The Inevitable Law of Life and Death: Chukat.24

 

The Inevitable Law of Life and Death

D’var Torah for Parashat Chukat

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

July 13, 2024

Life and death, both fused into one image: A perfectly red heifer. This is the first topic that appears in this week’s Torah portion, Chukat ("Law," Numbers 19:1—22:1). 

The ritual of the Red Heifer (parah aduma) has puzzled commentators for centuries and has come to represent the ultimate unknown and unexplainable. Probably going back to the earliest days of humanity, the concept embodied by the red heifer is baffling in itself. The very name of the animal (parah—the Hebrew word for cow) means alive and fruitful. Conversely, adumah—the color red—represents both blood, the life stream of all that is alive, as well as all that is evil. Adom (the color red in Hebrew) is the thread that connects us both to the best and worst within us: Adam is not only the first human being, but also the father of all humanity; adama is the Earth itself. Adom stands not only for life and love, but also for hate and lust. In folklore and superstition, a crimson thread is often used to ward off evil. In the Torah, Edom, a word derived from the same root, is cited as one of the names of Esau and his descendants. Esau, as we might recall, is the twin brother of Jacob, born to Isaac and Rebecca. As a result of Jacob’s stealing the birthright (a harsh word for what actually transpired, but seen that way by Esau), Esau takes an oath to kill Jacob. For the early Rabbis, Esau’s name became synonymous first with the Greeks and Romans, and ultimately with all others intent on killing Jews and obliterating Judaism. 

In the Torah, the ritual of the red heifer is the most extraordinary of all sacrifices. Most unusually, it was not performed at the altar, but rather outside the Israelite settlement. Additionally, unlike all other sacrifices—which were performed either by the High Priest (on Yom Kippur) or by other priests (on all other occasions)—the killing and burning of the red heifer were carried out by a non-priest. A priest, however, was to add hyssop, cedar wood and crimson yarn to the fire. The ashes were then mixed with water and set aside “in a pure place outside the camp.” The mixture had one specific purpose: to purify a person who had come in immediate or even casual contact with death. 

Finally, every officiant in this ritual was deemed ritually “impure,” unable to participate in religious and social events for the rest of the day.

In every respect, this complicated ritual fuses elements of the holy and profane. Well into the first millennium BCE, death was seen not only as the end of life, but also as the limit and extent of God’s Presence. In other ancient religions, Death was the realm of another deity. The living had no access to the dead, and the dead had no recourse to the Divine. In Psalms 6:6 (in English translations, 6:5) we read: “For in death there is no remembrance of You; in the grave who will give You thanks?” Likewise in Ps. 115:17: “The dead do not praise [Adonai], nor any who go down into silence” (NKJV).  

In I Samuel we read of King Saul—with the help of the Witch of Endor—evoking the spirit of the dead prophet Samuel. This fits into the belief of the time that the spirits of the dead resided in a nether region of the world, unreachable except by magic powers. However, as Jewish philosophy expanded beyond pagan beliefs so did Judaism broaden the realm of God’s Presence.

All that, however, is conjecture. Anything beyond reason and ration, anything that could not be explained, was up to speculation and philosophy. Yet death was—and is—real. The grief, shock and all other emotions that it raises in us are real and lasting. These can be devastating and debilitating, but just as powerful is the realistic need to move on, to carry on with life alongside all its obligations and responsibilities, as well as its blessings and joys.

With the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem the sacrifice system ended. The need to recuperate and rise from mourning and grief, however, did not cease. Jewish tradition evolved into the process we follow today—shiv’a (the first seven days of intense grief), sh’loshim (the first month, a time of transitioning back to “regular” life), followed by yahrzeit, the annual commemoration of the anniversary of the passing. Grief specialists may be called on to help those who are unable to let go of their grief even after this process.

Such is the depth and extent of grief, which places an individual outside and apart from their community; an emotion that one is often incapable of surmounting alone, that necessitates rituals and the consolation offered by an outside source—be it priest or layman, an individual and/or the community.

Humanity is a blend of the holy and profane. The ritual of the Red Heifer reflects this complexity. Life and death, love and hate, lust and repulsion, all were merged together in order to create a path forward, to enable us to affirm life alongside all its paradoxes and contradictions.  

