National Scholar Updates

Mathematics and Other Problems for Orthodox Schools

 

 

 

New ideas about the teaching and learning of mathematics present challenges for Orthodox schools. In part, these ideas about the teaching and learning of mathematics are challenging to any schools: teachers lack content knowledge in the subject because they have had insufficient opportunities to learn themselves; teachers are strained pedagogically to teach a subject that they learned differently as students; ambitious aims for subject matter learning compete with a whole host of educational issues that need no enumeration here. For Orthodox schools, new understandings about cognition and learning are particularly fraught. Readers of this journal will not be surprised to read that there are tensions inherent in a stance that embraces Torah uMadda, but in this piece I relate an experience that brought this tension into strong relief for me: conducting a professional development seminar on teaching and learning for heads of modern Orthodox yeshivot.

   Rabbis and Third Graders Doing Math. To give a glimpse of these tensions, we peek in on a gathering of heads of school and teachers of religious studies from schools that define themselves as modern Orthodox. For this professional development seminar, school leaders from around the United States gathered for three days of collaborative study about teaching and learning.[1] The seminar began with my posing a mathematics problem to the participants, virtually the same problem that they would subsequently watch third graders working on: "I have pennies, nickels, and dimes in my pocket. If I pull out three coins, what amounts of money might I have?" Unaccustomed to doing math problems in a group setting, and even less comfortable making public presentations about their mathematics reasoning, the school leaders shared their solutions to the coin problem and explained how they arrived at their answers. The rabbanim came to the chalkboard to show their solutions; they eventually came to consensus that there are 10 possible solutions to the 3-coin problem and collectively constructed an informal proof to convince themselves. The rabbanim then turned their attention to the video of third-graders working on a very similar problem that their teacher had posed: "I have pennies, nickels, and dimes in my pocket. If I pull out two coins, what amounts of money might I have?"

In the video, we first see the teacher leading the class through a discussion of the parameters of the problem, and the definitions of the terms used. She then sets the students loose to work independently for a few minutes. Children draw or record different possible combinations in their notebooks. Some shuffle coins on their desks to find different arrangements; some draw the coins in their notebooks while others use a range of symbols to show each combination.  After working for a while, the teacher asks the children to share their solutions. The discussion proceeds at a slower pace than most mathematics lessons; there are long silences and children offer a number of wrong answers. The teacher gives few comments and little correction; instead, she asks many questions and throws it to the class to determine if a child's answer is correct. She asks repeatedly, "How did you get that?" "How do you know?" "What do other people think about that?"

Here is a brief excerpt from this classroom discussion:

Teacher

Fifteen cents.  Could somebody say how they think Sheena made 15 cents.  What coins she used to make fifteen cents?  Tembe?

 

Tembe

Ten and a five cent.

 

Teacher

Okay. Dime ... make a little more room here ... So you had, one nickel and one dime.  Okay. Who had another solution besides fifteen cents?  What else might I pull out of my pocket?  Ofala?

 

Ofala

Twenty cents.

 

Teacher

Okay. . How did you get twenty cents, Ofala?

 

Ofala

Two dimes.

 

Teacher

Two dimes?  Riba, would that work?

 

Riba

Yes.

 

Teacher

How do you know?

 

Riba

Because ten plus ten is twenty.

 

Teacher

Sean, do you agree with that?

 

Sean

Huh? Yes.

 

Teacher

Two dimes would make twenty?

 

Sean

Yeah.

 

Teacher

Okay.  So we have fifteen cents and twenty cents.  Were there any others that you came up with? Tembe, what did you and Devin come up with besides fifteen cents and twenty cents? What's another one you found? What did you guys write down? I know that you found some other ones, I think when I came by.  What about this one?  How did you get that? 

 

Tembe

That’s his one.

 

Teacher

Devin, do you remember how you got six cents?  You don't remember?  Does somebody know how Devin might've gotten six cents?  He wrote six cents down in his notebook.  How do you think he might've gotten six cents? Betsy?

Betsy

A nickel and a penny?

Teacher

One nickel and one penny.  You think that's right, Devin?  One nickel and one penny? 

Devin

Yeah.                                             

Teacher

Can you show us with your coins?  Not in your notebook.  Can you get the, can you get a nickel and a penny out of your box?  How much is the penny?  Okay, the penny is one.  And the nickel is ...

Devin

Six cents.

Teacher

Altogether it's six.  Good, Devin.  Okay.  Any others?  Mark?  Did you come up with any others besides fifteen, twenty and six?

Mark

Eleven.

Teacher

Eleven cents.  How did you get eleven cents?

Mark

Ten cents and a penny.

Teacher

One dime and one penny.  Did anybody else find that one?  Sean, did you come up with eleven cents?  Well, what do you think about that?  Would that work with a dime and a penny?

Mathematics Teaching and Learning to Teach Project.  (1990). Deborah Ball, Third Grade, September 18, 1989                Unpublished transcript.   University of Michigan: Ann Arbor, MI. The names of the students have been replaced with           pseudonyms.

 

The assembled rabbanim were intrigued by this classroom excerpt. They were keen observers of teaching and learning, despite protests that some had no formal education training. Our seminar used this video and the mathematics work that preceded it as a springboard to discussions of learning and teaching-- in mathematics and in general. In this excerpt, students had reasoned through a complex problem to learn mathematics, and the role of the teacher's authority had shifted from one of providing answers to one of facilitating the reasoning through ideas so that students could come to warranted mathematical conclusions. We saw the teaching of mathematical practices that students could use to develop robust understandings of mathematical ideas. Participants found this image of teaching to be engaging and powerful; a number of them approached me to do continuing work in their schools to develop this kind of teaching and learning school-wide.

I hesitated. Over the days of this professional development seminar, I had become increasingly aware of the tensions between this model of teaching and learning and my understanding of the mandates of Orthodox education. As deeply committed as I am to this kind of teaching and learning, and as much as I want to join with others in the improvement of Jewish education in the Orthodox sector, I am not sure that these two forces are compatible.

In what follows, I will describe how this model has evolved, its antecedents, and why I believe it provides an authentic and rich learning experience in mathematics and in other subjects-- including limmudei kodesh. At the same time, I see that the issues that preoccupy even "modern" Orthodox schools today are in some cases orthogonal to this view of learning. It is this tension that I write about in this article.

A "New" View of Teaching and Learning [Mathematics]. Here I elaborate further what is meant by this "model of [mathematics] teaching and learning."  I place "mathematics" in brackets because the current wave of educational reform is based on a general view of teaching and learning that extends to mathematics as well as other school subjects.

 In the case of mathematics, the model of teaching and learning envisioned goes beyond traditional models where teachers show students how to perform procedures and mathematical routines. Complete understanding...includes the capacity to engage in the processes of mathematical thinking, in essence doing what makers and users of mathematics do: framing and solving problems, looking for patterns, making conjectures, examining constraints, making inferences from data, abstracting, inventing, explaining, justifying, challenging, and so on. Students should not view mathematics as a static, bounded system of facts, concepts, and procedures to be absorbed but, rather, as a dynamic process of "gathering, discovering and creating knowledge in the course of some activity having a purpose." (Stein, M. K., B. W. Grover, and Hennigsen, M., 1996. "Building student capacity for mathematical thinking and reasoning: An analysis of mathematical tasks used in reform classrooms." American Educational Research Journal 33(2): 455-488; emphasis in the original)

 

Instruction in such classrooms departs in some ways from traditional mathematics instruction. Students reason through problems, and the teacher's authority is less about conferring correctness than it is about helping students learn how to engage in mathematical practices so that they can adjudicate for themselves what is mathematically correct and what is not. This model does not mean that students no longer learn algorithms or have to practice procedures; it also does not mean that each student is free to determine for herself what is correct and what is not-- mathematics instruction will always be directed towards precision, correctness, and convergence around a right answer. Although this model includes these aspects it goes far beyond them as well.

It is clear why this model holds such appeal for the school leaders I worked with. Swap "Torah learning" in place of mathematics above, and most Jewish educators nod their heads in vigorous agreement with this stance towards learning. The image of students engaged in "a dynamic process of 'gathering, discovering and creating knowledge in the course of some activity having a purpose'" is just what school leaders say they want.

            This way of teaching mathematics is based in part on a disciplinary view of mathematics. In Proofs and Refutations (Lakatos, I., 1981. Proofs and refutations: The logic of mathematical discovery. Cambridge; New York, Cambridge University Press) Lakatos provides an image of how learners arrive at mathematical truths in his description of an imaginary classroom working on a geometry problem respecting the number of vertices and edges and faces in regular polyhedra. (The details of the problem have mostly been omitted for our purposes.)

The dialogue takes place in an imaginary classroom. The class gets interested in a PROBLEM...

After much trial and error they notice that for all regular polyhedra V - E + F = 2. Somebody guesses that this may apply for any polyhedron whatsoever. Others try to falsify this conjecture, try to test it in many different ways-- it holds good. The results corroborate the conjecture, and suggest that it could be proved. It is at this point-- after the stages problem and conjecture-- that we enter the classroom. The teacher is just going to offer a proof.

TEACHER: In our last lesson we arrived at a conjecture concerning polyhedra.... We tested it by various methods. But we haven't yet proved it. Has anybody found a proof?...

 

In Lakatos' description of a classroom, we see his emphasis (in the original text) on the mathematical processes captured in the nouns guess, conjecture, corroborate, and prove. The classroom dialogue that helps students participate in these practices is a medium in which mathematical conclusions are derived. In a more traditional mathematics classroom, students would be told that V - E + F = 2, and perhaps shown a proof for why this is so. In contrast, in Lakatos' example, students participate in the construction of this proof themselves. This kind of mathematical reasoning is one of the disciplinary images on which current models of mathematics teaching are based. It is centrally concerned with students' deep understanding of the discipline, not just their performance of school tasks.

This model of teaching and learning also draws from wider ideas in the philosophy of education. Israel Scheffler expresses one conceptualization of teaching and learning that underlies this view:

Teaching may be characterized as an activity aimed at achievement of learning, and practiced in such manner as to respect the student's intellectual integrity and capacity for independent judgment. Such a characterization is important for at least two reasons: first, it brings out the intentional nature of teaching, the fact that teaching is a distinctive goal-oriented activity, rather than a distinctively patterned sequence of behavioral steps executed by the teacher. Second, it differentiates the activity of teaching from other activities such as propaganda, conditioning, suggestion, and indoctrination, which are aimed at modifying the person but strive at all costs to avoid a genuine engagement of his judgment on underlying issues. (Scheffler, I.,1965. "Philosophical Models of Teaching." Harvard Educational Review 35(2): 131-143)

 

 

            In Scheffler we see where this model of teaching and learning collides with the mandates of an Orthodox education. To what degree, and in what subjects, do our Orthodox schools want to nurture and encourage "independent judgment"? In issues of faith, and in questions of halakha, to mention two prominent examples, are we prepared for students to make independent judgments? And these are not tangential subjects in Orthodox schools; one might argue that both issues of faith and questions of practice are the raison d'etre for Orthodox schools, and part of what distinguishes them from other streams of schooling. As the seminar with the rabbanim progressed, I became more and more aware of the press for their schools to insist on convergence of thought and action in the teaching of particular subjects.

            The view of learning depicted here does not apply solely to mathematics. It is not even about a subset of school subjects. It is descriptive-- it describes how students learn, generally. This description of how students learn, though, implies a normative view of teaching-- how teachers should teach, given that learning proceeds in this way. And mathematics is perhaps a kal vahomer case in the sense that it seems to non-mathematicians as an unlikely discipline to be reasoned through and understood--  and for this reason is even more threatening than perhaps other school subjects. A discipline that was always, at least in the school context, construed as positivist, in which authority for right and wrong was determined by the teacher and the textbook, is instead a discipline --like others-- in which knowledge is socially constructed and the authority for right and wrong is in part determined by what the students reason to be correct, with teacher and textbook guidance. For the Orthodox educator, this has serious implications for how all subjects will be treated. I do not know that the current climate in Orthodox schools can accommodate this stance; on the other hand, teaching that is responsible and responsive to learners requires it.

            Challenges of modernity. This small vignette about the teaching and learning of mathematics provides a window onto the challenges of modernity for Orthodoxy. We tend to name the onslaught of media, the vivid intrusion of non-traditional lifestyles into our communities, and constant press of material culture, as major challenges to Orthodoxy. Instead this vignette points to the challenges of epistemologies that recast authority, truth and the creation of knowledge as human constructs. I fully embrace these modernist epistemologies, but do so cognizant and even wary that they do not rest easily with the worldview that has taken hold in the current Orthodox environment. To ignore these new views of learning, in my mind, is to deny how students actually acquire knowledge, habits of mind, and dispositions. This suggests that we will need to imagine educative environments for Orthodox students that, in Scheffler's words, "respect the student's intellectual integrity" and strive for "a genuine engagement of his judgment on underlying issues."

            What might such educative environments look like? Here I defer to my colleagues whose primary work is instruction in Orthodox schools, who are engaged with its specifics of context and content on a daily basis, to develop instructional designs particular to this need. I close this article with some broad outlines for the kind of instruction this approach implies in limmudei kodesh. First, we would need to imagine the treatment of all limmudei kodesh that could be shaped by their disciplinary practices as conducted by experts-- by talmidei hakhamim, as we saw in the case of mathematics, such that children would engage in the very practices that more advanced talmidim encounter, instead of learning school subjects as "bounded system[s] of facts, concepts, and procedures to be absorbed." One example already present in many schools is the mode of pedagogy found in the traditional beit midrash which provides a model of teaching and learning, even for young children. Elie Holzer's analyses of hevruta  study provide one window into such a practice (See, for example, "What connects good teaching, text study and hevruta learning? A conceptual analysis, Journal of Jewish Education 72 (3), 2006). To put such practices into play widely, our work in teacher education would be to devise pedagogical scaffolds for teachers so that students can effectively engage in these practices using materials and methods suited to their ages and prior knowledge. It would require, too, revisiting the nature of the teacher's authority in limmudei kodesh, one that would acknowledge the wisdom of our sages and teachers and concomitantly put students' thinking at center, bringing both worlds into productive dialogue. We look back to the transcript of a third grade mathematics discussion at the beginning of this article as a model for how such conversations might proceed. A teacher's authority in such environments would be a function of his content knowledge as well as his ability to bring students to engage in the "gathering, discovering and creating knowledge in the course of some activity having a purpose."

             But we cannot shy away from such subjects as dinim or halakha, and the practice of tefilah. Here too schools might strive for students' genuine engagement of judgment, to echo Scheffler. Students, even at young ages, would learn to reason through the multiple points of view presented by our sages across the centuries, by the teachers in our schools, and by fellow students. Our schools have tended to teach dinim as lists of rules and formulae to memorize, analagous to the V - E + F = 2 formula for regular polyhedra. The same can be said for interpretations of humash--and in fact most subjects in limmudei kodesh. I wonder if we have avoided opportunities for students to reason through ideas rather than memorize them as foregone conclusions, understandably fearful that our children will come to their own conclusions that move them away from Orthodoxy. Instruction in these subjects could be expanded to include the reasoning process of the rabbis, the arguments and stretches of faith that characterize the conversations of HaZal. Of course this kind of instruction is already happening in many schools. I want to suggest that this kind of teaching and learning-- even when it comes to halakha and questions of faith-- will show a tradition that is robust, multifaceted, and stands up to scrutiny. To address diverse learners-- diverse in hashkafah, in family background, in learning styles-- the school curriculum will need to include an array of pedagogical presentations that includes this approach. Rather than threatening our continuity, this pedagogical stance conveys a respect for the individual's intellectual integrity and the ability to reason and come to independent conclusions.

            The last decades have seen Orthodox schools overtaken by decidedly non-Modern elements. To recruit knowledgeable teachers who live authentic Jewish lives, Modern Orthodox schools have hired more and more teachers who do not embrace a Modern perspective. This is a pity; our schools need to reflect and generate a particular world-view, and we are missing the opportunity to do so. Our teacher education seminaries need to be guided by a vision of education centered on helping students gain tools to come to warranted conclusions in the intellectual company of one's sages, teachers, and peers. This educational stance could distinguish the contribution of Modern Orthodox to the Jewish education world, and would require the design and scholarship of educational researchers to develop protocols, pedagogical structures, and instructional activities that would carry this vision into practice. Modern Orthodoxy has the capacity for these ambitious goals; our schools and teachers' seminaries can be generative sources for an Orthodoxy where this is the hallmark.

 

 

 

 

[1] The professional development seminar described here was convened and generously sponsored by the Visions of Jewish Education Project of the Mandel Foundation, Israel. The content presented in the seminar, and the views in this article, are solely the author's.

 

THE COUNTER-DIRECTONS OF THE SEPHARDIM

 

 

The Sephardic approach to … life is characterized by hessed,[1] optimism and a spirit of inclusiveness and hospitality. The Sephardic tradition is compassionate, tolerant, and sympathetic to the human predicament.[2]                                                                                                              

                                                                      — Rabbi Marc D. Angel

 

       In his 1990 novel, Mr. Mani, Israeli author A. B. Yehoshua anchors his historical exploration of the formation of modern Jewish identity in several pivotal experiences: the despair and fatigue of the 1982 Lebanon war, often called Israel’s “first war of choice”; the first Intifada; the failed hopes for an Arab-Israeli peace; and the escalating terror attacks on Israeli civilians.[3] Yehoshua posits that an ominously self-destructive pathology exists in Israel and that it has resulted in the nation’s extended periods of “oppression, defamation, persecution and martyrdom.”[4]

    The novel explores the impacts and implications of Jewish attitudes that to a large degree have shaped the past[5] and that are likely to impact the present contours of Israeli identity unless fundamental changes are made. At its foundation, Mr. Mani questions the role of religion and nationalism in the formation of Israel and even the modern Middle East.

    In Yehoshua’s view, Israel has a self-destructive heritage that manifests in the Jewish people’s desire to retain their identity as a nation while resisting the responsibilities of creating and maintaining an independent national existence within distinctly defined territorial boundaries. Israeli society, Yehoshua implies in Mr. Mani, has failed to achieve the dreams of its Zionist Ashkenazic founders and resembles other Western societies in many ways. The salient aspects of the Zionist effort to shift the center of Jewish existence from Diaspora to Zion constitute a contemporary transformation of the Diasporic conviction that the continuing cohesion of the Jewish people is not predicated on their adherence to particular territorial and communal bounds but rather on their peoplehood.[6]

   Taking it further, Yehoshua proposes that an alternative, a bicultural Sephardic Zionism, would be more constructive,[7] and that Israeli society would do well to free itself from itself from the more narrow Ashkenazic and Exilic heritage, which he sees as no longer appropriate in the present state-oriented situation. To that end, the cross-culturalism of the Sephardim and the idea of the Sephardim as the link between Jews and Arabs[8] are prominent themes in Mr. Mani. Yehoshua centers on the Sephardic identity and the Sephardic response to historic events to emphasize what might have been rather than what is the present situation in Israel. The Sephardim in this novel are portrayed as cosmopolitans, whose worldliness has allowed them to remain free of the ravages of ideology and free to glimpse historical options and the turning points of history not seen by others. At the same time, the Sephardim’s susceptibility to obsessive notions and obsessive desires prevents them from making an impact on history; indeed, it puts their very survival at stake.[9] 

    While Mr. Mani focuses on the hidden realms of the individual psyche embedded in its familial, social, and cultural context, Yehoshua also addresses ideological, political, and ethical issues, and he questions the very tenets of Israeli society: Judaism, Zionism, religion and nationalism, the Israel-Palestinian conflict, and anti-semitism.

