The Horrendous Power of Grief and "Never Again"

After I made an FB post that compared present-day Israel to Apartheid South Africa, my good friend and Jewish colleague Barry Perlman weighed in. We had a couple of series of cordial but pointed exchanges. But then Barry said, "All that said, as a progressive Jew, I have quietly found myself disappointed by folks I thought were like-minded allies, who somehow have lost the capacity to hold empathy for the Jewish experience (if they ever truly had it)." Barry's words gave me pause. I have always thought of myself as an ally for Jews and their struggle. But Israel's crisis with Palestine and Palestinian suffering has also been very challenging for me. So, I asked myself where I hold empathy for the Jewish experience. It struck me early that following day with grief and the phrase "never again."

I remember hearing the phrase, "Never again," sometime in my youth, perhaps around middle school. I don't remember the context other than talking about the 20^th century's holocaust of Jews. But I remember feeling the strength of the resolve in that statement. Perhaps it appealed to something deep within my Scorpionic nature—a defensiveness and sacred promise never to be a victim again. Yet, I found myself uttering those words when some girl or young woman dashed my hopes for eternal love or a courtship that would last longer than a month. There were many nights when I saturated my shirts and pillows with tears and then answered with the steely resolve not to feel that kind of pain again, if ever. I know, completely banal. It wasn't until I was in my 40s that I saw the danger in those words. (I'm now in my mid-50s.) You can only fortify your heart so much before cordoning yourself off from love altogether, from experiencing the freshness of life itself.

So, after the woeful events of Oct. 7 in Israel by Hamas, I could relate to the resolve of the Jewish people and Israeli government for this to never happen again, even as I understood that Hamas must've been driven by an ice cold and horrible desperation to have committed such terrible acts. Yet I also remember the corner this kind of grief paints you in, and that kind of paint never dries fast enough. And in Israel's case, it would be blood, not paint. It prompts me to think about the myth of Demeter when Hades abducted her daughter Persephone in the underworld.

Hades, god of the underworld, desired a wife. With everyone's permission but Persephone and her mama, Demeter, he seized young Persephone while she was in a field picking flowers and took her into his world, where he putatively raped and kept her against her will. Demeter, a goddess of the Earth and everything that grew upon it, searched for Persephone for nine days until Hecate and the Sun finally revealed what had happened to her daughter. Rife with grief, righteous indignation, and anger, the great goddess of growth refused to let anything grow upon the Earth until her daughter was returned. "Never again" was there to be any life. Demeter didn't care if everything and everyone had to die. That's how potent her grief was. Eventually, the chief god Zeus intervened and sent word to Hades to release Persephone provided she had not eaten anything in the underworld that would prompt her to stay there. Indeed, Persephone had eaten some pomegranate seeds while there, but an agreement could be worked out. Demeter's daughter could return to the upper world for several months each year before she had to return to the underworld and Hades for the rest of the year. Clutching her once-lost daughter to her breast, Demeter released her grief and allowed the Earth to be fruitful again.

This mostly seems like a happy myth, but some striking parts of it shouldn't be glossed over. First, the all-consuming and rapacious nature of Demeter's grief itself is alarming. It proves just as violent and violating as Hades' lust and callousness with Persephone's will or wishes. "Never again" can have no bounds and may seem powerful and even a sensible response. Still, it's always a poor bulwark against the possibility of anguish from life's immense creativity, even when it's of an abject kind. Demeter, indeed, got her daughter back, but never again wholly as she was nor for as much time as she had her before. "Never again" never brings the absolute solace it promises. No matter how much you desire it to do that, it can't. Life itself is as prolific as Demeter, if not more so.



The only possible resolution when faced with a situation that summons deep, dark grief is to look for where and how to broker a fragile and perhaps even compromised peace. "Never Again" can never keep peace. It gives grief a license to do whatever it feels it must to satiate itself, and that still will never be enough. Grief is always hungry and often angry. It will deny any growth if you let it. And there's the rub. You must learn to let go of some of what was to let things be as they are or will be. Grief is a very poor fort-maker and keeper.

So, as much as I have empathy for the Jewish people and Israel, by extension, with its devastating losses from Oct. 7 and before, I equally recognize the inhuman hardship and injustice that the Palestinian people have endured in open-air prisons called Gaza and the West Bank. But "Never Again" will never be any protectorate for anyone in that region. It will require the true wisdom of that Demeter-Persephone myth. I do not presume to know what shape that will take. Everyone has eaten Pomegranate seeds that could keep them in the throes of an underworld of violence. But there's no doubt that a different agreement must be made. Perhaps the Israeli government sincerely believes that by destroying Hamas, they can ensure they "never again" will experience the violence that the Israeli people have suffered. In that case, they've learned nothing—from their history or Demeter's grief. I am sure of that, and I have great empathy for that.