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Day After July Fourth 2024: America at the Crossroads

The Day After July Fourth 2024: America at the Crossroads

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

July 5, 2024

Freedom comes with a price tag.

When we hear these words we usually think of those who paid the highest price, who gave their lives in the service of our country. We salute them, we place flags at their graves, and then, with hearts made heavier by our memories, we walk on. We move on; we live our lives to the fullest. And that is as it should be.

But what we don’t always think about is the price that we, the ordinary citizens, must pay for our freedoms. 

Nothing in life is free. We know that. Life owes no one anything. All that we can hope for is—hopefully—the outcome of the love and work we put into what we do. And yet we see freedom as a gift, our inheritance and legacy, even a human right. 

We Americans flaunt our political freedoms: We get to choose our leaders; the system allows for more than one party—in fact in a vibrant democracy like Israel there can be a dozen or more political parties—and we don’t have to choose between voting for the official Party or losing our jobs. In fact, we are free to host a candidate of our liking for an in-house meeting, join the party that best represents our interests, or even run for office ourselves.

But as with every choice we make, there are always consequences. We’ve seen before how a leader elected by large popular vote can turn into a dictator. A general can crown himself emperor; a “Chairman” or “Secretary” can turn into a blood-thirsty maniac. The Founding Fathers thought of these prospects as they wrote the Constitution, envisioning not a perfect government, but rather one that would best serve the majority, yet without shunning or restricting the rights of others. 

Yet throughout American history, equality could not be taken for granted. For the first two hundred years of independence, the right of women and Blacks to vote were restricted or even outright denied. Winning these basic human rights has not been easy. Ideologues, extremists and bigots escalate the struggle for power and turn it into a shouting, and sometimes violent, match. 

As with other minorities, Jews were also not always welcome in American public life. Well into the 1950’s, Jews were excluded from certain schools and country clubs, even from living in certain areas of town. All that despite the fact that America’s first President, George Washington, in a letter dated 18 August 1790 and addressed to the Hebrew Congregation in Newport, Rhode Island (the Touro Synagogue), wrote: “May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and figtree , and there shall be none to make him afraid.” This letter gave direction to what eventually (and however slowly) became the official policy of the United States towards Jews.

And yet present events have shown that we are still not there. Jews are not unafraid today. We are again, and still, finding ourselves excluded from various groups, institutions and, often, public discourse.

Historically, there is precedence to this phenomenon. It’s called anti-Semitism. Deeply rooted in religion, culture and philosophy, anti-Semitism is a recurrent experience which periodically bursts through conventional niceties. It’s supported by bigots and extremists, and taken advantage of by corrupt, power-hungry individuals who, at times of uncertainty, see the anger and frustration around them as a perfect opportunity to advance themselves.

But while dangerous in itself, anti-Semitism is symptomatic of an even greater peril: Historically, anti-Semitism has often been a precursor to the disintegration and downfall of entire countries and empires.

In this week’s Torah portion, Korach (Numbers 16:1—18:32) we find an example of the kind of power struggle that can lead to disaster. Some of us may remember the story of Korach from the 1956 movie The Ten Commandments, where it is retold in stunning visuals, forming the conclusion of the movie, right before the epitaph that then declares: “So it is written, so it shall be done.” 

But whereas the movie emphasizes the religious aspect of Korach’s rebellion—the dire consequences of rebelling against God and God’s chosen leaders—the message of this portion is actually much broader. As with so much of the Torah, the lesson here is also about us human beings, and how easily we can be led us astray by our passions and by corrupt leaders.

Korach is greedy and manipulative. While supposedly advocating for the rights of all people, he lists among his grievances the undue power and authority supposedly grabbed for themselves by Moses and Aaron: “You take too much upon yourselves, for all the congregation is holy, every one of them, and [the Eternal] is among them. Why then do you exalt yourselves above the assembly of [the Eternal]?” (Num. 16:3, NKJV). 

Korach is in a good place to claim a portion of this power for himself. He is privileged, a member of the Kohathites, the family of Levites to which Moses, Aaron and Miriam also belong. He feels unjustly relegated to a secondary role. And at a time when the Israelites are uncertain of their own faith, leadership and direction, Korach stirs their feelings of anger and frustration to the boiling point, hoping to become the new leader of the people himself. 

