Unbroken Chains

 

 

 

                              I am Yoseph. Is my father still alive? - Bresheet (Genesis) 45:3

It was over three decades ago when I was first introduced to the book “Popes from the Ghetto - A View of Medieval Christendom" by Rabbi Joachim Prinz. The book details the lives and influences of three medieval popes who emerged from Rome’s powerful, Jewish Pierleoni banking family, exploring their rise, conversion and impact on the Church amidst anti- Semitic tensions. 

 One of the Popes that Rabbi Prinz writes about is the legendary figure of the Jewish Pope from Mainz (often referred to as Andreas, Johannes or Elchanan in variants). The most prominent version of this legend features Pope Elchanan as the son of  Rabbi Simeon the Great of Mainz. As a child, Elchanan was kidnapped and brought to Rome by his nursemaid. He was baptized, raised as a Christian and due to his intellect, rose through the Church hierarchy to become pope. Years later, the Pope, either due to a sense of his forgotten origins or due to his father traveling to Rome to intercede against anti-Jewish decrees, summons his father, Rabbi Simeon, for a meeting. During a game of chess they play, the father recognizes a specific, unique move that he had taught only his son which disclosed to  him the identity of the pope and which Elchanan confirms. In most versions, the Pope either secretly returned to his Jewish faith or disappeared to return to Mainz or committed suicide as an act of Kiddush Hashem (sanctification of G-d’s name).

This Jewish folklore story has always captivated me as it reminded me of the encounter between Yoseph and his brothers where he reveals to them his  true identity as recounted in this week’s Parashah, Vayigash.

Yoseph lives under a hidden identity in Egypt. He is an Egyptian viceroy with an Egyptian name (צפנת פענח Tzofnat Pa'aneach), dress, and language. His concealment is necessary for survival and ascent, not deception for its own sake. Like him, the Jewish Pope hides his Jewish origin to survive and rise within the Christian to the highest possible power.

Though  for  Elchanan, concealment is portrayed as divinely guided, in Parashat Vayigash Yoseph’s true identity is known only to G-d (45:8-9) - until the right moment. Their hidden identities is not falsehood and is not perceived as morally corrupt. It is latency. Truth waits for the moment when revelation can heal rather than destroy.  

In these two narratives, identity is disclosed within the family first, before the public or the world. The most sacred truth is shared privately. The revelation is motivated by filial devotion and not theological rebellion or political or personal gain.

What one might find most striking, though, is how influential and domenant the father figure, in the lives of Yoseph and Elchanan, is. Yoseph’s disclosure, “I am Yoseph, is my father still alive?” indicates that his entire concern surrounds his father’s health. The Pope, as the legend shares, reveals his Jewish identity only to his father, often secretly. 

However, what is most important is that the two stories teach us the same valuable lesson. They illustrate to us that the identity of one's essence is inherited and indestructible. It cannot be erased by exile, costume or role.

In the twin accounts, Yaakov and Rabbi Simeon are able to recognize their sons despite the radical transformation that they had undergone. Yoseph is unrecognizable outwardly. He is Egypt's ruler, dresses differently and speaks Egyptian. Yet, according to Jewish sages, Yaakov recognizes him, before he even gets to meet him face to face, or hear his voice. Their claim is that Yaakov did so by “continuity of spirit” which in Judaism is referred to as L’Dor V’Dor (from generation to generation). It means actively passing down Jewish identity, values, learning, and rituals from one generation to the next, ensuring the survival of Jewish Peoplehood.

These  scholars  mainly base their assertion on Bresheet 45:27, where it states, “When they [Yaakov’s sons] told him [Yaakov] all the words of Yoseph that he had spoken to them…..the spirit of Yaakov, their father, revived.”

Rash”i, citing Bresheet Rabbah (94:3) explains the words of Yoseph very specifically. There, the sages claim that Yoseph’s words sent Yaakov a sign, the last Torah topic they had studied together . In other words, the message Yoseph sends is pure Torah, not just any Torah but shared Torah, the one learned together by father and son. Yaakov recognizes Yoseph because the chain of Torah was unbroken.

Like Yoseph, Elchanan, “The Jewish Pope” crossed an unbridgeable cultural and religious divide. Similarly to Yaakov, Rabbi Simeon identifies his son by the move of the chess game, a shared experience that was unique to them. 

