In Missouri, the Jewish community is small, and not very well understood. While there are some neighborhoods in St. Louis, where I live, that have a significant Jewish population, most people I meet assume that I am a garden variety WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant). Christianity is the norm; most schools don’t close on Yom Kippur; strangers wish you a merry Christmas; and the closest many people get to Judaism is eating a bagel.

Still, my faith is important to me, not something that I would purposefully hide. And so, over the course of a friendship or a conversation, I inevitably wind up making a comment about synagogue or Shabbat, revealing my religion either intentionally or inadvertently.

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I participate in a program called Student-to-Student in which Jewish students visit local schools with non-Jewish populations and speak about what Judaism means to them. Most of the kids in these classes have never met a Jew in their life; on one such visit, I was told that I seem too “normal” to be Jewish.

Once, at a National Student Leadership Conference, I was informed that my soul is surely on its way to rotting in the hellfire of eternal damnation after I revealed I was Jewish. (Despair not, though. The young man with whom I was speaking kindly informed me that I could be saved should I choose to take immediate action and accept Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior.)

At such times, it can feel like the mere act of identifying myself as Jewish is a provocation, or somehow threatening. At the very least, it generates confusion that can require lengthy explanations. Often, avoiding the subject altogether is an appealing prospect; telling a non-Jewish friend that I’m busy on a Friday night is a whole lot easier than explaining Shabbat.

Yet it’s in those moments when I receive ignorant reactions from people that I remember sitting in a darkened theater, one year ago, with silent tears rolling down my cheeks, moved by an opera that changed the way I regarded faith. I remember looking over at the people sitting next to me, people of completely different religious backgrounds, and seeing tears on their cheeks as well. What happened in that theater was for me a spiritual awakening, a vivid illustration of the power of faith to unite and to heal, because of—rather than in spite of—our cultural and religious differences.

The Controversy

I’ve never considered myself an opera person. And I still don’t. Seriously, I am not the type to frequent high-brow artsy events with a pair of tiny glasses in hand, uttering words such as “discerning palate” or “exquisite composition.” You’re much more likely to find me screaming my head off on the sidelines of a football game or dancing like a madwoman in my friend’s basement.

However, when my Jewish-Muslim dialogue group (JAM) was offered a free, behind-the-scenes trip to see an opera that explores the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, I was intrigued. The group, comprised equally of Jewish and Muslim teens, is intended to foster more communication and understanding. We had already visited a synagogue and a mosque, met in different people’s houses, heard a Holocaust survivor speak, and discussed the Israel-Palestine situation. All in all, it was a pleasant and informative experience, but limited by the fact that we were only together three hours a month. So far, not exactly transformative.

This changed dramatically, however, when it came time for our culminating event—The Death of Klinghoffer by composer John Adams and librettist (scriptwriter) Alice Goodman. The opera, which had not been performed since its debut in the early 1990s, brought controversy with its revival. It details the real-life 1985 hijacking of the Italian cruise ship Achille Lauro off the coast of Egypt.

The hijacking was orchestrated by four men representing the Palestine Liberation Front, a militant organization that was dedicated to the abolition of Israel. The terrorists held the passengers and crew hostage and demanded the release of 50 Palestinians being held in Israel. The hijacking reached a violent climax with the murder of passenger Leon Klinghoffer, a 69-year-old, wheelchair-bound Jew.

When the local theater announced that it would perform the opera, both the Jewish and Islamic communities were up in arms about it. Articles in the Jewish Light and The St. Louis Post-Dispatch attacked it for being sympathetic to the terrorists, who received several long arias (solos with instrumental accompaniment). Many claimed that by allowing a forum for the Palestinians to lament their ill-treatment at the hands of Israelis, the opera excused violent, extremist behavior. Conversely, many in the Muslim community felt that it contributed to the harmful stereotype that all Palestinians, and indeed, all Muslims, must be terrorists.

What everyone agreed on was that Klinghoffer incited needless conflict, and Opera Theater of St. Louis should have known better than to reintroduce it to the stage. Essentially, most people felt this particular piece of art should have remained buried in the annals of time.

Heartbreaking

Before seeing the opera, our dialog group read the libretto (the script) together, and later met with the education director of Opera Theater of St. Louis to discuss the format and content of what we were about to see. We listened to brief snippets of a few of the more powerful arias, such as the final lament of Leon Klinghoffer’s wife.

The libretto, written by Alice Goodman, is a staggering piece of art: beautiful, disturbing, and evocative. We talked about the issues exposed by the opera, from the abuse of Palestinians by Israelis to the horror of the murder of Leon Klinghoffer. By the time I entered the theater on that Thursday afternoon to witness one of the show’s final dress rehearsals, I thought I was prepared. Nothing, I imagined, could surprise me. Within 30 seconds, I was proven wrong.

Immediately, the curtains opened and a bucket of water splashed down upon an empty wheel chair. The effect was jarring, the stage stark and colorless. The opera proved an emotional rollercoaster from that point on, alternating perspectives between the Palestinians and the Jews. Perhaps most poignant were the chorus numbers: exiled Palestinians, Jews in the desert, and, heart-rendingly, two little boys, a Jew and a Muslim, who began as friends but were separated by a wall built between their communities.

