Judaism and Some Women's Rights

 

                          "Why should our father’s name be eliminated from his family because he had no son?" - Numbers 27:4

One of the themes of this week's Torah portion, Pinchas, concerns women's rights to inheritance and ownership of property in Jewish Law.

Modern - day Women's Rights movements, as we know, have argued, over time, for social, political, and economic equality of the sexes. Ancient Judaism, as history shows, arose, as a religion, in the cradle of the patriarchal world of the Ancient Near Eastern cultures and, similarly, did not set women’s rights as its mission.  

These patriarchal societies, as the name suggests, were highly male dominated where men held primary power, with authority in political leadership, moral authority, social privilege and ownership of property. It meant that male heads of households controlled family structures, inheritance law and religious life, among other spheres of influence. 

Though in some cultures (notably Mesopotamia), women had legal rights to own property, manage businesses, initiate divorce or even hold spiritual roles, these were exceptions and reserved mostly to the elite class.  Even the Hammurabi Code (a legal code dating back to Babylonia, circa 1754 BCE), which provided wives and widows with some protective regulations, considered progressive for the time, still treated women as some form of possession.

Despite the restrictions on women in ancient Jewish law, Judaism specified some rights and valued roles that stood out when set side by side with other contemporaneous ancient societies. It is safe to argue that Judaism contains some proto - feminist elements in comparison to other archaic Near Eastern religions.

One can spot such elements already in the story of creation, recounted in the book of Bre’esheet. There, Torah tells us that “G-d created humankind in His image, male and female He created them” (1:27). In a world such as the Ancient Near East, where myths demean women, the notion that a woman is created in G-d’s image was considered radical.

Another example pointing at some egalitarian overtones in the Eden setting, can be found in Bre’esheet 2:24 where it states, “Therefore, a man shall leave his father and his mother, and cleave to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.” This decree which goes counter to the practice of patrilocality, exercised in other societies, at that time, where wives moved to their husbands' family home suggesting deep union, was revolutionary.

This week’s Parashah takes the titular theme one step further. It is a landmark Torah episode that addresses inheritance rights and highlights women’s role in shaping Jewish law.

The Parashah informs us that prior to entering the Promised Land, G-d instructs Moshe to partition the Land according to tribes, more precisely to the males in each tribe. In the case of death, only the sons will receive their father’s inheritance, thus ensuring that it remains in the family.

One family in the tribe of Menashe, the Zelophehad family, had only daughters. Their father died in the desert. The five daughters are concerned that they will not be entitled to land. They turn to Moshe to request their share.

Since patrilineality, the practice whereby descent and inheritance pass through the male line was the convention, at that time, it was an eventuality unexpected by Moshe. He, therefore, turns to G-d. G-d sides with the daughters, upholds their righteous claim and orders Moshe to grant them their request. This, naturally, is remarkable, especially in a tribal society where land was passed only through males. What is even more momentous is that the Torah adjusts the inheritance law in response to women’s advocacy, challenging existing norms.

There was, however, one condition to granting their request. They must marry men from their own tribe.  Rabbi Sacks sums this episode very succinctly, “The daughters did not lose their rights to the land,” he states, “but they did lose some freedom in choosing their marriage partner.”

Many Jewish scholars claim that it is the wisdom of Zelophehad’s daughters which brought about that outstanding achievement. Here is an overview of what some Jewish sources consider wise about them.

Midrash Sifrei (Numbers 133) states, “The daughters of Zelphehad were wise, they were interpreters of the Torah.” They understood that the purpose of the inheritance laws was to preserve each family’s stake in the land. By requesting an inheritance, they upheld the underlying value of the law, not just its letter.

Rash”i believes that it was their right approach which was respectful and sound that convinced G-d to respond favourably. “The daughters of Zelophehad speak rightly,” says G-d (Numbers 27:7). “Fortunate is the person,” claims Rash”i, in his commentary on this verse, “whose words the Holy One, blessed be He, agrees with.”

Midrash Tanchuma (Pinchas 9) asserts that their wisdom is reflected in their love for the Land which signals their deep faith in the promise of the Land of Yisrael.

The Babylonian Talmud (Baba Batra 119b) praises them for bringing a question whose answer was included in the Torah but had not yet been explicated. “They saw what Moshe did not see,” it states. Their question created a new legal precedent.