The bond between father and son in the two accounts transcends institutional and theological boundaries. 

Ultimately, these two narratives—one biblical and one legendary—converge on the same enduring truth: identity rooted in sacred relationship cannot be erased. Power, exile, and transformation may obscure origins, but they cannot sever the bond forged between father and son, teacher and student, generation and generation. Yoseph is revealed not by royal garments but by shared Torah. Elchanan is unmasked not by papal authority but by a remembered chess move. In both cases, recognition comes through continuity rather than confrontation, through memory rather than spectacle.

From Promise to Possession, The Birth of Jewish Title to Eretz Yisrael

 

Let him grant me the Cave of Machpelah, which belongs to him and is located at the edge of his field. Let him sell it to me for its full price, in your presence, so I can make it into a family burial ground.” - Bresheet 23:9

At the onset of this week’s Parashah, “Chayei Sarah,” (the life of Sarah), we are told about the death of Sarah, Avraham’s wife, in Hevron. Pursuent to her passing, Avraham purchases the Cave of Machpelah and the surrounding field in Hevron, from its owner, Ephron, the Hittite and buries her there.

One of the questions that is begging to be asked, upon reading these verses, is, if G-d has already promised the Land of Yisrael to Avraham and his descendents (“To your offspring I will give this land,” Bresheet 12:7), why must Avraham purchase a burial site, at Machpelah, for Sarah?

G-d’s promise to Avraham and his posterity gives the land spiritual legitimacy. Avraham’s purchase gives it political legitimacy. In order to establish sovereignty. Both are needed. The Divine Covenant establishes eternal rights. Avraham’s actions and deeds establish worldly recognition. Divine promises do not replace human action.

Furthermore, Avraham insists upon paying “full price” for the land, as the verse above points out, despite the offer to accept it as a gift. He wants an indisputable legal claim to ensure that no one could later challenge Jewish presence as illegitimate or dependent on any foreign entities. He knows that a Divine promise carries spiritual authority, but not necessarily a recognition in the human legal system. He understands that sovereignty is established through moral and lawful means. By paying “full price,” Avraham secures a deed that no one can contest. The negotiations with Ephron become the first legal translation of Jewish lawful ownership setting a precedent for the Jewish People’s historic and moral claim in the Promised Land.

Avraham’s insistence on  paying full price, refusing a gift, parallels other, later, key biblical passages. In 2 Samuel 24:24, king David explicitly purchases land with money, land that is connected to the legitimate ownership and future sanctity of the site he was about to procure. There, he says to Araunah, the Jebosite who offers it to him for free, " 'No, I will buy it from you for a price;I will not offer burnt offerings to the Lord my G-d that cost me nothing. So David bought the threshing floor and the Oxen for fifty shekels of silver.”  This site, as we later find out, becomes the future Temple Mount in Yerushalayim, “Then David said,’Here shall be the house of the Lord G-d and here the altar of burnt offering for Yisrael.’” 1Chronicles 22:1. Both these pieces of land, Sarah's burial sites and the Temple Mount were legally purchased for eternal possession, thus fulfilling the Divine promise to Avraham and his descendents. 

One of the most striking and meaningful features of Parashat Chayei Sarah, (the Life of Sarah), is its paradoxical title which opens with Sarah’s death yet gives us no further details about her life. What, on the surface, seems like a contradiction preoccupied our sages. Many of them, however, view it not as a contradiction but rather as a deep truth about life's legacy and continuity.

Midrash Rabbah expands on this idea. “Why is it written, ‘After the life of Sarah?’ To teach us that the righteous are called alive even after death.” (Bresheet Rabbah 58:1). Sarah’s legacy and her spiritual influence continue beyond her physical existence. 

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch reads the name Chayei Sarah as a theological statement. The life of Sarah, he believes, is the life that Sarah set in motion. Her death sets off Avraham’s first act of acquiring land in Canaan. Until that point Avraham is a resident alien, a ger vetoshav toshav, promised the land by G-d but not yet owning even a small piece of it. Sarah’s death gives birth to the first foothold of the Jewish nation in its promised land. Her burial place becomes a national symbol and a spiritual anchor linking future generations to the patriarchs and matriarchs buried there.

Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks builds on the same concept. In his essay Chayei Sarah (Covenant and Conversation) Sacks offers a beautiful and deeply philosophical insight into the paradoxical title of Parashat Chayei Sarah. His assertion is that in order to understand a death, one has to understand a life.  In the Torah, believes Sacks, life and death are not opposites. Those who live a life of faith, whose values and influence last beyond their days, never die. Sarah’s life, as Sacks sees it, continues through the continuity of the Covenant. Her legacy gives life to the Jewish People.

To praphrase the interpretations of our sage, Sarah’s death forces the promise of DivineInheritance, the guiding principle that dictated the journey of her life, to translate into human and legal reality.

Her death, in this sense, becomes the womb of Jewish rootedness, out of which arises Jewish life and permanence.

Covenantal Accountability and Free Will

 

 

              “It is not with you alone that I am making this sworn covenant,   but with whoever is standing here with us today before the Lord our G-d, and with whoever is not here with us today” (Deuteronomy 29:13-14).

              “Life and death I have set before you, blessing and curse. And you shall choose life.” (Deuteronomy 30:19)

  

On his final day, Moshe gathers Am Yisrael for the purpose of renewing their Brit (Covenant) with G-d. The name of the parashah, “Nitzavin,” hints at the solemnity of the occasion. “Nitzav” means “standing” in Hebrew. However, as commentators like Rash”i and Sforno suggest, it means more than just “standing.” It carries the sense of standing firmly, uprightly, with presence, and resolve to honour this important milestone in Jewish history

Parashat Nitzavim includes some of the most fundamental principles of the Jewish faith. This essay will focus on two of them.

The first stresses collective accountability, as the words “whoever is not with us today,” in the first quote above (Deuteronomy 29:13-14) alludes to. The Torah, it tells us, applies to every Jew at all times and is binding on every Jew even those not born yet. All members of Am Yisrael are original covenant partners. In other words, Our Covenant with G-d is not just historical but eternal.

“The phrase, ‘whoever is not here,’ explains Lord Rabbi Sacks, “cannot refer to Yisraelites alive at the time who happened to be somewhere else……since the entire nation was assembled there. Moshe can only mean ‘generations not yet born’…..By agreeing to be G-d’s People,” concludes Sacks, “subject to G-d’s laws, our ancestors obligated us all.”

Midrash Tanchuma (Nitzavim 3) and Talmud (Shavuot 39a) interpret the phrase, which has been central in Jewish thought, “all Jewish souls, past, present, and future, were spiritually present.” 

Ramba”n (Nachmanides) goes even further and asserts that this phrase also includes gerim (further converts to Judaism). Even those who would one day join Yisrael were foreseen and included (proving that Torah’s reach is beyond biological descent).

Sforno highlights the  responsibility and solidarity facet of our Jewish faith suggesting that the covenant is binding on every individual because Yisrael functions as a community where all are responsible for one another.

What these verses establish is that Judaism is a timeless, transgenerational commitment.

The second paramount principle of the parashah that this article wishes to address is Free Will. It is reflected in the second verse above (Deuteronomy 30:19).  There, Moshe, in a stirring declaration, calls upon the People to “choose life,” a declaration that is often cited as the clearest statement of human Free Will.

It seems that at the heart of Parashat Nitzavim lies a profound tension between destiny and free will. It stems from the paradox it echoes. On the one hand, how can unborn generations be forced into a covenant that they never chose, if individuals truly have free will? On the other hand, if a nation as a whole is accountable for each member’s conduct, does that diminish the individual’s authority?

This tension did not escape Jewish thinkers and commentators who were trying to reconcile the two conflicting themes.

Ramba”n and Abrabanel teach us that just as any child is born into a family without choosing it, so too, every Jew is born into the Covenant. The Covenant in their view is a national identity contract which defines our Peoplehood. Ramba”m (Hilchot Teshuvah 5) stresses that though the Covenant is permanent, every human being is fully free to choose obedience or disobedience. How one lives in that Covenant is left to each person’s free choice.

Midrash (Shabbat 88a) contends that though the Covenant binds us objectively, every generation must subjectively re-embrace it by choice.

Modern Jewish thinkers also address this tension between the binding covenant and free choice in Nitzavim.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (1903-1993) distinguishes between Covenant of Fate (Brit Goral) which “coerced”  future generations into a Covenant of Fate since they were born into it and Covenant of Destiny (Brit Yi’ud) in which every individual must freely choose to live out the covenant of destiny (Kol Dodi Dofek...The Lonely Man of Faith).