    Certainly a Sephardic response to historical events in Israel, conditioned by the pillars of the Sephardic identity and a different attitude toward Arabs, would have resulted in a distinctly different situation in Israel. Such an inquiry involves an intellectual game of “what if”: What if Arab-Israeli relations had taken a different course and the many conflicts between these two peoples had been averted?  Yehoshua adds the Sephardic angle to this “what if” exercise when he bemoans the marginality of the Sephardic community in the early days of European Jewish settlement, when the ultimate fate of the region was being forged.

    To develop this “what-if” argument further, it is helpful to understand Yehoshua and his insights into the Sephardic identity and his own experiences as a Sephardic Jew and how they are expressed in the novel’s plot and themes. This essay reviews the Sephardic counter-history after a discussion of the crossroads of history portrayed in Mr. Mani, and it explores why Yehoshua chronicles the Israeli counter-narrative of the last 150 years through such a dysfunctional family and why the Sephardic relationship with the Arabs offers a distinctly different framework for the State of Israel.

 

A. B. Yehoshua

 

    Yehoshua, one of Israel’s leading writers and recipient of many literary prizes, was born in Jerusalem in 1936. Mr. Mani, his fourth book, was greeted with universal critical acclaim in Israel and the United States, and literary critic Alfred Kazan called it “one of the most remarkable pieces of fiction I have ever read.”[10] Yehoshua’s books have been translated into 26 languages, and many of his stories and novels have been adapted for the theater, cinema, television, and opera,[11] demonstrating their wide appeal.

    Unlike most prominent Israeli cultural figures, Yehoshua was born into a Sephardic, rather than an Ashkenazic, Jewish family. Indeed, he represents the fifth generation of a Sephardic family on his father’s side and the first generation on his mother’s side. His father, Jacob Yehoshua, an Orientalist by training, wrote a number of books recounting the life of the Sephardic community in Jerusalem from the end of the nineteenth century to the beginning of the twentieth century, and two books on the Palestinian press of that time. While his father’s occupation with the language, history, and culture of the Palestinians probably opened Yehoshua’s eyes to their unique plight and thus indirectly influenced his worldview, his father’s numerous books served him well in Mr. Mani. His mother, Malka née Rosolio, came from a wealthy Francophone Moroccan family whose members immigrated to Palestine in 1932, and she too had a strong influence on Yehoshua. She insured that he had a secular education and was exposed to Zionist ideology and to a moderate Sephardic version of Jewish tradition. Thus, both his mother and father contributed to his preoccupation with the complex theme of identity, which underlies all his writings.[12]

    After some years in Paris and a return to Israel and following the Six-Day War and its ensuing upheaval, Yehoshua became involved in left-wing movements and started publishing essays that elaborated on his ideological and political stance. His active participation coupled with his intellectual and rhetorical skills have made him one of the major spokesmen for the Zionist left wing and the Israeli peace camp, at home and abroad.

     The writing careers of A. B. Yehoshua and his father reveal an interesting parallel: Jacob turned from his scholarly preoccupation with the history of the Palestinian Arabs to the Sephardic community of his childhood after his own father’s death in 1955. The son turned more openly in his fiction to Sephardic characters after Jacob’s death in 1982.[13] In an article, Yehoshua stated that “although my father was in no palpable way connected with Spain, he defined himself as a Sephardic Jew.” Jacob’s identity as a Sephardic Jew was not meant merely to signify his difference from Ashkenazic Jews but was also bound up with Spain itself, which he regarded as the original source of that identity. Within his extended family, Jacob spoke the Judeo-Spanish language, Ladino, which gave him a sense of carrying living genes of the true Spanish language.[14] In the spring of 1987, the son wrote an introduction to the father’s sentimental, nostalgic recreations of his Jerusalem childhood, in that introduction, A.B. investigates the complex, if often repressed, nature of his own Sephardic identity, through a fusion of three themes, which foreshadow Mr. Mani:  “Yehoshua’s relationship to his father, his attitude to his Sephardim, and the type of fiction he produces. …We …see in this essay of 1987 some of the same basic structures that shape Mar Mani, which was written about the same time.”[15] 

 

Yehoshu’s Reflections on the Identity and Experience of the Sephardic Jew

 

   In “Beyond Folklore: The Identity of the Sephardic Jew,” Yehoshua asked why a man like himself, a thoroughly secular Israeli steeped in Western culture, whose principal identity was as an Israeli, a man with no particular connection with the Spanish language or culture, defined himself deep down as a Sephardic Jew?  He then noted that in many of his novels, characters appear who may be identified as Sephardic Jews. These include the five generations of central characters in Mr. Mani, who stand at five critical crossroads in the history of the last 150 years, and each time, at each crossroads, another Mani is offered an historical or political option that is not, in the end, realized.[16]

    In Yehoshua’s opinion, this Sephardic identity contains – overtly or covertly – Christian, Muslim, and Jewish elements that are blended in the memory of a wondrous and powerful cultural symbiosis, real or mythic, during a Spanish Golden Age in the first centuries of the second millennium. The three-way dialogue during that period also produced highly significant and influential texts. Therefore, even after the Christians took absolute control of Spain and made it into a strictly Catholic country, there remained within Spanish identity a recollection of that strong symbiosis, which even after the expulsion of the Jews and the Muslims continued to murmur beneath the surface in Christian Spain.[17]

    When the Jews left Spain and moved to Muslim countries in North Africa, the Christian element, the Christian memory, remained in their identity as well despite the absence of Christianity in their immediate surroundings. Similarly, Jews who moved to such Christian lands as Italy, Southern France, or even Holland, retained a whisper of Arabic culture and Islam in their identities even when there were no Muslims or Arabs in the vicinity.[18]

    Yehoshua explained that the special quality that is preserved in Sephardic identity is its ability to include the Other even when he is gone and forgotten. The consciousness of the Other became a structural element that enriched and fertilized Sephardic identity, even as the reality of the Other became foggy and ultimately vanished altogether. This internal element developed into a kind of cultural gene, strengthening its carriers’ capacity for tolerance and pluralism. The wistfulness or nostalgia for the vanished Other was handed down from generation to generation, for hundreds of years after the expulsion. This sad, nostalgic mood permeates folk songs in Ladino, the language whose very existence nourished Sephardic identity even when the languages actually spoken by Sephardic Jews in other countries were different. The subconscious existence of the absent Other in Sephardic identity – whether that of the Muslim as fellow exile or of the forced Jewish and Muslim converts who stayed behind in Spain – made the Sephardic Jew heavier of heart but also more tolerant. [19] Yehoshua noted that religious fanatics are hard to find among Sephardic Jews. Such zealotry did develop among Ashkenazic European Jews, who had to struggle against doctrinal Christian animosities, both Catholic and Protestant, and against Jewish secularization, which became a threat in the modern period. However, such ideological secularization, by and large, was not a factor in traditional Sephardic societies.[20]

    Yehoshua spoke of what he calls “Mediterranean-style pluralism,” one of whose unifying components is the Sephardic Jew, who carries in his soul that vanished Other, the Christian and the Muslim. This is the Sephardic role; this is its mission. Not merely Ladino love songs or folkloric foods or Sephardic melodies and modes of prayer in the synagogue, but a political and cultural mission. A mission of peace and tolerance, addressed first and foremost to the Arabs of the Mediterranean, a mission with which Israelis who are not Sephardic are also likely to identify.[21]

    The Mediterranean basin was the cradle of the Sephardic Jews, who gave us the most memorable poetry of the Golden Age in Spain. However, the oldest community of Jews in Jerusalem, the Sephardim, declined alongside the onset of Zionism and modernity. The early harbinger of this process appears in the middle of the nineteenth century: Rabbi Alkalay (1798-1878), the Sephardic rabbi who preceded Pinsker, Herzl, and Ahad Ha' am. His name is rarely mentioned today.[22]

    Yehoshua discusses his relationship with his Sephardic past in an essay, “Remembrance of Sephardic Things Past,” included in the anthology of his father’s essays published in 1987 and in his second essay collection, The Wall and the Mountain (1989). In relating the influence of Sephardim on his writing, Yehoshua wrote:

 

I felt I could no longer dominate a text with the kind of figure that represents the Israeli in general or the Ashkenazi Israeli of the center in general. And this was my way of approaching reality: little by little, I discovered the Sephardic element that I had repressed a little and didn’t want to touch in my earlier writings. I discovered the Sephardic element in my own identity and tried to use it as a way to penetrate through to my human soul and to the Jewish experience through my own biography. And I think this is the way I came…to Mr. Mani itself.[23]

 

    In discussing what his Sephardic roots meant to him personally, Yehoshua stated:

 

Of course it is … a return to some of my own sources and to the possibility of being courageous and admitting some of my sources … by engaging Jewish history from a Sephardic point of view[24] … I very much wanted to understand this Sephardic element – Sephardic not in the sense of the Oriental Jew, but in the sense of a Sephardic Jerusalemite of the nineteenth century.[25]

 

Mr. Mani

 

    Mr. Mani reads like a frontal assault on the mystique of Sephardim. Playing with the conventions of the family saga, Yehoshua’s novel gives equal attention to five generations of a family of Spanish exiles who emigrated from Salonika to Jerusalem in the middle of the nineteenth century. The cultural and historical description is thick, and the will to engage the meaning of Sephardim unmistakable.[26]

    Mr. Mani is also a direct assault against the nationalists and fundamentalists in the war for memory, hence the soul and future of his nation. Yehoshua’s way of engaging in this battle is to dive deeply into the historical and mythological past of the Jewish people. His purpose, in writing the book, “is to understand the present.”[27] He is insistent that Mr. Mani “…is not a historical novel”[28] – even though it covers 150 years of history. The present, he says, is the target. “I feel that Israel is at a crossroad, between war and peace, and I want very much very much to understand that crossroad.”[29]

   Yehoshua does not believe Mr. Mani is a novel of ideas. Rather, the essence of his idea is that Israel’s collective past impinges on its collective present. He feels that before ideology, before Jewish history, before the crossroads of Jewish history, one must try to explore the unconscious material that comes from fathers to sons and from grandfathers and great-grandfathers to ourselves.[30]   

    In his seminal article, “Behind Every Thought Hides Another Thought,” Israeli literary critic Dan Miron observed that the Yehoshua corpus can be characterized as a “poetics of wit.” Mr. Mani, Miron suggested, exposes how narrative can be thought of as an intellectual game because of its artificial, constructed nature. Miron claimed that Yehoshua made intentional “mistakes” in his narrative: “battles will occur a year before or after they took place, locations will move a bit, people will know things they could not have known…” He believed that the reader is invited to uncover these mistakes by Yehoshua as a kind of game. [31] The “game,” in many cases, directs the reader to the salient “what-if” conversation that Yehoshua is emphasizing.

    Above all, Yehoshua describes Mr. Mani as "a conversation novel." Indeed, this chronicle of the Mani family from the mid-eighteenth-century to the mid-1980s comprises five conversations, documenting five speakers. Only the last speaker is a Mani; the others relate the fate of the Manis they have known. These conversations are unique, also, in that most of the speakers occupy positions of power during the periods in which the conversations take place.[32] An otherwise absent editor supplies each conversation’s prologue and epilogue in a neutral, authoritative tone.[33] Yehoshua succeeds in forcing the reader into a double take – as an outsider and an insider, both a detached observer and an involved confessor.[34]

    In each conversation, a new speaker describes his or her encounter with a different member of the Mani family. The responses of the speaker’s conversational partner are omitted, but his or her identity is known to the reader and clearly influences how the speaker communicates.

    The novel begins in the present and moves back in time, reenacting the life of six generations of the putatively typical Sephardic family, the Manis. The shadow of Freud looms large over Mr. Mani, where Yehoshua – who has been married to a psychoanalyst for half a century – invites readers on an archeological approach, that is, to dig into the text in order to recover underlying connections and decode recurring symbols.[35] Yehoshua’s historical intersections are obvious, recognized episodes in the construction of the Zionist narrative: the rise of nationalism in Europe (1848), the Zionist Congresses (1899), the Belfour Declaration (1918), the Holocaust (1944), and the Lebanon War (1982).[36] Yehoshua touches on these historical intersections by way of this family, which is the subject of each conversation. These conversations continue, by allusion, all the way back to the mythic origins of the Jewish people in the biblical story of Abraham and Isaac.[37] Over all, the conversations retrace the emergence of modern nationalism, in particular Zionism, and its effect on the Middle East and the Jerusalem Sephardim. Significant in its absence is the most crucial date in the rise of modern Jewish nationalism: 1948, the establishment of Israel as a sovereign state, the epochal date without which one cannot conceive of the modern Jewish world – or the world of this novel.[38]

    The speakers in the conversations describe the Manis as outsiders who produced idiosyncratic individuals in extreme reaction to their surroundings. The first and last conversations feature speakers who have decided to revive the dying Sephardic Mani clan: Hagar Shiloh in the 1980s and Avraham Mani in 1848, both of whom resolve not to let the future generations die out. The three middle speakers have brief encounters with a Mani: a German soldier in Crete in 1944, a Jewish British lieutenant in Palestine/Eretz Israel in 1918, and a Jewish physician in western Galicia (Poland) in 1899.

    In this novel, Yehoshua "regresses" to a mode of narration that can, in part, be seen as traditional. Not only is there conversation in which the voice of the interlocutor is not heard; there is a further "regression" to the romantic depiction of the Arab as typically found in the writing of the pre-statehood generation. In a way, the novel – dedicated to the author’s father– is a return not only to the era depicted but to the older literary approaches as well, i.e., to the hitherto unacknowledged Sephardic  literary forefathers. Yehoshua employs a double framework here: on one hand, there is his faithfulness, through speech, to the periods he depicts, and on the other, there is the hindsight of the 1980s. In the process, Yehoshua reclaims his lost literary Sephardic "parentage," and, therefore he sees the Arab cry for nationalism in a far different light.[39]

 

Kibbutz Mash’abei Sadeh, 1982

 

    The first and most contemporary section of Mr. Mani takes place in the midst of the war Israel was conducting in Lebanon in 1982.  The speaker, Hagar Shiloh, is talking to her mother at Kibbutz Mash’abei Sadeh, of which they are members. Hagar, whose lover is Efi (Ephraim) Mani, believes she is pregnant and is trying to tell her mother about her visit to Efi’s father, Gavriel Mani, in Jerusalem. She saves Efi's father Gavriel, a respected judge, from suicide. Hagar’s pregnancy turns out to be illusory, but she later becomes pregnant and gives birth to Roni Mani. Efi refuses to marry her, and she decides to raise the baby alone.[40] In her conversation with her mother, Hagar feels that she is in a play whose implacable script has already been written: the end of the dynasty. Against all odds, therefore, she decides to change the text; she is not alone but is part of a long story in the hands of someone else. As an Ashkenazic, she is doing something audacious in trying to enter the Sephardic clan and invigorate its tired blood. She seeks her place in a family that is not a family but "a version of a family."[41]

    Hagar’s brief sojourn in Arab East Jerusalem is one of the most delicately suggestive episodes in Mr. Mani. She concludes that this is a place in which she is an outsider while it is a place to which the Arabs she encounters naturally belong. She feels the distinct and separate Arab space most strongly as she rides the hospital van after her short stay in an Arab hospital where she thought she had miscarried:

 

I began traveling through Jerusalem from the opposite direction that evening, together with the hospital workers who had finished their shift. And it was the most wondrous journey, Mom. To places where you have never been, through neighborhoods and little villages that are right inside the city itself, dripping at times through barren ravines, still spotted with snow, and bumping into dark streets, full of potholes and big puddles, that would suddenly turn into bustling commercial centers alive with colors and people, young and old, walking along with their donkeys, or shopping bags. And everyone actually seemed very pleasant and very relaxed, as it they really felt good being alone together and may have even become accustomed to it.[42]

 

    Hagar’s account of her experiences in the Arab sector of Jerusalem supports the Sephardic narrative that views the division of the Land of Israel into two States would be as healthy for the integrity of the Palestinian identity as it would for the transformation of the Israeli sense of self.[43]       

   

Heraklion, Crete, 1944

 

    In German-occupied Crete, a young German paratrooper, Egon Bruner, explains relates to his mother his experiences in Crete with the Mani family, which he was hunting down. During an interrogation, Efrayim Mani tries to convince Egon that he is no longer a Jew because he has willingly canceled his Jewishness and has become, simply, a person. Having been brought up without a mother and by an adoptive father and perhaps aware that his real father was not a Jew, Efrayim believed he could escape his historical identity and destiny.[44]

   Egon experiences the human toll that occupation inflicts not only on the occupied but on the occupier as well. Upon encountering members of the Mani family, Ego experiences his first taste of what he later come to call:

 

…that sweet and sour dish called Conqueror’s Fear from which we eat until it makes us sick. This is the cause of the anxiety and the dread that emanate from each one of us, even when he is walking along innocently, absorbed in the loftiest and most humane thoughts. This is the reason for the careful attention that each of our soldiers gives to every move he makes, even when he begins to loathe himself.[45]

 

    In this chapter, Yehoshua suggests that the dangers of Israeli militancy and its occupation of Arab lands is fraught with the dangers experienced by Egon in Crete. The “what-if” scenario is a return to the amity of the Arabs and Jews in Jerusalem before 1948.

 

Jerusalem, Palestine, 1918

 

    Ivor Stephen Horowitz, a young Jewish lawyer serving in the British Army in Jerusalem, which has recently been occupied by the British army, explains to his superior the case of the political agitator, Yosef Mani, who is being tried for treason and is eventually sentenced by a military court to banishment on the island of Crete.   

    Yosef grew up among the polyglot of Christian, Jewish, and Arab groups that made up Jerusalem during the first decade of the century. Yosef advocates the idea of bi-nationalism[46]—two people on one land —and concentrates on political pursuits. He is preoccupied with the questions of national identity and engages in “practical education,” attending meetings of Shiites, Druze, Christian Communists, Maronites, Catholics, and all kinds of clerical assemblies, moving from identity to identity. He also maintains his connections with the Sephardic Jewish community and makes the acquaintance of many young eastern European Jews headed for Palestine.

    Having made himself an indispensable translator in the British advancing army, Yosef offers his services as a spy to the Turks in exchange for the opportunity to address gatherings of Arab villagers throughout the countryside. His message to his sleepy and uncomprehending listeners is that in the wake of the Balfour Declaration, Palestine will be divided up among those wise enough to grasp the opportunity and that the Arabs will lose out unless they awaken to the meaning of the hour. Night after night, he stands before groups of sullen Arab villages who have been forcibly assembled by the Turks to warn them of the coming perils and advise them of the steps they must take to avert this:

 

And this is what he would say to them: “Who are you? Wake up before it is too late and the world is completely changed. Get yourself an identity fast!” And he takes out his Arabic translation of Lord Balfour’s declaration and reads it to them without explanation. Then he continues, “This land is yours and it is ours, half for you and half for us.” And he points toward Jerusalem, and says, “The British are over there and the Turks are over here, but they will all leave, and we will be left alone. So stop sleeping and wake up.”[47]

 

    Yosef wants the Arabs to awaken to the fact that the Balfour Declaration’s promise of a Jewish national home will mean a massive influx of Jewish immigrants, which will drastically alter the demographic balance and put the Palestinian Arabs at a distinct disadvantage. He wants them to understand that, as a result of these new circumstances, the Jews have become “like a swarm of locusts that is now hiding in the desert but will soon swoop down.”[48] He also offers them a preemptive solution. Toward the end of each speech, Yosef displays a handmade map of Palestine and reiterates,

 

“Get yourself an identity. All over the world nations are taking on identities. If you delay, it will be too late. If you delay, there will be a disaster. Because we are coming.” And he takes out a pair of scissors and says, “Half for us and half for you.” Then he cuts the map from top to bottom, giving them half with the mountains and the Jordan River and keeping the coast and the sea for himself.” [49]

 

    When they seem disappointed by not getting the sea, he takes out another map and cuts it in half another way. [50]

    Here, Yehoshua goes back to the crossroads of the Balfour Declaration, where Britain’s call for the establishment of the State of Israel, instead of advocating a two-state solution, would have dramatically changed the history of Israel and Palestine.