Zelophehad’s daughters have become an enduring model of righteous, intelligent and effective contributors to women’s rights within the Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern context. They turned their personal grievances into a lasting legal reform which made them pioneering figures of moral courage and legal influence at challenging and critical times in Jewish history.

Shabbat Shalom, dear Am Yisrael and fellow Jews and a peaceful weekend to all.

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

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.

Purim and Memory

 

                          

   "Memory is the secret to redemption" – Ba’al Shem Tov

 

These days, Jews, the world over, are preparing to celebrate the Purim festivities. We wear costumes, eat the traditional hamentaschen and read Megilat Esther, the Book of Esther. It also so happens that on Shabbat,  before Purim, the Torah portion that is recited is "Zachor," along with its corresponding Haftarah which is taken from Samuel 1, Chapter 15. Parashat “Vayavo Amalek” (And Amalek Came, Exodus 17:8-16) which describes the first war Am Yisrael has to face aginst the Amalekites is read on the morning of Purim following the recitation of the Book of Esther. 

It is no coincidence that these three important Tana"ch passages are contiguous to each other. There is a golden thread that runs through them. At the core of all three rest the importance of Jewish collective memory and the lessons of history that need to be learned and internalized.

The decree to remember is repeated in our tradition. In Parashat “Zachor,” (Remember) which we read on Shabbat before Purim, we are commanded, “Remember what Amalek did to you as you came out of Egypt; how he met you on the way, and cut down all the weak who straggled behind you when you were weary and exhausted, and he did not fear G-d. Therefore, when the Lord, your G-d will relieve you of all your enemies around you, in the Land which the Lord your G-d gives you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget” (Deuteronomy, 25:17-19). Amalek, the Torah tells us, ambushed our People during their wandering in the desert when they came out of Egypt. They killed the weak, the vulnerable and slaughtered babies in their mothers’ arms. “Zachor” is the only Parashah that is read aloud in synagogue each year and is considered one of the few Torah portions that every Jew should hear.

The corresponding Haftarah to this portion is taken from Samuel 1,15:1-34 where we are reminded of what the Amalekites did to our People in the desert.  Samuel, upon G-d’s order, commands King Saul to erase Amalek in its entirety including its possessions, its sheep, men women, babies, toddlers, camels, and donkeys, without compassion. “Go and you shall destroy the sinners, the Amalekites, and you shall wage a war against them until you destroy them all. Saul succeeds in harming Amalek, kills their people yet captures their king Agag and saves some of the prime sheep and cattle to use them as sacrifice to G-d.

Samuel is surprised to find out that Saul has spared some of sheep and cattle and reproves while Saul, apologetically explains that the People are the ones who collected the spoils. In other words, Saul caves in to the People rather than carry out the word of G-d. “Even if you are small in your own eyes,” responds Samuel, “are you not the head of the tribes of Yisrael? And the Lord anointed you as king over Yisrael….. Has the Lord (as much) desire in burnt offerings and peace offering, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than a peace-offering; to harken (is better) than the fat of teraphim.”  Every deed, we are told, bears its consequences. “For rebellion,” proclaims Samuel, “is as the sin of divination, and stubbornness is as idolatry and teraphim. Since you rejected the word of the Lord. He has rejected you from being a king.”

Eventually, Saul does carry out the order. He kills Agag, and whatever is left of his possessions but not before he must pay  his dethronement for his disobedience to G-d’s directive.

The violation of G-d’s command, regarding Amalek, by Saul and Am Yisrael, proves that Jewish collective memory and its necessary lessons have failed the practical test. Unfortunately, Saul’s irresponsible leadership and infraction of G-d’s command would eventually rebound and expose our People to further threats of annihilation.

And that is, precisely, dear readers, where the story of Purim enters the scene.

The Book of Esther chronicles the story of the Jewish community in ancient Persia. We witness the ideological struggle between the wicked Haman and a Jewish hero, Mordechai. A look into the text will reveal that Haman is described as "the Agagite." He is a descendant of Agag the king of Amalek whose life, king Saul, initially, spared.

Furthermore, the script also discloses Mordechai’s pedigree. It tells us that “There was a Jewish man in Shushan the capital, whose name was Mordechai, the son of Yair, the son of Shimei the son of Kish, a Benjamite” (Esther, 2:5).

With your permission, let me rewind back to Samuel 1 chapter 9 and focus on verses 1 and 2. They describe the lineage of King Saul and read, “There was a Benjamite, a man of standing, whose name was Kish, son of Abiel, the son of Zeror, the son of Aphiah of Benjamin. Kish had a son named Saul.”

