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LIFE AFTER MURDER BY TERRORIST: WHAT NOT TO SAY TO A PERSON WHOSE BROTHER WAS MURDERED BY A TERRORIST IN ISRAEL There is no blessing for the lighting of memorial candles. I just found that out. I am also discovering there is nothing appropriate anyone can say when your brother is murdered by terrorists in a bus bombing. Toss all death etiquette out the window. "Rules" on the Jewish way on death and mourning don't apply. Judaism has moved into the 21st century. Terrorism rewrote tradition. The Jewish ritual of mourning, centered on living, navigates bereaved through the valley of death towards life. There is no traditional journey from murder by terrorist to burial. My brother Yechezkel Goldberg's bus bombing murder, January 29th at Aza Street showed me this. Our pain is greatest, during shivah. Let me share. You are talking. We're not hearing. Traditional Jewish utterances, "me-NA-chem UH-vail," comfort a mourner", "Aláv hashalom, may he rest in peace," "May you be comforted," "May you never know any more pain" are words without weight. "Hamakom yinachem eschem b'soch sha'ar availay Tzion v'Yerushalayim," "May Hashem, Who is everywhere, comfort you amongst the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem," is unintelligible to bereaved, lost in the fog of tragedy. Struggling to accept senselessness of murderous acts, terrorism's bereaved are unable to focus on words, let alone sentences. Answering "Amen?" Rather, we're saying to ourselves, 'this is surreal, a dream we will awake from.' Grasping for our last visage of the dead, there is no being comforted. Dying is supposed to be a slow process of transition from one spiritual state to another. We want our murdered back. Tenderness, attributed in the traditional Jewish way, to a body believed to be created in God's image, is denied our deceased. Israelis know, by now, a pine coffin, holds a dissected victim of bus bomb murder. While cremation and amputations are violations not in keeping with the Jewish way, the terrorist may have incinerated bodies on the bus or severed them into chunks, flesh bits or less. A victim of terrorism may not have eyes to close, no mouth to shut or stop from opening. There may be not be a body for the Hevra Kadisha, the Holy Society, to give the ritual washing, tahara. There may be no body to dress in takhrikhin, the traditional white burial shrouds. Just far flung pieces gathered from the bombing site into a ZAKA* body bag. Israel's Foreign Ministry posted graphic video of Egged Number 19's bombing debris on their website. A bystander described two heads rolling to his feet. Arms and legs scattered. The world saw the indignity my dead suffered. Our murdered are denied an honor they moved to Israel for, burial directly into the Holy Ground. So let's rewrite what to say, to someone whose brother was murdered by a bus bomber. Adressing my brother as "was" doesn't work. In my mind, he still "is". There was no goodbye, just a phone call, "Your brother was murdered on Egged 19 in Jerusalem." Our dead wasn't taken from us. He was hijacked from life. In our hearts. In our mind, we cannot describe them, yet, or ever, as being gone. So, no 'was', please 'is.' Don't be surprised when asked 'how are you doing,' my answer is, 'not well.' Or a direct, "please don't ask," "do you expect me to really answer," "I feel like Hell, don't you know." Inhibitions about death and offending someone fell by the wayside. Say little. Nothing. Everything. Listen. It isn't the words you share but how we hear them that offends. Just know, by wishing us 'peace' we're hearing "pieces," our tragedy being mocked. Respond where appropriate. Allow us to pour out feelings. To speak. We won't feel better, just not as bad, if that makes sense. We crave stories about our murdered, things we figured we would catch up on when we are ancient and 90. Honor us sharing things we're now denied hearing from them. We are clinging to straws, but it is all we have left, their life ripped away from us. In time, we might accept the murder. Or not, I am told. The new Jewish way of mourning a man, murdered by terrorists, are the pointed words sent to me from an Israeli editor. "I am sorry to hear about the brutal murder of your brother. He will be sorely missed." It was brutal. It was murder. He is missed. January 2005, my year of mourning will come to a close. I will place a stone on Chezi's grave. Like the one that brought Goliath down. Weighing, in my hand, the stone I brought back to DC, I think maybe then, me, the pacifist, will respond to 'May he rest in peace,' with 'There is no peace. May his death be avenged.'