Thoughts

Always Hearing About Amir

I didn’t know Amir. In fact I never even met him.

My cousin, David Virenius, was Amir’s roommate in New York. Though I never knew Amir personally, I learned an awful lot about him just by the way my cousin spoke about him.

I heard so much about how kind and smart and motivated this “Amir” was. It was obvious that my cousin had a tremendous amount of respect and admiration for this person.

When David told me that Amir had died in a car accident, I couldn’t help but be moved by the loss of someone who was so loved and admired by so many people.

I just wanted to have the chance to say how incredible I think he must have been to be able to affect me, someone he had never even met.

I wish that I had had the chance to meet him.

My condolences to all who knew him on your immeasurable loss,

Ryan Paulson

An email to Shoshana…

Jonathan Novich of Palo Alto, CA sent this email to Shoshana (they’ve been friends since their Princeton days) after Amir was suddenly taken from us.

——-

Shoshana-

Since Motzai Shabbat, when we heard of the tragedy, Beruria and I have been thinking.
We thought about Amir — gosh, I’ve known him since 1990 — how much he’s grown, how he could “play” on so many levels – from the profound to the profane. I’d see him in shul most mornings (“most” is when I was there). And I admired his passion for life. He reminded me of you when we reconnected. He was studying computers and philosophy and education all in one. Boy, that sounds like something Shoshana could talk about (not necessarily the Computer Science part, actually) – the blending of various disciplines.

And for me it added to my understanding of those characteristics that your parents perhaps nurtured – your vibrancy and zest for life, your tastes for the eclectic. I fondly remember spending 4th of July in DC with you, Uri, and a few others after our sophomore year in college. And that weekend I also learned about that passion – from Uri (we even drove back to NJ together and played a game of Tikken — an arcade game — at a rest stop on the way). Uri walked through the Mall with a set of devil sticks juggling and performing. He was all at once – challenging and warm, thoughtful and deep, complete with a facade just in case.

For me, I connected with Amir in a wonderful way – I remember talking to him on our way back to our house for lunch one Shabbat afternoon, and stepping through time with him – talking about Ramaz, yeshiva, Brown, Salt Lake City, Shiva, and his up-to-the-minute perspective on religion. But the part that touched me most was that he was willing to share with me his dreams and his hopes. I remember thinking how much I wanted it to work out for him. A brief interaction with him after Thanksgiving indicated that things were changing course – but I never had the privilege of learning more – and taking his insights with me.

We are so sorry for your loss, Shoshana. It has been my privilege to know your family – whether it was only a few conversations with your father, a few more with your mother, a weekend with your brother, years of interactions with Amir, and most of all – sharing so much with you.

Amir never shyed away from a solid question – so here’s my best try: there’s a transition from the body of Magid to the Hallel section- it’s short, but in light of these events, it will be difficult for me as well. The question speaks for itself – “How, in light of Amir’s passing, can we really be obligated to praise? Have we not literally been brought from evel to yom tov — mourning to festivity? How can we do it?”

From the Hagaddah:
“Lefichach anachnu chayavim – lehodot, lehallel, leshabayach, lefa’er, leromem, lehader, levarech, lealeh, oo’lkales. Lemi, she’asa, l’a’voteinu velanu, et kol hanisim ha’eleh, hotzianu me’avdut le’cherut, meyagon lesimcha, me’evel liyomtov, oo’me’afelah, le’or gadol, m’shi’bud legualah, venomar lefanav shira chadasha, halleluya!”

“Thus it is our duty to thank, to laud, to praise, to glorify, to exalt, to adore, to bless, to elevate and to honor the One who did all these miracles for our fathers and for us. He took us from slavery to freedom, from sorrow to joy, and from mourning to festivity, and from deep darkness to great light and from bondage to redemption. Let us therefore recite before Him Halleluyah, Praise G-d!”

HaMakom yinachem otach betoch sh’ar avelei tzion veyrushalayim.