In Covenant and Conversation on Nitzavim, Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explains that Covenant is not tyranny but rather a partnership. G-d gives people freedom to choose how to respond, including the possibility of failure, exile and redemption. For Sacks, the phrase “choose life” demonstrates that while we inherit the Covenant, its fulfillment depends on moral freedom.

Rav Kook (1865-1935) asserts that the eternal Covenant means that every Jew, even if they reject it consciously, retains a spark of connection. The manner in which that spark of connection is expressed is left to the individual’s free will.

The lesson that Parashat Nitzavim teaches us is that the Covenant is inescapable as collective identity. Every Jew past, present or future is born into it. However, within that, it points out that every person retains absolute Free Will in how to live, respond, or rebel. The Covenant gives the framework, Free Will determines the journey.

Does Being Chosen Mean Being Superior?

 

"You take too much upon yourselves, for the entire congregation are all holy, and the Lord is in their midst. So why do you raise yourselves above the Lord's assembly?" Numbers 16:3

 

This week’s Parasha is Korach.  It is named after the man who leads a rebellion against Moshe and Aharon. His complaint against them, as stated in the verse above, is centered on issues of challenging leadership, authority, and priestly privilege within the community, reflecting internal disagreements and power dynamics.

This, clearly, is an internal or a social conflict within Judaism.

Interestingly enough, as a Jew who lived for a few decades in the Diaspora, I heard, and more than once, a similar argument addressed against Jews, in general, by non-Jews.  “Who do you think you are?” I heard one of them (a professor!) complain, “the 'chosen  people,’ A master race? Aren’t all humans equal in the eyes of G-d?”

While both topics involve perception of superiority, one is a Biblical internal dispute about religious authority, the other, is a prejudiced external narrative rooted and fueled by misinformation and bias rather than factual or theological basis. It is used to justify discrimination, hostility or violence against Jewish communities.

The concept of the Jewish People being the “Chosen People” is, unfortunately, often misunderstood as implying superiority. History is interlaced with anti-semitic stereotypes about Jewish scholars and Jewish superiority. These are complex and have evolved over the centuries.

During the Middle Ages, for instance, Jews were often stereotyped as intellectual and theological rivals of the Church. Some narratives falsely claimed that Jews held secret knowledge or conspired to undermine it.

Even the Enlightenment and Modern eras, when emancipation encouraged Jews to embrace education, were not free of such phenomena. While Jewish scholarship led to contributions to science, philosophy, and medical advancements, anti-semitic stereotypes maliciously depicted Jews as cunning or overly intellectual, implying superiority.

Furthermore, in the late 19th early 20th centuries, some pseudo-scientific racial theories falsely claimed that Jews had innate racial qualities. While categorizing them as biologically inferior, they maintained that Jews possessed intellectual superiority.

In contrast to such accusations, Jewish sources, through the ages, have emphasized that the title “Chosen People” entails responsibility, a sense of mission and service rather than inherent superiority. Here are a few examples.

Rabbi Yehudah Halevi (1075-1141) believes that “G-d chose Yisrael not because of their righteousness, but because of His love and promise to the forefathers.” (Kuzari I:95). In other words, “Being Chosen” is rooted in Divine Covenant, not merit. Other nations, according to him, also have divine missions.

Ramba"m (1138-1204), in Hilchot Teshuvah 5:2, similarly states that there is no inherent spiritual ceiling to non-Jews. The title, “Chosen People,” does not imply that Jews are spiritually superior.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the foremost Jewish theologians and philosophers of the 20th century, stresses that being chosen is not a privilege, but a burden of moral responsibility. That, he asserts, has nothing to do with racial superiority. (G-d in Search of Man, p.424)

In my view, one of the best responses to the accusations of Jewish claims to “racial Jewish superiority” is provided by my favourite Rabbi, Lord Jonathan Sacks. In his book Not in G-d’s Name (pp.198-199), he states, “A master race worships itself; a chosen people worships something beyond itself. A master race values power; a chosen people knows only that it has responsibilities....A master race produces....triumphant inscriptions and a literature of self-congratulations. Israel to a degree unique in history, produced a literature of almost uninterrupted self-criticism....”