Lo and behold, the Jew, Mordechai, and King Saul share the same family tree. They are distant kinspersons, in the same manner that Haman, the “Agagite” is a kinsperson to the worst enemy of Am Yisrael, Agag, the king of Amalek.

The Book of Esther is the last piece of that golden thread that connects Parashat "Zachor" and its Haftarah to the story of Purim. As the story of Purim unveils itself, we learn that Haman and his seed are obliterated off the face of the earth which is, of course, a cause for celebration.

In addition to the important lesson of the Haftarah regarding the necessity to obey G-d’s command, there is, however, another, no less important, lesson delivered to us in the Book of Esther.The narrative of Purim also teaches us the significance of carrying out G-d’s commands promptly and without procrastination, be the reason whatever it is. As we learned from the Haftarah, King Saul did not fully follow G-d’s orders. Had he done that, had he and Am Yisrael committed to memory the decree to eradicate Amalek and its offspring, the descendants of King Saul would not have had to face those of Amalek, the Book of Esther would most likely not have been written and the holy day by the name of “Purim” would have never seen the light of day.

Unfortunately, Amalek is a chameleon that changes its forms and emerges in different forms, during different times in our Jewish history. As these words are being written, Yisrael is fighting for its survival against one of Amalek’s reincarnations, a terrorist group by the name of Hamas. There are two lessons that last Shabbat teaches us.

The first, as we all saw, is the importance of obeying G-d and following the decree to “remember what Amalek did to you…” The second is the significant message that is enciphered in it. 

It is the message that we should commit to memory the decree of Parashat “Zachor,” fight and destroy, today, those who wish to harm and kill us so that our future generations will be spared the need to face them, or worse ones, tomorrow.

Not until such time will the Jewish People be redeemed and free to realize its glorious destiny.

Purim Sameach, fellow Jews.

 

"Never Again" Is Always

 

     "Never Again is the constant retelling of the Holocaust story."-                           Antonio Gueterres, Secretary General of the U.N.

"Never Again" as Guterres suggests has, generally, been associated with the calls by Jews to try and ensure that the atrocities committed against our Jewish people, merely a little over eighty years ago, would be a share of the past.

In recent months, following the horrific attacks against Yisraeli residents by Hamas terrorists, we have been hearing that slogan repeatedly echoed by many. These days, however, the phrase has morphed from "Never Again" to "Never Again is Now."

That, in my view, is unfortunate.

Should this motto of our People be confined strictly to the "here" and "now?" What happens when the "here" and "now" are over? Are we going to wake up to the call only when some other calamity, G-d forbid, befalls our People?

Learning the lessons of our history has been one of the most important tenets of our Jewish faith and tradition.

"Thou shall tell them to your children....,"  "Remember what Amalek did to you..." are but two examples of the directives repeatedly mentioned in our Tanach. "Never Again" is precisely the goal and the intended lessons of these commandments.

The phrase "Never Again" in the context of the Shoah (Holocaust), as quoted above, was first used in a 1961 documentary, "Mein Kampf," by a Swedish filmmaker, Erwin Leiser.
In it, over a shot of Auschwitz, Leiser, a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany, says, "It must never happen again -never again."

There might be, though, another possible source to this phrase.

In 1926, an Yisraeli poet by the name of Yitzhak Lamdan published a poem entitled "Masada." In one of the poem's passages, where he uses the imagery of th Hora, danced by young Zionists, Landman writes:

                  "Lift your legs,
                   Firm your knees,

                   More and more!

                   In the dance's circling chain
                   Never shall Masada fall again!"

Mount Masada, as those who are familiar with Jewish history, would know, was the last bastion of Jewish fighters against the Romans around 73 C.E.

The heroic story of Masada has become a source of pride to many Yisraelis. "Masada Shall Never Fall Again '' is part of the oath taken by some members of the Yisraeli military who pledge from its mountaintop to defend the Jewish state.

These words became one of the pillars of our Jewish consciousness and the Zionist ethos. Just as these two precepts are part of our Jewish essence past, present and future, so is the slogan "Never Again."

Confining these words to the "here" and "now" diminishes, in my opinion, their vitality and weakens the vow that similar cataclysms to those that happened to our ancestors shall not be repeated.

Restricting "Never Again" to the "here" and "now" might make them, in the words of Rabbi Sacks ZT"L, "sound more like ever again." 

