Dancing on that day

Dancing.

I was dancing as well on that day.

I though, continued to dance.

I had the privilege. The privilege to continue. I was granted to, that is.

I was dancing drunk with my friends while our people were being slaughtered.

Is that normal? Is it Ok? I don’t know.

What should have I done? Something different? Any suggestions?

Should I have sat and cried? Should we still sit and cry? Should we have done nothing? Should we still do nothing?

Honestly both sound ridiculous. Even today as much as then.

But I was dancing. That’s what I was doing.

People said that’s how we are. We dance, we are not afraid. We don’t despair. Never.

But I would wonder. Did they say that knowing what went on? Would they have said that if they looked face to face with each body? Each baby? Each woman? Each picture of a smiling person that all they have left is a piece of DNA?

Did we dance because we didn’t know? I didn’t know. I didn’t know that while I danced a baby was put in an oven. Maybe that’s why we danced? Since we didn’t know. No one knew. We knew death. Yes. But that’s all.

But that’s not a little. It’s no small act to dance in front of death.

I wonder further. If we knew, would we not dance? Would we then finely sit and cry? Sit and cry instead of dancing?

Are there answers to these questions? Can there? If there are, who would have the authority to answer them? Who would want to answer them? Who could except God himself?

And God, he had other questions to answer. A few questions, if I may. What was he doing then? Was he dancing? Was he crying? Did he know?

And yet, we still danced. We danced the whole night.

Maybe that’s all we knew? Maybe that was the best we can do? Maybe. Maybe, when all fails, but we can still dance, that’s what we must do?

When the Jews went to the showers in Auschwitz didn’t some of them dance? They danced. Yes. They danced since it was Simchat Torah. In that story, they survived though. They were kicked out of the showers! The Nazis thought they were too mad crazy for death. Can you imagine? The Nazis thought as well that it was too crazy to dance while staring at death.

Is that why we danced? Since we are crazy? Maybe that’s why we should continue to, as well?

But how can we? How can I? How can I dance with death? How can I dance ever again? How can I dance the same dance that they danced when they were killed? How can I laugh the same laugh of the children’s moments before their fate? How can I love the same love that the young partiers had? How can I go eat and satisfy my hunger while people my same age are being starved in tunnels?

How? Why?

Questions. I have questions. We all do. How can we not?

Answers. That is what we can’t have. And we mustn’t. Never. That’s for sure.

But questions. We still have questions. How can we not?