 

Jelleny-Szad, 1899

 

    A young doctor, Efrayim Shapiro, reports to his father his experiences at the Third Zionist Congress and his subsequent trips to Jerusalem with his sister, Linka, who has had an affair with a Dr. Moshe Mani, an obstetrician. This dialog takes place in Jelleny-Szad in southern Poland (near Oswiecim) in 1899.

    Moshe Mani ran a lying-in clinic in Jerusalem using modern obstetrics, and women from all the nationalities in Jerusalem came to give birth under these enlightened conditions. The clinic is described as “multiethnic, syncretistic, and ecumenical.”[51] Dr. Mani appears as a polyglot microcosm mingling women of all nationalities, a confusion of boundaries of all sorts.[52]

    Fascinated by the figure of Herzl and his vision of a Zionist state, the doctor travels to Basel for the Zionist Congress of 1899 and there meets Efrayim and Linka from Galicia who return with him to Jerusalem. The doctor has fallen in love with Linka and accompanies the Shapiros on their return to Galicia. Dr. Mani tells the two visitors that one day, with the progress of technology, there will be a train running from Jerusalem to Oswiecim, the Polish town with the name Auschwitz (which is the neighboring town to the Shapiros' estate in Jelleny-Szad).  

    Here, of course, Yehoshua is imaging a counter-history where Jews in the Diaspora emigrated to Israel and were saved from the ovens of the Nazis.

 

Athens, 1848

   

   In Athens, Avraham Mani reports to his elderly mentor, Rabbi Shabbetai Hananiaha-Haddaya, the intricate tale of his trip to Jerusalem and the death of his son. Avraham, the rigidly conservative patriarch, and Yosef, his iconoclastic son, differ in their views of religion and territory.[53] Avraham’s dedication to a universal Jewish faith conflicts with the aspirations of Yosef to a mode of national existence that is essentially territorial. Yosef disavows traditional notions of Jewish peoplehood and dedicates himself to transforming his nation by uniting its people around the territory they inhabit. He wishes to fuse all the inhabitants of the land into a single national body that is founded on a native belonging to this land.[54] 

     Yosef Mani was the first member of his family to settle in Jerusalem, an act of cardinal importance in a novel that attempts to formulate – or reformulate – the historical background of the Zionist state. Young Yosef traveled to Jerusalem from Istanbul in 1846 not out of any sense of religious yearning or nationalism but simply to marry Tamara, to whom he had been betrothed the year before. This chapter describes a world of Sephardic families residing in the major cities of the Eastern Mediterranean and living out their lives mostly unaffected by the dynamic political winds sweeping Europe. Yosef, for instance, was born in Salonika, spent his youth at the home of his teacher in Istanbul, and is betrothed in Beirut to Tamara Valerio from Jerusalem. He is familiar with the streets of Istanbul and Jerusalem; he speaks Ladino, Turkish, French, English, and Arabic; in Jerusalem, he works as a courier and guide for the British consulate. He is impressed by the similarity between the Arabs and the Jews and develops a theory, his idée fixe, that the Arab inhabitants of Palestine (whom he calls Ishmaelites) are the unknowing descendants of the original Hebrews and really are “Jews who still don’t know they are Jews.”[55] Avraham, the father, also has an idée fixe, which demands that the unity of religion and nationality be maintained and the continuity of the family dynasty be perpetuated.

    However, there is a dark side to this seemingly comfortable cosmopolitanism: Yosef is a homosexual, a voyeur, and will not have sex with his wife; therefore, he will not father children. Yosef is killed, apparently by one of his Arab lovers (possibly with assistance from Avraham[56]), in order to preserve the continuity of national and religious unity both within his family and within the larger Jewish community.[57] Avraham, who had come to Jerusalem from Salonika to look into the doings of the young couple, sleeps with his very young daughter-in-law and she bears his child, Moshe.[58]

    In this culminating fifth section, Yehoshua addresses his concern with the relationship of the Jewish people to the land of Israel and to the Arabs who inhabit it. In the novel, the first Yosef reflects Yehoshua’s wish for the Sephardim’s early nineteenth-century experience of living peacefully, side by side with the Arabs.

 

Arab Relations

 

    One of the most interesting issues in Mr. Mani is the Jews’ relationship with the Arab. In Yehoshua’s earlier fiction, the Arab maintains a central but separate existence. In contrast, in Mr. Mani it seems as if the Arab has entered into the psyche of the Israeli and the self-definition of the Israeli is intimately bound up with that of the Arab. This is in stark contrast to the position of the Arab in earlier Hebrew literature where the depiction of the Arab was so romanticized, so kept at a distance, that there could be no talk of the Arab's taking a place "within" the Israeli psyche.[59]

    Mr. Mani’s image of the Arab may well be traceable to the emergence of Yehoshua’s Sephardic roots in his writings and to his increasing homage to Sephardic as well as to Ashkenazic writers and thinkers of the pre-statehood days. For example, as noted above, he portrays Yosef of the 1848 Mani family as believing that Arabs are in essence ancient Jews who ought to be brought back into the fold. Presumably, the recovery of a common ancestor of Arab and Jews can serve to eliminate the animosity between them and liberate both sides from their cultural limitations.[60] 

    The Sephardic sense of familiarity with Arab culture is depicted in the epilogue and biographical data that conclude every conversation in the novel. Gavriel Mani decides to travel to the kibbutz in the Negev to see his grandson; he drives through Hebron, to the horror of Hagar and her mother, Yael. Over their apprehensions, he assures them that he feels entirely safe in going from Jerusalem to Beersheba through Hebron and that the villagers are peaceful. It is the fall of 1987, and when a stone is thrown at his car, he confesses that to take this road is now inadvisable, although it still tempts him.[61]   

    Mr. Mani’s narrative seeks to discern, critique, and ultimately, transform the manner in which traditional notions of Jewish territorial affinity affect Israeli perceptions of the national and territorial prerogatives of the Arabs who inhabit the Land of Israel.[62]

 

The Arab-Israeli Conflicts

 

    Mr. Mani opens with a signature paragraph introducing Hagar Shiloh and the brute fact that time in Israel is measured by the dates of wars.[63]

 

Born in 1962 in Mash’abei Sadeh, a kibbutz thirty kilometers south of Beersheba that was founded in 1949. Her parents, Roni and Yael Shiloh, first arrived there in 1956 in the course of the army service. Hagar’s father Roni was killed on the last day of the Six Day War as a reservist on the Golan Heights. As Hagar was five at the time, her claim to have clear memories of her father may be correct.[64]

 

    The Arab-Israeli conflict and its many wars might have been solved long ago had the leadership of the Zionist movement been entrusted to the indigenous Sephardim of Eretz Yisrael who understood Arab sensibilities better than did the Ashkenazim.[65] An essay by Elie Eliachar, a former Deputy Mayor of Jerusalem and a member of one of Israel's oldest Oriental Jewish families, makes the same argument: “Had the Zionist leaders in those days been wise enough to accept the guidance of these [Sephardic] and other individuals who had experience with Arabs, a better understanding between Jews and Arabs might have been brought about without any harm done to our national movement.”[66]

    Eliachar pointed to item after item that antagonized the Arabs to the point of armed conflict: land purchases that did not take the Arab tenants into consideration, Hebrew language instruction in schools that excluded the Arabs, repeated personal insults of Arab dignitaries, incursions into their lands. He wrote in 1975 that his position of 1936 presented to the Royal Commission still held and things would have been different had the Sephardic point of view conditioned the relationship with the Arabs.[67]

 

We are Jews of Semitic-Oriental origin despite the extensive sojourn of a considerable number of people from the West. The Land of Israel lies in the Orient and our first duty on returning is to regain the Oriental characteristics which we lost in the West, without in any way relinquishing all the positive traits we acquired there. Jews and Arabs are Semites and hence related. The Hebrew and Arabic languages stem from a common source, as do our religious beliefs: even many of our basic characteristics are alike. [68]

 

    Eliachar’s views on the Sephardim are generally consistent with Yehoshua’s notion that a Sephardic version of Zionism would have created a different landscape where two peoples would be living side by side in peace.

 

Sephardic Themes

 

    Sephardic responses to the Ashkenazic culture and hegemony challenge the “Zionist master narrative” created by the Ashkenazic literary establishment.[69] Sephardic Zionism as an ideology, with its pluralistic foundation and tolerance toward the Arabs, was displaced by the Ashkenazic power structure, which was European in origin, and whose notions of Jewish nationalism were thus founded along the lines of nineteenth-century European nationalist models. Sephardic Zionism, only remotely influenced by these new ideas, is implied in Mr. Mani.  The Sephardic Manis respect Arab nationalism and have an intimacy with the Arab communities of the Mediterranean. As a consequence, the Sephardic Jew is more at home in the Middle East than the Ashkenazi and, perhaps, more capable of living at peace with the Arab inhabitants of the area.

    Several scholars, writing about Mr. Mani, failed to connect the Sephardic critique of Ashkenazic Zionist ideology to Yehoshua’s interrogation of the entire history of the Jewish people in Mr. Mani. For example, Gilead Moragh finds the notion puzzling that Mr. Mani is preoccupied with questions of Sephardic identity and that it provides a counter-narrative to prevailing versions of Zionism discourse by engaging Jewish history from a Sephardic point of view. Moragh argues that with one significant exception, the fifth conversation, Sephardic characters have little voice and no independent existence in Mr. Mani.

 

The little there is in their speech is reported speech, and their inner worlds are reconstructed or invented by others who are often profoundly alien to them. The narrative perspective in the first four conversations belongs to a sequence of explicitly non-Sephardic narrators who are appropriating the Mani story to serve their own needs. It is not surprising that in these narratives, the Manis do not come to embody much that is typical or representative of the Sephardic community and its culture. This also explains the paucity of knowledge about what most of the Mani men actually think or feel.[70]

 

Yael Feldman agrees with Moragh: “The Manis are far from being a representative Sephardic family and it is impossible to maintain that the Mani perspective constitutes a hidden Sephardic critique of European Zionist ideology.” [71] However, I disagree with Morahg and Feldman on this matter and find the writings of Yaron Peleg and Alan L. Mintz to be much more in line with my thinking concerning the Sephardic counter-narrative.

    In Peleg’s view, for example, Mr. Mani examines the Sephardic element in pre-Zionist Palestine from an Ashkenazic point of view, which looks at the Palestinian Sephardim with a mixture of admiration, bewilderment, and anxiety. The Ashkenazis sense the almost mythic ability of the Sephardim to survive in an ever-changing world, an ability that is sustained by their native attachment to the land and their natural relations with the Arabs. The novel pays homage to the deep affinity of the Sephardim to Eretz Israel, irrespective of politics. The characters in Mr. Mani are a natural part of the Mediterranean world. They know it intimately and move through it freely. For them, Zionism is just another regional political phase that does not determine their relation to the Land of Israel. The Ashkenazic point of view calls attention to the nature of Zionism as an artificial and perhaps even a harmful development in Jewish history. The natural attachment of the Sephardim to the Mediterranean Muslim world questions not only the validity of Zionism but its overall benefit to the Jews. The novel seems to say that, unlike their Ashkenazic brethren, the Sephardim never really had a Jewish problem.[72]

    In “Constructing and Deconstructing the Mystique of Sephardim in Yehoshua’s Mr. Mani and Journey to the End of the Millennium,” Mintz notes the manner in which Mr. Mani peels away the layers of historical inevitability and rolls back the triumph of Western ideology as it moves one step closer to a time when nations and national identities were finally consolidated. Mr. Mani provocatively and perversely follows this line not into the recesses of the Ashkenazic Diaspora where Zionism was derived but into the world of Sephardic Jewry, which historically composed the largest segment of continuous Jewish settlement in Jerusalem, though it is a smaller percentage of world Jewry. Jerusalem is presented before Zionism and places within it an hypostatized Sephardim whose growing entanglement with Western Zionism can be traced through resistance and capitulation.[73]

      Mr. Mani makes claims for a superior worldliness of the Sephardim, a quality that enabled them to see alternatives to the ideology-driven march of Western history. Jews of the Ottoman Empire lived in closer and less conflicting contact with Muslim peoples than with the members of the other principal minority, the Christians. Their mercantile travels gave them an international perspective and a sensitivity to the relations among national groups. 

    In contrast to the Judaism of their East European coreligionists, the religious convictions of the Sephardim were deeply but less fanatically held and were less insulated from the world. When religious faith collapsed for a segment of Russian Jewry at the end of the nineteenth century, political Zionism was seized upon as a substitute for failed messianic beliefs and turned into an ideological movement. The Sephardim chose a path of accommodation instead. Rather than rejecting religion and adopting secular replacements for it, they made room for elements of modernity alongside their family-centered piety. Zionism came to them naturally, not as a radical redefinition of the Jewish people but as an extension of a primordial attachment to both an ideal geography and a real place.[74]

 

The Dysfunctional Mani Family

 

    The Manis as a family and as individuals are ineffectual and obsessed in ways that undercut the legitimacy of their visionary policies and it all starts with the first Yosef Mani. In fact, as mentioned above, Yosef believed that the Arabs are Jews who have forgotten their Jewishness. According to the account given by his father, an unreliable but insightful narrator, Yosef’s ideas are the ultimate result of the boy having been seduced by the young wife of his elderly rabbi and teacher, which in turn leads to his homosexuality and his death. The father calls the son’s notions an idée fixe, and he journeys from Salonika to try to ensure that the marriage “bears seed and not just idées fixes.” His failure to do so and his guilt over impregnating his daughter-in-law lead him later in life to contemplate suicide. And so the urge to suicide, obscurely enacted by Judge Mani more than a century later, is imprinted in the genetic code of the Manis.[75] Mr. Mani is about obsessions that are self-destructive in that the heroes in the novel are directed by an antique self-destruction, with murder and incest lying in their unconscious.[76]

    Because the Mani family’s notions come to naught, their decision to pursue their ideas at the expense of the preservation of their species is doubly self-defeating. For faced with the choice to sow their seed or to sow their ideas, they constantly do the latter. In contrast to received notions of potent oriental patriarchs propagating vast clans, the Manis have to be tricked into reproducing. From the father who sleeps with his daughter-in-law at one end of the novel to the kibbutz student who gets Judge Mani an illegitimate grandson at the other, this is a family whose dynastic line hangs by a very tattered thread.[77] The Manis prefer to remain bachelors, are barely attracted to the female sex, and would rather not fulfill the commandment to be fruitful and multiply. Each of them has but one descendent, who only with difficulty secures the continuation of the line. The either/or choice between sexuality and political consciousness is vividly expressed in the case of Yosef Mani, the treacherous translator and homo politicus of the third conversation.[78]

    All the characters in Mr. Mani are self-deceiving individuals who “do not understand themselves and the motives for their behavior in personal relationships”[79] and in compensation, they “fashion group-identifications (Sephardim, Zionism, Pacifism, Universalism, Nazism, Religion,) which they delude themselves into believing will solve all their problems.” [80] Moreover, the Manis suffer from an assortment of psychological problems, ranging from passivity to aggression, from incest to filicide, and from frigidity and repressed homosexuality to suicidal urges. Undoubtedly, this is a portrait of a family far removed from the classic ethnic stereotype of the Sephardic family.

     Why, then, would Yehoshua undermine his own creation? I believe that Yehoshua turns, symbolically, to the biblical tales of the patriarchs and matriarchs because they, like the Manis, are hardly paragons of virtue. There is the story of Tamara, who sleeps with her father-in-law Judah in order to produce an heir to her husband, the transfer of the burden of infertility from the matriarch of Genesis to the Mani patriarchs; Abraham and Joseph and the aqedah episode; and Ishmael, the banished son of Abraham and Hagar. [81]  

    The fifth conversation gives us the only speaker who is a Mani. In one of many reversals, Avraham Mani comes to his teacher, Rabbi Shabbetai Hananiaha-Haddaya, as the rabbi is dying to give confession and extract vengeance.

    Yehoshua sees the Manis as reflecting many of the problems of family relations and, especially, the father-son dynamic. “Family relations,” wrote Yehoshua in an essay published in 1998, “…are, in my view, one of the areas of life that are richest in moral dilemmas and choices. Here…a person’s morality is tested. Especially because connections of love and mutual dependence are so characteristic of family relations, the moral equations become subtle, complex, and often painful.”[82] Interestingly, Yehoshua’s wife, a psychoanalyst, has remarked that all his fiction is at heart about the friction between father and son.[83]

    Most of the members of the house of Mani are indeed “mani-acs” who represent the Mani dynasty over a period of 150 years. Yehoshua’s depiction of them represents his views on the biblical narrative, family relations, and father-son dynamic. In effect, Yehoshua is saying that there is a little “Mani” in all of us, some to a lesser or greater degree.

 

Conclusion

 

    Mr. Mani is replete with references to the “what-ifs” of the Sephardic Zionist counter-narrative. The Sephardic point of view, reflected in this fictional chronicle, points to the close proximity and amity between Arabs and Jews. The Sephardic community is a community of moderation. Hence, there are opportunities for accommodation with the Arabs and Christian Europeans that are invisible to the Ashkenazic coreligionists.[84]

    Mr. Mani is not a nostalgic evocation of the Sephardic past or an embittered tirade against Ashkenazic humiliation of Sephardic or Oriental Jews, the two convenient subgenres of Hebrew fiction situated in non-Ashkenazi milieus. Rather, it is an agonized fictionalization of the problems of Israeli existence in the time of its composition, after the Lebanon War, and at the beginning of the Intifada. Actual political events of the 1980s are referred to only in the first of the five sections of the novel, and then only as background to the story, which takes place in Jerusalem. However, like many Israeli novels, it is motivated by a well-grounded conviction that something has gone awry in the realization of the Zionist dream. Yehoshua attempts to work out here the search for what went wrong. The innocent assumption is that if you can identify the wrong turn, you can return to it and make the right turn.[85]

        Neither sparing nor idealizing the Sephardim, Yehoshua posits an alternative narrative in which Sephardim participate in the traditional Zionist story and create their own version. The Mani (read: Sephardic) attachment to the land of Israel is not political, ideological, or interchangeable; rather it is organic. The Manis are the link to the land and also the bridge to the Arabs, the true indigenous people.[86] By placing Dr. Mani with Herzl at the Zionist Congress meeting in 1899, Yehoshua effectively includes the Sephardim in the European enterprise. European Zionism is embodied by the figure of Herzl, shown to be weak and ailing, on the verge of total collapse. By contrast, the Sephardic counterpart, Dr. Mani, is robust.

    In Mr. Mani, Yehoshua suggests a different Zionism conceived by Sephardic Jews as an alternative to the Zionism developed by the Ashkenazic Jews, which, in his estimation, prevents Israel from resolving the Arab-Israeli conflict. Through the Mani family lineage, the novel points to a Sephardic Jewish solution. In contrast to Ashkenazic Zionism, which ignored the national aspirations of the Arabs when conceiving the establishment of the Jewish state, each generation of the Mani family in Yehoshua’s novel attempts to establish the Jewish hold on the Land of Israel by means of a compromise with the Arabs.[87] In this hypothetical scenario, the nation-state is undermined as the major achievement of the Zionist movement. With all the attention paid to dates, the absence of 1948 is an omission fraught with significance. European Zionism is weak and fails.