What, then, is a better way to ensure that the sad parts of our Jewish history do not repeat themselves than to pledge "Never Again Is Always" rather than "Never again is Now?"

Shabbat Shalom, fellow Jews and a blessed weekend to all

Yom Kippur and Yisraeli Democracy

 

Yom Kippur is the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. I doubt that many will disagree.

For me, Yom Kippur bears a unique significance for a few reasons. It was a tradition in my family ever since I can remember. Its reverence vibrates in every part of my essence. In addition to its piety among our Jewish Holy Days, Yom Kippur also bears poignant sadness as it brings to the surface memories of the Yom Kippur war and its painful losses.

The observance of this sacred day is commanded in the Torah, in Vayikra (Leviticus 23:28-320: “You shall not perform any work on that very day…. and you shall afflict yourselves.” Furthermore, G-d warns that any disobedience will be followed by severe punishment and any person “who will not be afflicted on that very day, shall be cut off from its people. And any person who performs any work on that day, I will destroy that person from amidst its people.”

This, a few millennia old, directive, sounds appaling and scary, does it not? What a menacing scenario - the embodiment of theocratic dictatorship, so it seems.

The inevitable and eminent enforcement of that commandment is what some have tried to warn us against for close to a year. Yisrael, they keep parroting, is going to turn into a replica of Iran, G-d forbid.

Not quite.

On the Eve of Yom Kippur, as I was making my way to services in a nearby makeshift synagogue, dressed in white and immersed in the cloak of holiness, I watched my many fellow Yisraelis who were flocking the traffic free streets. While some were, like me, observing that commandment, others were playing with their children who were riding their bikes, some of which were electrical and enjoying themselves. A few were busy texting or speaking on their mobile telephones. Some were wearing shorts and dressed casually. I even noticed one or two drinking water out of plastic bottles. As I walked past them, I wished them “Chatima Tova,” the traditional greeting on that day. They responded in kind.

Having been warned, repeatedly, that religious dictatorship was upon us, I was surprised to see that none of the “disobedient” souls were scolded, stoned, or destroyed. My hawk eyes were searching for the secret “dress code police” ready to arrest the culprits. Alas, to no avail.

What I did sense, though, is what the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks termed as “The Dignity of Difference.”

As I approached the place of worship, I noticed many other folks entering it. They were young, they were old. They were dressed in the customary white attire while others were wearing torn jeans. Some women even entered it with their bare arms and shoulders exposed.

No one stopped them. No one scolded them. No one denied them entry, and no one sent them back home to change their garments. Surprisingly enough, even here the “theocratic dress police” was nowhere to be found.

“The Dignity of Difference,” was welcoming all who sought to pray indiscriminately.

Upon entering the room, as I always do, I seek a place in the women’s section (generally front row) and make myself comfortable. I personally prefer separate sections for men and women. Is it because of habit? Perhaps. Whatever the reason, I love it.

Before anyone jumps at me on that point, let me interject and add that separate seating for men and women is not the only setting available in Yisrael. A childhood friend of mine who wishes to sit next to her partner during prayer, elects to attend a reform synagogue. We continue to respect each other and accept our respective choices. Each to their own.

Indeed, there are those of us who continue to practice “The Dignity of Difference.”

Some parts of the service also include chanting. As a former singer, it is perfect for me. From what I know, some religious sectors bar women from joining in the invocation. They base it on Halachah. It is their choice and a difference that needs to be dignified. Exclusion of women is what a few elements in Yisrael have been warning and threatening us against. As I was singing, I stealthily checked around the hall in search for hints of the covert secret “religious police” lest its representatives come and arrest me for practicing my freedom of chanting.

Instead, “The Dignity of Difference” was smiling at me from every corner.

What did, however, catch my attention, admittedly for the first time, even though I have attended Yom Kippur services for many years, is one line, part of “Kol Nidrei,” a prayer which ushers in Yom Kippur. “Kol Nidrei” (All Vows) which is recited in Aramaic nullifies the binding nature of promises and vows in advance. They are declared invalid. All vows “are absolved, remitted, cancelled, declared null and void.” The line that struck me and sent shivers through my body is the one offering forgiveness to the entire congregation of am Yisrael and EQUALLY “to the stranger/foreigner who resides amongst them.”

Now, you tell me, dear readers, if that is not the epitome of “The Dignity of Difference.”