One of most controversial arias was performed by one of the terrorists, a long solo during which he sang about a childhood spent playing with guns and soccer balls interchangeably, as well as the loss of his family, who were killed as a result of the Israel-Palestine conflict. In Israel, citizens are forced to deal with very real threats to their safety every day, and have therefore developed a number of precautionary security measures and checkpoints. But policies meant to protect Israelis have also led to discrimination and violence, as well as economic disruptions for Palestinians that contribute to poverty. Many are encouraged to fight and learn to arm themselves from an early age.

image by YC-Art Dept

Hearing this young man talk about his difficult, fearful childhood aroused the sympathies of the audience, leaving us all with the vague, unsettling feeling of having compassion for a killer, and not only a killer, but one in the midst of hijacking a ship full of innocent people.

Had the opera ended with a similar tone, I would have found myself agreeing with those in the Jewish community who resented Klinghoffer’s reintroduction. Instead, the opera concluded on a far different note. The final piece was a mournful, haunting aria sung by Marilyn Klinghoffer, wife of Leon (the elderly Jew who was murdered). Pain evident on her face, she cried out that she would have preferred to die herself. In truth, she did die, only a few months after the death of her husband. Some claim she died of a broken heart.

By the show’s finale, our group of Jews and Muslims sat there sniffling, eyes wet. I couldn’t believe that an opera, a stereotypically stuffy and octogenarian event, had affected me so deeply. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I cried for Marilyn Klinghoffer and her loss; I cried for the situation that had produced such violence and hatred; and I cried for those two little boys, the Israeli and the Palestinian, whose friendship had been torn apart.

A Coming Together

In our post-viewing discussion, everyone agreed that, despite the ire it had raised, the opera actually did an excellent job of revealing the reasons and emotions behind terrorism. By exploring the legitimate pain endured by those Palestinians longing for a homeland who were taught only resentment and spite throughout their childhood, The Death of Klinghoffer helped elucidate why one might feel so desperate that he would turn to terrorism. And yet, it also did a beautiful job of maintaining, through Marilyn Klinghoffer’s final aria, that terrorism is never justified. The opera demonstrated, clearly and poignantly, the devastating and irreparable damage to innocent lives wrought when people turn to radical extremism.

To me, what was miraculous about this cultural event was not only the opera itself, but our response to it. Powerfully, this disparate group of Jews and Muslims was able to come together, feel each other’s pain, watch the opera with open eyes and minds, and respectfully discuss our reactions to it.

Even more amazingly, having gone through this process, we ended up mostly in agreement. Together, our group came to the conclusion that the people attacking the show most likely hadn’t seen it, because their outrage simply wasn’t justified. Although the opera did help to explain the actions of the terrorists, it never excused them.

The Death of Klinghoffer opened my eyes to tragedy and sorrow, but it also opened my heart to hope. I’m still not really an “opera person.” I haven’t magically been converted through this one good experience. No, I think that what I take from this is a willingness to talk about the hard stuff. Especially when it comes to religious differences, and the tensions in the Middle East, it can be intimidating to discuss what separates us. There is so much pain, so much emotion, such fervent beliefs on both sides. People feel strong spiritual connections to this place, and many have lost loved ones in the fight. For two groups in so much opposition, the mere mention of Israel can lead to acrimony and hatred.

Recently, I attended the Jewish Community Relations Council’s annual luncheon. At the event, the Opera Theater of St. Louis general director, Timothy O’Leary, was honored. Although it took a while, the luncheon showed that the community had come to accept and appreciate the very “drama” it had once lashed out against.

Accepting his award, O’Leary spoke eloquently of his fears in reviving the opera. He said that after having committed to the production of Klinghoffer, he had wanted so desperately to chicken out. He had wanted to quietly let the event pass, to promote it as little as possible, and pray that no one noticed.

But instead, he reached out to the Jewish community and worked on small adjustments in the libretto to make everyone feel more comfortable. He worked to promote education and access to information about the opera and the Achille Lauro incident itself. And because of these actions, he helped knit together the secular, Muslim, and Jewish communities in St. Louis.

Our group is only one such example of the dialogue that The Death of Klinghoffer helped to begin; after every show, the performers would stick around to answer questions from the audience and foster understanding. The general public couldn’t help but hear about the event every time they picked up a paper. What could easily have been a disaster became a laudable success.

The Promise of Sometimes

At this luncheon, one of the speakers emphasized the need not only for tolerance, but also for plurality, the embrace and celebration of diversity. It is not enough merely to accept that people with different thoughts and beliefs exist somewhere on our planet. We must seek them out and try to discuss what divides us. I realize that by embracing diversity, I can bring so much richness into my life.

In order to receive these benefits, however, I must first be willing to talk, to explain, and to discuss. So I tell the hard truth; I ask the hard questions, whereas before I most likely would have shied away. In the past, I had been willing to discuss politics primarily only with others of my party, religion with those from my temple, and controversial topics such as abortion within the narrow confines of a group I was pretty certain would agree with me.

But the experience of JAM, and of the opera in particular, made me see the benefits of being willing to have respectful conversations about difficult subjects. I learned to ask more questions with people who may disagree with me, because if you never ask, you’ll never know. Before, I didn’t understand why other people didn’t feel the way I did, and so, on some level, I dismissed their beliefs as silly or irrational.

Now, when I am greeted by disgust or confusion upon the revelation of my Judaism, I make a conscious, concerted effort to be patient, knowing that not everyone has had the extensive multi-faith education that I have. I want to continue to meet with and learn about people different from myself.

Being open and honest is not always easy. But when we are, we can forge connections that combat ignorance and develop friendships we never thought possible. Not always, and not with everyone. But sometimes. And that promise of sometimes, of establishing real, deep, genuine relationships with people of every faith, is enough for me.