The fact, as Rabbi Sacks words imply, is that the Jewish People is neither better, nor worse than others. It is, merely, different. "Ask any anti-semite," proposes Rabbi Yosi Goldman, "and he will confirm it." The notion of “Chosen People,” as our sages repeatedly state, means greater and, sometimes, even harsher responsibility, not privilege. This mission," continues, Rabbi Goldman, "has turned us into one of the most sensitive and humane nations on earth."

What could be better proof of such a conclusion than the fact that the hypocritical world constantly holds Yisrael to a higher moral standard than its neighbours, demanding that it adheres to a different set of ethical principles?

This is who we are! That is what we are! Regardless of how hard and burdensome being Jewish can be, I, personally, would not have it any other way.

Long live Yisrael and the Jewish People. Am Yisrael Chai

Education - The Way To Mend Our World

 

 “There is only one way to change the world, and that is through education.” – Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

 

As a person who was reared in a Jewish home, in Yisrael, education was one of the most prominent values of my upbringing. It was not merely about formal schooling or about gaining knowledge that shaped my childhood, adolescent and my maturing years. It was the kind of education that aimed at preparing me to live as close as possible to our Jewish code of ethics, to attaining wisdom and personal as well as national responsibility. It prepared me, unbeknown to me, towards becoming a teacher and an educator, myself.

Although the circumstances that pushed me to earning a teaching certificate and becoming a teacher occurred at a very turbulent time in the history of Yisrael and were, thus, beyond my control (https://wingnsonawildflight.blogspot.com/2019/06/that-second-most-important-day.html), I am grateful to having received such a magnificent gift. The skills and the benefits that the teaching vocation have awarded me are immeasurable.

Education, I reckon, should aim at teaching facts and building awareness. It should also help people see the world more clearly and objectively as well as help them understand others more deeply. Above all, I believe that education is about encouraging people to question what they think they know and helping them gain the courage to learn something new at any age.

And this is where the quote of Rabbi Sacks, ZT”L, above comes into play with regards to an important event that has recently taken place in Yisrael.

As many of you know, Yisrael intercepted a flotilla carrying representatives of several countries whose goal was to infiltrate the naval blockade over Gaza. Yisrael’s moves to bring the event to peaceful ending, by providing the activists on board with food and water, was applauded by many. Yisrael displayed what our Jewish tradition refers to as “Ahavat Chinam,” unconditional love.

However, what caught my attention, even more, was the directive issued by Minister of Defense, Yisrael Katz. He instructed the IDF to show the movie exposing the horrors of the October 7th pogrom, as documented by the Hamas terrorists themselves, to the activists. His motive, I believe, stemmed from the supposition that they were ignorant about the depth of the horrendous barbarities committed on that day. In his view, they needed to be educated on it. Whether that goal was achieved or not, only time will tell.

From personal experience, though, I can assure you that, in some cases, such a strategy does work. Here is one such example.

It happened in the early 2000's. I lived in New Zealand and was on the Board of the small Jewish community, in Christchurch. At that time, Yisrael was, unfortunately, experiencing what is known as, "The Second Intifada." One day, to try and cease Palestinian terror attacks against Yisraelis, the IDF entered Gaza. The New Zealand media, which has, generally, not been Yisraeli friendly, portrayed the incursion in a negative light.

The following day, our chairperson found a very offensive message on our synagogue’s answering machine. The caller, among other curse words, suggested that “Hitler should have finished the job.” The police, following our complaint, traced the call to the home of an elderly kiwi businessman who resided in a very exclusive area of the city.

The man explained that he was upset with the Yisraeli display of power over the “defenseless Gazans” (his words). When the police officer, handling the case, asked us whether we would like to press charges, I objected. Something in me suggested that the culprit was not fully aware of the extent of the atrocities committed by the Nazis against the Jews. He needed some education on the subject, I felt.

I, therefore, proposed that instead of going to court, he should read a few books, which I sent him, about the Shoah. I also suggested watching “Schindler's List.”

A few weeks later, we received a most heartwarming letter from the man. There were not enough words in the English language, for him, to express his remorse over the message and apology for his ignorance. These were wrapped in his deep gratitude for the education and for helping him have a better understanding of Jewish history, coupled with a promise to do all he can to help educate others and ensure that history's lessons are passed on. 