        The Sephardic counter-narrative is further exemplified in the novel by the initiatives of the Manis in response to the events depicted in 1918 and 1899.Though there are many differences between England in 1918 and Poland in 1899, the central message is similar. If the Mani of either conversation, father Moshe of the fourth conversation or son Joseph of the third, had succeeded in his rhetorical endeavors, the era of the Shoah would have found a different Jewish people in Europe. If Moshe Mani had persuaded Efrayim Shapiro to stay in Jerusalem, there would have been no Shapiros in Poland to transport to Auschwitz. If Joseph Mani had persuaded the Arabs to take on the national political identity in 1918 or, more subtly, if he had persuaded Ivor Horowitz immediately that he was an English Jew and not a Jewish Englishman, perhaps he, and not his grandson, would have been the first family to settle in Israel, in the 1920s, not the 1960s or 1970s, and perhaps a state of Israel would have come into being earlier, particularly considering Great Britain’s political role in the matter. What is unquestionable, however, is that if many Polish Jews of Shapiro’s social position and generation had emigrated to Israel in 1899 or if many English Jews of Horowitz’s social position and generation had done so in the 1920s, the Nazis would have encountered a different Jewish reality in Europe and the Middle East in the 1930s.[88] The Holocaust represents both the consequence of these earlier choices and a road that saw Jewishness as an identity purely of the mind.

       At crucial junctures of modern history, such as the Balfour Declaration, the Manis, because of who they are and where they come from, are able to glimpse options invisible to the Ashkenazic Zionist movement. They contemplate an alternative path that does not foreclose possibilities, one that negates the unremitting tension with its neighbors.[89] The Yosef of section five has the ideological conviction and alternative existential vision. Yosef has come to believe that it is imperative to obliterate the ethnic and religious distinctions that divide the inhabitants of Jerusalem and cause constant conflict among them. Furthermore, Yosef constantly seeks “to forge relationships among strangers and to fight against what he considers isolation or self-segregation.”[90] He does this out of his conviction that “when all will recognize their true but hidden nature, they will make peace with each other.”[91] The first Yosef Mani’s attitude is rooted in the ideological stance of Canaanite thinkers such as Ben-Gurion and Ben-Zvi, who regarded Palestinian Arabs as “converted descendents of Jews” who had remained devoted to the land after the destruction of the Second Temple. While according to Canaanites, the Arabs of Palestine privileged their loyalty to the land, the Jews chose to be loyal to their faith, losing contact with the native soil.[92]

        In many important ways, the second section of Mr. Mani in German-occupied Crete is an extended exploration of the consequences of Israel’s present-day transformation into a nation of conquerors with an evolving culture of occupation. Egon’s initial aspiration for national transformation coincides closely with the fundamentals of the Zionist dream. Both are idealistic visions of a national renewal that requires casting off the heritage of a despised past and drawing on tropes of an ancient Mediterranean culture to evoke the redemption that will occur upon the nation’s return to the mythic land of origin.[93]

    When Yehoshua is writing about the occupation of Crete, he is thinking about Israelis in the territories that they occupy. For example, the second section of Mr. Mani is an extended exploration of the consequences of Israel’s deliberate choice to transform itself into a nation of conquerors with an evolving culture of occupation.[94] Hence, we can begin to discern the way in which the contemporary collective choice is as monumental as those reflected in Mr. Mani. That is, if the Jewish people persist along the road of occupation and create no peace settlement, what new Shoah lies twenty years in the future, a future that includes the real possibility that nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons of mass destruction could fall into the hands of terrorists or be used by terrorist states? While one can look with dismay at the choices not taken by European Jews sixty years ago, one must contemplate the picture of grandchildren sixty years from now looking back with comparable dismay at the choices not taken now.[95]    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ENDNOTES   

 

[1] Biblical scholars have often complained that the word hessed in the Hebrew Bible is difficult to translate into English, because it has no precise equivalent in our language; it is often translated as “loving-kindness,” “mercy,” “steadfast love,” and sometimes “loyalty.”

[2] Marc D. Angel, “A Sephardic Approach to Halakhah,”Midstream Magazine (August/September, 1975).

[3] Yael S. Feldman, Glory and Agony (Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 2010): 22.

[4] Paul Mendes-Fleur and Jehuda Reinharz, The Jew in the Modern World (NY, Oxford University Press, 2011): 620.

[5] Gilead Moragh, “The Literary Quest for National Revival,” eds. Steven L. Jacos and Zev Garber, Maven in Blue Jeans (West Lafayette, IN, Purdue University, 2009): 455.

[6] Gilead Morahg, “Borderline Cases: National Identity and Territorial Affinity in A. B. Yehoshua’s Mr. Mani,” AJS Review, 30:1 (2006): 168.

[7]Arnold J. Band, “Mar Mani: The Archeology of Self-Deception,” Prooftexts 12 (1992): 239.

[8] Alan L. Mintz, The Boom in Contemporary Israeli Fiction (Waltham, MA, Brandeis University Press, 1992): 133.

[9] Alan Mintz, “Counterlives,” The New Republic (June 29, 1992): 442.

[10] Ibid, 12.

[11] Doreet Hopp, “Avraham B. Yehoshua,” Encyclopaedia Judaica.

[12] Ibid.

[13] Band, “Mar Mani,” 234.

[14] Abraham B. Yehoshua, “Beyond Folklore: The Identity of the Sephardic Jew,” Quaderns de la Mediterrania 14 (2010), 152.

[15] Ibid.

[16] Ibid.

[17] Ibid, 153.

[18] Ibid, 154-155.

[19] Yehoshua, “Beyond,” 154.

[20] Ibid, 155.

[21] Ibid.

[22] Gila Ramras-Rauch, “A. B. Yehoshua and the Sephardic Experience,” World Literature Today, Vol. 65, No. 1 (Winter 1991): 12.

[23] Horn, Facing, 78-79.

[24] Morahg, “Borderline,” 173.

[25] Ibid, 79.

[26] Alan L. Mintz, “Constructing and Deconstructing Mystique of Sephardim in Yehoshua’s Mr. Mani and Journey to the End of the Millenium,” ed. Alan L. Mintz, Translating Israel (Syracuse, NY, Syracuse University Press, 2001): 173-174.

[27] Horn, Facing, 13

[28] Ibid.

[29] Horn, Facing, 13.

[30] Ibid, 14.

[31] Dan Miron, “Behind Every Thought Hides Another Thought: Meditations on Mr. Mani,” Siman Kriyah 21 (December 1990): 153-157.

[32] Mintz, “Constructing,” 184.

[33] Ramras-Rauch, “A. B. Yehoshua,” 10-11.

[34] Yael S. Feldman, “Identity and Counter-Identity: The Sephardi Heritage in Israel,” Midstreams, 43, 4 (1997): 19.

[35] Maurizio Ascari, Literature of the Golden Age (Jefferson, NC, McFarland, 2011): 64.

[36] Band, “Mar Mani,” 238.

[37] Horn, Facing, 18.

[38] Ibid.

[39] Ramras-Rauch, “A. B. Yehoshua,” 12.

[40] A. B. Yehoshua, Mr. Mani (New York, Doubleday, 1992): 5-72.

[41] Ramras-Rauch, “A. B. Yehoshua,” 11.

[42] Yehoshua, Mr. Mani, 63.

[43] Morahg, “Borderline, 180.

[44] Band, “Mar Mani,” 241.

[45] Yehoshua, Mr. Mani, 105.

[46] Ibid, 147-201.

[47] Ibid, 189.

[48] Yehoshua, Mr. Mani, 190.

[49] Ibid.

[50] Morahg, “Borderline,” 178.

[51] Mintz, “Constructing,” 179.

[52] Hoffman, “The Womb,” 255.

[53] Morahg, “Borderline,” 174.

[54] Ibid, 175.

[55] Band, “Mar Mani,” 239.

[56] The agency of the first Yosef’s death is by no means unambiguous. Yehoshua has noted in both written and oral communication that the father, Avraham, actually killed his own son. Band, “Mar Mani,” 244, ff 11.

[57] Gilead Morahg, “The Heritage of the Aqedah in A. B. Yehoshua’s Mr. Mani,” eds. Mishael M. Caspi and John T. Greene, Unbinding the Binding of Isaac (NY, University Press of America, 2007):194-195.

[58] Band, “Mar Mani,” 240.

[59] Ibid.

[60] Ramras-Rauch, “A. B. Yehoshua,” 9.

[61] Yehoshua, Mr. Mani, 5-72.

[62] Morahg, “Borderline,” 167.

[63] Arnold J. Band, “Sabbatian Echoes in A. B. Yehoshua’s Mar Mani,” eds. William M. Brinner, et al., Judaism and Islam (Leiden, the Netherlands, Brill, 2000): 343.

[64] Yehoshua, Mr. Mani, 5.

[65] Band, “Sabbatian,” 345.

[66] Marzell Dag and Peretz Kidron, Living with Jews (London, UK, Weidenfield and Nicholas, 1983): 166-167.

[67] Band, “Sabbatian,” 345.

[68] Dag, Living, 207.

[69] Horn, Facing, 172.

[70] Moragh, “Borderline,” 173.

[71] Yael Feldman, “Behazarah leber’ eshit,” in Ben-Dov, Bakivun hanegedi [In the Opposite Direction], 208, 209.

[72] Yoran Peleg, Orientalism and the Hebrew Imagination (Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press, 2005): 138.

[73] Mintz, “Constructing,” 179.

[74] Ibid.

[75] Ibid, 181.

[76] Horn, Facing, 6.

[77] Mintz, “Constructing,” 182.

[78] Ibid, 183.

[79] Ibid.

[80] Horn, Facing, 172

[81] Feldman, Glory, 285-302.

[82] A. B. Yehoshua, “Kohah hanora shel ashmah qetanah” [The terrible power of a minor guilt] (Tel Aviv, Israel, 1998): 65. Morahg, “Testing,” 241.

[83] Clive Sinclair, “Book Review: A State of Mind,” The Independent on Sunday, March 7, 1993.

[84] “Book Review: Translating Israel: Contemporary Hebrew Literature and Its Reception in America,” Shofar, Vol. 23, No. 2 (Winter 2005): 121.

[85] Band, “Deceptions,” 235-236.

[86] Mintz, The Boom, 131.

[87] Yosef Oren, “Post-Zionism and Anti-Zionism in Israeli Literature,” ed. Shlomo Sharan, Israel and the Post-Zionists: A Nation at Risk (Portland, OR, Sussex Academic Press, 2003): 195.

[88] Horn, “The Shoah,” 144-145.

[89] Mintz, “Constucting,” 181.

[90] Morahg, “The Heritage,” 192-193.

[91] Ibid.

[92] Ascari, Literature, 74.

[93] Morahg, “Borderline,” 170.

[94] Ibid.

[95] Horn, “The Shoah,” 147.

A Story of Ohs and Ahs

Maimonides [Yad Tefillah 8:12, 15:1], as well as several other Sephardic scholars, [declares] to be ‘illegin (=defective of speech) [those] people who cannot distinguish between the sounds of aleph and ayin or between the sounds of heh and heth. These alone they declare ‘illegin. But our Talmudic sages, when they cited these two pairs of easily confounded gutturals, were citing them merely as examples as is shown by their use of the word kegon (=such as)—a word which always implies that what has been mentioned represents a larger group.[i] Hence I am amazed at their [i.e. Maimonides and the Sephardic scholars] singling out for the epithet ‘illegin just those who fail to distinguish between aleph and ayin, etc. but forget to apply it to themselves and their countrymen who make no difference between the sounds of samekh and tsadi. Moreover, when it comes to the diacritics—which are to the letters like brains and legs [to humans]—they do not respect each diacritic’s phonetic value. Instead, kamets and patah are all one to them as are tsere and segol.… All this happened to them because they fulfilled the verse [Ps. 106:35] “They intermingled with the nations and learnt their ways.” Having resolved to aggrandize themselves above their fellows, they made every effort to gain admission into royal and princely courts. And the better to ingratiate themselves with the princes, they took up the study of these uncircumcised princes’ tongue, script, astronomy [or science], and philosophy…. Furthermore, they sought to bring their own language [Hebrew] into line with the language of the uncircumcised by retaining only those five of our vowel sounds that correspond to the latter language’s vowels while doing away with all the rest. Misguidedly the [Sephardic] multitude followed their lead until in time all but the five vowel sounds were lost to those communities. Another consequence of the philosophical studies was—for our sins—the proliferation of heretics in Israel.[ii]

 

The above diatribe leveled against what we think of as Sephardic pronunciation came from the pen of Asher Lemlein ben Meir Reutlingen. This all but forgotten visionary—a messiah to some—appeared on the scene on Izola in Istria at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Contemporaries, both Jewish and Christian, recall 1502 as the “year of penance” when masses of Jews divested themselves of their worldly possessions in preparation for what Asher Lemlein had led them to believe was their imminent redemption.

Ephraim Kupfer who published the surviving writings of Asher Reutlingen,[iii] quotes several such reports and assessments of Asher’s impact, by chroniclers both contemporary and slightly later—including Abraham Farissol (d. 1525). In his book Magen Abraham, Farissol writes:

 

In these regions of Italy, in the Venetian domains[iv] there arose a man of stature[v] from the ranks of Ashkenaz by the name of Asher Lemle.[vi] He put on airs of being a king despite his limited wisdom and deeds. Through the mediation of his disciples he misled the entire region [into believing that] the redeemer is coming. Indeed, to the multitudes he would announce that “he [the redeemer] is already here.” From his place of seclusion he let most of the Diaspora come to believe in him, his teachings, the fasts and flagellations; for they said “the redeemer is here!”—until it all ended in “emptiness and chasing the wind.” These events played out before me in the year 262 [1502] here Ferrara where I reside.[vii] [DEA1] 

 

 A generation later the historian Joseph haKohen (d. 1577) records in his ‘Emeq haBakhah:

 

In Istria, which is near Venice, there arose an Ashkenazic Jew by the name of Lemlin—a fool of a prophet a madman in spirit.[viii] Jews flocked to him saying “he is surely a prophet since God has sent him to lead His people Israel and to ingather the scattered of Judah from the four corners of the earth.” Even among the rabbis he had some followers. They called for fasting, wearing of sackcloth, and for everyone to repent of their bad ways; for they said “Our redemption is close at hand[DEA2] .”

 

The recollections of David Gans (d. 1613) are charming—if second-hand:

 

Rabbi Lemlin announced the coming of the messiah in the year 260 [1500]. Throughout the dispersions of Israel they believed his words. Even among the gentiles his fame grew and many of them also believed his words. My grandfather Seligman Gans of blessed memory smashed the oven he kept for baking massoth in his total confidence that the following Passover he would be baking massoth in the Holy Land. I myself heard from the venerable Rabbi Eliezer Trevis, head of the Francfort beth din, that it was no trifling matter[ix]—[Asher] having provided signs to prove it. He [R. Trevis] added “perhaps our sins were the cause of its failure[DEA3] .”

 

Lastly, the remarks that the Christian protagonist addresses to his Jewish counterpart in haVikuah by the famous Hebraist Sebastian Münster (d. 1552):

 

In the year 262 [1502] Jews did penance wherever they lived in all lands throughout the diaspora in expectation of messiah.[x] It continued for almost a full year; young and old, children and women. Never had such penance been done as was done in those days.[xi][DEA4] 

 

Asher Lemlein is certainly fascinating in his own right; but our present interest is his conviction that seven diacritic signs must represent an equal number of distinct vowel sounds. Fewer sounds than signs made no sense to Asher. His logic seems perfectly cogent, and was to be echoed by other worthies until the dawn of the modern age. As late as the second half of the eighteenth century, R. Jacob Emden (d. 1776) was faulting the Sephardic vowel system:

 

[W]ith regard to the pronunciation of the vowels, happy are we [Ashkenazim] and goodly is our portion unlike the Sephardim who do not distinguish between kamets and patah, thus making the holy profane[xii] .… In addition to that, they diminish the number of the vowels which were handed down to us from Sinai…. They do the same with the vowels segol and tsere, making the pronunciation of both alike.[xiii]

 

Emden’s allusion to the vowels’ Sinaitic origin is cryptic; but almost certainly harks back to a talmudic passage in Nedarim 37b.

 

What is the interpretation of the verse “They read in the scroll of (var. in)[xiv] the Torah of clearly they made its sense plain and gave instruction[xv] about what was read” [Neh 8:8]? “They read in the scroll of the Torah of God” this refers to Scripture proper; “clearly” refers to Targum [=Aramaic translation]; “they made its sense plain” refers to the division of the text into verses; “and gave instruction about what was read” refers to the cantillation—or, according to others, to the masorot. R. Isaac said: The reading of the Scribes, the embellishments of the Scribes, words read but not written or written but not read are all halakhah le-moshe mi-sinai.[xvi] Examples of “readings of the Scribes” are the two ways of pronouncing the consonantal word spelt aleph resh tsadi [=earth, land]. Also, the consonantal word spelt shin mem yod final-mem [=sky, heaven] and the word spelt mem tsadi resh final-mem [=Egypt].[xvii]

 

Although R. Isaac obviously attaches the highest importance to giving each vowel its proper phonetic value, he says nothing about seven vowel sounds—let alone any diacritical sigla. Nevertheless, both R. Emden and Asher Lemlein, the former explicitly, assume the seven diacritics along with their respective values to be ancient, if not coeval with the biblical text itself. Nor were these teachers alone in that assumption. Indeed, some Sephardim showed symptoms of an inferiority complex on account of their indifference to the kamets! For example, R. David Ibn Yahia (d. 1528) makes the following confession: “Know that we [Sephardim] have lost the proper way to read written texts…. We do not differentiate between kamets and patah nor between tsere and segol …. Undoubtedly each consonant and each vowel must have its discrete sound….”[xviii] Even today one occasionally hears the argument that neglecting to differentiate between patah and kamets or segol and tsere must surely be a deviation from what was intended by the tradition that instituted these distinct sigla. For the sake of full disclosure, I own up to my own bewilderment regarding this seeming anomaly of having two distinct “squiggles” to represent one and the same sound. When I finally mustered the courage to ask my father, he proceeded to show me a text with supralinear Babylonian vocalization. Today, he said, we know that the Babylonian system of vocalization differed radically from the Tiberian, and certainly did not assign distinct values to tsere and segol—and possibly not even to patah and kamets.[xix] However, the Tiberian system won the day and ousted the Babylonian—at any rate among scribes and writers of vocalized Hebrew. But not in the mouths of entire communities who retained their erstwhile pronunciation, either through inertia or in conscious defiance of the “officially” sanctioned system.

            My father’s answer was no more than a distillation of a century of discovery and scholarship that has identified not merely two but three historical systems of vocalization. Some of the most accessible scholarship in the field can be found in the writings of pioneers such as Benjamin Klar (d. 1948), Paul Kahle (d. 1964), Yehiel F. Gumpertz and in the ongoing research of Israel Yeivin and others. These are some of the primary scholars whose conclusions we shall now summarize, paraphrase and/or cite.