We face a similar situation in America today. Contesting religions and philosophies are striving for dominance; extremists sway undue power over government officials and leaders, and even in educational institutions. Politicians are often too afraid of numbers and polls, of losing money and influence, to stand up for law and civility. The difference between the Korach story and our own is that, unfortunately for us today, there doesn’t seem to be a visionary such as Moses, who will redirect us to our common—and vital—goals. 

The story of Korach isn’t only about a rebellion against God. It’s about realpolitik. It’s a cautionary tale about losing our way in the wilderness and the dangers of placing corrupt, divisive and manipulative groups and individuals in powerful positions.

In the Torah, it takes Divine intervention (and a shining example of human bravery and courage on the part of Aaron, the High Priest) to stop the rebellion and the ensuing conflagration. We however can’t afford to wait for this to happen—nor would we want to. What we call “acts of God” are actually notoriously destructive. What we need today is to find the courage within ourselves to stand up for what is right. In a democracy, it’s sometimes up to the us, the “We, the people,” the constituents who elected our officials: to rise against hatred and violence; to teach and to explain; to support those individuals and organizations that support us; to expect law agencies to enforce the law; and to demand that balance and reason become part of the public discourse again.

This is the lesson I take from this week’s study of Korach, coinciding this year with the Fourth of July 2024. Participation in our institutions, in our body politic, sometimes through donations of money and other times with time and effort, is the price we pay for our freedom. It’s our choice to sit back, do nothing and let divisiveness and hatred define the new us. Or we can take it upon ourselves to work even harder towards the goal of justice and equality for all. 

America is at a moral and even existential crossroads today. What it will be tomorrow is up to each and every one of us today.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

On the Meaning of Freedom: July 4 2024

 On the Meaning of Freedom

Thoughts on the Fourth of July 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Happy Fourth of July! An important date in American and world history. Unlike any other country in the world, this country was created upon a set of principles, based on the belief that all people are created equal. (A belief that Judaism already taught more than 3000 years earlier). Democracy as a social order is a working-out of this philosophy. It is far from perfect. On the one hand, democracy enables each of us to reach our potential and to participate in all aspects of life and society. Problem is, it doesn't always work out that way. Not everybody is given the same opportunities, and we know well the power that some groups have--and use--to suppress others groups. If power corrupts, then the distribution of power among some (but not all) corrupts exponentially. Still, through the years, this new nation has managed to live up to its principles. Not that the work is finished. We are the builders of the future, and our participation in American life and culture today is essential for generations to come. That's where the real power of democracy lies: in giving everyone a part to write and play in the story of life. And that's what America stands for today, and must remain for all time. The Statue of Liberty has always been not only a beacon of hope for many, but also symbol of a land that stands by and for the highest principles of humanity: justice and equality; dignity and respect.

This is the vision that today, possibly more than ever, we must continue working towards.

Happy birthday America, may you thrive and continue bearing the torch of liberty for all humanity.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

To Live by Torah: Shavuot.2024

To Live by Torah: Shavuot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

June 11, 2024

In Israel today it is the eve of the holiday of Shavuot. Shavuot is a joyful holiday, with deep meaning for many. For school children, it signifies the end of the school year, the beginning of summer; it’s about dripping ice cream cones, cool watermelon slices whose sweet juice runs down your chin and chest, the beach and open swimming pools.

When I was a schoolchild so long ago, the week or two before the holiday, incoming summer air would bring in warmth and dreams of freedom through the windows of our classroom. I would daydream about going to the library, checking out a few books to read on hot summer afternoons, perched in treetops where the shade would provide cover and a cooling breeze… only to be awakened and brought back to reality by the teacher calling out my name, “Boaz!” Only she wouldn’t be referring to me personally, but rather to the noble character in the Book of Ruth, which is traditionally studied at this time of the year. I would groan and think to myself, “only two more weeks, two more weeks till freedom!”

Also called also Chag ha-Bikurim, “Holiday of the First Fruit,” we celebrated Shavuot by bringing in baskets of fruit to school, to be shared with the needy—there were always the needy: new immigrants from Europe, Yemen, Iraq, or just those unlucky ones who never found their calling, never managed to hold a job down, or a family, or a house no matter how cozy and intimate.

