Shani Louk and the other victims of the worst massacre of Jews since the Shoah does not deny the suffering of many Palestinians for the past 80 years, and especially of Gazans in the past two. To stand with a Jewish family does not turn one’s back on Muslim or Christian victims of the current or any other conflict. These false binaries are imposed on grief from the outside — and they degrade it.

That such a moment required explanation or defence speaks volumes about the climate we now inhabit.

If we have reached a point where Jewish mourning is viewed with suspicion; where grief must pass a test of political acceptability; where the dead are no longer allowed to be mourned simply as human beings — then something has gone deeply wrong. And that’s not a Jewish problem — it’s a problem about our society.

A society that cannot protect the space to grieve has already lost its moral bearings.

That should not be controversial. That should not be political. That should be the minimum we owe one another as human beings.