“I hate them,” he said, with quiet conviction.
“Who do you hate?” I probed.
“Them. The Palestinians. I hate them.”
It was at that moment I realized that I held in my hands a pivotal moment. My response had the potential to shape my children’s lifelong attitudes regarding Israel and her neighbors.
I used to be more of a peacenik. I believed that both sides had legitimate points and (relatively) equal rights to the land of their ancestors. But as time has passed, it has gotten more and more difficult for me to have compassion for those on the opposing side.
We Jews have a historical right to the land. It was promised to us by God; hence the moniker, The Promised Land. But it would be inaccurate to deny that there were other peoples living there even at the time of the Bible. If “Joshua Fit De’ Battle Ob Jericho,” as the Negro spiritual goes, there must have been someone with whom to battle. To pretend that there was not a sizable and deeply-rooted Arab population in the land is both foolish and simply wrong.
The time period leading up to the establishment of the sovereign State of Israel in 1948 is fraught with geopolitical missteps and gaffes that charted this current course for disaster. From the very beginning of Israel’s existence, she has been under near-constant threat from enemies, both external and internal, always having to defend her right to exist to the international community. Along the way, decisions made by Israel’s government have contributed to, though not caused, the untenable situation.
And then there is the fact that none of the surrounding Arab countries have done anything to help the Palestinian people.
And then there is the reality that the Palestinian people have continually chosen leaders who have their very own selfish and self-serving interests at heart.
And then there is the inevitability that years of oppression, whether real or perceived, whether by Israel or their own leaders, has instilled a hatred and resentment in the Palestinian people that locks them in this vicious cycle of violence.
And none of that matters in this moment because I have this one opportunity to give the “right” answer.
“No, you mustn’t think that. You must never think that.”
And I say that because I don’t want to become like “them.” Like the terrorists. The ones who have so little regard for human life that they knowingly and willingly place their weapons among their most innocent and vulnerable. The ones who choose to use the money given from the international community to increase their firepower rather than build up a healthy infrastructure for their own people.
They are Hamas.
“If you want to hate someone, my dear children, hate them. Hate the haters. Hate the murderers. Hate the terrorists. They are the ones who have been shooting rockets into Israel for your entire lifetimes. They are the ones whose actions allow just 15 seconds for kids like you to run to bomb shelters. But feel only compassion for the innocents who are being used for political gain. Feel empathy for the children whose government builds weapons that will kill them rather than shelters that will protect them.”
Is this an oversimplified response? Is it a white-washed one? Yes, to both.
There will be time enough to revisit this situation and its nuances now – please God – the fighting has ceased.
But my children are still young. And they are still impressionable. And above all else, I want them to cling to the Jewish ideal that all life is sacred. Even the lives of our enemies. So I show them footage of the humanitarian aid that the IDF safely transfers over the border with Gaza. We read stories about the injured brought into Israel and cared for by Israeli medical professionals. We see pictures of military actions that are halted when intelligence indicates that the loss of human life is too great to justify them.
Because the moment that we regard all Palestinians with hate, we will have lost our own humanity. And that would make us no different than the terrorists.
When selecting a name for our youngest child, I was campaigning hard for “Jedediah” should the baby be a boy. The diminutive form, “Jed,” sounds so strong and I was taken by meaning of this name, “God’s beloved.” It seemed to be a wonderful name to bestow upon a child. But, like with so many things, my husband provided the voice of common sense and gently persuaded me to rethink my choice. “Though the Hebrew “Yedidyah” sounds beautiful, “Jedediah” might make things a bit rough on the playground.” And so, our third child carries the name “Jacob.”
It is a beautiful name. And one that he wears well. He is a Jacob. Never Jack nor Jake. Only his sister, and only on the rarest of occasions, may call him “Jakey.” His nickname, Koby (from Yaakov), is one that he accepts only from family members. Jacob wears his name so well that it seems ridiculous that we ever considered anything else.
Jacob is the youngest of three children. Lillian, the aforementioned sister, is our proverbial middle child. And Benjamin is our first-born. Benjamin, however, is not like other first-borns. He has Asperger’s Disorder — a high-functioning form of autism. It is a condition that radically affects the family dynamics.
In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Toldot, Rebekah seeks an answer as to why her pregnancy is so difficult. God responds,
“Two nations are in your womb,
Two separate peoples shall issue from your body;
One people shall be mightier than the other,
And the older shall serve the younger.”
And the older shall serve the younger.
How many times had I read that passage without making the connection.