Shavuot was the start of the season of contentment, when the ground, once abandoned, arid and rocky, now yielded its plentiful best to us. Traveling by train from Netanya to Tel Aviv (where my grandparents lived) I would stick my head out the open window and breathe in the smell of the fertile earth; I would see the cows in the pastures that passed us by, looking at us with wide eyes while chewing their cud; the sheep and goats herded by Bedouin boys near their spread-out tents on the wide-open fields.

Through the open windows of religious schools, the sounds of Torah study would ring out all around as you walked through Jerusalem or some other, older neighborhoods. Shavuot after all celebrates the giving of the Torah to the Jewish People.

From almost all kitchens wafted the smell of fresh baked cheesecake—a traditional dessert signifying the sweet bounty of life.

Fast forward several decades now, to Erev Shavuot 2024, a day that began with tears: the sad announcement that four more IDF fighters had fallen in the fighting, with several others injured.

The study of Torah is intended to bring peace to the world, a teaching that many of us believe literally—but which life and reality sometimes harshly contradict. Under a constant barrage of missiles and drones, the northern portion of the Galilee is almost vacant of its inhabitants, its fields and orchards burning, with few workers left to pick whatever fruit is still hanging from the trees. Fighting still continues in Gaza, adding even more waste and destruction to the layers of horror and tragedy brought about by the brutal October 7 massacre. It was Simchat Torah that day—like today, a holy day devoted to the celebration of the Torah. Yet now, eight months later, that celebration is still dimmed, the letters of the Torah blurred, its message of peace almost completely wiped out by tears and blood.

It is a mitzvah—a sacred commandment—for Jews to come to the aid of fellow Jews. Moses had permitted the tribes of Reuben, Gad and Manasseh to settle east of the Jordan River only on the condition that they would come to help their fellow Israelites if and when they were beset by enemies. In the 12th century, Maimonides, to this day still considered the foremost compiler and interpreter of halakha (Jewish law), ruled that “It is a mitzvah for all Jews who are able to come and help defend their brethren to do so,” going even further to add that “it is forbidden to delay their coming until after Shabbat” (Mishneh Torah 2:23).

For the past 8 months we have been seeing this decree in action, with volunteers rising to help in any way they can, in Israel or elsewhere around the world. 

Not surprisingly, a large number of the IDF fighters come from an Orthodox background, with a disproportionate number of the fallen and injured from among their midst.

Ironically, there are some—Haredi, ultra-Orthodox Jews—who adamantly refuse to serve or help in any way. Their claim is that their highest duty is to study Torah. Some, whose beliefs take them to even further extremes, actually go so far as to engage in activity and talk that aid and abet the enemy. There is no excuse for this phenomenon.

The Torah and all subsequent Jewish texts can be said to have harbored and sheltered, even maintained, the Jewish soul. The laws and traditions derived from these texts have been the backbone and lifeblood of the Jewish People for thousands of years. In fact, the study of Torah is said by the ancient Rabbis to be one of the three pillars upon which the entire world rests (along with worship and acts of righteousness). Without a doubt, the Torah charts a path toward a better world. But claiming that it is of equal—or even greater—importance than fulfilling a mitzvah that Maimonides asserts is worth breaking the Sabbath for, is nothing short of heresy. 

Helping Israel in its fight for survival, doing everything in one’s power to save life, prevent injury, help the needy and free the captives—there can be nothing more sacred than this.

To be sure, there are some ultra-Orthodox who have joined the fight, even at the cost of being ostracized or even disowned by their families and community. Their sacrifice is one we must all acknowledge and show appreciation for, for it truly shows their love and commitment to God, Torah and Israel.

This, for me, today at least, is the highest form of observing the holiday of Shavuot, a.k.a Chag Matan Torah, the holiday that celebrates the giving of the Torah to the Jewish People: To study Torah, to live by its teaching, and to come to the aid and defense of the people who have sworn allegiance to it.

May Israel continue to live by the light of Torah. Adonai ‘oz l’amo yiten; Adonai y’varech et amo ba-shalom. May God give strength to God’s People; may God bless us all with peace.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Mapping the Wilderness: Numbers.24

Mapping the Wilderness: Numbers.24

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

June 7, 2024

I have to admit—my interest in math dropped precipitously in 10th grade, when advanced algebra, trigonometry and calculus became the focus of the curriculum. My pursuits at the time were directed elsewhere, and honestly, I don’t regret my choices.