Best to you, your mother, and brother-

-Jonathan and Beruria

From his Israeli friend

It has been almost 3 hours now that I’ve been reading most if not all of the stories and memories about Amir. I feel that I can’t internalize what happened. Especially since I haven’t seen Amir in a while now…so the fact that I don’t hear from him is normal. It doesn’t mean that something horrifying just happened. Thinking about Amir in past tense doesn’t make any sense to me. It all seems to be a big mistake.

I had the privilege to work with Amir when I lived in NYC 2.5 years ago. I was his Israeli friend. Ever since I’ve heard about the accident, my brain has been flooded with memories of him, and I have so many of them.
Amir is one of the most curious, funny, genuine people I know. His enthusiasm for life was endless.
I used to have an English-Hebrew-English dictionary that both of us used. Me, trying to find a lost word in English and Amir, not giving up the idea that we should speak Hebrew to one another. No matter how hard it is. Since most of his Hebrew was kind of ‘biblical’ one, he wrote himself a contemporary dictionary that contained slang and more up to date phrases. He wanted to pass as an Israeli and practiced the ‘rough’ accent…
I remember he had a green IDF (Israel Defense Forces – TZAHAL) t-shirt he was wearing, asking me if he looks like he had been to the army. Oh, how much he loved asking me about the army service.

I can’t think of Amir without smiling. He was always making me laugh with his stories, thoughts and crazy ideas. That was what made him so special. It still does.
In Hebrew there is a saying – ‘Bemoto Tziva Lanu et Ha’chaim’ which means ‘In his death he ordered us on keep living’. I presume myself to think, Amir would want that.

Shelly.

Amir remembered

From: Mimi Kessous

“Action is eloquence”
-William Shakespeare

Amir was perpetually in motion. I realize this now as I reflect on each memory that has flooded my thoughts of him these last days. In each snapshot of my mind, he stands with those striking blue eyes, his hair slightly a muss, his jeans and t-shirt a bit disheveled just following an afternoon Ultimate game in Central Park or an evening bike-ride from work up the West Side Highway (even in winter, my favorite tree-hugging buddy commuted daily by bike). Did he ever sleep? He accomplished more before noon than most could in a week.

He was certainly happiest when he was moving. Once, at an arcade in midtown, Amir actually refused to leave after discovering a game that had been hidden in some far-off corner—the one where you try to follow the dance steps as they get progressively faster. Intent on mastering the game, he was enthralled. Now anyone who has ever met him for even a moment knows that Amir was a brilliant boy, a beautiful boy, a kind-hearted and even athletic boy. But a dancer…he was not. This minor fact, however, seemed incidental to Amir. I can still picture him standing before the machine, eyes aglow, jaws clenched, legs flailing about, pockets brimming with quarters. The challenge, the intensity, the speed of it all simply captivated him. “A-Lo,” as I aptly called him thereafter, was undoubtedly a man of action.

Even when sitting silently, although infrequent, one could see in Amir’s eyes that his mind still raced with ideas, analyses, theories. He worked actively and passionately to understand his surroundings, to learn from others’ experiences, to improve himself and the world around him.

Though we hadn’t been in touch the last few months, I will forever feel at a loss knowing that Amir is no longer around. I will always remember him with fondness and with pure adoration. He was the guy who chatted with the waiter. Who smelled of soap and Clinique’s “Happy.” Who loved making me chuckle. Who gave a compliment exactly when you needed it most. Who saw beauty in the basics. He was honest, playful, optimistic, profoundly affectionate, and warm-hearted. A truly unique and gentle soul.

Thinking back, I can remember, Amir would sometimes refer to certain people he deemed particularly accomplished as being “out of his league.” How ironic as, in reality, those around him felt so blessed to be part of his. His enthusiasm for life was contagious, his energy was boundless and his dreams had no limits. I am undeniably a better person for having known him.

A helpful bucket

this was sent to me by a friend. I thought of this when people were struggling for what to say….
—————–
The best way I know to picture how we receive help from others in grief, is to imagine you are holding a bucket. The size and color doesn’t matter. The bucket represents the feelings bottled up inside of you when you are in pain. If you have suffered a loss, hold the bucket and think through how you feel right now. If you are reading this to learn more about helping others, then imagine what would be in your bucket if a loved one had died very recently. What is in your bucket?