There are things that at five years of age Jacob can do and accomplish that Benjamin, at twelve, cannot do or has only just learned. Watching Jacob move easily from each newly-acquired skill to the next, we catch glimpses of his older versions. The day will come when Jacob will surpass Benjamin socially and otherwise. It is a day that is anticipated with both pride and sadness.
As parents, we must constantly remind ourselves to regard each of our children independently. Benjamin, Lillian, and Jacob have their own strengths and weaknesses. They have interests, both shared and separate. It is difficult — painful, even — to see Benjamin lag behind his siblings. Yet, to wish that Jacob will always remain behind his brother is unrealistic and unfair. And so we celebrate Jacob’s development even as he bypasses Benjamin’s abilities. It is bittersweet.
But bypassing and surpassing are not the same as supplanting. Jacob’s name means “to supplant” and there are times it seems as though his “normalcy” will jettison him into the role of older brother. But we cannot neglect the meaning of Benjamin’s name: “son of my right [hand].” Benjamin, my sweet Benjamin, is my first-born. It is by him that I became a parent. It is through him that I learned to see the world with new eyes. Though our lives are challenged in countless ways by his autism, he cannot be replaced as the child of my soul.
Our matriarch, Rebekah, put so much stock into the phrase …the older shall serve the younger that she forgot one of the cardinal rules of motherhood; no one can truly take the place of one’s first born child. At least, no one should.
When I was growing up, a common group activity to do with Jewish teens was some sort of values clarification. One such example might be “the world is about to come to an end and you have been chosen to colonize a distant planet. What five items would you bring with you?” Another favorite was “if you had to choose just one item to save from your burning house, what would it be?” Both questions, while eliciting some interesting discussion, seemed so far-fetched as to be bordering on the ridiculous.
Yet now, with Hurricane Sandy bearing down on so many, the question of what to take versus what to leave behind is a very real one.
The American Red Cross, FEMA, and other agencies have available lists to help families and individuals prepare for emergency situations/evacuations. But not one of these lists address the spiritual needs. As I filled water-resistant bins with emergency provisions, batteries, flashlights, and the like, I made certain to include my favorite siddur, some kippot, and a book of Psalms. Long recited during times of distress, my book of Psalms has gotten me through some really dicey times. Just the feel of it in my hands brings down my blood pressure. Our tallitot, Shabbos candlesticks, ketubah, and a few of our children’s favorite picture books made the cut as well as they will bring them some comfort as the gusts rattle our home.
Dearest God, Whose Power and Might fill the world,
I thank you for the shelter of my home.
I thank you for technology that provides us time to prepare.
I thank you for the kind folks at Sesame Street for creating a video to ease my children’s fears. And mine too.
And I thank you for the promise of the rainbow.
Barukh ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melekh HaOlam, oseh ma-asei v’reisheet.
Praised are You, Sovereign of the Universe, Who does the the work of Creation.
With the intensity of our Fall Holy Days behind us, we find ourselves now in the month of Cheshvan. Known as Mar Cheshvan, or “bitter Cheshvan,” it is the only month on our calendar devoid of festivals or fast days. And it is for that reason that many have assumed it was given its alternate name.
Yet, exploration into the etymology of the word Cheshvan presents a shocking discovery; we have been mispronouncing the name. The names of our Hebrew months were derived from their Babylonian counterparts. Given that we were in Babylonia at the time our calendar was codified, it makes perfect sense. With Nissan being the head of the liturgical calendar, the month in question is the eighth month. Because in Akkadian, the language of the day, the “w” (vav) and “m” (mem) sounds can interchange, we see that Marcheshvan which is from the two words “m’rach” and “shvan,” would have been “warh” and “shman,” in Akkadian, corresponding to the Hebrew “yerech shmi- ni,” thus “eighth month.” Ashkenazic tradition incorrectly places a break in the name, “Mar-cheshvan.” Our Yemenite coreligionists have retained greater accuracy in their pronunciation “Marach- sha’wan.” Furthermore, Rashi (11th century, France), the Rambam (12th century, Spain, Egypt), and Ibn Ezra (11th century, Iberian Peninsula) all use the complete name, indicating the longer name as the known name.
And yet historical “truth” ought not invalidate the wisdom that might lurk within the folds of folk etymology. For a certain Cheshvan seventeen years ago turned bitter when the Israeli Prime Minister was murdered at the hands of a fellow Jew.
As my hand reached for the handle, the front door swung open . My father’s face was ashen as he met me at the door to deliver the horrific news, praying that I had not been listening to the radio. Yitzchak Rabin, z”l had been assassinated at a peace rally in Tel Aviv. Moments before his murder, he stood on the dais and, with pop star, Miri Aloni, sang these words:
“…So just sing a song for peace, don’t whisper a prayer; Just sing a song for peace, in a loud shout…”
And then, with seemingly-prophetic words still in his coat pocket, the assassin’s bullet tore through him and stole him from us.