For many people, however, mathematics means more than balancing one’s checkbook or figuring out how much tip to leave. It’s a way of understanding the universe around us, a method for building bridges across time or place.  

Since the dawn of humanity, people have always loved numbers. They loved to play with them and learned to build with them. But in addition to helping us calculate and measure, numbers were given additional, metaphysical meanings. So, for example, in Judaism, the number 7 is especially meaningful, so much so that it embodies holiness. And in fact the Passover song Echad Mi Yode’a, (“Who knows One?”) connects numbers with important Jewish concepts and beliefs.

Numbers measure not only the physical world, but also unquantifiable values: In Psalm 90:12 we read, “Teach us to number our days.” We measure our lifetime with meaningful benchmarks: from birth to death, through holidays and anniversaries, birthdays and other life-cycle events.

The Mishna tractate Pirkei Avot (“The Chapters of the Fathers”) has this lesson for us:

   “[Rabbi Yehuda ben Teima] used to say: At five years of age [a child is ready to begin] the study of         Scripture; at ten, the Mishnah. At thirteen, he [or she] is subject to the commandments; at fifteen the        study of Talmud. At eighteen one can enter the bridal canopy; at twenty the pursuit [of livelihood].         At thirty, one reaches the peak of strength; at forty, wisdom. At fifty they give counsel. At sixty they        reach old age; at seventy, the fullness of years. At eighty, power; at ninety, a bent body. At one                 hundred, one is counted as good as dead and gone completely out of the world” [Pirkei Avot 5:21].

The Torah’s fourth book, Bamidbar (In the Wilderness), which we begin studying this week, is also known by its English title “Numbers.” That is because it begins with God commanding Moses to conduct a census of the Israelites at this point in their wanderings. But this title can be misleading, as there is so much more than just counting that happens in the story. 

While in the Talmud this book is sometimes referred to as Chumash Ha-Pekudim, “The Book of Counting,” its title in the Torah, Bamidbar, refers to the wider scope the book has: In the Wilderness. Having left Egypt, received the Torah and constructed the Tabernacle, the Israelites are now at the start of the longest part of their journey to the Promised Land. The wilderness is a region that is unmapped and unknown. It can be beautiful and inspirational (it is, after all, where Moses first encountered God and where the Israelites received the Torah). But it can also be deceivingly dangerous. That’s why the first thing Moses must do at this point is to measure the size and strength of his people. This knowledge will lead to the next step, organizing and directing them to specific functions and purposes. Some will serve in the military; others will become kohanim (priests) or Levites, whose tasks will involve the service of God in the Tabernacle.

To be fair, however, the English title of the book, “Numbers,” too carries more than just literal meaning. As in Psalm 90:12, to number also means to search for, and find, value and meaning.

In the end, both titles encompass more than meets the eye. Both stand for mapping unknown regions, including the many paths we take in life. More than only a geographical place on a map, the wilderness represents a state of being bound by the two landmarks of birth and death; it forms a bridge from ignorance to knowledge, from innocence to wisdom.

It would be a mistake to think that the Sinai Wilderness—the geographical setting of this part of our history—was unpopulated. Then as now, it has always been the bridge between two continents, on which material goods, culture and ideas went back and forth. Mystics and wanderers; outlaws and marauders; refugees and trade caravans from all corners of the world crossed paths in the Sinai Wilderness. The Israelites’ journey through it will test the people physically and spiritually. Their experiences here, the many lessons taught and learned, the encounters with different cultures and tribes, will define and strengthen them along their path. 

The ultimate teaching of this book of the Torah is that we can find purpose and meaning everywhere and at every moment. Each step we take counts. Every choice we make will carry consequences, leading us—hopefully—to the desired result. God has given us a goal: The Promised Land. Now it is up to us to chart the course.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Netanyahu

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Netanyahu

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

May 31, 2024

He is politically ruthless. He is willing to align with extreme (some call them fanatic) right-wing politicians regardless of their unsavory characters (and sometimes prior criminal convictions) while pushing out anyone who might pose an actual threat to his hold on power. In many people’s eyes he is dictatorial, while according to others he is powerless to bring order to a country and people riven by a multitude of cultures and opinions. Not to mention ineffective in the face of his wife’s demands and authority to hire and fire at will, and unable (or unwanting) to shut down his son Yair’s controversial polemics on social media.