“The Dignity of Difference” amid members of any nation as well as towards the strangers amongst them is one of the most important pillars of any democracy. It is part of the Jewish D.N.A and is evident in almost every aspect that characterizes the modern-day State of Yisrael, the National Home of the Jewish People. Yom Kippur is but one example.

It is noteworthy to mention that the group which sets up these makeshift synagogues is “Herzliya Torah Center” (Garin Torani) headed by Tsachi Weiss. Tzachi and his team have been doing it for several years thus making participation in the High Holy Days accessible to all who wish to partake in them. The service is conducted by residents of Judea and Samaria who leave their homes and families during this special time of year to bestow upon us the blessing of the experience.

And what an experience it has been.

Chatima Tova to you, fellow Jews and Am Yisrael and a wonderful year to all.

 

 

Fleeing from Babylon

 

Two days ago, Yisrael marked the seventy fifth anniversary of the U.N. vote to divide Eretz Yisrael into Arab and Jewish states. That event prompted a wave of exodus of Jews from Arab countries to the modern-day State of Yisrael. Even prior to that historical event, many Jews had been forced to leave their homes in Arab countries because of violent attacks against their community. They became refugees, albeit, forgotten refugees. It is time to remind our fellow Jews and the world of that part of our history, lest we forget. This is the story of one person and her family.                                    

Rachel Hazan was born in Bahgdad, the capital of modern-day Iraq. Though her father’s family had originated in Iran, on her mother’s side the family had been there for as far as they can remember, possibly since the Babylonian exile following the destruction of the first Temple in Yerushalayim.

The Jews of Iraq had a momentous two-thousand-year-old history. They lived as an independent, homogeneous community which was not only a staunch guardian of Jewish tradition but added immensely to it.

During the 20’s and 30’s of the last century, this community influenced almost every aspect of the Iraqi society, primarily in the economic arena. It founded commercial bases in many of the middle eastern and far eastern ports as well as in Europe and north America.  Under the hegemony of King Faisal the first, Jews had conducted an orderly life and lived peacefully alongside their Arab neighbours. They regularly contributed to the social, literary, and scientific life of the Iraqi culture.

This was the world which Rachel was born into on an early day in the summer of 1925. She was the third child in a family of nine children.

As a young woman who was reared and raised in a conservative environment, Rachel was never sent to school. Her father who was a skilled carpenter, earned a good living and provided the family with all their needs. Other than sending her learning and mastering the skill of sewing, Rachel was destined to stay home and help her mother raise her younger brothers and sisters

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. The peace and tranquility which were the lot of the Iraqi Jews, ceased with the outbreak of WWII. As a result of the ascension of Nazism in Europe, coupled with the assassination of King Faisal, in 1937 and the pact between the Mufti, Hajj Amin al Husseini and Hitler, antisemitism reared its ugly head again. It also cascaded into Iraq and the surrounding countries in the Arab world.  

The Jews of Iraq were subjected to many harsh edicts that were imposed upon them. They were constantly harassed and threatened by their Arab neighbours. The attacks on them culminated in 1941 in what came to be known as the Farhud (Arabic term which means “pogrom” or “violent dispossession”). It erupted on June 1^st and lasted for two days. During that time, mobs assaulted Jews, Jewish businesses, and homes. According to the official report of the commission investigating the incident, “128 Jews were killed, 210 were injured, and over 1500 businesses were damaged.”

Fortunately, the Hazan family was spared any attacks of violence. Their neighbours with whom they were in very good relationships, protected and defended them.

Unfortunately for many other Iraqi Jews, most of their Arab neighbours were not as kind. They either, actively, partook in the attacks or simply stood idly and watched from afar.

The Farhud, as history illustrates, raised Jewish national awareness, and increased the number of Iraqi Jews who joined the Zionist organizations which operated as an underground movement and, eventually, prompted many Jews to emigrate to Yisrael. That desire did not escape the Hazan Family.

The first step towards making that move was initiated by her uncle Ya’acov. A short time after the Farhud, he decided to move his family to Yerushalayim in search of starting a new and better life there.

Noteworthy to mention here is that in those days, one passport was issued to all members of one family regardless of the number of siblings.

Taking advantage of such a rule, Ya’acov returned to Iraq and suggested that Ezra, Rachel’s oldest brother join him, as his son, and accompany him to Yerushalayim. A year and a half later, the Hazan family began to sell their assets, home, business, and many personal items. Part of that money was sent through one of their trustworthy Arab employees to Yisrael who, in turn, bought a plot of land for them in the Hatikvah neighbourhood of Tel Aviv. Her mother went to Basra, where her brother resided to apply for passports for the family. Naturally, they were prohibited from mentioning Yisrael as their destination.

