Times Of Israel blog
Way back in 2007, there was a memorable two-hour reality show called “Six Degrees of Martina McBride.”
Based on the principle that any two people on earth can be linked by passing through no more than “six degrees of separation,” six human connections, the show took a small number of aspiring musicians from around the USA, each tasked with finding a path to the country star.
Within six points of contact, the goal was to connect directly with McBride. The winner(s) won studio recording time with her, and a shot at a major-label record deal.
Let’s look at an example, using Carl, a guitarist who wants to make it big in the country scene:
Carl picks up the phone, and speaks to Daisy, a friend who works at the travel agency.
Daisy gets in touch with Seth, who works in the the travel department of the governor’s office
Seth contacts an old roommate, Darren, who now works in computers in Nashville
Darren has friends who play in a trio in the local bars. The sax player is Lexi.
Lexi knows Mikey, one of the engineers in the music studio where McBride records
Mikey puts Carl in touch with Martina McBride
Bingo! Carl has won the game.
***
I’ve often felt that, within the Jewish world, the number of degrees of separation is closer to one. Who doesn’t know that guy who seems to know everyone? Mr. or Mrs. Know-Them-All. We’re a sociable group, and our numbers, at around 15 million Jews worldwide, make us a relatively small segment of the earth’s population.
So if you were to contact Mr. or Mrs. Know-Them-All, chances are you could find just about anyone. Even if they didn’t know them personally, chances are they’d know someone else who does.
This isn’t a new idea. The Talmud said it thousands of years ago: חברא דחברך חברא אית ליה — The friend of your friend has a friend…
For all those who live outside Israel, the picture isn’t all that different. Our interconnectedness means that our families and friends around the world are a quick WhatsApp or Zoom away. So instead of one degree of separation, for those abroad perhaps it’s 1.5.
Credit: DepositPhotos.com, used with permission.
When the news from Israel pops up with those dreaded headlines, accompanied by photos of the young, smiling, innocent faces of those who fell in battle, our hearts sink and the knots in our stomachs return. We first glance at the names, searching for any that sound familiar, then quickly scan to see what city they’re from. It is all too common to quickly find the one degree of separation between ourselves and the photos on the news. In our immediate neighborhood, where the demographics translate into a low rate of enlistment, there are still numerous bereaved families.
And so it happens. We line the streets, holding flags in solemn tribute along the procession route of families heading to bury their sons and fathers and brothers on Har Herzl. We attend funerals and shivas. We tune in from abroad, constantly checking the Israel news, and watching searing first-person testimonies. We keep hoping that this price is the last one we will have to pay. The last bloody sacrifice we will have to offer on the altar called October 7.
***
With one degree of separation comes the distinct chance that you might have to choose between funerals.
And so it happened recently. Two deaths. Two connections.
I didn’t know either of the young men personally. But one of them had a mother-in-law from my hometown. Another was similarly connected, distanced by but one intermediate.
I attended the former’s funeral. They didn’t need me there. They didn’t know I was there. They wouldn’t recognize me if they passed me on the street, nor I them. But in this ongoing struggle to balance our sense of connectedness with Am Yisrael and the need to preserve our sanity, sometimes we have to remind ourselves that we showed up. We were there.
In times of war, we face a common conundrum. If we open the floodgates, and welcome every loss into our emotional storehouse, the grief will crush us. On the other hand, if we hide behind emotional callouses, and become indifferent to the names and faces which scroll before us, we risk becoming detached and numb. Each person has to find the balance which works for them, letting the pain ooze inside the fissures of our souls in manageable doses, while simultaneously being careful to protect their psyche.
***
Thousands of people gathered at Har Herzl for this funeral. I looked around at the throngs who had come to pay tribute.
I recognized no one.
And I recognized everyone.
The faces may have been unfamiliar, but somehow I knew them all. We were all there together.
Some for the army.
Some for the family.
Some for themselves.
But all for Am Yisrael.
With absolutely no degrees of separation.
