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At times our collective Jewish story appears to be unfolding at a casual pace while at other points new and portentous developments arrive on stage at a breath-taking clip, one after another.

I'd assert that we are in the midst of such a "fast and furious" era right now. The transition in U.S. presidents, the frightening economic downturn, the Bernie Madoff scandal and the devastation it's wrought on major communal institutions, and the massive Israeli military defensive actions in Gaza have all occurred in recent weeks. It's hard to process it all.

There is one other recent development that briefly caught our collective attention weeks ago -- the mass killings in India accompanied by the massacre of the Chabad rabbi, his wife, and their four guests at the Chabad house in Mumbai. I see much to be learned from this tragic episode and share two thoughts here, before the event recedes to distant memory.

Do traumatic events 'prove' anything?

One thing I recall distinctly from the aftermath of the terror attacks in New York and Washington, D.C. on 9/11/01 was how various commentators cited the attacks as proof of their worldviews. The same human tendency played out in the aftermath of the Mumbai massacres.

At observances for Rabbi Gavriel and Rivka Holzberg, Chabad representatives made sense of the tragedy by drawing on their views of the nobility and heroism of Chabad's representatives worldwide. According to JTA, these interpretations have resonated widely: appeals by Chabad institutions for support after the massacre have elicited an unprecedented response in funds raised. Others in the Jewish community cite the attacks as proof positive that Islamist hatred and violence is driven by anti-Semitism and not by grievances tied to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict.

On perhaps the other side of the spectrum, Jewish journalist Larry Yudelson was quoted in the Jewish Forward (Dec. 18, 2008) as criticizing responses to the attacks in Mumbai that focus exclusively or predominantly on the six Jewish victims, while belittling the 200 "other" victims. He called it "a particularly egregious example of the particularistic Jewish response." In the same article Rabbi Joshua Hammerman states: "(It is) a grave mistake to focus on the particularly Jewish aspects of this murder when it was an attack, first and foremost, on India and Western civilization."

Then there were the more "understanding" interpretations, such as the comments of Indian-American blogger Deepa Krishman as quoted in the Star Ledger's Jersey Blogs column (Dec. 3, 2008): "We cannot win except by winning hearts and minds ... As long as communities feel marginalized and victimized, terror will breed in ghettos around the world. Inclusion and integration is the only way forward... I am not saying that we can hug terrorists and make them change. But we can change the hearts and minds of ordinary people and take away the breeding grounds ... It is no use waiting for a 21st century Gandhi to do it! You and I must do it, if we are to change the world."

I cite these varied expositions on the Mumbai massacres without intent to criticize one or the other. Rather, I see them all as healthy attempts to make sense of a senseless tragedy. At the same time, it is clear to me that people of good will can approach the same shocking circumstances and draw out very distinct interpretations. It is folly to advocate or hope for one transcendent or unifying message from a broad tragedy.

The pull of a homeland

Days after the massacre took place I sent an email to a good friend, Shweta, and asked her if the widespread terror attacks had prompted her to reconsider her scheduled trip to Mumbai later that month. She told me she was definitely going and was "not afraid at all." I asked her why she wasn't fearful and Shweta wrote back movingly: "It's my home, where I grew up... I have a sense of belonging to Bombay. And that is not affected by events such as these. I don't know how quite to explain how I feel. I don't know if you have a place you feel very passionately about. But it's like you're always going to go back home, no matter what, you know?"

Shweta's heartfelt comments brought me back in time nearly six years. I was in my boss's office, telling her that I planned to take a week off to visit Israel that summer with my father... despite the fact that a raging intifada was claiming innocent lives and attracting international press attention. My boss looked at me with mild surprise and alarm, asking how I could consider traveling to what seemed to be such an unsafe region. I do not recall what exactly I said then. But I doubt that I was eloquent as Shweta was recently.

Shweta's comments were a strong example of a passionate, sincere, and -- even in the face of possible danger -- fearless draw to a particular country, though she currently lives elsewhere. Her words reminded me that such an attachment is not unique to us Zionists.

The difference between Shweta's situation and mine is that she was born and raised in India. Having relocated in the northeast U.S. only two and a half years ago, it is understandable that she feels a powerful attachment to her home country. Yet I was born and raised here. I visited Israel for weeks at a time in my youth and earlier in adulthood. Still, as I assume is true with many other Zionists as well as me, I feel a not fully explicable attachment to the land of Israel despite my American upbringing and current residence. Perhaps it's a product of the words of prayer I recite daily, or the Torah passages I read at various points over the year, or the values my father and stepmother espouse with great passion.

I'm not sure of the precise reasons or even if the conventional, rational cause-effect relationship applies here. What I do know is that when I get off the plane and walk around the land of Israel, I feel like I'm truly home -- despite the fact that my fluency in Hebrew is sorely limited and my sense of the country's geography is rather finite.

Harry Glazer may be reached at donlegofzechut@yahoo.com.