Without question, however, Benjamin (“Bibi”) Netanyahu’s grasp on power in Israeli politics is unmatched. He is well into his 16th year as Prime Minister, well outspanning David Ben Gurion’s stretch of 13 years and Golda Meir’s 5 years. Like many other powerful leaders, he is a populist—while others see him as an elitist. He has promised the kibbutzim and towns in the region enveloping the Gaza Strip peace and security—only to sustain seventeen years of relentless rockets and terror attacks. He has promised security and a quick return home to tens of thousands of evacuated residents of the Galilee region—a promise unfulfilled for more than seven months now as Hezbollah continues ceaselessly to shell the region and set fires to fields, orchards and homes.

He is too strong.

He is too weak.

He will stay but won’t listen to what you say.

Netanyahu succeeded in developing Israel’s economy to unprecedented levels, securing Israel’s position internationally through agricultural, medical, technological and other endeavors.

Yet, under his watch, the bloodiest and most tragic terror attack on Israel and the Jewish People since the Holocaust took place on October 7.

He has engaged Israel in one of the longest wars it has had to fight since the War of Independence (1947-1949) and the War of Attrition (1967-1970). In the process, Israel has become isolated, condemned and reviled internationally. 

Throughout the enlightened world, it isn’t Israel that is blamed for the current “situation.” It’s Netanyahu.

Never mind that the current war was started by Hamas, supported by its evil sisters, Hezbollah in Lebanon and the Houthis in Yemen, all funded, trained and equipped by the Iranian ayatollahs and their regime that has sworn to wipe Israel off the map.

Never mind that 125 of the 240 or more hostages taken into captivity in Gaza by Hamas terrorists on that cursed day in October are still not home (God alone knows if any of them are still alive) and have not yet been seen by Red Cross or other “humanitarian” organizations that have been surprisingly (?) quick to blame Israel. Never mind the ongoing indiscriminate attacks against civilian population centers in Israel—it is Israel (read: Netanyahu) that’s condemned in the United Nations and the international kangaroo courts that this august body of hypocrisy has set up for the sole purpose of isolating Israel as the only perpetrator of war crimes and crimes against humanity in the world.

Never mind the antisemitism that has once again become the approved social norm rather than the vilest form of hatred, prejudice and racism that for almost a century now has been restricted to the scum-filled fringe of society, but which now has found new, vibrant life behind the façade of anti-Zionism, anti-Israelism (and in its most refined version, anti-Netanyahuism).

Never mind that Israel is fighting a war for its existence and for its right to defend itself. Never mind that Hamas is an offshoot of the Muslim Brothers, the target of Egypt’s hatred (and expulsion), of Syrian mass murder and extermination (anywhere between 10 and 40 THOUSAND between 1976 and 1982) and expulsion from Jordan and other Muslim countries. Never mind all that. It’s Israel that’s accused of genocide—and most nauseatingly, compared to Nazism.

As the war continues without an end in sight, it's Netanyahu who is blamed for “indecision” regarding “the day after.” The very people who accuse him of unbound dictatorial powers seem to believe that determining the fate of Gaza is up to him alone (as did a recent article in Haaretz, Israel’s staunch Labor mouthpiece and anti-Likud newspaper, claiming: “… the Israeli government, by which we really mean Benjamin Netanyahu, won’t make a decision”). You mean the Arab nations will not participate in this decision-making process? Or other international powers, all of whom—Iran, Turkey, Russia, France, Britain and of course the United States—claim a stake in the Middle East? Is it Netanyahu who has to make the final decision on who will run Gaza once the war is over? As though Hamas or any other extremist Islamic group, of which there are at least a dozen, will agree to any settlement that will stop them from their ultimate goal of destroying Israel, of perpetrating the October 7 massacre “seven times, ten times, a million times” over again.

But is Netanyahu “the Israel government?” 

How quickly put aside is the fact that Israel is one of the strongest democracies in the world—let alone the ONLY democracy in the entire Middle East. Never mind that Netanyahu’s election—widely protested by his left-wing opponents—was freely and transparently conducted, and that the coalition he was able to assemble represents the majority of Israelis, a fact that the Left in Israel and the rest of the world refuses to accept. Never mind that a recent poll has shown that the majority of Israelis STILL see Netanyahu as the most capable among all his opponents to conduct the war and bring it to conclusion.

