There will be other accounts of today’s events, I am sure. But I started life as a journalist and recording events as I see them is part of what I do.

Simon and I got up early, walked the dog and drove to Elgin to take the Metra Commuter Rail. It seemed earlier than we wanted but we really wanted to try this method, especially after it took so long last week to drive into Chicago. We barely made the train but once on, it was a pleasure. As a first, it could be a Shehechianu moment. It was fun to be able to check email and Facebook and know that others were with us, at least in spirit and still others were attending rallies, especially New York.

We got in early enough to have coffee at Union Station and then walk leisurely to the Thompson Center. I spent that walk trying to figure out why I felt so compelled to go. It is Monday, my “day off”. Did my congregants expect me to be there, even if they could not? Especially if they could not? Maybe. Did I feel I owed it to someone like Rabbi Michael Balinsky, head of the Chicago Board of Rabbis, from whom I received the initial announcement? Maybe. What about my Israeli friends or my other rabbinic colleagues? Perhaps. Ultimately, this is one of those moments where we need to stand up and be counted. Even if we don’t agree with every Israeli policies. Ultimately, I decided I owed it to myself. There was no place else I could be.

While I read that there was heavy security and sharpshooters on rooftops, it seemed pretty tame. Yes, police. Yes, security with dogs. Yes, barricades. But no bag checks. We walked right onto the plaza.

We were given Israeli and American flags. There were signs. On one side, Chicago Stands with Israel. On the other, something for everyone. I chose “Build Hope Not Hatred.” It fits my peacenik side and made me feel welcome and included.  Other options included “Stop Hamas Terror” “Shield Humans not Human Shields.”

My overwhelming thought was “This is sad. Sad that we need to do this at all.” But right across the street was the counter-demonstration. I had about last week’s counter demonstration in Chicago. Thousands of people had shown up. I had read about a counter demonstration in Toulouse earlier in the day where the synagogue had been firebombed. I had seen the photo of a car in Westchester, NY that had been spray painted with swastikas. That can’t be allowed to happen here.

We saw a few people we knew, including Rabbi Balinsky. Despite the crowds they were fairly easy to spot. There was a real mix of people–young, frequently wrapped in Israeli flags or with flags stenciled on their cheeks. Babes in arms, lots of strollers. Old–with canes and walkers, sitting on the planter walls. Rabbis, Cantors, Laypeople. Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, Chabad. Peaceniks and hawks. Singing Am Yisrael Chai. Singing Hava Nagila, which seemed like an odd choice. Pausing to hear the names of the IDF soldiers killed, the names read by this summer’s JUF interns–likely the same age as those killed, followed by El Maleh Rachamim. The crowd grew quiet. Drowned out by the crowd across the street.

There were painful moments, take your breath away moments. The story of riding up the elevator with the parents of a lone soldier killed. The story of calling a young family friend and asking how he is. “Not so good.” His friend, named Yuval, had just been killed. I thought I might just crumple right there. I thought I might burst into tears or scream. Or have to leave. Why did I think coming was a good thing?

Hearing the consul address the counter-demonstration in Arabic wishing them a happy Eid. Watching the American and Israeli flags fluttering in the breeze. They look so pretty in the bright, noon sunshine. We ended singing the Star Spangled Banner and Hatikvah back to back. Have you ever noticed the line, “the bombs bursting in air” and then sung about hope? The contrast was too much.

I cried. I don’t know what else we can do.