As I child, when I was mad at my sister, I used to write her letters. I'm sure I never gave them to her, but I always felt better after writing them. Somehow, putting my hurt and my anger into words always helped me find perspective and enabled me to make sense of the situation.

This habit continues to this day. In fact, as I was going through some old boxes last week, I found letters that I had written to many people, which had never been mailed. I'm sure that while I put them in envelopes—some of them even had stamps—they were never intended for anyone's eyes but my own. By completing a letter—even by putting it in an envelope and wasting a stamp—I had brought closure to the situation—and sealed it, too.

Since Tuesday, September 11, I have been attempting to write another letter—this one to the terrorists. Perhaps by writing, I may figure out how to respond, as a Jew and as an American. I've started this letter a number of times, but I'm not yet able to finish it. Clearly, closure is not yet on the horizon. Here's the way the most recent attempt begins:

Dear Terrorist,

This may seem strange, my writing to you. It feels as though I have no choice. Since September 11, my world has been overturned. It was supposed to be a normal, busy day, but then I watched on television as you flew a plane into building filled with innocent Americans.

I'm so angry at you! I'm incensed, because I'll be suspicious when I board a plane. I'm upset because traveling, which we took for granted, is now scary. I'm distraught, as people are afraid to get on a plane to come to my wedding, because of the horror you have committed.

I know that my fears are nothing in the face of 6,300 plus lives lost. There are tears in my eyes when I think of all the fatherless and motherless children, all the families destroyed. . . How will their lives—all of our lives-- return to normal?

Look what you have done! How could you?

You caused destruction, and your supporters danced in the streets. I don't understand how anyone can celebrate murder.

I pray that by writing to you I will be able to bring resolution to my feelings, to begin to understand how to move on.

You see, today is Yom Kippur. It's the holiest day in the year for me. I am immersed in prayer, surrounded by my community. I am fasting to help cleanse my soul. I ask for forgiveness for anything I have done—whether I knew it or not—that may have hurt someone. During these twenty-four hours, I stand before God, my soul bared, asking for forgiveness.

But you invade my thoughts. Instead of focusing on my own failings, I struggle to come to terms with your actions.

On this day of days, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, I do not want to feel so bitter, so angry. Such sadness stands in my way of achieving the equanimity I need to end the New Year.

Can I forgive you? Should I forgive you?

See, here's where I keep getting stuck, no matter how many drafts I write. This isn't writers' block. This is much bigger. I struggle with how to bring some resolution to this event. I have a whole wastepaper basket filled with rejected attempts. I have pounded my computer, hoping to find answers in each keystroke. I'm still trying, though, to figure it out. Today, of all days, it seems so important to finish this letter.

The governing principle of forgiveness on Yom Kippur is this: for sins against God, the Day of Atonement atones. But for sins against human beings, the Day of Atonement does not atone- until the sinner has sincerely sought forgiveness from the aggrieved party. In other words, our job today is to pray, to ask for forgiveness for all the sins we have committed against God. For pardon from friends, family, cherished people, we must face them and ask for their forgiveness.

Rabbi Tom Alpert said it beautifully in an excerpt from a recent poem:

We pray with those who missed the mark
With those who tried, but failed
To keep their diets
To keep their houses in order
To keep their obligations to God
To keep their children safe
We pray with them because the mark they aimed for
Was easy miss,
Hard to hit
But still worth the effort.

The terrorists, by flying a plane into the World Trade Center, hit the wrong mark, and chose death. In order to receive forgiveness, they would need to ask forgiveness for every disrupted life. They would be required to speak to each widowed spouse, who now faces life alone. They would have to confront every orphaned child, forced to endure a life without a parent's love. They would need to look into the eyes of every bereft parent, whose dreams went up in smoke and down in the rubble. To achieve forgiveness, these terrorists would somehow have to seek pardon from each man, woman and child they ruthlessly murdered. And they would also have to approach each of us, because they have wronged us all with the pain they have inflicted upon our nation.

This practice, often so powerful in affecting forgiveness among friends and family, cannot help bring resolution or closure to the past sixteen days. Forgiveness is unavailable to those who do not seek absolution, who do not even believe their actions are sinful.

As you can tell, I've had a difficult time finishing this letter.

