Smack in the middle of Shakespeare’s King Lear, the Earl of Gloucester’s sweet, naïve son reaches rock bottom. Edgar’s been terribly tricked by his bastard half-brother; he’s disinherited, disheveled, and desperately evading death. Yet he doesn’t crack.
“The lamentable change is from the best,” he gamely declares, trying to cheer himself up. When things are really bad “the worst returns to laughter.” From utterly down and out, life can only get better.
Then he sees his dad. Gloucester’s old eyes have been gouged out; he’s been turfed from his castle and dumped in a storm. This brutal balagan brings on an epiphany: Edgar is forced to acknowledge that things don’t always improve. “O gods! Who is it can say ‘I am at the worst?’ I am worse than e’er I was,” he wails, “the worst is not / So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’”
As long as humans can breathe and their eyes can see, things can certainly deteriorate: We still have to die.
For what seems an eternity now but is actually just over one year, we in Israel have been living with the feeling that things simply cannot get worse. And then they do. The terrible agony of Oct. 7 has been compounded by more deaths, and more deaths, and still more deaths. And so many multitudes wounded. Our hostages, inconceivably and heart-shatteringly, are still incarcerated in hell. We’re in an endless cycle of mourning, of fear, of watching our dreams disintegrate.
More funerals, and then still more. More wailing and weeping and breath-stopping stories. More tunnels, and more decades-long plans to wipe us from the center of the Earth; more sirens and dashing to shelters, more lying on cigarette butts and glass shards as missiles whiz over our cars while we are out on errands. Now terrorism has hit our streets again, and a new fear has entered the mix.
We’re exhausted, we’re broken; we’re entirely unsure of what will be next.
RECENTLY, WITH the annual overload of High Holy Days rolling around again, I sat in shul on Yom Kippur, trying to connect with the solemn incantations to our slow-to-anger, merciful God, who raises a tabernacle of peace over His people.
How comforting it must be to totally believe that the Almighty indubitably has the plot. How helpful to know there’s a divine reason for what seems like a generation of wonderful youngsters – positive, dedicated, good – being decimated in battle as they fight for our survival.
How stress-relieving to believe in a cosmic plan behind our inept, incompetent government; a reason why our finance minister sneers at Moody’s; why our security minister inflames the country on every front; why our transportation minister transports herself to jewelry stores and fancy hotels abroad but can’t get reservists to their units on chag – twice.
And wouldn’t it be wonderful to know there’s logic behind an eternal leader who oversees the chaos, leering from screens as he promises us citizens of Israel that, with God’s help, together we will win … except not together with the ultra-Orthodox among us.
Netanyahu has chosen this particular point in history to assure his haredi partners that they need never enlist. Wouldn’t it be nice to know that God approves?
But leaving the Holy One out of the picture temporarily, this seems like a reasonable moment for us mortals to make a plan. Where do we go from here? Not literally, although depressingly 2023, the year of the judicial reform, saw an increase of almost 50% of Israelis leaving the country, and each month of 2024 saw the numbers rise again. But most of us don’t dream of leaving; we just want a road map toward onward and upward.
Can our worst return to laughter?
With the death of arch-monster Yahya Sinwar, the forgotten feeling of hope might just be percolating again, right outside our hearts. Could this madness end soon, our hostages come home, our evacuees unlock front doors in the North and South without fear, and our soldiers return to their lives? Are we just about to breathe deeply again, and rebuild, and heal?
It’s so hard to hope, when each day brings more death, and nothing seems certain anymore.
But maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a swing. It’s not such fun to be a Jew in the simmering Diaspora either these days; I know someone who’s stopped singing the Australian anthem in the wake of what’s unfolding Down Under. Our kids, happily assimilating on college campuses and in workplaces all over the world, are now shocked to discover they’re not so beloved after all.
They’ve been in contact throughout this unspeakable war, our faraway friends and family; they tell us they hold us in their hearts. We’re grateful for the virtual embrace; it’s nice to feel loved.
So how’s this for a day-after idea?
We will replant our vines and peppers on the borders of our little land, and we will sing again at festivals. We’re a nation that’s aced rising from ashes; the Phoenix has nothing on us. We will return to laughter with or without our brethren abroad; we’ll welcome them again with joy and Mediterranean salads when they visit on Birthright trips and bar/bat mitzvah extravaganzas.
But what if our Diaspora sees this tilting of history as a fine opportunity; what if some reexamine the fleshpots, take a hard look at the fabulous vistas from the rivers of Babylon, and declare: “Yup, we’ve lived in a bubble of time when Jews were safe, rich and powerful, and tolerated in many lands. But now it appears our country folk don’t so much care for us mellowing under their olive trees after all. Maybe now, with Israel rebooting, we should consider joining the party.”
Wouldn’t that be a fun side-effect of this terrible time?
The chaos in King Lear eventually ends. Too many die, the good and the bad; the country is big-time battered. But with new leadership in place that is morally decent, England will be okay.
And so will we. We just have to hang in and live to see it happen. Let’s hope the day is coming soon when we can reburnish our battered miracle; it still feels right to be part of the plan.
The writer lectures at Reichman University. Peledpam@gmail.com