I wasn’t going to write a piece about September 11th.  In all honesty, I didn’t know what to say.

Ten years ago, I was fourteen years old.  I was on my way to Geometry class when I heard the news.  I remember getting home to see the iconic images of the smoking towers play non-stop in all different media for months: websites, television, billboards, magazine spreads.  The images were inescapable.

But, the images soon seemed to be captured by a particular political motive.  Only for a moment were these destroyed buildings a sign of our country’s vulnerability.  Rather, it seemed that overnight, they became an excuse for revenge and an opportunity to prove that the United States is as invincible as we had convinced ourselves on September 10th.  We turned almost immediately to retaliation, using the images of the World Trade Center as propaganda to propel a violent, narcissistic agenda.  As country singer Toby Keith articulated so eloquently:  “You’ll be sorry that you messed with the US of A, ‘cuz we’ll put a boot in your ass, it’s the American way.”  Really?  That’s what we see as just?  That’s how we mourn?

For the last ten years, every time I see photographs of that day, I cringe.  I cringe not because of the horrific deaths they convey, but because of the other ugly baggage these images carry: They were used to say that those who don’t support larger military budgets don’t care about the lives of innocent Americans.  They were used to say I wasn’t patriotic because I opposed the war in Iraq.  They were used to incite bigotry, islamophobia, and violence.  It is hard for me to look at these images without this baggage.  To write an article commemorating this day, felt like commemorating all that those images have come to represent.  And for me, the baggage that comes with these images eclipses the pain, the doubt, the grief, the humility, and the sorrow exposed that day.

However, this week, on Friday night, as Shabbat evening services were coming to a close, one of the minyan leaders stood up before the final recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish.  He said, “As you know, Sunday will mark the tenth anniversary of the attacks of September 11th.  As such, it marks the tenth yahrzeit of about 3,000 people.  For those of you who feel comfortable to do so, I invite you to stand and to say kaddish on their behalf, as a way of honoring their memories.”

With that, we stood.  “Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba…” We spoke these words in unison, slowly and carefully.  Chills ran through my body.  The surface of my skin awakened with goosebumps.  I was overcome with emotion.  Together, we remembered, and we mourned.

There is something unbelievably powerful about this ritual act of mourning.  It is a time in which we acknowledge our grief by proclaiming our faith.  It seems strange.  The words of the kaddish are not those of lament, as one would expect; rather, they are words of praise and assurance.  They are words that no mourner can say alone–literally and figuratively.  They require a minyan, a community.  And, they require humility, for one must rise and publicly own her loss.

As a country, we failed to do this.  We failed to stand in our lament and to admit our vulnerability.  We looked to blame and to avenge, rather than to gather and to pray.  In an effort to act swiftly, we let our pride–our patriotism–mask our humility.  We tried to convince ourselves–and the rest of the world–that we were unstoppable, rather than taking the time to stop, to mourn, and to heal.

Maybe now, ten years later, we can finally admit our grief honestly.  Maybe we can learn to humble ourselves, to stand in the midst of a community, and to affirm a belief in something other than revenge, something other than violence, something other than ego.  We can stand together and proclaim that, even in the midst of our sorrow, goodness is true, love is powerful, and we are not alone.

Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba…amen…