These were the first words my husband spoke to me this morning:
“A couple of Arabs went into a shul in Har Nof this morning and began chopping people up.”
I then began the inevitable process of scanning the web for whatever news was out there on the newest attack on my people. As always, the reports were contradictory. The number killed, whether the terrorist(s) were dead, how many injured.
The mayhem at the scene.
This ugly headline that doesn’t care about dead Jews:
And last but not least, the photos.
The dreadful, dreadful photos. Bloody meat cleavers. A man face down, cut down, still in prayer shawl, phylacteries wound round his arm and hand. The dead terrorist. Blood, blood and more blood.
The question: do we share them? Do we share the photos.
Some will. Inevitably. And this will sicken some, shock others, but elicit symptoms of PTSD in some of my dearest friends who have suffered unspeakable tragedies at the hands of the enemy.
It’s a kind of porn, sharing these photos. Shocking and disgusting.
If we don’t share them, the world won’t know, won’t understand, won’t wake up.
But if we do, so much pain and sorrow to so many. An invasion of privacy (the victims) like a second rape on top of the first. And a loss of integrity for those of us who dare to share them. Looking to appeal to the voyeur. Or looking to wake up the world! Please see us! See our suffering. Our one-sided victimization in which a dead Jew does not count. In which the world does not care. Predictably, as usual.
Will the photos awaken them? Will they finally see if we show them?
If we show them:
“How dare you,” some will say. And they will be right.
“How dare we hide them,” others will say. And they will be right.