Fear. Will I survive? What will happen to me now? Who will care for me? Who will be with me when I need someone near? Most likely your bucket is almost full just from the fear. But there is also:

Pain. It is amazing how much physical pain there is in grief. Your chest hurts, and you can’t breathe. Sometimes the pain is so intense your body refuses to even move. There is enough pain to fill the bucket all by itself.

Sorrow. There is devastating sadness; overwhelming sorrow. A gaping hole has been bitten out of your heart and it bleeds inside your very soul. You cry buckets of tears and then cry some more.

Loneliness. There is no lonely like that felt when you are in a room full of people and totally alone at the same time. Loneliness alone can fill any bucket ever made.

I could go on, but that’s enough to get the idea across, and hopefully get you started thinking through your own list. What is in your bucket?

Now picture someone like me approaching you and your bucket. I also have a bucket. My bucket is full of explanations. I am armed and ready to explain why your loved one had to die, how they are now better off and how you should feel.

I am also well equipped with new ways to look at your loss. In politics they call that “spin doctoring,” but most human beings seem to know this skill by instinct.

I have almost a bucketful of comforting words and encouraging sayings. I can also quote vast amounts of scriptures. I seem to favor the ones that tell you not to grieve.

So we face each other armed with full buckets. The problem is, I don’t want to get into your bucket. Yours is scary. If I get in there, you might start crying and I may not be able to make you stop. You might ask me something I could not answer. There is too much intimacy in your bucket. I want to stand at a safe distance and pour what is in my bucket into yours. I want the things in my bucket to wash over your pain like some magic salve to take away your pain and dry your tears. I have this vision of my words being like cool water to a dry tongue. Soothing and curing as it flows.

But your bucket is full. There is no room for anything that is in my bucket. Your needs are calling so loudly there is no way you could hear anything I say. Your pain is far too intense to be cooled by any verbal salve, no matter how profound.

The only way I can help you is to get into your bucket, to try to feel your pain, to accept your feelings as they are and make every effort to understand. I cannot really know how you feel. I cannot actually understand your pain or how your mind is working under the stress, but I can stand with you through the journey. I can allow you to feel what you feel and learn to be comfortable doing so. That is called, “Getting into your bucket.”I was speaking on guilt and anger in grief to a conference of grieving parents. I asked the group what they felt guilty about. I will never forget one mother who said, “All the way to the hospital, my son begged me to turn back. He did not want the transplant. He was afraid. I would not turn back, and he died.”I asked her how many times someone had told her that her son would have died anyway. She said, “Hundreds.” When I asked her if that had helped her in any way she said, “No.”I asked her how many times she had been told that she was acting out of love and doing the right thing, she gave the same two responses. Many times and, no, it did not help.”I asked her how many times she had been told that God had taken her son for some reason, and she gave the same responses- “many” and “no help.”I asked how many times someone had told her that it had been four years since her son’s death and that it was time to “Put that behind you and get on with your life.”
This time she responded with great anger that she had heard that from many wellmeaning people, including family members, and that it not only did not help, it added to her pain and made her angry.

What I was really asking her is, “How many people have tried to pour their buckets into yours?
“I then said, “Would it help if I hugged you and said `that must really hurt’?”

She said, “That would help a great deal. That would really help.” Why would that help? Because I was offering to get into her bucket with her and to be in her pain, instead of trying salve over her pain with words and explanations.

If you are in pain, find someone who will get into your bucket. Most of the time these folks are found in grief groups or among friends who have been there. It is not normal procedure. It is hard to swallow our fears and climb into your bucket.

If you are reading this to find ways to help others in grief, then lay aside your explanations and your words of comfort. Forget all of the instructions and directions you think will help and learn to say, “That must really hurt.” I think that is the most healing combination of words in the English language. They really mean, “May I feel along with you as you walk through your pain?” “May I get into your bucket?”Healing happens in their buckets.

