Editor's Note: (Rabbi Hazzan Jeffrey Myers has served as the rabbi and cantor for the Tree of Life in Pittsburgh since the summer of 2017. The opinions expressed in this commentary are his own. Read more opinion at CNN.)
(CNN) Ten years ago this month, a white supremacist invaded the sanctity of the Sikh Temple of Wisconsin, massacring six people in the town of Oak Creek. In the decade since, rather than such horrors becoming a rarity, they have become something Americans have forced themselves to live with.
We have become a nation reduced to the shorthand of place names: Oak Creek. Orlando. Charleston. El Paso. Atlanta. Buffalo. Uvalde. Highland Park. In the first seven months of this year alone, Americans witnessed over 350 mass shootings.
Massacres of this sort have become so commonplace that the horrific anniversary of the tragedy in Oak Creek was barely remarked upon in much of the nation. It was just one of myriad mass shootings to which Americans have become inured.
The dark pall that hangs over us, shooting after shooting, can lead to numbness as we cope with continuous trauma. Compartmentalization is a natural defense, an effort to anesthetize against the inexplicable, particularly as we live with the discomforting knowledge and pragmatic resignation that we'll soon have to repeat the process.
I speak from a position of familiarity I'd wish on no one: Nearly four years ago -- six years after Oak Creek -- a white supremacist invaded the sanctity of the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, where I serve as rabbi, stealing the lives of 11 beloved people.
Ever since that dreadful day, I've watched my community grapple with each new mass shooting. Some have chosen to continue worshiping online even after we returned to services in person; others strategically position themselves in our temporary worship space or find themselves habitually checking for their cell phones -- just in case.
As we grieve yet more souls lost with each mass shooting, we're reminded of our own losses; as the community of survivors grows and grows, we rely on one another as a part of a club nobody wants to join. Just as leaders and community members from Oak Creek and Charleston, where in 2015 the Mother Emanuel AME Church was the site of a hate-fueled mass shooting that claimed nine lives, reached out to my own community, we've reached out to others including Buffalo, where 10 people were gunned down at a supermarket earlier this year.
But it's not just we who have endured the horrors who suffer. In a very real sense, every American is a survivor now, and every American is traumatized by these events. The pain and fear are too great, too constant. And in the face of such constants, we seek refuge from our harsh reality, a way to avoid re-traumatization.
Americans are afraid to celebrate independence; worshipers afraid to gather in prayer; children afraid to go to school. We can't buy groceries, attend a concert, or go to the movies without touching this trauma, can't escape the growing list of place names that remind us why.
But coping mechanisms don't look the same for everyone. Some people withdraw from their communities or turn to unhealthy behaviors including self-medication. Others try meditation, sit in our cars and scream, or seek out the care of mental health professionals.
Many years as a rabbi -- and especially the last four years tending the emotional and spiritual wounds of a congregation that endured the shooting in my community -- has taught me that hiding from pain never works. You don't have to be a mental health expert to know that. By continuing to allow mass murder and hate-fueled violence to be a fact of life, we're building a society of the permanently traumatized.
So where is the hope for healing? Here's a place where we can start: Survivors of traumatic events are often urged to find comfort in the goodness still around them -- and in the solace they can provide each other. That's good advice.
In my own case, Pastor Eric Manning who currently serves the Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston has become a good friend, teaching me about the ministry of presence. It's simply showing up to be a shoulder to cry on, the arms for an embrace -- someone there to know you're not alone. It's an idea that I passed along to a colleague in Buffalo seeking to support their own community in the aftermath of the attack there earlier this year.
One change I have made has to do with the language I use: I made a pledge on November 9, 2018, at a rally in Pittsburgh two weeks after the attack at Tree of Life not to use the word "hate." I refer to the word as "H."
In a moment of exhaustion and divine inspiration, with my tank on empty after speaking at my congregants' funerals, I realized that "H" is a four-letter, emotion-laden word.
It's my hope that by de-escalating our language, we can make violence less likely.
It can be hard to remember that there's still goodness in the midst of trauma and pain, but it's not impossible, and it's toward that goodness I turn. I'm by nature a hopeful person and that hope is renewed whenever I learn of the love with which survivors are embraced, and of the help offered from across the nation and the world.
We at Tree of Life were enveloped in such aid and comfort; so too, I have seen, were the people of Oak Creek, Buffalo, and Uvalde. Humanity is always on display in the aftermath of these terrible events, the rejection of violence as clear as the offers of help.
The path toward healing comes not from choosing the numbness that comes so easily, but choosing to embrace humanity. In Pittsburgh, we're transforming our trauma into something new, something hope-filled, with the creation of the new national Tree of Life institution encompassing a museum, education, events, outreach programs, and a memorial.
In a reimagined building -- designed by architect Daniel Libeskind in collaboration with the Rothschild Doyno Collaborative of Pittsburgh -- we will educate and inspire individuals and communities across the nation to recognize and stand up together against antisemitism.
We did not ask for this responsibility, but we are resolute in our intention to shoulder it, in the understanding that ignorance can only be answered with knowledge and love. We choose to uplift what we know to be true and good to effect the change we need, until our outcry reaches a point of no return and productive, meaningful change can't be stopped.
I recently had the privilege of attending a celebration of the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act at the White House. We heard that day from a pediatrician from Uvalde and the son of a woman lost in Buffalo. President Biden spoke forcefully about the toll this reality takes on all Americans, and quoted the Preamble to the Constitution, which promises "domestic tranquility," a tranquility we still must seek to build.
In the book of Deuteronomy, soon after the Law is given on Mt. Sinai, we're called upon to "take utmost care... so that you do not forget the things that you saw with your own eyes and so that they do not fade from your mind as long as you live." It's a reminder that our values and aspirations for a better world must always remain firmly in our minds, no matter the challenges we face.
We must not forget what we have seen. We must learn from it not to numb ourselves to trauma, but to do the necessary work to build a nation that knows domestic tranquility. We must create the circumstances in which the pain now carried by so many Americans will someday never be repeated. And then, we can all truly heal.