Shootings Near the 4th of July

By Allison Kaplan

My Fourth of July weekend was interrupted before it got started, by a frantic 8 a.m. call from an editor at my daily newspaper.

Six Orthodox Jews had been shot; Ricky Byrdsong was dead. I was needed to report from the scene.

Two thoughts jumped into consciousness as I roused myself from sleep: I've never covered a crime scene involving Orthodox Jews; and who is Ricky Byrdsong - a rabbi?

Like most non-basketball fans in this country, I now know all about Ricky Byrdsong - as a Division I coach, a father, a husband, a model citizen. Really, I wish I had never heard of the man, because what I now know, I learned only after his senseless death at the hands of a hate-filled white supremacist who shot at Ricky for the color of his skin -- minutes after shooting six others because of the yarmulkes on their heads.

The first comment I could formulate for my editor, in the shock of learning that a gunman had blazed through West Rogers Park, a predominantly Jewish area of Chicago was: Photographers will not be allowed inside the synagogues. It's Shabbat.

Even as I made the obvious remark, I didn't appreciate just how deeply the Sabbath would impact coverage of this horrifying event.

Estes Avenue, where one of the victims took a bullet in the stomach on his front lawn, was quiet when I arrived, save a lone television cameraman and two female detectives knocking in vain on door after door. Around the corner, I spotted a group of women in long dresses and head scarves. I approached tentatively, preparing to intrude.

"Not now," one of the women told me when I attempted to enter their circle. "It's our Sabbath."

I thought about saying, "I know, mine too," but decided I wouldn't be very convincing to them, in my tank top and khakis, clutching car keys, notebook and cell phone.

Outside a synagogue, little boys turned bored circles on the sidewalk. They looked at me like they knew something, like they wanted to talk about it. But they shook their heads no. One pleaded for me to go away.

I felt both so close and so very far from this stricken community. To the men and women I stopped on the corners -- asking for accounts, impressions of the crime -- I was just another outsider disturbing the day of prayer.

But my street clothes seemed to me a thin veil of protection. Had I been so unlucky as to cross paths with Benjamin Smith, he would have hated me every bit as much as those he is said to have shot.

Tracing the gunman's mad trail up and down the city streets, I couldn't help but think of my late grandmother, who lived just two blocks from the crime scene and used to sit on a corner bench many summer evenings at dusk -- just the time the killer struck.

I caught up with two women, a mother and her grown daughter. "Oh no, not another one," they said as I approached. But I sensed weakness in their resolve not to talk to me, and began walking alongside.

The grandmother told me she might move back to Israel. She feels safer there. The mother kept her children inside that morning, fearing the gunman's return. The ladies filled my notebook with raw emotion as I eagerly tagged along. But when I asked their for names, they shook their heads no.

"It¹s Shabbat, we can't," the young mother gently insisted. "But would you like to come for Shabbes lunch?"

She couldn't tell me her name for a newspaper article that would be published on Sunday, but she invited me into her home. The consummate detail to a side of the story I wouldn't really be able to describe in that first, difficult day of news coverage.

While I certainly know what to expect from Orthodox Jews on a Saturday, their commitment to the Sabbath, their determination to proceed with the day, uninterrupted -- it still amazed me.

And to an extent, I must admit, it concerned me. I couldn't help but wonder, if some of the neighbors had spoken to police Saturday morning, rather than waiting until sundown, could they have aided the manhunt? If they had skipped services that morning, wouldn't God have forgiven them?

But as the week went on, and we learned about Benjamin Smith's intense bigotry, as I attended the church funeral of Ricky Byrdsong and watched Orthodox Jews come to pay their respects, as I covered a solidarity vigil and saw Orthodox rabbis join hands with Muslims and Latinos and Asians and African Americans, I felt proud of my people.

A disruption of the Sabbath would have given someone like Benjamin Smith exactly what he wanted, and this Orthodox community was not about to let that happen. Their instinct was right on from the start: persevere in the face of hatred, make friends where there is an enemy. That is the only way to win the battle.

Send comments to Allison at Singlstyle@aol.com