We Are Mumbai
By Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky Yated Ne’eman How does one manage Not to cry As he ponders Wonders, “Why?” He chose them Not “Me,” not “I” To write the saga Of Mumbai What’s there to write? What’s there to say? About a morbid Dreadful day A day of carnage In Bombay Brought to our homes From far away A world so distant So far-flung The banner of Hashem Was hung A song of comfort Was once sung And now it mourns Its martyred young Who did not know Someone who’d gone And felt the warmth of Nariman? Satmar, Volov Bobov too Anyone who was a Jew Frum or Not it was not odd In Mumbai their home — Chabad An oasis of Yiddishkeit In a foreign land Where Yidden came To bond To band Where golus took A tiny break An Indian respite Where somehow Diverse worlds would meet And everyone would fit But terror’s sword Reached far and wide And found us ’round the world Yishmael’s flag It would not hide Its filthy wrath unfurled A tearful lesson Did us teach A thought we all must know That until we Correct the breach There’s no place they won’t go To run To hide We all can try But where we are Is still Mumbai Not the comforts Of Boro Park Nor fancy homes In Sutton Park Can keep the light From turning dark A bustling metropolis Where the Torah’s Words do reign A tiny, lonely shtetel Somewhere in the Ukraine Are no safer than The Nariman Where Yidden Came to pray To find a breath Of ruchniyus In the smog of Old Bombay A hotel In Netanya Or a bus in Tel Aviv A rural street In Iowa Where Yidden Hardly live There’s golus in Bnei Brak And hatred on the wall Skinheads in Toronto And bombs in Montreal There’s always a reminder That nowhere Are we free And that there is No “type” of Yid For every “them” is me No matter where we’re standing Whatever street you’re on We need the understanding Of “Golus Nariman” No matter where we travel No matter where we fly Golus seems to find us For everywhere’s Mumbai There are no sects in golus And no rift does exist For we are “one” To all of “them” To every terrorist But if everywhere is golus And all Jews are just one Perhaps there is nechama In the mayhem that was done We were all shot together We limp as we are maimed The dreadful storm we’ll weather With each bullet that they aimed We’re Toldos Avram Yitzchak Chabad and Bobov, too We are Israeli tourists And a Mexicana Jew Maybe we are still standing Indeed we’re still alive But maybe we are Moishele The baby who’d survive For Klal Yisroel’s yasom Whose tears wet every heart Is the symbol of our history A message to impart That no matter how they’ll kill us Whatever time or where Moishele will yet live on A hope for our despair Amongst the smoke and rubble A babe ‘mongst the reeds A plant amidst the trouble The Almighty always seeds Until Moshiach’s heralding When all the dead revive The Moisheles declare our fate “Klal Yisroel will survive!”