Simcha Guilt

I don’t know why but something is moving me to write something. I can’t sleep. My son’s wedding is in two days but I don’t know if it’s a result of worrying about the many practical things that need to take place before then. It is also that, but it’s definitely more. Actually, I think what’s weighing on me is the war (What war?) and the aftermath of war, how we seem to be going on with life. Here is a wedding, a beautiful Jewish simcha taking place in the heels of the bloodiest massacre and longest war that Israel has ever seen. How many funerals of fallen soldiers took place that we became almost inured to hearing about another one? How much fear and anxiety has been implanted in us, the unpredictability, the hope that he or she would return only to be dashed by the haunting news of how this Jewish hostage had been starved, mutilated, manipulated, shot at point blank range, raped, psychologically tormented, and the sundry list goes on and on, and here I am making a wedding. Picking out clothing, hunting for that perfect twill shirt, recalling all the good food at the aufruf kiddush and my son’s glowing face and exuberant smile as we sang to him.

Reservists are coming home broken people. So many people misplaced from the North (Do we even remember Kiryat Shmoneh?) As we look at pictures of the renovated apartment that the young couple will be living in, with glee, will these people even have a semblance of a home to go back to? As I did some last-minute shopping today, I could have sworn it’s the same bustling streets in Geula. The war has been airbrushed off of people’s faces. I ask myself, almost in a silent scream: “Was there even a war?”  No one fears having to run into a miklat with short notice. Let’s just put those last two years behind us, and move on. Our pained Jewish history has taught us this. As I witness the regular shopping, laughing, relish in the smell of fresh pastries from the hallmark bakeries, enjoy the sight of well-dressed kids being pushed in their strollers by their doting mothers and fathers, I would like to say I was thinking then “How many innocent children died on October 7th, how many innocent children became orphaned that day?” ---but I, imagine like most people, wasn’t.  

When I heard about the horrors there was always some survivor guilt, and now with the wedding approaching, I have coined a new term. People much more deserving than myself will never experience the joy I anticipate experiencing in a few short days. Yes, it’s simcha guilt.

That’s what’s keeping me up tonight. Simcha guilt. I found the term. I touched the experience.