 

Benjamin Klar

 

From the very beginning of the enterprise of vocalizing the sacred texts—i.e., from the Gaonic age—there existed three distinct systems.… It is premature to say what the historical relationship between the three systems might have been. But it would not be unreasonable to conjecture that the so-called “Egyptian-Sephardic” pronunciation was the most ancient since it is attested in the transcriptions of the Septuagint as well as Josephus.[xx] If so, the Tiberian and Babylonian systems must be due to later influences. It is worth noting comparable phonetic developments in Persian where the long ‘a’ sound mutated into a Swedish ‘å’.[xxi]

 

Paul Kahle

 

When in the course of the ninth century the Masoretes of Tiberias began their work of adding a consistent punctuation to the text of the Hebrew Bible, they were convinced that it was their duty to give the text of the Bible as correct a form as possible.… They secured the abolition or adaptation of all the texts provided with a different kind of punctuation such as the Babylonian.… The text fixed by the Masoretes has been almost the only one considered in the preparation of our Hebrew grammars. Now we know this text was altered by the Masoretes. I have tried to show that the Masoretes of Tiberias introduced a number of new vowels to safeguard the newly-established pronunciation of the gutturals.[xxii]

 

Yisrael Yeivin

 

The well known report in Mahzor Vitry regarding the existence of three systems of pronunciation appears to be taken from a compilation by the twelfth century R. Jacob bar Samson. That report, found in the commentary to Pirqe Avoth, reads: ‘Therefore Tiberian punctuation differs from our punctuation, and both differ from the punctuation of the Holy Land.’[xxiii] M. Friedlander thought that ‘our punctuation’ referred to the Babylonian system. To the objection that a 12th century Frenchman was unlikely to identify his group as Babylonian, Friedlander responded that Vitry’s commentary to Pirqe Avoth was a miscellany of material borrowed from a variety of sources, including Gaonic, which the compiler incorporated as he found it. Nehemiah Aloni rejected Friedlander’s theory, preferring to understand ‘our punctuation’ as referring to the ‘expanded’ Tiberian punctuation…. If so, Vitry cannot be counted as a witness to Babylonian vocalization.[xxiv]

 

All agree, then, that the system we are most familiar with, originated in Tiberias and comprised seven diacritics. The system that developed in Babylonia probably had no more than six. A third system, often referred to as the vocalization of Erets Yisrael, seems to have had just five. Although the Tiberian system with its seven sigla ultimately prevailed, not all communities renounced their traditional way of pronouncing Hebrew. This can be demonstrated in a number of ways. For instance, a plethora of extant manuscripts can be seen to disregard the quintessentially Tiberian vowel distinctions; interchanging kamets with patah and sere with segol. Many of these old manuscripts would have shocked the messiah of Istria because they hail from the very heartlands of Ashkenaz.

Yes indeed! Careful study by scholars, notably Hanokh Yalon (d. 1970),[xxv] of early French and German manuscripts showed that their writers, too, were pronouncing kamets the same as patah. Take for example the comments of Rashi (d. 1105) to the “Earth, Heaven, Egypt” passage at Ned. 37b (cited above). Since the Talmud is typically written without matres lectionis, Rashi sets out to describe in his own words the sound of nouns such as ERETS (=earth) and their pausal modifications. “It is the “readings of the Scribes” that fixes the two ways of pronouncing the consonantal word spelt aleph resh tsadi. For there is no yod between the aleph and resh nor between resh and tsadi [to fix the pronunciation as ERETS]. Similarly for the pausal form, there is no second aleph or heh between the aleph and resh nor is there a yod between resh and tsadi [to fix the pronunciation as ARETS].” By explaining that the pausal is pronounced as if there were a mater lectionis aleph or heh between the initial consonantal aleph and the resh, Rashi reveals that the kamets was just like patah in his own system of pronunciation.[xxvi]

Another important proof is furnished by transcriptions of Hebrew in European alphabets. In 1273 R. Abraham Ibn Ezra’s astrological treatise Reshit Hokhmah was translated into French.[xxvii] Yehiel F. Gumpertz in his Mivta’e Sefatenu (Jerusalem 1953) analyzed the transliterated Hebrew words in this thirteenth-century Old French text. Gumpertz begins by telling us that the Hebrew (and Arabic) words were dictated to the scribe Obers de Mondidier by Hagin the Jew. The latter could not write French and the former knew no Hebrew (or Arabic). “The first thing to emerge [from my study of this text],” Gumpertz continues,

 

was a total and unqualified confirmation of Hanoch Yalon’s theory regarding the “Sephardic” pronunciation of the kamets by French Jews. Indeed so “Sephardi” are his transcriptions that I began to suspect Hagin to be an Iberian Jew. However, his non-Sephardic origin was soon revealed in the way he represents shevas and hatafs, no less than in his transcriptions. For instance, the Hebrew word for myrtle he gives as hedas instead of hadas. Hedas is attested exclusively in non-Sephardic MSS of the period. (Gumpertz, ibid.)

 

A third clue comes from rhymed Hebrew compositions by early French and German versifiers. Very frequently kamets and patah words are used to form the rhymes, strongly suggesting that the rhymsters treated them as homophonous.

But to gain a fuller picture of Ashkenazic pronunciation and its evolution, we turn now to—of all unlikely linguists—Max Weinreich. Weinreich’s Yiddish researches necessitated a thorough understanding of the kinds of Hebrew that fed Yiddish at its various stages. Not only did Weinreich (d. 1969) master the evidence available in his day, but he managed to present it in a manner succinct as it is orderly. Indeed, we cannot do better than quote him in extenso.  

 

Up to a hundred years ago, not only the reading of the Bible, but all of Hebrew grammar was based on the Tiberian tradition. There are statements of medieval authors that the pronunciation, along with the text of the Torah, were given on Mount Sinai. Aharon Ben Asher [early 10th century] himself maintained that punctuation derived from the men of the great assembly, namely from the beginning of the second Temple. Still others, more critical, came to the conclusion that Hebrew speakers in the period of unmediatedness needed no punctuation.… The Tiberian punctuation was created with the conscious aim of teaching correct reading at a time when Hebrew had long ceased to be an unmediated language.… Scholars can now declare with sufficient confidence that of the three attempts to elaborate a punctuation, the Tiberian attempt was the most recent. The Babylonian system apparently came into use around the year 600, the southern Palestinian[xxviii] about 700, that is some 50 years before the work of the Tiberian sages had begun….

Behind the north Palestinian punctuation there was an inventory of seven vowels whereas the southern Palestinian punctuation has an inventory of only five vowels. One fact is striking; this vowel system is similar to what was later called the Sephardic pronunciation…. From southern Palestine and Egypt it [the five vowel system] penetrated all of northern Africa and even the Iberian Peninsula. The centre of learning in Kairwan was also a point of supply of Jewishness to Italy…. From there it passed into Loter-Ashkenaz…. It was one exclusive Western sphere, from southern Palestine to the Atlantic, from the edge of the Sahara to the northernmost settlements in central Europe. The southwestern sphere retained the five-vowel reading system [while] the northwest, that is, central Europe, was pervaded by the Tiberian; through conscious efforts of the adherents of this system there grew up here what is known as the Ashkenazic pronunciation… The similarity of the pre-Ashkenazic pronunciation in Ashkenaz to the Sephardic pronunciation was not the result of the influence of Sefarad on Ashkenaz. There was no such influence, but both Sefarad and Ashkenaz drew their spiritual sustenance from one pre--European source. Sefarad clung to the old system; Ashkenaz changed its reading system radically and the break came not because the scholars of Ashkenaz created the Ashkenazic pronunciation ex nihilo… but by virtue of external prestige.

In the writings of the Rosh, born in Ashkenaz about 1250, we find the same as in the case of Rashi's grandsons: the kamets symbol was called a patah. But [soon] there begin to appear in Ashkenaz signs of the northern Palestinian system, and towards the end of the 14th century Ashkenazic Hebrew manuscripts are usually pointed according to the Tiberian style. [Nevertheless] Ashkenazic Bible manuscripts of the 13th, 14th, and a few perhaps even from the 15th centuries have also been preserved that … can be understood only in the light of the southern Palestinian reading. Some of these manuscripts have a patah instead of a kamets and a kamets instead of a patah; similarly a segol instead of a tsere …. A second group of manuscripts have only patah and segol…. Such confusion and such interchange is conceivable only in the case of punctuators whose vocalic value of patah and kamets on the one hand, and segol and tsere on the other, differs from the Ashkenazic pronunciation of today.

Since it is a matter of proving that today's reading in Ashkenaz is not the original one, the question of how far back the Ashkenazic pronunciation was demonstrably the same as it is today has to be raised. The answer is about 1500; that is, since the beginning of the middle Yiddish period the situation has been more or less the same as today. In the last quarter of the 15th century the Ashkenazic value of the kamets is confirmed by both Jewish and non—Jewish testimony.… Up to the 13th century there are no indications of “Ashkenazism”….The oldest known instance of a kamets with the value ‘o’ is in a Cologne Hebrew document dated 1266.[xxix]

 

If there has to be a moral to this story of phonetic vicissitudes, let it be this: No Jewish community need deem its own tradition for pronouncing Hebrew superior or inferior to any other phonetic tradition. Doubtless those Sephardic authors who expressed misgivings about their neglect to respect kamets or segol would have been relieved to learn that their ‘neglect” was justified all along. Nor should the antiquity of such linguistic heterogeneity surprise us when we ponder the shibboleth–sibboleth dichotomy of Jephtha’s day. “The Gileadites held the fords of the Jordan against the Ephramites. When any fugitive of Ephraim said, “Let me cross” the men of Gilead would ask him, “Are you an Ephramite?”; if he said “No” they would ask him to say “shibboleth” but he would say “sibboleth” being unable to pronounce it correctly” (Jud 12:5–6).

In his commentary to these verses, R. David Kimhi (Radak, d. 1235) actually compares the phonetic differences between Gileadite and Ephramite to a situation in Europe of his day: “Just as they would test the Ephramites with this word shibboleth, they would likewise test them with any word that had the letter shin; shibboleth serving merely as an example.… Perhaps it was the climate that influenced their discrete pronunciations in the same way that the people of sarfat [=France] are unable to make the ‘sh’ sound but rather pronounce it as a soft tav.”

 

[i] See Meg. 24b; Yer. Ber. 2:3 [4d] (although the word kegon does not appear in either source).

[ii] “The Visions of R. Asher b. R. Meir Lamlein Reutlingen” (Heb.) by Ephraim Kupfer, Kobez al Yad vol. viii (xviii) Jerusalem 1975, pp. 387–423.

[iii] “The Visions of R. Asher b. R. Meir Lamlein Reutlingen” (Heb.) by Ephraim Kupfer, Kobez al Yad vol. viii (xviii) Jerusalem 1975, pp. 387–423.

[iv] Istria belonged to the Venetian Republic from 1267 until the eighteenth century.

[v] Ish haBenayim (cf. 1Sam 17:23).

[vi] A variant of Lemlein which is, in turn, a diminutive of the German for “lamb.”

[vii] For a fuller appreciation of Farissol, see The World of a Renaissance Jew: The Life and Thought of Abraham ben Mordecai Farissol by David B. Ruderman, Cincinnati 1981.

[viii] Cf. Hos 9:7.

[ix] Heb. davar req see Dt 32:47.

[x] The original Hebrew reads “ekh mashiah yabo.” Ekh‘s basic meaning is “how.” In a non interrogatory sense it occurs in stock phrases such as “ekh habahur” (in the text of the kethubah). It must also be borne in mind that Ha-Vikuah’s Hebrew is not exactly standard. The context, however, leaves little doubt as to Münster’s (or rather his protagonist’s) intent. Lemlein is also mentioned (derisively of course) by Johannes Pfefferkorn (d. c. 1522) in his Der Juden Spiegel (see The Jewish Messiahs by Harris Lenowitz, Oxford 1998, pp. 99–101)

[xi] Basle 1529 (or 1534. Kupfer gives the date as 1534, but Ha-Vikuah’s preface is dated ‘Tishri 290’ which equals September–October 1529).

[xii] The Hebrew word adon means master, ruler or lord. With the letter yod added as suffix it could mean either “my master” or “my masters” depending on the vocalization of the nun. A hiriq under the nun indicates that the suffix is singular (adoni) as in Gen 33:8, 13; Num 11:28. But when the word is not in the singular, the Tiberian masoretes further distinguish “sacred” from “profane” by pointing the former with a kamets under the nun and the latter with a patah. Thus at Gen 15:2,8 where Abraham is addressing Hashem the nun is pointed kamets; while in Lot’s address to the angels at Gen 19:2 it is pointed patah. Now unless the reader distinguishes kamets from patah, the contrast between “sacred and profane”—as intended by the Tiberian vocalizers of the Bible—is lost. Sephardic pronunciation invites the criticism of R. Emden insofar as it ignores that contrast, thereby “making the holy profane.” R. Emden’s criticism is endorsed by R. Yitzhak Yaakov Weiss (d. 1989) in his Minhat Yitzhak 3:9 and discussed most insightfully by Dr. Isaac B. Gottlieb in “The Politics of Pronunciation” AJS Review 32:2, pp. 360–62. I herewith thank R. Alex Kaye for bringing this and related sources to my attention.

[xiii] Siddoor Beth Ya’aqob; translation based on H. J. Zimmels’ in his Ashkenazim and Sephardim London 1976, p. 86. For other renderings from Hebrew, this article employs a blend of standard and our own translations.

[xiv] The Talmud (both at Ned. 37b and at Meg. 3a) reflects a Hebrew Vorlage be-sefer torat ha-elohim whereas our biblical text reads be-sefer be-torat ha-elohim.

[xv] In late Biblical Hebrew HBN often denotes “causing others to understand.”

[xvi] Literally: “an oral law (or tradition) to Moses from Sinai.” However, the phrase’s precise connotation is disputed.

[xvii] Since the biblical books are traditionally written without diacritics, the word formed of aleph- resh- tsadi allows of various pronunciations. We depend on “tradition” to tell us that the word is ERETS—except in its pausal form which is ARETS (or ORETS).

[xviii] Leshon Limmudim 1:5, 1st edition, Constantinople 1506.

[xix] Because of the extreme scarcity of Hebrew texts with pristine Babylonian vocalization (i.e., prior to the infiltration of Tiberian norms), scholars remain divided as to whether the Babylonian diacritic called kemots puma resembled the Tiberian kamets or the “Sephardic” patah. In the Babylonian system itself there was no discrete patah; a single diacritic served as counterpart for both Tiberian patah as well as segol (see “The Kamaz in Babylonian Phonetics and in Yemen” by Hanokh Yalon, Tarbiz 33 pp.97–108, English summary p.i; also Israel Yeivin’s The Hebrew Language Tradition as Reflected in the Babylonian Vocalization [Heb.] Jerusalem 1985 vol. 1 pp. 56–57).

[xx] E.g., The patriarch is Abraham not Abrohom; the matriarch Sarah not Soroh, etc.

[xxi]le-toldot ha-mivta ha-ivri bime ha-benyim” in Mehkarim Ve-iyyunim, Tel Aviv 1954 pp. 42ff.

[xxii] The Cairo Genizah, second edition, New York 1959 pp.184–186.

[xxiii] Mahzor Vitry, S. Hurwitz edition, Nuremberg 1923 p. 462.

[xxiv] The Hebrew Language Tradition as Reflected in the Babylonian Vocalization vol. 1 pp. 29–30.

[xxv] Inyanei Lashon, Jerusalem 1942.

[xxvi] The convention of using aleph to represent an ‘o’ sound belongs exclusively to the orthography of the Yiddish language which began to be written in Hebrew letters not much earlier than the fourteenth century. Rashi’s spelling of la’az (=Old French) words knows nothing of such a convention.

[xxvii] For a modern edition see The Beginning of Wisdom edited by Raphael Levy and Francisco Cantera, Johns Hopkins Studies in Romance Literatures and Languages, Extra Volume XIV, Baltimore 1939.

[xxviii] Weinreich’s designation for what is more commonly referred to as the Erets Yisrael system. The Tiberian he sporadically calls the northern Palestinian.

[xxix] History of the Yiddish Language, translated by Shlomo Noble with the assistance of Joshua A. Fishman, Chicago 1980 pp. 359–369.


 [DEA1]What is the page ref for this quote?

 [DEA2]Need full citation

 [DEA3]Need full citation

 [DEA4]What is the full ref for this quote?

Teachers Talk about Introducing Academic Bible Study Methods in Their Classrooms

 


 

 

During my first teaching experience (it was the Frisch School in 1983) I was asked by one of the parents at a Parent-Teachers meeting why Biblical Criticism was not included in my curriculum. The parent argued that his son would surely encounter the questions raised when he was in college, and it would be important to discuss the ideas in a traditional Jewish framework. 

I do not recall what I answered at the time, but Biblical Criticism was not part of my teaching repertoire. 

In an article that appeared in the Journal of Jewish Education, Dr. Susan Tanchel argues that teaching the Documentary Hypothesis is an essential part of her school’s curriculum. 
Do you have it in yours? 

 

I raised this question on the virtual pages of Lookjed, an online discussion aimed at Jewish day school educators. In 1999, when high-speed internet could only be dreamed of and modems that connected to the internet were rarely found in private homes, the Lookstein Center of Bar-Ilan University launched this ongoing conversation. Today more than 3,500 teachers, administrators, lay leaders, and even occasional students weigh in and debate topics of current, and, occasionally, recurrent interest. Threaded archives of those conversations appear at http://lookstein.org/lookjed/.

The subject of academic Bible study has been discussed in Lookjed on a number of occasions. In the course of a conversation about how to teach “the strange malon story” (when Moses stopped at an inn en route to Egypt, see Exodus 4:24–26) a reader suggested that James Kugel’s How to Read the Bible might be used to shed light on the matter. This led to a heated discussion on the place of such works in a Day School library. At some point the conversation turned to whether college-age students in a yeshiva environment should be studying Biblical Criticism, and, indeed, whether the invitation tendered to Professor Kugel by one of student clubs at Yeshiva University should have been rescinded by the administration.

In this brief article I do not intend to discuss theories of Biblical Criticism, which can be found elsewhere. The focus here is on attitudes toward the introduction of modern literary and academic methods to the Tanakh classroom, as expressed by classroom teachers, administrators, and educational leaders. Although much of this information is based on the discussions that took place in Lookjed, I will also devote a few words to the “parallel universe” of Day School education, that is, the mamlakhti dati religious public school system in Israel.

The brief quotations that appear in this article are all taken from the Lookjed discussions. I am sharing them here without attribution, but their sources can be found in the online threaded discussion archives.[1]

 

 

The question of teaching Biblical Criticism is one that depends on the outlook and affiliation of a given school, its mission, and its constituency. In most cases the responses that came to the list identified the type of school in which the writer worked. The Lookjed list, reflecting the values of The Lookstein Center, is open to a multiplicity of voices. Although many of the Day School educators who participate in these online discussions come from an Orthodox perspective, in this particular conversation, whose beginnings were rooted in an article about a Community School setting, contributions were received from across the ideological spectrum.

Once of the first replies that I received commented in strong terms on the appropriateness of raising the question in the manner that I did. It read:

 

I am a little shocked at the rather offhand way you threw out a question about Biblical Criticism: “In an article that appeared in the Journal of Jewish Education, Dr. Susan Tanchel argues that teaching the Documentary Hypothesis is an essential part of her school’s curriculum. Do you have it in yours?” 
 

You could be asking about whether our school uses indirect lighting, or shares a certain math program, rather than striking at the absolute essence of what it means to be a believing Jew. “Do I have it in mine?” . . . Do I relish systematically undermining the faith of my students to pay homage to the modern god of “pluralism?” Um, no. 
 