By Doug Manning
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Amir

From: Tamar Prager
Amir was so special, so unique and so beautiful. Every time I spoke with him, I felt alive and excited. He was able to bring out a gentle spirit in me while unleashing an energy and enthusiasm. Speaking with Amir was speaking with someone whose curiosity was endless. He pushed you to think harder, to contemplate deeper and to be made more aware. I loved that about him.
We spoke about music, ourselves, our interests, literature, just being and experiencing. He always had me laughing…
There will never be an adequate goodbye for Amir. He was a person unlike any other. His amazing, beautiful ways will remain with me forever.

Baruch Dayan Emet

Although I did not have the pleasure of knowing this amazing, brilliant, athletic and caring man – my thoughts are with Amir’s family and friends. One can only imagine the life he lived by the photos displaying a life lived to the fullest and the thoughts describing a friend one would be lucky to have.

From Jason Liss

It was hard for me to appreciate in 9th grade what an extraordinary privilege it was for me to spend time with Amir, but I know I could FEEL it every single day of my Ramaz life. Ramaz was intimidating for me coming from a different school and having recently moved to Englewood. Amir recognized this and befriended me immediately, and we sat together on the bus often.

What a comfort, and what fun it was to retreat to Amirland every day (and that’s the only way to describe it!), to experience his refreshing take on everything in our lives and to become sharper, more self-confident and more at ease every day because of it. A conversation with Amir was a trip into his sometimes impractical but always brilliant world of thoughts you never could have had yourself (or understand), but which made a heck of a lot of sense once he explained them. His compliments and encouragement for me never stopped coming and I know it’s because he felt I needed them.

Amir laughed at everything that made Ramaz a difficult place for some, socially and academically, all the while excelling in both departments and blazing his own path, to the awe of those around him. Who else could be clever enough, like Amir was, to even think of putting the names of “popular” kids from school on the high score list of his computer games at home “so that when friends come over they’ll think I have all these cool people visiting me?” Who out of those could be independent and self-confident enough to be doing this only in jest, because he wasn’t bothered by such silliness?

How many people devoted to Salinger, Vonnegut, chess, computer code and hilarious social commentary could find the time to develop that running, right-handed, off-the-wrong-foot, quick-release scoop layup over Prager and Schwalbe’s outstretched arms?

My blessings and prayers to the Lopatins, and my thanks to all for this website which beautifully tells the story of Amir’s life of invaluable contribution to the world around him. We fortunate enough to know him, and the many others who would have benefited from Amir’s endeavors, have lost someone incredibly special.

I saw Amir in the park last year, with a Frisbee of course, and his beaming smile and genuine friendliness brought me back instantly to the warm comfort of those days we spent together. How I wish I had gone up to Stanford this year to hang out. How I wish he were with us. Amir, I realize now that you created a part of me that will always be with me. Thank you. I miss you.

Open our Hearts

Rocking out at the allman finale in the beacon sunday night while in nyc for pesach, and sadly oblivious to the news of amirs passing, my thoughts momentarily detoured back through the hallways of high school. To a small, somewhat irksome chevra- amir, john, eli… who already back then had figured out that Godliness dwelled not just in gemara but in the words of Tolkien and jam bands as well. Wow, how i wish i knew that then. My life now is a desperately intoxicating attempt to synthesize those worlds. Among other things, I spend my days sitting and learning gemara in the hills of Bat Ayin in Gush Etzion, and my nights delving into the inner meanings of the Simarillion and Dick’s Picks 26. To John, a refua shleima and may we dance at your wedding in Yerushalayim. To Amir’s family and friends– honor his memory by fighting with respect for what you believe in no matter what (usually the establishment!) bars your way- may his memory always make us smile.

Hamakom Yinahem Etchem Btokh Aveilei Tzion Vyerushalayim-

Ezra Friedland-Wechsler

A pleasure to think of you, Amir

From: Moti
I met Amir at yeshivah. He was accepting, generous and remarkably lacking in pretense. Being around him felt good because he was so comfortable in himself. In the picture that always comes to mind when I think of him, his eyes are twinkling with pleasure at the conversation he’s having. He took a wonderfully decadent pleasure in literature conversation. He was affectionate, intelligent and modest. He was also extremely funny and I still laugh when I think of things he said years ago.

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