In a machlokes such as this, everyone is wrong

It’s that time of year when, suddenly, everyone is scrambling to ask mechilah. Or, at the very least, wondering when the other guy will be phoning them to make amends.

Personally, I’m just trying not to get bulldozed by the disastrous machlokes plaguing our apartment building for the past few years. Roth* from the third floor, Gross from the ground floor, and a sprinkling of others who somehow got stuck in the mix are at the forefront of the drama.

Who asked the downstairs father to be mechanech someone else’s child? Who asked the upstairs’ brother to be overprotective of his little sister? Words exchanged, in the heat of the moment, that dredged up past misdemeanors… and maybe a few perceived crimes. Words clogging the building’s lobby, then floating away, never to be retracted.

Who asked Gross to drag neighbors, some who had little to no connection, to beis din, and line up a few other neighbors to help in the effort? Lashon hara, a blizzard of phone calls, a few unsuccessful attempts from a neighboring askan, and the thickness of the quagmire doubles, triples, sucks us all down.

Neighborly schmoozes at open doors with borrowed flour in hand stop dead, mid-sentence, as Mrs. Roth comes through with her groceries. How it came to this painful point remains a mystery to those directly involved (to the onlookers, not so much), with each party having clear proofs that the other is at fault. Of course! In a machlokes such as this, everyone is wrong.