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that if the authorship of the Torah is undermined, all observance falls like a house of cards. Inoculating college-bound students against Biblical Criticism is responsible if done properly. Destroying their faith so we can pretend we are intellectually honest and enjoy splashing in the shallow waters of heresy is quite another. 

 

Although this respondent rejects the possibility of systematic study of Bible Criticism in school, he does allow for the possibility that in the context of preparation for the challenges that are found on college campuses, a presentation of the tenets of Biblical Criticism would be appropriate. This response was echoed by a number of educators affiliated with Orthodox Day Schools.

A Yeshiva University professor wrote to affirm that when teaching Torah “belief in Torah mi-Sinai is fundamental to Orthodoxy. Adopting a neutral position on the subject is equivalent to adopting a neutral position on the divinity of Jesus.” He allows that for a student today to understand the writings of twentieth-century Orthodox thinkers such as Rabbis David Zvi Hoffmann, Mordechai Breuer, or Yoel Bin-Nun, it is necessary to have some familiarity with elements of Biblical Criticism. Nevertheless, he laments

Unfortunately, the vast majority of high school students do not have the basic knowledge of Tanakh to master these thoroughgoing, profound controversies. Very simply—how many know the Torah well? How many know the rest of Tanakh well? Without such knowledge can one follow the back-and-forth debates? Can one easily discuss how different versions of a story or a legal theme appear in different sections of the Torah if the basic material is not yet familiar, if one has no familiarity with the thousands of years of tradition and analysis that precede the modern period? 
 

One Orthodox high school administrator described where modern literary methods fit into his school’s curriculum:

 

Our Tanakh curriculum is certainly informed by modern scholarship, but does not teach the Documentary Hypothesis.

We began a program where we explore a variety of topics in symposium-style discussions. This is aimed to prepare the students for different challenges of life after high school, and to stimulate intellectual curiosity by making learning exciting without tests. We refer to it as either the Senior Seminar, or the Lishma program. 
It is in this context that we discuss higher and lower criticism, and the insights these methodologies have uncovered. We also, of course, discuss why we can still faithfully maintain our belief in
Torah Mi-Shamayim. It has always been a well received unit in the senior seminar. 

 

In fact, the general approach of Day School educators, even in non-Orthodox settings, was that the introduction of a class on Biblical Criticism as a systematic course of study would not be welcome in their schools.

One long-term administrator from a Solomon Schechter school rejected the suggestion that such a course be introduced for a number of different reasons, among them:

  • Educators must focus on the ultimate goals of Tanakh study, which he argued should be “to equip students with the text-access and text-analytical skills they need to be confident, independent, and resourceful students of Tanakh.” The introduction of a year-long course in Biblical Criticism will ultimately raise many serious theological questions that will force a teacher to talk “about the text” rather than focus on the text itself.
  • Invoking James Fowler’s Stages of Faith, he argued that introducing the Documentary Hypothesis to adolescents “is likely in many cases to produce an explosive reaction at an age at which non-traditional perspectives should be at most gently and tentatively introduced,” concluding that it is, therefore, both risky and unnecessary.
  • Why must students of Tanakh be taught the intricacies of how the Documentary Hypothesis works any more than computer users need to understand the coding of the software that they use or drivers the wiring of their automobiles?

 

Rather than rejecting “non-traditional” study out of hand, the author makes suggestions of what should be taught in order to prepare students for “more advanced study,” suggestions that he attests are used in the schools where he has worked. These include the following:

1. Training in identifying literary features such as repetition, irregular structures, parallel passages, enigmatic expressions, and non-linear chronology
2. Training in using textual evidence to propose their own explanations of, or commentaries on, problematic literary features
3. Exposure to multiple commentaries that explain literary anomalies differently, ideally including both classical and modern voices

 

All of this is to be introduced in grades 1 through 8. Beginning in high school, two additional features are introduced to students:

4. Aspects of biblical society and culture in the context of surrounding societies and cultures
5. Reference materials, including biblical atlases, encyclopedias, primary and secondary historical sources, and archaeological artifacts, as additional ways—over and above the classical and modern commentaries—to deepen understanding of Tanakh

The author concludes,

 

It should be noted that, on this model, the aim of introducing modern commentaries and understandings is in service of the text, in order to uncover its rich and layered meaning. The nontraditional beliefs and assumptions underlying these perspectives are never in the spotlight, never the focus of study, but are rather the nearly always unarticulated background and context of student learning.

 

An individual who teaches Tanakh in the Abraham Joshua Heschel School, a non-denominational Day School in New York City, weighed in on this discussion, stating at the outset that “the Documentary Hypothesis is an exercise in theology, not Bible.” He argued that introducing the Documentary Hypothesis to students in high school—as is done in the Heschel School—requires the students to have not only advanced text skills but also “a meta-textual mindset and background: significant substantive experience grappling with one’s own approach to Tanakh study; exploration of the tenuous and often shifting boundaries between subjective and objective readings; separation between self and text in order to recognize where they meet; and aptitude in distinguishing between facts and conclusions, between weak and strong interpretations.”

He writes that as taught in his school, this is a course

 

…for students who have already come face to face with their own conception of God, who are accustomed to pushing at theological comfort levels, and who welcome tension, encountering the Documentary Hypothesis creates a climactic moment: How does my conception of Torah, of God, of religious studies, withstand, absorb and react to its stiffest challenge? As such, reacting to the Documentary Hypothesis is not the portal into these questions, an early overt foray into one’s theological and religious identity; it is the capstone.

As such, the Documentary Hypothesis is introduced in his school not as a value in and of itself, but as part of a course whose goal is to explore what it means to learn Torah. To accomplish that, Biblical Criticism is presented in the context of other approaches that offer a variety of possible entrances to its study:

 

To that end, students engage with four differing approaches: classical commentary highlighting the peshat-derash divide, modern literary analysis, archeology, and biblical scholarship.

 

In explaining the rationale for this he writes:

 

[The theory of] multiple authors is not the only answer. It may be the best—it may not—but that’s irrelevant if it is presented on its own, with no alternatives as part of a dialogue. The question is not ‘here is the Documentary Hypothesis, how do you react?’ but ‘here is a problem with a range of approaches, how do they fit with the rest of your complex understanding of the book that is the most important to your religion?”

 

It is interesting to note that when I shared the Lookjed discussion about How to Read the Bible with James Kugel, he responded by saying that the book was not intended for high school studentsfor that matter it may not be appropriate for all adultsand that he was unsure whether it had a place in a Day School library. He did share his own thoughts about an appropriate high school curriculum in Tanakh, writing:

 

I do have my own curricular ideas for high school, mostly based on my own kids’ sometimes disappointed reaction to classes [in Tanakh]. I think it’s fine for very little kids to do Humash and Rashi the way they do in elementary school. But I think I’ve noticed that by the time these kids get to high school, if you keep teaching them the same way they were taught in elementary school, the best of them soon develop a strong interest in chemistry or social studies. Although they don’t often formulate the idea in words, I think what bothers them is the disconnect between what the Hebrew words of the biblical text say—by now their understanding of Hebrew is much stronger, along with their common sense and self-confidence—and what Rashi (and a lot of other commentators) sometimes say those words mean. 

So I think what I would do, at that point in the curriculum, is not go to modern biblical scholars, but try to get students to understand the exegetical problem from Rashi’s point of view, or, for that matter, that of the early rabbinic midrashim on which he relied. To begin with, this would require them to understand that the Torah and Rashi, or even midrash, are not simultaneous, and that the interpreters are confronting a text that has been around for some time and cannot be changed or rejected. Basically: ‘You be Rashi. How are you going to explain this verse in a way that is consistent with the other things you know from the Tanakh and from halakhic practice, everything that we believe and follow?’ ... I admit, this approach might not pass muster in Meah Shearim, but I really think it’s honesty that kids want and need; so do we all. 
 

 

A few words about the new Tanakh curriculum introduced by the Ministry of Education in Israel. For those of us who grew up in the United States, where Separation of Church and State is an axiom of faith, the fact that the State of Israel offers Jewish education in its public schools is somewhat disconcerting. Nevertheless, the fact that the official Ministry of Education in Israel concerns itself not only with general studies but with religious studies as well, means that for many religious schools in Israel (there are some religious schools that choose to operate outside of the state-sponsored system) there are educational experts who develop formal curricular goals, syllabi, and standardized tests. Diaspora educators appear to be largely unfamiliar with these materials, and I often link to them in response to Lookjed queries asking for support materials on Tanakh or Talmud.

Aside from the religious public school system, the Ministry of Education in Israel also runs an ordinary public school systemmamlakhtithat is not “religious,” although it does include Jewish studies as part of its unit on Jewish culture and Jewish heritage. A wide range of topics are included among the goals of teaching Bible on the high school level. They enumerate, among them, “Biblical criticism, editing changes to the Torah as a means to understanding the text, the authors’ intentions, their world and their views” (My translation. To see a full description of the mamlakhti curriculum and its goals, see http://cms.education.gov.il/EducationCMS/Units/Tochniyot_Limudim/MikraMam/AlYessodi/).

While the mamlakhti system has no problem including Biblical Criticism in its curriculum, the mamlakhti dati system has never attempted to introduce modern literary methods into its classrooms. Until recently, the religious school Bible curriculum followed a time-honored course, whose focus was largely on covering a wide range of material with medieval commentaries (e.g. Rashi, Ramban, Ibn Ezra) and other traditional sources (e.g. Netziv, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch). With a change of leadership, a new curriculum has been developed that is to be introduced in the upcoming academic year (5773).

A description of the goals of the new curriculum reads as follows (my translation):

• Interaction of students with the Word of God

• Developing a connection with the moral values ​​and behaviors required by the Torah

• Strengthening Jewish identity and strengthening students’ ties with the Land of Israel

• Imparting ways to learn Torah and to love Torah in a traditional manner

(A full description of the new curriculum, including links to support materials, appears at http://www.lilmod.cet.ac.il/).

According to a recent article that appeared in the Shabbat broadsheet Olam Katan (available online at http://www.olam-katan.co.il//all_gilyonot/359.pdf), the new curriculum was accompanied by a set of enrichment materials that were available at the abovementioned website, that have since been removed. Four different types of materials were posted:

  1. Ordinary articles on biblical themes written from a traditional perspective
  2. Articles written by Torah scholars that can be understood as relating to biblical characters in a contemptuous manner (a reference to what is called, pejoratively, Tanakh be-Govah Enayim—Tanakh at eye-level”; see below)
  3. Articles that grapple with questions raised by Biblical Criticism
  4. Articles that present Biblical Criticism as a legitimate reading of the Torah

 

As noted, these enrichment materials were posted as supplementary reading for teachers, and were not an intrinsic part of the new curriculum; they were removed after complaints were received by the Ministry of Education.

The author of the Olam Katan article, who is clearly sympathetic to the more traditional approach to teaching, presents both sides of the argument regarding the introduction of Biblical Criticismshould it be viewed as an evil that questions the very basis of the Torah and Judaism, or must it be taught, given the reality that any student who leaves the four walls of the traditional study hall will be forced to face that challenge at some point in his life. Moreover, there is the ideaone that is accepted by the adherents of the Tanakh be-Govah Enayim school generally and by the students of Rabbi Mordechai Breuer specificallythat although we may disagree with the answers given by Bible critics, their questions are legitimate ones, and we can enhance our understanding of Torah by accepting them and developing our own, traditional responses to them.

Removal of the articles that discussed Biblical Criticism notwithstanding, the heated debate regarding the new curriculum continues.

Part of this is related to the belief is that this new curriculum aims to introduce an approach to Tanakh that is based not so much on the theories of Biblical Criticism, but on modern literary methods, and specifically a method of study that has become known in Israel as Tanakh be-Govah Enayim—Tanakh at eye-level.” This method, which approaches biblical characters as extraordinary characters with human foibles, albeit from whom we can learn life lessons, has been popularized by the teachers and students at Herzog College, which is affiliated with the Hesder Yeshiva, Yeshivat Har Etzion, in Alon Shvut. It is based on a close reading of the text together with a willingness to explore possibilities that do not appear in traditional commentaries, and has been the source of tension between different factions in the National Religious camp in Israel for a number of years.

This debate promises to become more heated as the new curriculum is introduced in dati-le'umi classrooms in the coming months.

 

 

Although neither the contributors to the Lookjed discussion nor the educators who developed the new curriculum for the religious public schools in Israel were interested in developing a systematic course in Biblical Criticism for use on a high school level, it is clear that there is a wide range of attitudes with regard to the introduction of modern literary and academic techniques in the classroom. There appears to be the widespread agreementeven in the liberal campthat at least some of the theories of modern Biblical Criticism are antithetical to Jewish belief and should be taught only as one approach among many or offered so that students will be prepared for the challenges presented by those theories at some point in the future. At the same time, it is hardly surprising to discover that the more traditional schools have been reluctant to introduce modern literary methods, while less traditional schools view such methods as basic to the understanding of the biblical text in contemporary times.

In closing I would like to share the thoughts of Professor Kugel, who is well aware of the challenges that his research and writings present for many a believing Jew. In answer to a questioner who asked how a religious person can maintain his/her faith and fealty in and to a rabbinic system that is so directly based on the belief of a divinely revealed text, given the conclusions presented in Professor Kugel’s books, he responded, in part, with a parable.

 

[U]ltimately, any Jew must admit that at some point the divinely-given text leads to the human interpreter and the poseq, indeed, to this specific taqqanah and that specific gezerah shavah. And frankly, we don’t really seem to all that aware of, or even care much about, where the dividing-line falls. This is our “prepared table,” the work of many hands. If someone wants a different table, let him go ahead—but this is the Jewish table, the way Jews serve God.

As one of our sages said: to what may the matter be compared? To a man who wished to see the King. So he went to the royal palace and stood outside and waited for the King to appear. After some hours, the King did come outside, and the man was thrilled. But soon the King went back inside the palace. The man returned the next day, and the next, and sometimes he did catch a glimpse of the King, but always only for a few seconds, and then his view would be blocked by someone, or the King would step behind a pillar or get into his carriage and ride off. What had at first been thrilling now became only frustrating.

Eventually, the king’s close advisor became aware of the presence of the man standing day after day outside the palace, and he approached him and said: “I know what you want, but you are going about it the wrong way. Go up to the palace door and ask to work inside—it doesn’t matter what: janitor, guard, woodcutter or water-drawer! Then you will enter the palace by right and see the King as a matter of course; indeed, He will recognize you and perhaps even call you by name.” And so the man did, and it was just as the King’s advisor had said: he saw the King up close every day, and the King called to him by name.

This is the whole idea of Judaism. If you want to come close to God, the only way is to become His employee. Understanding that avodat Hashem is the true foundation of our halakhah may not de-fang modern biblical scholarship; a lot of what it says will always be disturbing to Jews. But I think that modern scholarship does not, because it cannot, undermine the essence of Judaism or what Jews actually do in their lives; it cannot … cause the system to collapse.

 

Jewish educators who are successful in teaching their students to aspire to serve God as enthusiastic and passionate Jews can help produce adults whose faith can remain firm even in the face of serious questions.

 

[1]  The particular discussion that was begun with my recollection of my own teaching career and a reference to an article from the Journal of Jewish Education can be accessed at http://lookstein.org/lookjed/read.php?1,19050,19050.  Dr. Tanchel’s article, entitled “A Judaism That Does Not Hide: Teaching the Documentary Hypothesis in a Pluralistic Jewish High School” is available at http://www.lookstein.org/retrieve.php?ID=3360722.  The conversation about Professor Kugel’s How to Read the Bible appears at http://lookstein.org/lookjed/read.php?1,16514,16610.

 

A Modern Orthodoxy with Social Impact and Relevance

The Modern Orthodox community today is treading water. It certainly is not dying, but it also is not excelling. Many have noted that the movement today is not only lacking great leadership but also heart and soul. It is recognized for its cognitive prioritizing of intellectual endeavors (Torah and academic study), but the movement is often out of touch emotionally and socially. However, the immense potential for the Modern Orthodox is uniquely distinct from the non-Orthodox and the Hareidi.

 

There have been few attempts to study Modern Orthodox Jews as a separate demographic group. For example, the National Jewish Population Survey 2000–2001 listed a U.S. Orthodox population of about 567,000, slightly more than 10 percent of the U.S. Jewish population, but it did not distinguish between the Modern Orthodox and the Hareidi populations. Despite being in such a small minority, the Orthodox community has reason to be optimistic about growth, as Orthodox Jews have a higher prevalence than other Jews in many geographic areas, and only about 5 percent of Orthodox Jews intermarry, as opposed to nearly half of all Jews in the United States. Orthodox Jews comprise

 

 

On the other hand, there are indications that the Orthodox denomination has difficulty retaining its members. Only about 41 percent of those raised as Orthodox Jews remain Orthodox into adulthood. Thus, while it has been estimated that Modern Orthodox families average between three and five children (as opposed to five to 10 children among the Hareidi), the rate of growth is mitigated by the high rate of those who cease to identify as Orthodox.

 

I would propose that there are a few key adaptive changes that need to be made for the Modern Orthodox community to move from a state of mere survival to a position where it is thriving:

 

  1. Embrace our national and global interconnectivity.
  2. Make Torah values relevant for the world.
  3. Demonstrate the added value that Torah observance makes to the world.

 

 

Embrace Our National and Global Interconnectivity

 

We must move out of the Modern Orthodox shtetls that have developed around the United States and expand our reach and sense of community. We should be more proactive in forming strong relationships with non-Jews and non-Orthodox Jews and recognize that we are also dependent upon others. When other good people succeed, it can be our success, and when other good people lose, it can be our loss; our identities as Jews, as Americans, and as global citizens make us highly interconnected and interrelated with those around us.

 

We live in a world in which we cannot escape our co-dependencies. This is reflected well in the following story:

 

In the kingdom of Solomon there once lived a two-headed man. Upon the death of his father, the man became embroiled in a bitter dispute with his brothers and sisters over the inheritance."Since I have two heads," he claimed, "I deserve twice as much of the money as the rest of you." "Perhaps you have two heads," his siblings responded, "but you have just one body. Therefore, you deserve only one share." The case was brought before King Solomon, the wisest of the wise. His response was characteristically enlightening.

"Pour boiling water over one of the man's two heads," said King Solomon. "If the second head screams in pain, then we will know he is one person. If not, then we have determined that the two-headed person is in fact two separate, independent individuals."

 

The lesson for us is that when one of us feels pain, we all feel the pain. A loss to one is, of course, a loss to all. That sense of collective responsibility has enabled our people to survive and thrive.

 

While many prefer the role of giver to that of taker, there comes a time in most every life when the giver must, of necessity, become the taker, most commonly in one’s elder years. This situation is reflected well in a story in the Chofetz Chaim’s Ahavat Chesed:

 

A young child once observed his father throw his grandfather out of the house because the grandfather was unable to keep himself or his surroundings clean. Shaken as the child was, he could not deny the cruelty he had witnessed. Later, he met his grandfather wandering on the street. The grandfather asked the child to bring him a coat, so that at least he could avoid freezing in his homeless state. The child returned to his father and asked him if he could have a coat for the grandfather.

"Go up to the attic," said the father. "There's an old coat up there that he can have."

When the child returned from the attic, he was holding half of a coat."What happened to the coat?" the father asked. "Why has it been cut?"

"I did it for you," said the child, "so that when you grow old, you can have the other half."