Once their passports were in place, the plan of their route of escape to the promised land continued to be woven and started to take shape.

Since, as we all know too well, the British limited the number of Jews that were allowed to emigrate to Yisrael, Rachel and her family had an arduous and challenging project ahead of them. That is where the Jewish Agency which operated in Iraq in a clandestine manner entered the picture.

 To avoid any suspicion, the Agency advised Rachel’s father to move to Turkey first. From Turkey, the family traveled to Syria under the pretext of seeking medical treatment for Rachel and her sister Victoria. Since they had taken too much luggage along with them, the Agency relieved them of some and promised to deliver it to Yisrael where it eventually waited for them.

The family spent one week in Syria. From there, it crossed the border to Lebanon. In order to reach the Yisraeli Lebanese border, the family had to travel four hours by car and then on for six hours, not an easy mission for a family with eight children some of whom were still very young, including one baby.

Luckily, they were guided by a Jewish Iraqi police officer who was employed by the British but also worked for the Jewish Agency. The officer also happened to be the son of one of the Hazans’ close friends in Baghdad. It was his task to ensure that they cross the border from Lebanon to Yisrael and safely reach Kfar Gila’di which was situated near the border with only an asphalt road separating between the two places.

At that spot, however, there was also positioned a British Military base. Hence, one had to be overly cautious not to be noticed.

Much to their dismay, that was a rainy night which was interspersed with the occasional showers of heavy hail.

Just as they were all ready to cross the road to freedom, a British soldier came out of his tent, turned on his projector and inspected the area, as always, looking, mainly, for Jewish illegal immigrants who were trying to make their way to a home that had been given to them by a decree of the family of nations. Fortunately, they were able to hide in a pit alongside the road, in an angle that the British soldier’s projector missed.

Drenched, shivering hungry and covered with mud, they finally reached Kfar Gila’di where they were provided with a room, hot water, and a nutritious warm meal. The police officer who had escorted them could not stay with them. As an officer in the service of his royal highness, King George the VI, he had to pretend and act in a “business as usual” manner yet made sure that all their needs were satisfied.

After a few days, he arranged for them to be transported to the central bus stop in Haifa where they finally reunited with their uncle Ya’acov, his son Yoseph and their oldest brother Ezra whom they had not seen in a few years. The three had all moved to Tel Aviv a short while earlier.

Unfortunately, however, it was not yet time to breath a sigh of relief. It was almost Shabbat, when they eventually reached Haifa, and no buses were available to transfer them to Tel Aviv, their final destination. After a persistent persuasion process which lasted close to ten hours, a bus was finally furnished for the large family as well as for some other Jewish immigrants who had just arrived at the shores of their future Homeland.

For a whole year, following their arrival, the Hazan family lived in a tent which the father set up on the property that they had purchased earlier. Later, a hut, constructed of wood and stone, replaced the tent which was later succeeded by a comfortable house which stands there until this very day and where Rachel still resides.

Rachel is surrounded and wrapped by the love of her four children, thirteen grandchildren and twelve great grandchildren. We wish her many more years of abundant health, nachat and sheer bliss.

 

Note: By 1951, ten years after the Farhud, 92 percent of the Iraqi Jewish community had emigrated to the State of Yisrael.

Graf Potocki and Kiddush Hashem

 

The name “Graf Potocki” was a household name, at least during the years that I grew up in the early days of the State of Yisrael. It was generally used to describe someone who is very wealthy or one who lives beyond their means.

Kiddush Hashem (Sanctification of G-d), the second part of the titular name, as many Jews may know, is the act of suffering martyrdom rather than being disloyal to our Jewish faith and to our G-d.

What then, some may ask, are these two doing next to each other in the above heading? And why  write about it now?

The mystery shrouded life story of Graf Valentine Potocki was the subject of a thirty-year research conducted by Dr. Sophie Ben Artzi. Her book “The Felled Bough of Graf Potocki,” is a historical novel which shares the untold story of Valentine Potocki.

Born in 1700 in Vilna, Lithuania, he was the only son of a noble and prominent Catholic Polish family that was well known for its wealth and the many estates it owned including the city of Vilna. His parents, devout Catholics sent him to a seminary and were hoping to educate him for priesthood.

