My brother has a chronic illness. He can be well for long periods of time, but at other times he has flare-ups. Sometimes the flare-ups are the result of something he did and sometimes they occur for no reason that he can determine.
It?s painful for me to watch my brother when he is suffering. I can see the illness change him. He can be irritable and sullen. At times, it?s difficult and draining to be with him. I feel angry at how much the illness makes someone I love suffer. I feel helpless; there is little I can do to ease his pain.
My brother is the State of Israel and I am an American Jew. I have been struggling to find a way of expressing my feelings about ?the situation.? The struggle has been more acute for me since I returned from a trip to Israel with my wife, my three children and my mother-in-law last June. I guess we lucked out ? we toured the country without incident. I am grateful that my children?s first experience with their homeland was a peaceful and positive one. They would like to return. I suppose I am also grateful that the trip, my first in 30 years, has made ?the situation? more real to me, knowing that we were in or near many of the sites of recent suicide bombings.
As the leader of a cancer support group for many years I remember being struck by one particular discussion. ?How do you find the strength to go on?? I asked the members. I expected the usual answer: the patients found support in family and friends. Instead, I got the reverse response. ?I couldn?t manage without my wife,? said the husband of a breast cancer patient. ?When I see she?s making it, then I can make it. She gives me strength.? His sentiments were seconded by every member of the group.
I presented these comments as part of a paper (with the same title as this essay) at an oncology conference at the Marriott World Trade Center in 1996. I thought about that conference when I took my family to view Ground Zero. The Marriott was destroyed along with the WTC towers. 9-11 seems to have born out the wisdom of the support group. I, like many Americans, took some comfort in knowing that what we were suffering on that day was also what Israelis face and survive daily. ?Now we understand? was the comment in some news media.
So it is in my current relationship with Israel, as well. Like a chronic illness, the Intifada, the drip-drip-drip of Arab hostility, blame, world isolation and anti-Semitism conflated with anti-Zionism are making someone I love suffer. I am afraid because, as a family member, I know that I can be victim of the same illness. I feel guilty because, at the moment, my suffering is not as immediate or threatening. I know that as I write this at home in Philadelphia, a bomb could be going off in a mall or restaurant in Israel.
Chronic illness affects the whole family. The victim feels isolated. Isolation breeds distortion and fear. Family members argue about the best way to help the victim. Relationships are strained. Hurtful things are said. Some families are torn apart by the ongoing and unpredictable stress of the illness. Yet, those that survive say they have found out who and what truly matters, that their personal relationships are deeper, stronger and more meaningful.
I want my fellow Diaspora Jews to know that we are not immune to this illness. Denial will take us only so far. I want my brothers and sisters in Israel to know: You are not alone. From your strength I derive my own. Who supports whom? Does the answer really matter when we are all part of the same family?
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Paul R. Sachs lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
It?s painful for me to watch my brother when he is suffering. I can see the illness change him. He can be irritable and sullen. At times, it?s difficult and draining to be with him. I feel angry at how much the illness makes someone I love suffer. I feel helpless; there is little I can do to ease his pain.
My brother is the State of Israel and I am an American Jew. I have been struggling to find a way of expressing my feelings about ?the situation.? The struggle has been more acute for me since I returned from a trip to Israel with my wife, my three children and my mother-in-law last June. I guess we lucked out ? we toured the country without incident. I am grateful that my children?s first experience with their homeland was a peaceful and positive one. They would like to return. I suppose I am also grateful that the trip, my first in 30 years, has made ?the situation? more real to me, knowing that we were in or near many of the sites of recent suicide bombings.
As the leader of a cancer support group for many years I remember being struck by one particular discussion. ?How do you find the strength to go on?? I asked the members. I expected the usual answer: the patients found support in family and friends. Instead, I got the reverse response. ?I couldn?t manage without my wife,? said the husband of a breast cancer patient. ?When I see she?s making it, then I can make it. She gives me strength.? His sentiments were seconded by every member of the group.
I presented these comments as part of a paper (with the same title as this essay) at an oncology conference at the Marriott World Trade Center in 1996. I thought about that conference when I took my family to view Ground Zero. The Marriott was destroyed along with the WTC towers. 9-11 seems to have born out the wisdom of the support group. I, like many Americans, took some comfort in knowing that what we were suffering on that day was also what Israelis face and survive daily. ?Now we understand? was the comment in some news media.
So it is in my current relationship with Israel, as well. Like a chronic illness, the Intifada, the drip-drip-drip of Arab hostility, blame, world isolation and anti-Semitism conflated with anti-Zionism are making someone I love suffer. I am afraid because, as a family member, I know that I can be victim of the same illness. I feel guilty because, at the moment, my suffering is not as immediate or threatening. I know that as I write this at home in Philadelphia, a bomb could be going off in a mall or restaurant in Israel.
Chronic illness affects the whole family. The victim feels isolated. Isolation breeds distortion and fear. Family members argue about the best way to help the victim. Relationships are strained. Hurtful things are said. Some families are torn apart by the ongoing and unpredictable stress of the illness. Yet, those that survive say they have found out who and what truly matters, that their personal relationships are deeper, stronger and more meaningful.
I want my fellow Diaspora Jews to know that we are not immune to this illness. Denial will take us only so far. I want my brothers and sisters in Israel to know: You are not alone. From your strength I derive my own. Who supports whom? Does the answer really matter when we are all part of the same family?
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Paul R. Sachs lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.