The twelfth of Cheshvan. Set aside to celebrate my engagement to Warren with family and friends. What should have been one of the happiest nights of my life was marred by this terrible tragedy. Such an awful, awful night. For me and my family, it was surreal as we numbly maneuvered through a group of oblivious party-goers. The unrequited joy of the evening forever intertwined with a horrific reality.
And though peace seems less possible today than it did seventeen years ago, somehow we must continue to sing and to shout for that peace…
Perhaps there will come a day when the bitterness of this month will be no more. Until then, we pray and we hope and we find ways to bring sweetness to this world.
Keyn y’hi ratzon — May this be God’s Will.
Tell Your Friends:
I don’t know how or when it happened. But somehow, in the not too distant past, the pinnacle of the Simchat Torah celebration moved from the Hakafot and Torah readings to a new, and visually-impressive, presentation — the unrolling of the Torah in its entirety.
More and more congregations have embraced it and I find it both perplexing and troubling.
Traditionally, the Torah is treated as if it is nearly alive. It is NOT alive, but we accord her a great deal of respect. We do not touch the parchment as the oils from our hands will rub away the ink and render it unusable. When we open the scroll for a reading, we open it not more than three columns in order to maintain some semblance of modesty. If we are moving the Torah from one location to another, we would not place her in the trunk. Rather, the scroll would ride inside the car. Nor would we leave the Torah in the car overnight. If a Torah is rendered unusable, we bury her. We stand when the Torah is removed from the ark (Kitzur Shulchan Aruch 28:3). And, God-forbid, should the Torah should be dropped, the one who dropped her is required to fast. As are those who have witnessed the incident (Orach Chayim 3:3).
Unrolling a Torah in its entirety seems to defy our customary ways of handling the scroll.
What is troubling is that there are long-standing rituals associated with Simchat Torah. The Shulkhan Arukh, not to mention a number of Sages, provide clear instructions regarding the ways in which we read the scrolls on this festival. Why toss out the mandated practices only to replace them with something new?
Innovation can be a wonderful thing. It keeps stasis at bay. It seems to me, however, that unrolling the Torah is simply a gimmick to get folks interested in participating. When I read descriptions of this practice as “the highlight of the Simchat Torah experience,” I am saddened. Saddened that we have become so jaded that our traditions are perceived to be both uninspiring and antiquated. Saddened that we seek more thrilling, more “meaningful” rites. Perhaps that is what so compelling about Chabad. They are seen as delivering “the real thing” rather than re-branding it or re-imagining it. How is it, then that instead of seeming outdated, the ways in which they practice their Judaism are seen as “authentic”?
*this post appeared on RJ.org in 2010. The discussion that followed in the comments are worth a read.
The New Year of 5773 is upon us. Rosh Hashanah (the head of the year) is known by several names including Yom HaZikaron (the Day of Remembrance), Yom Teruah (a day of sounding [the shofar]), and Yom HaDin (the Day of Judgement), and Yoma Arikhta (a single long day).
“A single long day.” An odd description for our new year. Is Rosh Hashanah a one-day holiday? Is it a two-day holiday? Or, as the rabbis suggest, is it simply one, very long day?
To better understand why some Jews observe one day of Rosh Hashanah and other festivals while others observe two days, it helps to have a basic understanding of the Jewish calendar. Of course, the word ‘basic’ ought not to be used with such a complex subject as calendrical issues are some of the most difficult to grasp. Perhaps straightforward is a better choice and a very straightforward explanation of why extra festival days are observed may be found here.
At the start of our holy days, it is custom to recite the Shehecheyanu, the blessing that thanks God for enabling us to reach this season. And since the additional day that is added to the beginning of our festivals might actually be the accurate first day (again, please see here for the straightforward explanation), we say that blessing on the second day as well. However, if Rosh Hashanah is really one long day, does the Shehecheyanu need to be recited on the second night? The answer is yes. Sort-of.
Yes, we say the Shehecheyanu on the second night of Rosh Hashanah. But because the Rabbis regarded the two days as one continuous day, and they didn’t like to waste blessings, the custom arose of either eating a new fruit or wearing new clothing on the second day — both experiences that require the recitation of the Shehecheyanu.
So today, may you enjoy the sweetness of a fruit new to you or new for this season. May you enjoy your new shul clothes. And may this one, very long day be filled with awe as we enter this new year.