In the wake of the tragedy, I have taken some comfort through our incredible national unity. From the run on American Flags, to the overwhelming desire to pray as a nation of many faiths, we have united. I have been curious about the response of some of our Christian neighbors to this catastrophe, and I hoped their answers would be helpful to me in my struggle for closure.

The response was quite enlightening. Many Christians—though certainly not all—are preaching forgiveness even now. They turn to the Lord's Prayer: “forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” In other words, for Christians, we must forgive the sins of others if we wish to be forgiven.

And yet many modern Christians acknowledge that this basic theology is difficult. Believing that God forgives sin carte blanche is difficult: Many believe that sinners must repent, and face the consequences of their actions. Further, they acknowledge that blind forgiveness may not be totally authentic. More liberal Christians recognize the need for a process of inner healing, which often requires time. In other words, forgiveness based on a formula may be not be as genuine as repentance that requires an inner process.

To be sure, I have oversimplified Christian theology. And yet the response I have learned from Christian friends has been helpful to me. I cannot simply say to the terrorists, “ I forgive you.”

For me, and for Judaism, forgiveness is available only to those who repent, and are willing to face the consequences of their actions. I cannot imagine that the terrorists repented as they used their dieing bodies as missiles, killing thousands.

(Sigh.) Another attempt.

Somehow, though, I desperately need to find some peace-- I need to rise up from the ashes, to begin to rebuild my broken world.

Perhaps, instead of looking at the terrorists' actions, I need to look inside myself, and ask: what are my feelings, my sadness, my anger doing to me?

First, let me address my anger at the terrorists. One midrash teaches, “One who succumbs to anger succumbs to bad judgment” (Sifre Numbers 157). By being angry, I have the potential to act negatively. I believe that anger can lead me—and our entire nation--toward imprudent action. Rash decisions to secure our safety and security will surely lead to regrettable mistakes. We must exact justice, but our anger must not be in the way. We must put aside our anger in order to execute thoughtful plans for our nation's repair. The Indian teacher Dhammapuda teaches, “ Overcome anger by gentleness, overcome evil by good.” With gentle, careful actions and with good intentions, we can begin to repair the broken bits of our world today—not only the destroyed buildings, but our shattered souls as well. Anger is an immediate, appropriate reaction. And yet, over time, anger can turn toward bitterness. Through our continued outpouring of kindness to the victims and to our country, we may overcome our anger with caring. We may triumph over the evil devastation with good works.

Rabbi Marc Gelman, in his address at the Yankee Stadium memorial service on Sunday, said, “ On that day, one person died 6,000 times. We must understand this and all catastrophes in such a way, for big numbers only numb us to the true measure of mass murder. . . The real horror of that day was not in its bigness, but in its smallness, in the small searing death of one person 6, 000 times. And that person was not a number but our mother, our father, our grandpa, our grandma. . .”

Marc Gelman gave voice to my grief. He helped me realize that every one who died on that day had a face, a name, a story. In some way, each of us lost a loved one that day.

An anonymous teacher wrote, “ A woman lost her son and came to the master for comfort. She poured out her grief as he listened patiently. Then he said to her, 'my dear, I cannot wipe away your tears. I can only show you how to make them holy.'”

Each of us is like this grief-stricken mother. As we mourn our losses, we will continue to grieve, each in our own way. Our tears will continue to flow, but our actions can be holy. Let us be inspired by the rise of national pride, the torrent of sympathy, of gifts, of money, and make our tears holy. For in these sixteen days, we have seen the best and the worst of humanity. May we embrace all that is good in us, and work together to bring this world to wholeness.

I believe I can conclude my letter now.

Terrorist, I cannot forgive your horrible actions. I will tell you this, however: you have not won.

You have not won, because I will not remain angry. Prolonged bitterness will only make me like you, hardened and hateful. The pain you have caused has uncovered some small miracle—the best of humanity. I will use my tears to help rebuild this country, to ensure its continued glory, and to bring honor to those whose lives were so violently taken from them.

I write to you this morning: Through our prayers we reaffirm our commitment to God, and to ourselves. Through our tears the holy work of rebuilding will begin. Through our grief, the holy act of remembering will inspire us to action. Through our measured rage, we will recreate this world without you. I reject your horrific act of destruction, secure in the knowledge that your wickedness will never, ever, find a permanent home.

Sincerely,

Rabbi Allison Bergman

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