Antisemitism is scorned by the refined, enlightened world (facts notwithstanding). It’s unpleasant and distasteful. But it’s OK to accuse Israel, the country, the people; it’s OK, from the White House on down, to accuse Netanyahu of being a bloody tyrant, to isolate him as the target of Jew-hatred, to make HIM the problem.

Netanyahu has become the poster boy—the whipping boy, if you will—for the strong Jew, something the world fears more than anything else. Calls for his removal actually mean telling Jews to return to their prior position in the world, victims to be pitied rather than fighters and survivors who refuse to be led to slaughter, second-class citizens in eternal exile rather than an independent nation free to defend itself within its own borders, free to define its own identity and determine its own destiny and course in history.

And so a world-wide opposition movement has formed to remove Netanyahu, to arrest him and accuse him of unspeakable crimes.

But the ugly and naked truth is that it isn’t Netanyahu that is the problem here. The real problem has become more and more evident even as the events of October 7—along with their moral, historical and cultural implications—recede into the past and out of memory (does anyone still mention or remember Yahya Sinwar or Muhammad Deif, the masterminds and perpetrators of the massacre?). 

If Netanyahu is removed from power, it must and will be done by and within Israel, through a democratic and/or legal process. As captain of the ship that floundered, as head of a government that criminally neglected, failed to foresee and respond in a timely manner the October 7 attack, responsibility falls squarely on Netanyahu’s shoulders, as well as on the entire leadership level of IDF, the Israel Defense Force. An investigation will definitely take place to determine the whys and hows of that disastrous failure. It’s likely that the results of the inquiry will call for Netanyahu to step down—willingly or not. But that’s none of the world’s concern or business. It’s Israel that needs to make that decision; no amount of pressure from outside powers must force, or even play a part in, that decision. 

So how do you solve a problem like Netanyahu? First, by recognizing that it isn’t Netanyahu, but rather the world’s most ancient hatred that’s the real problem here, the one that needs to be recognized and resolved first, before anything else. The real problem is the desire, born of fear and prejudice, to keep Israel—and the Jews—in their place, to keep Jews submissive and docile, willing to endure whatever comes to them.

To stand up and oppose this view with force and strength as Netanyahu (read: Israel) is doing right now, takes real chutzpah. And if that’s what it takes, then that’s what needs to happen.

The world may seem to suffer from short memory; Israel and the Jewish People do not. And for once, for the first time in more than 2000 years, Israel has the power and resolve to prove it.

Only once the world recognizes this fact will the “problem” called Netanyahu be solved. 

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Survivors All: Yom Ha-Shoah.24

Survivors All: Yom Ha-Shoah.24

May 6, 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I used to think of myself as a 2nd Generation survivor.  What that meant to me was that my parents and the only two grandparents I was blessed to know had lived through and seen terrible things—which I did not, but only learned about through their stories, habits, high-strung emotions and even nightmares. Growing up in Israel in the 1950’s meant that every adult around me was a survivor. With one exception: a neighbor who as a child escaped the Arab massacre of Jews in Hebron in 1929. But that’s another story. Or is it.

There is a difference between 2nd generation survivors and those who have followed us. We grew up with our parents’ memories implanted in our minds, tattooed in our souls. My children, on the other hand, grew up with memorabilia: Tattered letters, photographs hidden deep inside drawers, artifacts that were later donated to Holocaust museums. Some survivors wrote books, always short like novellas—for how could anyone who lived through the most horrific experiences express all the horrors they had seen, all the emotions, the heroic escapes, the frightening times when they hid in barns, forests, and sewers. On occasion, as a late afternoon would slip into dusk, my mother recalled those times when she would wonder where she would be sleeping that night. My mother gave testimony to Yad Va-Shem. It’s more than 3 hours long. She remembered almost everything. Her memories lived on within her—or should I say, she lived in her memories. 

Somewhere I read that we Jews forgive quickly but never forget.