At some stage, tells us Ben Artzi, Potocki, together with another young friend were sent by the king on a secret mission to Paris. They ended up staying in Paris longer than expected and decided to attend university. During that time, they frequented a local tavern which was owned by an old Jewish man who used every available moment to study Torah. It was through this man that Valentine Potocki and his friend, were first introduced to Judaism.

Despite the prohibition to convert to Judaism, which according to Polish law was punishable, at that time, by death, Potocki decided to move to Amsterdam where he converted to Judaism. He became Avraham Ben Avraham.

Converting to Judaism did not mean just risking one’s life, as was the case with Potocki. It also entailed many sacrifices, breaking off relationships with family and friends as well as perhaps giving up a promising future – all to join an often despised and persecuted faith.

Subsequent to his conversion and resolved to keep his newly embraced religion, Potocki returned to Lithuania. He settled in the small town of Lida where he was hoping to evade as much as possible being recognized and identified. His own family, who initially believed him to be dead, learned about his conversion, enlisted its influential connections, and searched for him in the hope of bringing him back to Christianity.

One day, a fellow Jew, with whom Avraham was having a dispute, reported him to the authorities. Avraham was arrested, interrogated, and tortured terribly. He admitted to having converted to Judaism. Despite being offered a pardon, wealth, and honour in return for acknowledging Christianity, he adhered to his adopted faith until the moment that he was burned at the stake.

It happened on the 7^th day of Sivan, 24^th of May 1749. It was the second day of the Holy Day of Shavuot, when Jews commemorate the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai and which Jews, the world over, will be celebrating in less than a week

Jewish leaders warned members of their community not to leave their homes for fear of pogroms following Abraham's execution. Jews remained in their homes and the synagogues were empty. Only one Jew risked his life to be there next to Avraham ben Avraham.

It is said that Rabbi Alexander Ziskind, the author of Yesod Veshoresh Ha’avoda (The Foundation and Root of the Service [of G-d]) arrived and stayed with Avraham many hours before his death. Rabbi Ziskind's sole purpose for arriving was to ensure that there be at least one Jew to recite the Amen over the blessing uttered by Avraham, in front of the many gentiles who witnessed his heroic act. “Blessed are thou Lord, Our G-d who has sanctified us in His commandments and commanded us to sanctify His name,” were Avraham’s last words before he jumped into the fire.

The Catholic church which regarded the event as contemptuous, forbade the burial of his ashes. Only after one of the members of the community offered bribe  was part of his ashes  handed over and buried in the Jewish cemetery. It is said that Rabbi Eliyahu, the Vilna Gaon, requested to be buried next to to the burial place of Avraham the Righteous convert.

Rabbi Meir Kagan, Ha’Chafetz Chayim wrote about Avraham Ben Avraham, “If ten people were present to say Kadish when the righteous convert ZT”L was burnt at the stake, Mashiach would have come instantly.”

Yours truly was at the grave of the Vilna Gaon, I saw the sign indicating where Avraham ben Avraham’s ashes were laid to rest. It is hard to describe the feeling. I believe Dr. Ben Artzi describes it best in the following deeply moving words:

“It was a very constitutive moment for me. I felt a bright light erupting from the grave and illuminating the words which I have seen countless times in the past, ‘here are buried the ashes of a righteous convert, Avraham Ben Avraham.’ I do not how to express the moment in words, but I did shake all over. I knew the story…. But I never delved into it. Suddenly that sentence pulled me like magic chords.”

The Validation of Hope – the Core of Jewish Survival

 

         Pessimism is a luxury that a Jew can never allow himself – Golda Meir

Tragedy, unfortunately, is part of everyone’s life. Some heartbreaking experiences are more profound than others. All, however, touch us in every aspect of our life.

This week’s Parashah, Shmini, recounts a tragedy that befell Aharon, Moshe’s brother. The story is a mingle of great joy, cloaked with holiness but at the same time eclipsed and shrouded with loss and grief.

 It is the first of the month of Nissan and the dawning of a new day. Moshe and Bnei Yisrael are preparing to mark a great milestone in our history. After seven days of preparations and training,  Aharon and his sons are ready to receive the scepter of Priesthood, and the Mishkan (Tabernacle) is ready to be inaugurated.  

On the Eight day (Shmini) as Bnei Yisrael are gathering for the long-awaited ceremony, Moshe tells them, “For today, the Lord will appear to you” (Vayikra 9:4). He invites Aharon and his sons to offer a sacrifice to G-d. Shortly thereafter, the celebrations reach a climax with the spectacular appearance of the glory of G-d as fire came forth “from before the Lord and consumed upon the altar the burnt offering and the fat; and when all the people saw it, they shouted, and fell on their faces (Vayikra 9:24).

