Yiddish, anyone?

It was not easy growing up speaking Yiddish in the nascent state of Yisrael. The language evoked memories of the Diaspora and its recent tragedy of the Shoah, an experience that has forever changed the Jewish people.

It was my first language, the only one I could communicate through with my grandmother who never spoke Hebrew. It was also the language that drew much mockery, contempt and disdain by many. “That is the language of the Ghetto,” some suggested. “That is the language of those who went like a lamb to the slaughter house, without any resistance,” others yet never hesitated to contribute their two cents. I was called a “vusvus.” (what, what in Yiddish). I was called a “soap” since, after all, Yiddish was the language spoken by those, some of whom were targeted to become soap by the Nazi killing machine.

These condescending remarks, however, never deterred me. They had the opposite effect on me. “I am a daughter of two such ’lambs’,” I always came out in defense of Shoah victims. I saw their existence as a triumph. “It is the language of survivors,” I retorted. “in fact, Yiddish is the culture of survivors.” I was proud to speak it, to hear my grandmother’s Yiddish stories about shtetl life, to sing its songs and to laugh at its humour. “If not for Yiddish and its humour,” my late mother told me on more than one occasion, “I doubt that even those who had come out of the inferno would have. אז מעז הונגעריק זינגט מען אונד אז עס טוט ווי לאכט מען  (When you are hungry, you sing and when you hurt, you laugh) was our motto when we were in the Nazi camps,” she repeatedly told me. I adopted this motto.

Years later, when I lived in Texas, I taught a Yiddish course in one of the synagogues as part of an adult education program. I always started the lesson with a humourous anecdote about life in the shtetl. On one occasion, I had to travel out of town and asked another teacher to cover for me. “Why have you been teaching them only about the wonderful aspects of shtetl life?” she asked me upon my return. ”Why don’t you teach them about the hunger, the poverty, the anti-Semitism?” I did not need time to think of an answer. “That, they can read about in any encyclopedia,” I told her. ”The purpose of my course is to teach them how the Yiddish language and culture helped Jews overcome some of the darkest chapters in our Jewish history. This is what Yiddish is for me, this is what Yiddish was for many, a survival tool.”

Unfortunately, not many are aware that the Yiddish culture which nearly became extinct since so many of its members were brutally eradicated, was also blessed with great writers, poets, philosophers and thinkers. My daughter and I had the honour to have had a glimpse at it when we attended a two month Yiddish course at the University of Vilna, in Lithuania.

Vilna housed one of the largest Ghettos during the early years of WWII. The Ghetto library, full of Yiddish books, was one of its busiest centers. One hundred thousand books, per month, were checked out at one point of its existence. The Yiddish culture was the residents’ sustenance, their elixir and sliver of hope during those difficult years.

So yes, Yiddish it is for me. I still learn it, read it, speak it and sing it. I vowed that as long as I am alive, it will live on with me and through me. My parents taught it to me, I taught it to my daughter and I intend to teach it to my grandchildren. After all, isn’t remembering, keeping our heritage alive one of the tenets of Judaism? Is it not what Exodus 13,8 commands us where it says, “And you shall tell your son. וְהִגַּדְתָּ֣ לְבִנְךָ֔” ?

Have Jews learned anything from the story of Purim?

Years ago, when I lived in the US, I purchased an ancient Megillat Esther, the scroll of the Book of Esther. It was a fragile piece written by an expert scribe on leather that bore the marks of time. I had no doubt that this piece of Judaica crossed my life’s path for a reason. I decided to have it framed and displayed on my wall for all who come to my home to see.

When I went to the frame shop, the framer asked me, which part of the Megillah I would like to have shown since parts of the scroll had to remain rolled. It was then that I realized why I was destined to own this treasured piece of rare Judaica. The teacher in me realized that it cradled a very important message for all Jews. That made the choice easy.

The part of the scroll that I selected to remain revealed was where Haman drew a lot (Purim) to determine the day in which the Jews of ancient Persia would be killed. I knew my choice was right when the framer asked me, “Out of curiosity, why did you choose that section of the scroll?”
“You see,” I explained to her, “there is a lesson, one of the few lessons of Purim that we Jews should have learned. That lesson is hidden in plain view in the part of the Megillah that I depicted.”

I briefly shared with her the background to the story of Purim and asked her, “If anyone told you that they were going to kill you and specifically listed the date for it, what would you do?”
“I would run for my life,” she answered immediately, wondering where my question was leading to.
“Indeed,” I rushed to answer, “especially when the Jews of ancient Persia had  a haven to escape to.” She seemed perplexed. “Escape to where?” she asked. A brief lesson in history was in place. In as succinct a manner as possible, I recapped the chain of events that preceded the story of Purim. I mentioned Cyrus the Great who granted the Jews the right to return to Eretz Yisrael from their exile in Babylon along with a commission to rebuild the Temple.

“Unfortunately,” I concluded, “that is precisely what the Jews of Persia did not do. They preferred to remain there and wait for a miracle.” Luckily for them, the turn of events was miraculous at that point in Jewish history. “But, as our Jewish history has proved,” I sighed, “miracles have not always been in abundance.”

There were other occasions in Jewish history where the writing was on the wall and in big letters yet Jews refused to apply past lessons. “Remember the Spanish Inquisition?” I continued my swift walk through Jewish history.

By a decree of the Papal court which was implemented by Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile beginning in 1478,” I continued, “any Jew who refused to convert and did not leave Spain was executed by the Crown with Papal approval. Only fourteen years later, when expelled, all practicing Jews left Spain. As promised, those who did not were executed.

A similar decree was issued by the Czar of Russia who in the 1800’s dealt with the “Jewish problem” in “three ways, conversion, emigration and destruction. Through a series of harsh decrees, Jews would convert to Russian Orthodoxy, emigrate out of Russia or face destruction.”
Its message remains the same. Fortunately, Russia of that time was very corrupt and in many ways, Jews could finesse their ways out of these edicts either by paying bribes or changing their last name. “Had the Czar’s decrees been enforced with a consistent hand for a long period, they would have almost undoubtedly accomplished their purpose.”

Apparently, these decrees were not enough to warn Jews about the upcoming storms that would devastate their communities in Russia. The period between 1903 and 1907, proved to be of great internal unrest in Russia. It also proved disastrous for the Jewish community. It suffered through 284 pogroms with over 50,000 deaths. It was only then that Jewish mass immigration started.  Between 1881 and 1914 “some 50,000 or more Jews left every year to an estimated total of 2.5 million Jews.” A lesson finally learned albeit a little too late. (http://www.aish.com/jl/h/cc/48956806.html).

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My own recent family history is yet another proof that the lesson of Purim had not been mastered by the Jews. My maternal grandfather, Ben-Zion, a wealthy and highly educated practicing Jew failed it. Being the only family in their town to have owned a radio, my maternal family should have been the first one to have learned the lesson of Purim. Hitler’s voice carrying his passionate speeches was heard loud and clear by its members every night. His constant threats to clean Europe of its Jews, unfortunately, went unheeded. “Poland is the Land of Milk and Honey,” my grandfather used to say as he brushed off those vile speeches. “It will never happen here.”

Obviously, he was wrong.

I think of him each time I pass by my framed Megillah. I think of all the Jews throughout our sanguine history who failed to learn its lesson. I hope I have.

Wishing you all a joyous and meaningful Purim.