 

The Jewish tradition teaches that one who neglects others will ultimately come to be neglected, a lesson that has universal application. Martin Niemoller, the German pastor, served as a U-boat commander in World War I, and along with too many others who had supported the Kaiser and German nationalism, valued order over the chaos of Weimar Germany. Although Niemoller quickly grew apprehensive of the Nazis, it took him several years to openly denounce them. By the time he began his imprisonment at the Sachsenhausen (and later Dachau) concentration camp in 1938, millions had already been imprisoned or murdered, and those remaining in Germany were quiescent. Too late, Niemoller grasped the consequences of his inaction, and after the war he powerfully and famously taught this idea thus:

 

When the Nazis came for the Communists, I remained silent; I was not a Communist.

When they locked up the social democrats, I remained silent; I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists, I remained silent; I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews, I remained silent; I wasn’t a Jew.

When they came for me, there was no one left to speak out.

 

Others see the positive potential of actively bringing the Torah to life in and for the entire world. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch is one example:

Judaism is not a religion, the synagogue is not a church, and the Rabbi is not a priest. Judaism is not a mere adjunct to life: it com­prises all of life. To be a Jew is not a mere part, it is the sum total of our task in life. To be a Jew in the synagogue and the kitchen, in the field and the warehouse, in the office and the pulpit, as fa­ther and mother, as servant and master, as man and as citizen, with one's thought, in word and in deed, in enjoyment and privation, with the needle and the graving-tool, with the pen and the chisel—that is what it means to be a Jew. An entire life supported by the Divine idea and lived and brought to fulfillment according to divine will. (Judaism Eternal, 103)

 

Rabbi Joseph B.Soloveitchik went further, seeing a mandate to create and remake the world (tikkun olam):

 

The Jewish people see their own fate as bound up with the fate of existence as a whole.... Physical reality and spiritual-historical existence—both have suffered greatly on account of the dominion of the abyss, of chaos and the void, and their fates parallel one an­other.... The Jewish people bring a sacrifice to atone, as it were, for the Holy One, blessed be He, for not having completed the work of creation. The Creator of the world diminished the image and stature of creation in order to leave something for man, the work of His hands, to do, in order to adorn man with the crown of creator and maker. (Halakhic Man, 107, 113)

 

The Rav acknowledged the quandary of a people who often lived apart from society in the ghetto, at times a refuge from outside persecution but at times a stop on experiencing the full potential of this world and wrote of this ambivalence:

Our approach to the relationship with the outside world has always been an ambivalent character, intrinsically antithetic, bordering at times on the paradoxical.... In a word, we belong to the human society and, at the same time, we feel as strangers and outsiders. We are rooted in the here and now of reality as inhabitants of our globe, and yet we experience a sense of homelessness and loneliness as if we belonged somewhere else. We are both realists and dreamers, prudent and practical on the one hand, and visionaries and idealists on the other. We are indeed involved in the cultural endeavor and yet we are committed to another dimension of experience. (“Confrontation,” 6)

 

 

Make Torah Values Relevant for the World

 

One example of the great contribution we can make is that the Dalai Lama asked to meet with a group of rabbis in 1989 to learn how the Tibetans can survive in the Diaspora as well as the Jews have. The contributions we can make to the rest of the world are not limited to our history of persecution, however; the intellectual life and moral sustenance of the Torah, and Judaism broadly, are gifts we can and ought to share.

 

The prophets taught us that our people had to move from being transmitters of a parochial, sacrificial religion to practitioners of a universalistic, giving religion (Hoshea 6:6: "For I desire kindness, not a sacrifice."). Much later, the rabbis taught that Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananyah and Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai were walking past the ruined Temple Mount when Rabbi Yehoshua said, "Woe unto us! The Temple, the source of all forgiveness for our sins, has been destroyed." Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai replied, "My son, don't despair. We have another source of atonement, and it is acts of kindness" (Midrash Yelamdeinu).

 

To truly re-imagine how the Jewish people can best leverage our gifts to share with the world, we must revisit our educational assumptions. One widely held false assumption is that "the halakha works," that it will transform us if we follow it. But halakha doesn’t “just work,” and this is why so many leave observance. Rather, it needs to be done with certain intentionality to make it work. The mystics embraced certain kavannot (intentions) to try to make halakha a transformational tool, but this approach is not attractive or effective for most of us. We must expand the role of the spiritual imagination, of middah (character) development, and of moral introspection through the performance of mitzvoth. We must help other Jews make halakhic observance relevant and transformative. Bur first, we need to make sure it's working for us. The Rambam, at the end of the Book of Purity, taught that the goal of Jewish observance is to create a pure heart and moral personality. This is the radical approach that Jewish education must now place front and center. In most yeshivot today, the goal is to cram in as much “practical” material as you can without mastering its spirit or meaning. It's about literacy and competency, not relevancy. For halakha to be relevant and transformative, we can't just learn it and live it; we need to play the music of the tradition and then transcend the chords through it.

 

There are many Jewish concepts that could be made relevant for the broader world. For example,

  • Teshuvah—models of self-growth and healing
  • Shabbat—the value of rest for all people, workers, animals, and the land
  • Pikuah Nefesh—the value of saving life (and end-of life issues, such as organ donation)
  • Ketubah—the value of marriage (and  system of commitments and obligations)
  • Havruta—collaborative education models
  • Onesh—compassionate and effective models of criminal justice (eved ivri, ir haMiklat)
  • Aveilut—the value of mourning and spiritual practices for communal comforting

 

Demonstrate the Added Value that Torah Observance Makes to the World

 

Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin brilliantly explained how a religious person must engage with others in the world in a humane spirit:

 

Besides the fact that they were tzaddikim (righteous) and hassidim (pious) and showed great love towards God, they were also "yesharim," i.e., they [the patri­archs] behaved respectfully toward the most distasteful idolaters; they related to them in a loving way and were concerned about their welfare since this is the foundation of all civilization... This is clearly to be deduced from the degree to which Avraham struggled and pleaded with God to spare the people of Sodom who were thoroughly wicked... and how Yitzchak went out of his way to appease the shepherds of Avimelech who made him great and awful difficulties.... The same is true about Yaakov who showed infinite tolerance towards his father-in-law, Lavan. (Ha’amek Davar, introduction to Bereishith)

 

We should not live in a self-imposed ghetto, but we must demonstrate righteousness wherever we may go. The Torah teaches that there was ambivalence among the heavenly host about bringing such morally flawed creatures into the world. But our role is to teach the potential of teshuvah, that we can all change and grow and develop to new heights even though we are inevitably hopelessly flawed.

 

Rabbi Shimon said: "In the hour that God was about to create Adam, the angels of service were divided. Some said: 'Let him not be created.' Others said, 'Let him be created.' Love said, 'Let him be created, for he will do lov­ing deeds.' But, Truth said, ‘Let him not be created, for he will be all falsity.' Righteousness said, ‘Let him be created, for he will do righteous deeds.' Peace said, 'Let him not be created, because he will be full of strife.' What, then, did the Holy One Blessed be He do? He seized hold of the truth and cast it to the earth [where it broke into pieces], as it says, ‘You cast truth to the ground.' (Daniel 8:12)" (Bereishith Rabbah 18.5)

 

Although we are all flawed, each person also has tremendous gifts to share with the world and was created in order to share them.

Every person is created for his telos and that is his "service." likewise, Israel was created to be an illumination unto the nations and to cause them to achieve knowledge of the Lord of the universe. (Ha’amek Davar, Ex. 12:51)

Various organizations have emerged in the Modern Orthodox community to help further a more relevant and impactful religious Judaism in America.

The innovative and vibrant rabbinical seminary, Yeshivat Chovevei Torah, has led the way in training Orthodox rabbis for the twenty-first century who are deeply religious and profoundly open minded. The IRF (International Rabbinic Fellowship) has become a major force in Jewish life.

Another important development is the rich pursuit of social justice work being undertaken by passionate Modern Orthodox Jews. Uri L’Tzedek, the Orthodox Social Justice movement, has created a revolution engaging tens of thousands of young Modern Orthodox Jews in education, leadership development, and activism in just six years so far.

One positive development within the Modern Orthodox movement today is the increasing involvement of women. This year, Yeshivat Maharat, will be ordaining its first three women as Orthodox authorities of Jewish law and as spiritual guides. The Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance (JOFA) held its First International Conference on Feminism and Orthodoxy in 1997, and in December 2013 it will hold its 8th Conference. In addition, JOFA sponsors Campus Fellowships at more than a dozen colleges, for women who wish to take leadership positions within their school’s Orthodox community.

The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals is furthering a high level of intellectual discourse in the community. The TAG Institute for Social Developmentpromotes interdisciplinary research integrating insights from Jewish texts and practices with the methods and concepts of the social sciences to create interventions that promote the wellbeing of individuals, families, communities, and society.

The Modern Orthodox community can play a vital role as a bridge between the non-Orthodox community and the Hareidi community. More importantly, it can be the representative for the relevancy of Jewish values for an evolving complex world. Jewish law has sustainability and rootedness while it also has a mechanism for evolution making it a tremendous tool for guiding social change. This is the way Modern Orthodox Jews should see themselves, and this vision should be the guide to retention, growth, and vibrancy in the years and decades ahead.

 

My Spiritual Journey

 

I saw an old friend the other day whom I hadn't seen in about a year. "You look happy," she said with a hint of surprise in her voice. Through her eyes, I saw the new, more comfortable-in-my-skin self. The old me was tired and anxious. In part, my new relaxed state is due to achieving a milestone in my parenting—my kids are starting to gain just the barest hint of independence. They can fill their own water glasses at the bathroom sink and play out in the back yard with minimal supervision. But the bigger difference in my demeanor is no doubt due to the tremendous weight I crawled out from under this past summer when I finally came up with enough cash to finish paying off the Bet Din for my conversion to Orthodox Judaism. My conversion certificate is, after many long years, sitting comfortably in my filing cabinet at home.

Whether a construct of my own mind, a legitimate social fear, or a bit of both, I long thought that if I dared to deviate from the yeshivish perspective under which I became Orthodox, my conversion would be revoked. My children, all bearing very Jewish names, would be declared no longer Jewish and I would be cast out of my community. It was an awful thought and enough to keep me in long skirts and sleeves with my collarbone and head covered even though, in my heart, I believed that the concept of tseniut encompassed more of the complete person and really had little to do with a dress code.

I didn’t consciously suffer all that time. For the first few years after I decided to become frum/religiously observant, I wholeheartedly believed that the yeshivish way was the most authentic way. After all, when I questioned back then why the Modern Orthodox women I saw in the town where I converted generally wore trousers and didn't wear hats except on Shabbat, I was told that Modern Orthodox people were not as growth-oriented as the yeshivish community. When I asked whom to trust when it came to rabbinic decisions, the answer given was to examine who knew more Torah (the implication being that the yeshivish rabbis knew more).

I knew from a young age that I wanted to be Jewish. When I was 13 years old, I used to spend my lunch hours sitting on the floor of the school library just pulling books off the shelf— often because I liked their covers. One such glossy volume was Rabbi Malka Drucker’s Shabbat, part of her Jewish Holidays series. The idea of Shabbat captivated me. My mainstream Presbyterian upbringing was mostly empty of ritual, and Shabbat was exotic. When my parents left the house one Friday night, I poured red cranberry juice (the closest I could get to grape) into a clear glass and recited the Kiddush blessing in English as it was written in the book. It felt holy even sitting on the worn countertop in our Northern Michigan kitchen. In time, I secretly purchased the only Star of David necklace on sale at our local JC Penney department store, and I wore it tucked into my shirt. I knew I had to become Jewish.

When I went to university, I made a last-ditch attempt to reconcile with Christianity. I tried different churches from the evangelical to the staid and traditional. Eventually, I found myself attending Kabbalat Shabbat services at the campus Hillel. The beautiful songs and the way the students took turns each week giving a devar Torah really impressed me. They were so mature and thoughtful and they possessed a knowledge about themselves, their religion, and the world that I envied. I felt that it was time to summon the courage to speak to a rabbi about conversion.

It took me another few years before I met with a rabbi willing and able to take me on as a conversion candidate, in the Conservative movement. One of the first questions Rabbi Dobrusin asked me was “What is your favorite Jewish holiday?” Easy answer. Shabbat. In the middle of studying for my Conservative conversion, I started dating a nice Jewish boy and he took me to a local kiruv organization’s campus house for Shabbat dinner. I can still remember where I sat at the table that first time. Shalom Aleikhem...Eishet Hayil...the zemirot and devar Torah...the dark wood and deep purple and blue majestic hues in which the restored house was decorated added to the warmth and class of the experience. This was what I wanted. This Shabbat. These books lining the walls. This joyful time-out-of-time rest and enjoyment and relaxation. I became a regular there and it wasn’t long before I was invited for Shabbat to a home in the nearby Orthodox enclave. The openness of the families I met and the simplicity and beauty I perceived in their lifestyle were only enhanced by the strong feeling of community. I felt at first like I belonged in this yeshivish Orthodox Jewish world.

Before I finished my Conservative conversion, I was already thinking about an Orthodox conversion. Two Batei Din were within reasonable driving distance. One was staffed by more Modern Orthodox rabbis and the other was black-hat. I chose the black-hat Bet Din because I feared that my conversion might not be accepted by absolutely everyone if I were to convert with the Modern Orthodox rabbis.

By now, however, some of the luster had come off the closed, yeshivish world for me. Women not singing really bothered me. I found the snoods and sheitels weird and dowdy. The shiurim I attended were interesting but something niggled at my mind about the content. I know now that suspending independent, rational thought was what bothered me most. Even so, I worked hard to squish my doubts into a little box and shut the lid tight—and I filled out the paperwork to begin the Orthodox conversion process. A few times, my doubts popped out but I firmly pushed them back and told them that I would address them after-the-fact, thank you very much. I wanted my future children to be Jewish without question, and this seemed to be the best way to ensure that outcome.

When I finally went to the mikvah for Orthodox conversion nearly three years later, I had moved into the Orthodox community and was immersed in yeshivish culture. I had a social group of dear, down-to-earth friends and I adapted myself to my new way life, believing that I had found Truth in yeshivish Orthodoxy. I learned the Ani Ma’amin by heart and recited it as I stood wrapped in a sheet in the mikvah on my conversion day. The experience was surreal. The sheet would not behave as the rabbis told me it would—“Just lean forward! The sheet will float to the top!”—and I made several attempts at nearly drowning myself before the mikvah lady told them she would witness my final dunk herself without the sheet. When it was over, I felt pure and very much like I had a new neshama.

I threw myself into frum life. The dress code continued to bother me, but Shabbat and kashruth were mostly a pleasure. Many times I snuck out of my house on wear-your-jeans-to-work Friday in my favorite Levis, and I brazenly refused to put up and take down my storm windows in a skirt for fear of falling. My old rebellions and questions were still there hidden away under all the new ideas.

In time, I began to date and was introduced to my future husband via a frum shidduchim website. We married, and I moved across the country to a city with only a small handful of frum Jews. I wore my sheitel on Shabbat and played with hats and scarves during the week. Maintaining the dress code was a way for me to keep ties with my former community, many of whom wondered if I was really still frum. I put my jeans away for good.

The birth of my first son shook my world in many ways. Everything I did and had done for the past several years was focused on being frum. I displayed all the right books in my living room. I wore the right clothes. I tried to read the right books and get inspired at various online learning websites. But when my beautiful blond boy showed up, suddenly the old me, the me I had always really been, was right there. I tried to learn and sing Jewish lullabies to him but would eventually give up and find comfort in my own Irish lullaby. I felt guilty. We bought him Jewish toys and books, but more and more, my child brought out in me instinctual behaviors I learned in my own childhood. The super-frum-24-hours-a-day me just faded away. I sat with those feelings for a while, keeping the mitzvoth but without the ba’alat teshuvah fervor. I got even more distracted by the birth of my second son, a redhead this time who looks like my father. I was beginning to try to reconcile my frumkeit with who I really was at heart when I got pregnant again.

My daughter, my third child, was born on a rainy November night. I had known in advance that she would be a girl and I was scared at what parenting a girl meant. She was a little pink mouse who was content as could be, and because she was a winter baby, I had many nights where we snuggled together on the couch as she nursed and grew. I watched the first season of Glee as she slept and found myself drawn increasingly to strong women and their stories. My job was to create the best world for this little female being whose velvet head I was kissing, and I needed to explore for myself what our options could be.

I realized that I never had the same fear about my boys and their prospects in the world. It's still a man's world in many ways, certainly in Orthodox Judaism, and I hadn’t yet taken the time to reconcile how growing up with yeshivish values would impact all of my children. Until my daughter was born, I only envisioned sweet boys in tzitzith and white Shabbat shirts and girls in fancy Shabbat dresses sweetly saying divrei Torah at the Shabbat table. The implications of the dress codes and how I personally felt hindered by my skirts and headgear began to merge as my girly and I got to know each other and I pondered her future with as few limitations as possible.

It was around this time that I began to take a second look at the Conversations journals, which had been arriving at the house periodically for almost a year. We had been put on the mailing list by an acquaintance we met when we tried to convince the regional yeshivish kiruv kollel not to send another full-time rabbi to our city. Two Orthodox shuls in our town was one too many for the 10 or so frum and becoming-frum families. We had staked our claim with the Chabad shul even though we don’t affiliate as Lubavitch because my husband became religious via the Chabad shaliah here, and the yeshivish shul was simply too far to walk to. This turf war started me looking critically at yeshivish Judaism, and I increasingly found a darker side of politics and cover-up.

I had honestly been afraid to read the articles in Conversations lest they contain opinions that weren't given approbation by the yeshivish rabbis. Instead, I found that they were not only interesting and challenging, but many of the articles were full of good sense and rational thought. Partially through reading Conversations, I regained my ability to question—to hold each idea up to the light and examine it on all sides. The world looks different when you take your head out of the sand. And, as lovely as it is to be immersed in Torah from a yeshivish perspective, I realized that those ideas would not hold water when it came to my children’s education.

I began an email correspondence with the wife of a Modern Orthodox rabbi whom I had known many years before. She helped me figure out exactly what the halakhot of tseniut were and how they applied today. Perhaps it seems strange that a dress code would weigh so heavily on my mind, but I honestly felt encumbered. I was wearing a costume that prevented me from being and expressing who I really am in the world. Although there are only a handful of Jews in my city who identify as Orthodox, the Jewish community as a whole is much larger, and I actually found that my dress code was saying things about me to the broader community that just were not true. To those kind-hearted women and men who do many, many mitzvoth but not those which the Orthodox world holds up as de rigeur, I wanted to tear off my hat and say “See! I’m one of you, too!” The skirts and hats were hampering me physically, mentally, and they maintained a barrier between me and my own community.

I also embraced JOFA and its mission and continue to give thanks for its online articles and resources. I learned that there is halakhic basis for Modern Orthodox praxis, in spite of what I had been told years ago and I discovered that Modern Orthodoxy is really where I feel free to question and pursue intellectual honesty even if that takes me outside the bounds of traditional, rabbi-approved sources.

Shortly after I received my conversion certificate in the mail, I dug out my old pairs of jeans and wore them around the yard. Then I wore them to the grocery store. Now I wear them daily and almost everywhere. I haven’t yet run into anyone who would raise an eyebrow at the switch, but I know that day will come. I feel enough like my true self and I feel grounded enough in my Judaism that I’m not afraid anymore.

A close friend who happens to be more yeshivish and who has known me throughout my move into Modern Orthodoxy said to me the other day as we were discussing the Modern Orthodox view of halakha, “Do you really want to walk that close to the line?” But I know that there are 70 faces of the Torah and that an evolving, intellectually vibrant, honest, and compassionate Orthodoxy is where I’m going to thrive—and where I’m best positioned to pass on the beauty of Judaism to my children.