This spectacle full of reverence, bursting with holiness and ecstasy turns, in a flash, into a catastrophe. Without any warning “there came forth fire from before the Lord, and devoured” Avihu and Nadav, the sons of Aharon (10:2). G-d, it turns out, thy “offered unauthorized fire before the Lord, contrary to His demand” (10:1).

How does one respond to such a tragedy?

Moshe speaks first. “This is what the Lord spoke of when he said: ‘Among those who approach me, I will be proved holy; in sight of all the people I will be honoured’” (10:3). Rashi bases his interpretation of this verse on Midrash. According to him, “Moshe says to Aharon, ‘Aharon, my brother, I knew that the Mishkan will be sanctified by the presence of those who are close to G-d. I assumed that he meant either you or me; now I see that they (Nadav and Avihu) are greater than me and you.” In other words, the holier a person is, the greater are G-d’s exigencies of him.

Aharon remains silent. He is not complaining. He is not lamenting his bad fortune. His silence, in my view, reflects inner strength and the ability to confront difficult and painful realities.

Moshe moves on. He orders the removal of the bodies and briefs Aharon and his remaining sons about the laws of mourning. He also adds directives aimed at preventing the recurrence of such incidents and moves on to check if the sacrifices scheduled for that day were made.

Moshe turns to Aharon and tells him not to display publicly his mourning for fear that G-d may become angry with the entire community. “Know well,” he adds, “that your brethren, the entire House of Yisrael, shall bewail the burning that G-d has rekindled. Do not leave this place in the sanctuary,” he advises him, “for G-d’s anointing oil is upon you” (10:6-7). Aharon accepts Moshe’s words. His only concern, so it seems from verse 19, is that his silence not be interpreted as his possessing inhumane traits.

The psychological aspect of the exchanges between Moshe and Aharon, in the aftermath of the tragedy, is fascinating. In the first, Moshe, in his strong desire to console his brother who has just lost two sons, tells him that G-d “will display” His “holiness through those who come near” Him.

The second exchange is when Moshe directs the bereaved Aharon to remain in the Mishkan and continue to perform the duties of his role as Kohen Gadol (High Priest). One may understand Moshe’s words to mean that even though he feels Aharon’s pain, the latter is no longer a private person. On this critical day, the people need him to remain strong, guide them and conform to the role that he has been anointed to fulfill. Aharon, so it seems, is aware of the enormity of his position and despite his pain and anguish accepts it and resumes his duties, as prescribed by the protocol.

The intricacy of the account of this discourse captures, in my view, the essence of Jewish survival through our sanguineous history. Despite ongoing suffering, losses and death which have been the lot of our Jewish People, our desire to move on has never been extinguished. We have simply refused to give up. We could not afford to give up. The determination to ignite Hope at our darkest moments has been a beacon along the path of our historical timeline. It is the secret of our Jewish survival.

One modern day example which comes to mind and parallels the account of Aharon’s misfortune is the sad experience which befell the late general Raful (Refael Eitan) who was the IDF Chief of Staff, between the years 1978-1983. He was also very instrumental in planning and executing “Operation Opera,” the bombing of the Iraqi nuclear power plant in June 1981.

A month prior to the operation, his son Yoram, an IAF pilot was involved in a training accident. Raful was in Yerushalayim, in a government meeting, when it happened. Upon receiving the news, Raful left the meeting. He did not utter a word, just like Aharon in this week’s Parashah. His widow, Miriam, shared, years later, that Raful picked her from her office soon after he heard about the catastrophe but did not mention it until they reached their home. General Amos Yadlin, a pilot who partook in that operation, visited Raful’s home during the Shiv’a.  Just before Yadlin was about to leave, Raful caught him and said, “Don’t think that just because I am sitting Shiv’a, I will not come to the briefing.”

Like Aharon, Raful understood that he was not a private person and could not let his personal tragedy interfere with the important task that had been delegated to him. Yisrael needed him and counted on him just as Am Yisrael needed and counted on Aharon at the inauguration of the Mishkan. They were both entrusted and staunchly adhered to guiding and protecting Am Yisrael and the Jewish People as well as validating and keeping the spirit of Hope for a safer and better future for them.

Shabbat Shalom