That is true. We learn to live with our previous hunters. For his whole life, my father, who lost his entire family in the Shoah, refused to buy anything German-made. In the mid-1950’s, when Israelis were urged by then-Prime Minister David Ben Gurion to accept reparations from Germany, my father refused. Later, he became very unhappy when he realized that some parts of the car he owned were made in Germany (a Volvo, it was supposedly made in Sweden, but by then globalization changed everything, and you couldn’t buy hardly anything that didn’t contain parts made in Germany).

Reality dictates many of our choices, and we can either accept that or make life miserable for ourselves and those around us. And so we learn to forgive. 

However, what we never, ever, do is forget. We live with our memories, two universes that coexist and often collide. We remember people long gone, and we commemorate events that happened hundreds or even thousands of years ago. To forget the past is to lose a part of our humanity.

But lessons learned from history teach us much more than just how to avoid repeating mistakes. We learn how to do things not only differently, but better. Our experience as slaves in Egypt taught us to abhor tyranny and oppression; our suffering through the ages has taught us compassion and empathy.

It’s been proposed that the Shoah—the Holocaust—led to the creation of the modern State of Israel. That is inaccurate. Zionism—the return to our national homeland and the rebuilding of Jerusalem—has always been part of Judaism. It became a political reality in the 19th century, long before the Shoah. However, our history and theology taught us to try to make Israel a “light unto the nations.” Israel has never kept to itself the many technological, medical, agricultural and other innovations that it is known for. Instead, it shared them freely with other people—often third-world countries that have benefitted greatly from this close cooperation. Tikkun olam—repair of the world—has long been a Jewish value, and the world is a better place for that.

We Jews have learned much from our past. Yet one thing we did not learn—or at least failed to internalize—until recently: that the Shoah was not the end of antisemitism. Though we have always been aware of its presence on the fringes of society, we did not for a moment imagine that it would become mainstream again, that calls for Judenrein would become current again; that screams for the destruction of Israel, effectively meaning genocide, would resonate from campuses all over the United States and elsewhere in the world. Somehow we allowed ourselves to believe that we were living in a sort of pre-Messianic era, at the dawning of an age which would lead to a loving embrace of all people, including Jews.

What we’ve learned since October 7 however, is how wrong we were. The horrors we saw on that day, are not new. The pogrom that took place—not by coincidence—on the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah, carries a clear message. Past horrors are no longer just a receding memory. October 7 is here-and-now, part of a continuum that goes back millennia. The Ukrainian and Polish pogroms, the Inquisition, forced conversions, expulsions and ghettoes are all links in a chain of events going back to ancient Egypt.

So what lessons will we take going forward today? First, that we are no longer 2nd or 3rd generation survivors. With our own eyes and ears we have become first-hand witnesses to terror and evil, and from now on we must see ourselves—in the words of the Haggadah, “as though we ourselves had been freed from Egypt”—eternal, all-generation survivors. Today there is no talk of forgiveness. Yet. But without a doubt, if not in five then in 50 years, that will happen, and Israel will be glad to participate in the rebuilding of Gaza. Hope for peace will revive, and we Jews will do everything in our power to turn that possibility into reality. 

The next few years will give us answers to questions we are only now beginning to ask: How shall we rebuild our relationships with our neighbors, with colleagues at work, with fellow students at schools and colleges, with causes and groups we once were proud to be part of but find ourselves excluded from today? 

What we make of these lessons will determine our identity as Jews. We can, of course, disappear. God forbid. Or we can become even stronger than before—ethically, spiritually yes; but also and no less—physically as well. Judaism isn’t only about being good. It’s about being strong. Am Yisrael Chai, we are told; the People of Israel yet lives. it’s a line we repeat over and over again, in complete amazement at the sheer miracle that it truly is.

But it’s even more than that. It’s not only the divine hand of God that has wrought this miracle. It’s our own stiff-necked determination to stay Jewish, to remain loyal to our Covenant with our God and our ancestors.

Never Again became a slogan after the Shoah. One of the most important steps we must take now is to inscribe this watchword in our minds and upon our hearts, to etch these words deep into our doorposts, and live by them.

We are Jews—a people with a history that is as rich, creative and unbelievable as any story ever told, with a difference that this story is true. How we became that is our history. The future—the continuity of the Jewish People—is now in our hands.  We must not let the past—or the future—down.

Adonai oz l’amo yitein, Adonai y’varech at amo bashlom—may God give us strength, may God bless us with peace.

 

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman