… and he said to his people: Behold, the people of the children of Israel are more and mightier than we. Come, let us deal wisely with them; lest they multiply and it come to pass that, when any war should chance, they also join our enemies and fight against us … therefore they set over them task masters to afflict them.
(Exodus 1:8-11)
Does Pharaoh’s proposition sound familiar? That is because it resembles the ideas of so many dictators and despots throughout history and to this very day.
Moses, who led the People of Israel (“the congregation of the Children of Israel”) out of Egypt and took them to the Land of Israel, was a descendant of Levi, another one of Jacob’s sons. In the Book of Deuteronomy, Moses refers to his people collectively as “Israel”. The entire basis for the existence of the people of Israel is recounted in terms of continuity. The concept of nationhood was introduced by Moses only after the Children of Israel had received the Torah and were about to enter the Land of Israel.
Who or what defines Jewish identity? Do we Jews define this for ourselves, or is it our enemies who define it for us?
For most people, the idea of identity is quite simple, at least superficially. If you don’t have to think about it too deeply, you can easily believe that who you are and how you feel is pretty obvious, that it really isn’t an issue.
But is that really so? And is it equally true for Jews?
We know that even our close friends, extended families and children have their own unique feelings and ideas about things, which are influenced by their own unique life experiences, personalities and other factors.
Let’s see: at the outset, we were a family. The first man in history to define us as a nation was Pharaoh, but he did so in a very negative sense. Moses’ positive definition of Jewish nationhood came only much later, towards the end of the forty years in the desert.
During those forty years of wandering in the desert we encountered other tribes, nations and kingdoms, some of whom were our blood relations. But despite that and in spite of our peaceful requests, we were refused safe passage through their territories and we were also ambushed, attacked and plotted against.
This phenomenon of demonising minority groups has recurred throughout history and is very much alive today; it has even become fashionable in our times.
Now Hamas is sending suicide bombers and launching missiles into civilian areas in modern-day Israel – and blames it on the “Zionist occupation”. Whenever Israelis try to defend themselves, they are “the aggressor”. When they send humanitarian aid to Hamas, they are “interfering”. If they employ Palestinian workers, they are “exploiters”. If they do not employ them, they are “racists” and guilty of creating “a humanitarian crisis”.
Confusing, isn’t it? Indeed, with this in the background and in the context of our modern, multicultural environment, it is small wonder that so many among us are indeed becoming confused about the definition of who and what we are.
There is no question that our enemies have played an important role in our Jewish continuity. By trying to define us as who we are not, they keep reminding us of who we are. They challenge us and force us to make “identity decisions”. This is certainly true for Jews at the fringes, but it is also valid for Jews at the core, those with a strong Jewish identity; they too are provoked by this, at least to some extent.
Sometimes it happens that rather than provoking and attacking us, our enemies entice us. When that occurs, many of us are only too happy to run to them. There is nothing like being accepted. Hellenisation in olden times and open, tolerant democracies today, have made assimilation so easy. Paradoxically, oppressive societies that harass, cloister, murder or expel their minorities, often make us want to be more like ourselves.
Assimilation occurs when the “pull” or “push” factors are stronger than the ties to what was. Wanting to “feel good” about ourselves and even more than that – wanting others to “feel good” about us, does not help us with continuity. Because although we should feel good about our identity, our identity is not a “feel good”. We must value our identity, knowing what it is, identifying with it, understanding and living what it really entails: its rights and its responsibilities, its past, future and present.
The way in which we live in the present affects our future. If our past influences our choices in the present, then our future becomes better defined.
This is what Jewish continuity is about.
All those who choose to belong to the family which is the People of Israel and are active participants in the life of this family, stand a good chance that our children, too, will be the Children of Israel.
Are you a link in the chain or a broken link? Was your grandmother Jewish? Will your grandchild also remain Jewish? How important is this to you? Why?
The two of us walked through the Jaffa Gate into the Old City of Jerusalem. It was late morning on a pleasant late February day, just five hours before my flight out of Israel.
Avi, a distant relative, had specially driven up to Jerusalem from Ramat Hasharon, a “yuppie” northern Tel Aviv suburb about an hour’s drive away. It takes one hour to cross Israel by car from west to east across its most densely populated part.
I felt happy and sad at the same time: happy to be in Israel and sad to be leaving. Avi had arranged to spend a few more hours with me during this visit and had kindly offered to drop me at the airport on his way home. I had already checked out of my hotel and my bags were safely stowed in the boot of Avi’s car.
We walked and we talked.
We took the way through the Old City Souk, the traditional Arab market – a narrow, mainly undercover stone alley flanked on both sides by little shops, alive with colour, sounds and smells, and filled with all kinds of people. There were a few shoppers here and there, vastly outnumbered by shopkeepers vainly but persistently trying to attract attention to their wares. Then there were crowds of people trying to hurry through in both directions. It was a colourful experience.
After about fifteen minutes we came to a security checkpoint which we were checked through; and then, there it stood, just down below us across a beautiful stone-paved square: the Kotel. Generations of Jews have both mourned and dreamt of the Kotel, which attracts thousands of visitors every day of the year.
I excused myself from Avi for about ten minutes. I walked down, washed my hands in a ritual manner from the water fountain nearby, using a plastic cup, and approached. It was time for Minchah (the afternoon prayer, the second service out of the routine three daily prayers).
Before opening my prayer book, I found myself leaning towards the wall, resting my forehead onto one of its large stones, my eyes closed. An eternity of time passed, although my wristwatch showed the passage of but a few moments. Another kind of relativity of time.
Strong emotions stirred inside me. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. My mind was devoid of thoughts. Somehow I felt my spiritual being separated from the mundane. I prayed and I thanked G-d for all of His goodness and for everything in my life. Minchah followed.
This was a Minchah! I could hear and feel every word. My voice was singing these beautiful sentences and paragraphs. The Hebrew felt so deep and meaningful. There was nothing else but Minchah; no other thoughts, no other people. Just me by myself, but I was not alone. I felt fulfilled, enlightened, happy and sad, all at the same time.
When I was ready, I moved away from the Kotel and returned to the open plaza where Avi joined me. Avi said that he had been watching me. He saw me leaning with my head against the wall. He envies people who have