Knowing The Unknowable

I often think about those I cannot think about.

I cannot think about them because I don't know them. I see people on the street walking alone, or talking to each other; I see people who are clearly unhappy or who are happy, people deep in thought, and those singing silently to the music being piped into their ears by some electronic device; or I see people who are apparently talking to themselves. Perhaps they are. Perhaps they are what, in less “sensitive” times, we used to call crazy, or perhaps they are talking on telephones that I just don't see.

I wonder about them. I don't know them and they don't know me. We live in different worlds, and I shall never know them.

Those are the ones I see. But there are billions whom I shall never encounter. Most of them live in circumstances I would never be able to endure. It's easier not to think about them. But I do. I wonder about their lives and like to think that they are as happy as I – living in a world that is familiar to them, and not giving much thought to the lives led by others of whom they have little comprehension, and in whom they have no interest.

And there are uncountable numbers who lived and died long ago – centuries and millennia. I don't remember my own ancestors, people I never knew even if I heard stories about some of them. I certainly don't remember all the others. No one does. The nameless ones – the ancestors of those living or of no one now alive – whose days ended long before ours started. A few are remembered because of some great accomplishment, but for each of them there are millions who are long forgotten.

It is part of Jewish tradition to remember the dead. We say Kaddish for them on their yahrzeits, the anniversary of their deaths. We light candles for them – the flames resurrecting the souls who have left us. And we do so again four times a year when we recite the Yizkor service, a service devoted to the remembrance of our relatives and our friends and those who have died as martyrs or soldiers for our people. We remember them and we make contributions in their memory as a kind of bribe – a deal with G-d that they receive favorable treatment in exchange for our gift. In a similar manner, we pray for the sick. We believe that in some way those prayers may be answered by G-d with the recovery of the one for whom we plead. In the hope that the greater the number of prayers the greater the chance of success, we appeal to others to join us.

But it doesn't seem fair, at least not as far as human understanding permits us to understand fairness. Who remembers the generations that preceded us – the countless souls that are no more? Will I be forgotten by G-d when, after I have died, there is no one left to say Kaddish for me? What is the fate of the childless? And is your recovery from illness more likely if there are many who include you in their prayers? Is a return of good health more uncertain if no one petitions on your behalf? Does you fate have anything to do with you or are you totally dependent on others? And if you have no others?

There are more questions than answers. There always have been. Although some will offer justifications for apparent inequities, often with an aura of confidence that does not appear to reflect reality, we're left with a world in which there is more suffering than we want to think about. So we don't think about it. We know that we can't end that suffering, no matter what we do.

But we can't do nothing, even if we can't solve the world's problems. It may be easier to accept the cynical position that our efforts will be useless, but none of us has the right to throw our hands up in the air and make no effort to help someone else. However small our contribution, it is our obligation to try to improve the lot of others, including those we don't know. Especially those we don't know, for there is probably no one looking after them or remembering them.

But whether time or money, whether local or international, it's probably worth the effort to help and to remember. I say “probably” because no one knows ultimate consequences – mundane or divine. Maybe it will help, now or in the future. Maybe not. Things don't always turn out as we'd wish, but ignorance, isolationism, and inaction cannot be justified. If we didn't know it already, the Holocaust taught that lesson. As Burke is reputed to have said, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” And all that is necessary for those who once lived, and for those who live and suffer now, to be forgotten is for good men and women to do nothing. Whether we can accomplish something or not, we have to try; we have to remember those who might be lost to memory, and act on behalf of those in need. We have to think about those whose existence is almost impossible to imagine, and try to do something. Maybe we'll succeed.

We can only hope.

Next episode: “Playing The Numbers” -- Size matters.