All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

– Edmund Burke, 18th Century English statesman
In a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.

– Abraham Joshua Heschel, 20th Century rabbi

On Friday afternoon, Nov. 28, I read online of the murders of a rabbi and his wife, along with almost 200 others, in the terror attacks in Mumbai, India; all of them, and all the hundreds of wounded, children of God of various religions, nationalities, ages and sexes.

I immediately thought of a prayer in the Jewish liturgy called the Kaddish. It is sometimes called the Mourner’s Kaddish, because Jewish tradition calls on those who have lost a loved one to recite it at their loved one’s graveside, then every day for at least 30 days thereafter; and then every year on the anniversary of the loved one’s death.

The Kaddish is not really a prayer. It doesn’t start with the usual formula that begins most Jewish prayers (“We bless You Lord our God, Ruler of the universe …”), and it doesn’t ask God for anything. The Kaddish is really a declaration to oneself and the community. At a time in life when our trust in God may be facing its greatest challenge, we declare that in spite of our loss, we remain loyal to the relationship that God established with the descendants of Adam and Eve from the very beginning of time; and we remind ourselves that God, too, remains loyal to that relationship, even if at times it may seem otherwise.

The Jewish tradition calls on its followers to recite the Kaddish for various reasons. We often say that we are reciting Kaddish “for” someone in particular, because of an old belief that doing so will help the soul of the departed loved one on its way in the afterlife. Or we say Kaddish “in honor of” someone, when we don’t necessarily accept the tradition of helping the soul on its way, but we do want to honor their memory. And we say Kaddish to remind ourselves that God is mourning with us.

I don’t know any of the victims of the Mumbai terror attack, nor, as far as I know, am I related to any of them, except for our shared humanity. My religious tradition does not call on me to recite the Kaddish for them. The Jews among them, including the rabbi and his wife, hopefully have relatives who are reciting Kaddish for them; the victims of other – or no – faith traditions will presumably be mourned in other ways.

But as I thought about the victims of the terror in Mumbai, I was reminded of a term that has occurred to me all-too-frequently in recent times: “compassion fatigue.” It is sometimes used to describe the feelings among those of us who are not victims of terror, war, famine, disease, tsunami, hurricane, and other natural and human-made disasters, toward those who are. Not a day goes by that we do not hear reports of death and destruction from somewhere: Darfur, Congo, Israel/Palestine, New Orleans, Iraq, Somalia – the list that tragically could, of course, go on and on.

We all need to find ways to keep compassion fatigue from setting in. Compassion fatigue can lead to apathy about what is happening to our fellow children of God all over the world, every day, and keep us from speaking out and doing what we can to end or relieve the suffering.

I refuse to give in to that apathy! My tradition provides me with a tool for remembering and caring, the Kaddish. I plan to say the Kaddish whenever I have the opportunity, to help me hold on to my connections with God and with humanity, connections which are challenged every day by events in the world.

We must not give in to apathy, to compassion fatigue! We must use the tools our traditions give us to remember, and, whenever possible, to act. I urge you to find the tools provided by your tradition, and do the same.

Rabbi Hillel Katzir is the spiritual leader of Temple Shalom Synagogue in Auburn, past chairman of the L/A Interfaith Clergy Association and part-time faculty at USM-LAC and Bangor Theological Seminary.