Remembering Forward

 

“Without memory, there is no culture. Without memory, there would be no civilization, no society, no future” - Elie Wiesel

“Memory is deceptive because it is coloured by today’s events.” – Albert Einstein

“To be a Jew is to know that over an above history is the task of memory” – Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

 

The command to remember is an important pillar in our Jewish tradition. “The imperative of the Hebrew word zachor,” asserts David Pillegi, “is mentioned more than twenty-five times” in the Tanach (Jerusalem Post, March 29,2012). The Jewish year, accordingly, is mottled with many memorial days, national and private.

One of my favourite modern Yisraeli poets, Yehudah Amichai (May 3, 1924 – September 22, 2000), also, dwells on the notion of memory. “The world is filled with remembering and forgetting,” he writes. Amichai likens memory and forgetfulness to “dry land” and “sea” as metaphors to our duplicate realities which, he believes, are elements of our existence. “Dry land,” he suggests, is the memory of our starting point, our past, the anchor that keeps our feet secure on the ground. The “sea” is a metaphor for the unknown that awaits us in the days ahead. It is an unpredictable zone where we sail into the future in our desperate effort to hold on to forgetting memories, the ones that threaten to overwhelm, drown our essence in their torrent and prevent us from forming a future. Only those who have a stable dock on dry land, suggests Amichai, have some firm fulcrum, to which they can return to and safely resume their daily routine.  

Though our Jewish heritage prizes memory, I must admit that in my many years of interaction with Jewish communities around the world, I have encountered, on more than one occasion, the desire to forget and consciously erase our bad memories. Many Jewish parents want to spare their children the exposure to dark chapters in our history for fear that such a disclosure might affect them emotionally.

One example that comes to mind is during the time that I lived in New Zealand. I was once asked to conduct the Passover Seder at some friend’s house. All went well until I got to the part where the ten plagues were mentioned. When I reached the tenth one, where the first-born son of every Egyptian family was smitten, the father stopped me and said, “we don’t talk about death to our children…..” I was dumbfounded. Though I understood that the father’s silence and the temptation to forget, stemmed from concern, at the same time, I felt that it created a distortion. How could anyone not mention this very constitutive and cardinal act in our Jewish history? Can we raise a new generation without exposing it to the painful segments of the story?

This, however, is not merely a matter of a private case. Throughout history, many Jews elected to forget. That choice was the product of the yearning to prevent trauma and the wish to enable a future for their children.  Regrettably, though, it has always been at the cost of sacrificing the vital role of memory.

Jewish culture puts memory at the center of our collective identity. The Talmud (Yoma 56,1) teaches us that authentic remembering of events, good and bad, is the first move towards tikkun, improvement. Rabbi Nachman Bar Yitzchak, similarly, suggests that genuine memory leads towards action and change (Kiddushin 40, 2)

The horrors of the Shoah, a more recent sad episode in our People’s history, which happened eighty years ago, is another example of such a tendency. Sadly, quite a few Jews, both in Yisrael and elsewhere, spare details of that chapter from their children again, for fear of the impact it might have on their emotional well-being.

More recently, Yisrael has experienced one of the most horrific pogroms since the Shoah. I am referring to the massacre that took place close to two years ago on the Holy Day of Simchat Torah, which is better known by its Gregorian calendar date as, October 7^th, 2023. Despite the fresh memories of this bloodbath, many, including adults my age, refuse to see footage of the carnage or listen to the testimonies of its survivors.

This discrepancy between the necessity to remember and the wish to forget, between the “dry land” and the “sea,” as we have witnessed, engaged Amichai. In another poem, he offers yet another metaphor. This one is in the form of a “dam.”  This “dam,” implies Amichai, stands for the present tense, the stage in which we are. Just like a dam which controls the flow of water, Amichai’s “dam” allows us to release or block the flow of memory between the “dry land” and the “sea.”

It is at this point that the quote by Einstein, above, is brought into play. If the control over this “dam” is subject to our emotional and political agenda or is “coloured by today’s events,” in Einstein’s words, it might reshape the past not in accordance with historical facts, but by the demands of the present. Should we redraw our past? Should our “coloured” present determine which parts of our past be remembered or perhaps suppressed? What should be the fate of painful, yet essential and identity defining chapters in our history?

Memory is not merely what we choose to remember. Rather, it is the courage not to forget. Remembering forward requires of us, as Jews, to preserve the past, the good and the bad, without granting us the permission to rewrite it.