 

 

 

Reflections on the Western Sephardic Tradition of Amsterdam

 

            In this article I will share my view on the historical role of Western Sephardic thinking. Hence, this article is not devoted entirely to religious leaders. Rather, it encapsulates the story of Jewish devotion, divisiveness, zealotry, and compromise. As far as Western Sephardic tradition is concerned, many people have a rather hazy picture. All they seem to know is that Spinoza was banned from the Amsterdam community for heresy (July 24, 1656). The fame of this particular excommunication’s is due to its being continually cited as an example of religious intolerance and fear of change comparable to the indictment of Galileo (1564–1642) and the excommunication from Islam of Salman Rushdie in our own day. Accused of every crime, denounced from the pulpit of every faith, insulted, ridiculed, and held in contempt, these thinkers and writers created the world we know today. Through their words and deeds they demonstrated the inadequacy of the erstwhile conceptions of religion compared to their views—based on reason rather than superstition—that could withstand the rigors of debate and argument.

To better comprehend the Western Sephardic mind, let us go back to the sixteenth century, the century after the expulsion of the Jews from the Iberian Peninsula. Following the Union of Utrecht in 1571, Jews of Spanish and Portuguese origin became attracted to the Lower Lands where little inquiry was made as to people’s religious beliefs. Many merchants began to settle in Amsterdam in 1590 but did not openly reveal themselves as Jews.

Dr. Ben Vermeulen, of the Catholic University of Nijmegen, in the Netherlands, delivered an interesting address at the International Coalition for Religious Freedom Conference on "Religious Freedom and the New Millennium."
The conference took place in Washington DC, April 17–19, 1998, and the address was entitled “The Historical Development of Religious Freedom.” In this lecture he dealt with the development of religious freedom in Western Europe. According to Vermeulen,

 

The origin of the legal guarantees of freedom of conscience and religion in Western-Europe are found in the civil wars of the 16th and 17th centuries. Western Europe was torn apart by religious strife caused by the Reformation, which disrupted the medieval religious unity of Catholicism. It should be stressed that the impact of these civil wars, raging in particular in France, England, the Netherlands, and Germany, was enormous…At least a partial solution to help end these horrible civil wars was brought about by treaties that secured religious peace. In these treaties the state declared itself neutral (at least to a certain extent), and guaranteed a certain minimum of religious freedom for every citizen. These peace treaties, such as the Union of Utrecht of 1579 (the Netherlands), the Edict of Nantes of 1598 (France), and the Treaty of Westphalia of 1648 (Germany) may be regarded as the first codifications of freedom of conscience and religion, and even of human rights in general.

 

These treaties, especially the Union of Utrecht, have influenced the choice of rabbis, chief rabbis, and ministers of the Western Sephardic community for the past 400 years. Indeed, the Union of Utrecht is the very first legal document to provide religious liberties to the Jews, since it called for religious tolerance in accordance with the Pacification of Ghent. In other words, the provinces were free to regulate religious matters, provided that everyone remained free to exercise their own religion. In the words of the Union of Utrecht:

 

As for the matter of religion, the States of Holland and Zeeland shall act according to their own pleasure, and the other Provinces of this Union shall follow the rules set down in the religious peace drafted by Archduke Matthias, governor and captain-general of these countries, with the advice of the Council of State and the States General, or shall establish such general or special regulations in this matter as they shall find good and most fitting for the repose and welfare of the provinces, cities, and individual Members thereof, and the preservation of the property and rights of each individual, whether churchman or layman, and no other Province shall be permitted to interfere or make difficulties, provided that each person shall remain free in his religion and that no one shall be investigated or persecuted because of his religion, as is provided in the Pacification of Ghent….

 

With these treaties, the United Provinces of the Netherlands would subsequently play both direct and indirect roles in the development of enlightenment in the seventeenth century. Its proponents would play leading roles in revising the medieval political institutions of Britain, and in preserving the colonial institutions that American colonists took for granted in the eighteenth century. Indeed, once the United States of America declared its independence, and Napoleon introduced new liberties and civil rights for Jews, life could never be the same anymore. 

The religious and intellectual life of the Sephardic community in the Netherlands was marked by tensions between the strict authoritarian orthodoxy of the rabbis and the majority of communal leaders on the one side, and the critical libertarian, individualist views of influential intellectuals on the other. This conflict was all the more acute as it was the consequence of the underground crypto-Jewish existence, which many had formerly led, and their sudden freedom in an open society. A split developed in Amsterdam’s first congregation, Beth Jaäcob, because of a bitter religious controversy led by a free-thinking physician, Abraham Farrar. In 1639 the three existing Jewish groups united under the name Kahal Kadosh Talmud Tora, and ever since then services were conducted in one place of worship. The magnificent synagogue dedicated in 1675 became the model for Sephardic synagogues in many other places as well.

The intellectual life of the community, in both its religious and secular aspects, attained a high level. As a center of Jewish learning throughout the Sephardic Diaspora, Dutch Jewry wielded a powerful influence and became a focus of intellectual ferment. The Talmud Torah and Ets Haim seminary was celebrated for the excellence of its teaching, covering not only talmudic subjects, but also Hebrew grammar and poetry. Indeed, the upper classes spoke only in Hebrew. The seminary flourished during the seventeenth century under the leadership of Haham Saul Levi Mortera, and subsequently under Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca. Its pupils officiated as cantors, ministers, rabbis, and chief rabbis in numerous communities in Europe, the Americas, the Near East, and in the Far East as well. It also produced quite a few scholars, writers, and poets.

Messianic hopes seemed to be realized with the arrival of Sabbetai Sebi in the middle of the seventeenth century. Many became followers of this false-messiah, and only a minority vigorously opposed him. The leadership of the community would remain for a long period under the influence of former Sabbateans, including the Hahamim Isaac Aboab de Fonseca, Moses Raphael Aguilar, and Benjamin Mussaphia. Even in the early eighteenth century, when Haham Salomon Aylion was in charge, a controversy arose over the Sabbatean work of Nehemiah Hayon. A prominent Ashkenazic rabbi, Haham Zvi Hirsch Ashkenazi (1656–1780), who had entered the dispute, was excommunicated by the congregation’s trustees in 1713.

            In their early days in the Netherlands, the Jews of Iberian origin were influenced and challenged by their surroundings, having to debate and defend their faith. In communities such as Ferrara, Venice, Antwerp, Amsterdam, Hamburg, London, and Bayonne, these Iberians—most of whom had been raised as Roman Catholics—were largely unaware of Hebrew and formal Judaism. For their benefit, Bibles, prayer books, and a whole range of works on the essentials of Judaism were published in the vernacular. However, Jewish book printing in Amsterdam was not an enterprise committed solely to didactic works, and many books reflect the broad cultural interest and academic background that these people had brought with them from Spain, Portugal, Italy, and the Ottoman Empire. The encounter between Iberian Renaissance culture and the rediscovered Judaism in environments such as the cosmopolitan, tolerant city of Amsterdam turned these Western Sephardim into the first “modern Jews.” This development is exemplified by the life and works of such intellectual pioneers as Haham Saul Levi Mortera, Haham Menasse Ben Israel, Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca, and, in his own way, Uriel da Costa. And that was only the beginning, for it would evolve further from the seventeenth century into the twenty-first century. There were also difficult periods, especially in the mid-nineteenth century, when there was no Haham in Amsterdam, and in the twentieth century, when the community suffered from both world wars. Worst of all were the segregation, deportation, and extermination by the Nazis, which nearly resulted in its total destruction.

            It might be useful to describe the nature of the Sephardic community in the first half of the seventeenth century as something entirely new, rather than as the re-emergence of a suppressed religious identity. Strong arguments for such a view can be made from the conflicts that divided the Sephardic community at that time. Disputes arose between influential laymen and the religious leadership. The clergy itself was divided between a rationalistic faction and those of a more mystical bent. Each of the famous Hahamim of the seventeenth century left his distinct mark on Western Sephardim. It has been remarked that Western Sephardic culture combines the morality of Calvinism, and the spirit of the Italian Renaissance, delightfully combined with a touch of Kabbalah. Renaissance thinkers in both Italy as well as in the Netherlands strongly influenced Sephardic culture. Aristotle and Virgil were not examined as mere “aliens” but as potential contributors to Jewish culture.

            At the same time, it must be noted that the authority of Western Sephardic clergy was limited to advice and consent. Following the Venetian example, the “Mahamad,” a standing committee of seven wardens invested with absolute power, governed the congregation. The Mahamad’s decisions were binding on all, and no verbal or written opposition was brooked. Thus, for example, no member could take another member to court without the Mahamad’s permission, nor could he print a book without its prior approval. Scholars like Juan de Prado, Uriel da Costa, and Baruch de Spinoza were formally excommunicated. Excommunication was a regular tool employed against behavior or speech the Mahamad deemed inappropriate. If a sermon in the synagogue was not to the liking of the wardens, they would excommunicate the preacher.

            Haham Levi Mortera was profoundly committed to rabbinic tradition, while he also followed the Maimonidean method of argumentation in his writings. (See H. P. Salomon, Saul Levi Mortera and his “Traktaat betreffende de Wet van Mozes,” Braga 1988, 31–60.) The Haham struggled against superstition, prejudice, and hypocrisy in order to establish truth and reason as the basis of piety. Thus, Mortera promoted justice, free inquiry, and freedom of expression and thought in support of Judaism. He was of course not the only writer to be critical of superstition. In this he was preceded in his own century by Grotius (1583–1645), Isaac de la Peyrere, and Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679). His thinking also ran parallel, but not identical, to that of Montaigne (1553–1592), Descartes (1596–1650), Uriel da Costa, and Baruch de Spinoza, whose arguments he applied to the study of Jewish religion.

            Most of the religious literature intended for the guidance of the Sephardic communities was composed and printed in Amsterdam. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, many new congregations would be established throughout Europe, the British Empire, and the colonies in the New World. It was an honored and honorable position that the main printer, Haham Menasse ben Israel, held, but it was not a well-paid one. And, like most of the Sephardic ministers and rabbis, he had to supplement his income. Menasse ben Israel set up his own printing press, and, at the request of Efraim Bueno and Abraham Sarphati, on 13 Tebet 5387 (January 1, 1627), he published the first Hebrew prayer book in Amsterdam. Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca served as a proofreader. Between 1627 and 1710, Amsterdam printing houses produced a total of 146 liturgical books and booklets. Seven months after his first publication, on July 15 1627, Menasse Ben Israel printed an interesting liturgical manuscript, Imre No’am, by Yosef Shalom Gallego (1614–1628). Gallego was one of the first Hazanim in Amsterdam. The importance of Gallego in the growth of what later became Western Sephardic liturgical music has been well established.

                Imre No’am gives some indication of Gallego’s prominent role as an educator in the community. He relates that the followers of Haham Joseph Pardo were in the habit of gathering in the synagogue on the three Sabbaths preceding the fast of the Ninth of Ab, mourning the destruction of the Temple. Gallego wrote against this custom, urging the members of his congregation to observe the Ninth of Ab with greater strictness, in observance of the Sabbath.

                In Amsterdam as elsewhere, the proclamation of Sabbetai Sebi as a messianic figure in 1665 evoked extraordinary enthusiasm, and the standard liturgy was temporarily changed accordingly. Kabbalah in its various systems and schools had spread and become a central part of Jewish theological discourse, giving Sabbateanism, whose founders and leaders were all Kabbalists, an elevated position. This came in addition to the mythic and folk elements that nourished Sabbateanism. Discussion about the liturgical changes continued for years. The Sabbatean movement refused to accept the reality of Sabbetai’s defection from Judaism to Islam. He had disappointed many, but the sincere hope for redemption continued to encourage many to believe the ideas of the Kabbalah.

            The Sabbatean movement was a thorn in the flesh of Haham Jacob Sasportas (Oran 1610–Amsterdam 1698), who was appointed Haham on April 4, 1693. He was of prestigious decent being the eleventh generation after Nachmanides (1194–1270). The opinion among the members of the Mahamad was mixed, but in the end they supported Haham Sasportas. He was an experienced rabbi, having led the rabbinate in Hamburg from 1659 until 1664, when he became Haham in London. He travelled to Scandinavia, but, returning to Amsterdam in 1672, he was appointed president of Yeshiba de los Pintos. Raphael Meldola published his Responsa in 1737.

    In 1698 Haham Salomon Jessurun d’Oliveira (1675–1700) succeeded Sasportas. Under his leadership new rules of Hebrew grammar were introduced. He was a rationalist, and was replaced two years later by Haham Salomon de Ja’acob Aylion (1700–1728). Aylion was born in Safed in Palestine and grew up in Salonika. He spread mystical teachings all over Europe. In 1689 he arrived in Amsterdam, but a year later he moved on to London to succeed Haham Jacob Abendana, who had died suddenly. The rationalists in London organized against him, and so he returned to Amsterdam in 1700. Haham Aylion’s tenure in the 18th century was characterized by his pre-occupation with superstitious beliefs, which resulted in political problems and a rather unhappy community. Haham Aylion died on 30 Nissan 5488 (April 9, 1728). His responsa are not published, but can be found in the Ets Haim library in Amsterdam. In 1728 the trustees appointed Haham David Israel Athias (1728–1753) and Haham Isaac Abendana de Britto (1728– 1760). They would rotate positions as Haham of the Congregation and President of the seminary until Haham Athias’ death in 1753.

            On a personal note, my great-great-great-grandfather, Haham Samuel A’Cathan (1692–1770), was the son of the Chief Rabbi of Sale near Rabbat in Morocco. He came to Amsterdam, and in 1715 married the daughter of Haham Samuel Ahuby, a Sephardic rabbi in Belgrade, which was part of the Ottoman Empire. Haham A’Cathan succeeded his predecessor, Haham de Mesa, when he died in 1761, and was appointed Ab Beth Din. He was more of a teacher and preacher than a communal leader, and, consequently, sent for Haham Salomon Shalem (1762–1781) from the Ottoman Empire to head congregational affairs.

            It was a controversial time. Haham Shalem chaired the Rabbinate while the above-mentioned Haham Zvi Hirsch Ashkenazi, or, as he was universally known, Haham Zvi; arrived from Altona. In the beginning he was very highly regarded; however, his incorruptible honesty and unselfishness soon made many enemies. One of these was Nehemiah Hiyya Hayyun, who managed to render his position in the congregation untenable. In his outspoken opposition to this unprincipled man, Haham Zvi had drawn upon himself the ill-will of the Mahamad of the Amsterdam Western Sephardic community, and that of the authorities of his own Ashkenazic community. The latter brought the matter before the magistrates, who, in order to obtain full information upon the subject, consulted not only the theological professors of Amsterdam, Utrecht, Leiden, and Harderwijk, but the trustees as well. It was no wonder then that, with this array of counselors, Haham Zvi was relieved of his office (1714). He went by way of London and Emden to Lemberg, where, after officiating as rabbi for a short time, he died in 1718. During the whole of this period the power of the trustees was almost absolute. From time to time however, the Haham was asked for his advice. The trustees modified at will the statutes of the congregation, and procured the approval of the magistrates. For the lay members of the congregation there remained nothing but implicit obedience.

    The year 1795 brought the results of the French Revolution to the Netherlands, including emancipation for the Jews. On September 2, 1796, the National Convention proclaimed the following resolution: "No Jew shall be excluded from rights or advantages which are associated with citizenship in the Batavian Republic, and which he may desire to enjoy." Moses Moresco was appointed member of the municipality at Amsterdam, while Moses Asser became a member of the court of justice there. The old conservatives, at whose head stood the Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi Jacob Moses Löwenstamm, were not desirous of emancipation rights. Indeed, these rights were, for the greater part, of doubtful advantage, since their culture was not so far advanced that they could frequent general society. Besides, this emancipation was offered to them by a party which had expelled their beloved Prince of Orange, to whose house they remained so faithful, that the chief rabbi at The Hague, Saruco, was called the "Orange dominie." The men who supported the old régime were even called "Orange cattle." Nevertheless, the Revolution appreciably ameliorated the condition of the Jews. In 1799 their congregations received, like the Christian congregations, grants from the treasury. In 1798 Jonas Daniel Meijer interceded with the French minister of foreign affairs on behalf of the Jews of Germany, and on August 22, 1802, the Dutch ambassador, Sir Rutger Jan Schimmelpenninck, delivered a note on the same subject to the French minister.[1]

            From 1806 to 1810 the Kingdom of Holland was ruled by Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, whose intention it was to so amend the condition of the Jews that their newly acquired rights would become of real value to them; the shortness of his reign, however, prevented him from carrying out his plans. For example, after having changed the market-day in some cities (Utrecht and Rotterdam) from Saturday to Monday, he also abolished the use of the "Oath More Judaico" in the courts of justice, and administered the same formula to both Christians and Jews. To accustom the latter to military services he formed two battalions of 803 men and 60 officers, all Jews, who had been until then excluded from military service, even from the town guard. The union of Ashkenazim and Sephardim intended by King Louis Napoleon did not come about. He had desired to establish schools for Jewish children, who until then were excluded from the public schools.

Upon the death of Haham Daniel Cohen d’Azevedo (1751–1822), the congregation appointed no Haham, but a Bet Din. This court, consisted of Dayan Jacob Ferares (1772–1852), Dayan Salomon Cohen Paraira (–1828), Dayan Raphael Montezinos (–1866), Dayan Isaac Mendes de Sola (–1849), Dayan Aaron Mendes Chumaceiro (1810–1882) (in 1860 Haham of Congregation Mikveh Israel in Willemstad, Curaçao), Dayan David Lopes Cardozo (1852–1890), Dayan Elazar Aaron Vaz Dias (1813–1885), Dayan Jacob Lopes Cardozo (–1873), and Dayan Jacob Mendes Chumaceiro (1833–1900).

In the nineteenth century the rabbinate spent much time on the correct pronunciation of Hebrew and the perfection of its grammar. New prayer books were printed with Dutch translation. Dayan David Lopes Cardozo was the last rabbi to preach in Portuguese.

On August 12, 1900, the trustees appointed a native-born rabbi as the congregation’s Haham, the legendary Isaac Palache (1858–1927). A few weeks earlier, on July 8, 1900, Palache’s competitor, the Rev. Aaron Rodrigues Pereira (1859–1922) was appointed Haham in The Hague. Pereira’s honesty, his friendly personality, and his prodigious knowledge, made him a famous and beloved personality.

Under the leadership of Haham Palache, new immigrants arrived from the Ottoman Empire. In 1919 the trustees appointed Dr. Haim Benjamin Israel Ricardo (1892–1944) as Rubi (adjunct rabbi). After Palache’s death, Dr. Ricardo was promoted to Dayan. Ricardo was an outspoken Religious Zionist. Most congregants held him in the highest esteem. He was a very social gentleman who would visit congregants and bring hope while they were suffering the consequences of the Great Depression. But Zionism at that time was not politically correct or really popular among Dutch Jewry. Consequently, in 1929, the trustees brought a famous and very learned Ottoman Rabbi to Amsterdam. They appointed rabbi Eliyahu Frances (1928–1944) as Dayan. The Dayanim Ricardo and Frances led the community harmoniously through the depression and World War II.

Rabbi Eliyahu Frances was born in 1875 in Salonika. He studied foreign languages and became the secretary of the Chief Rabbinate in Salonika. The trustees appointed Frances as Ab Beth Din. He became very popular, since he had high intellect combined with great knowledge being strict in the law, he strengthened the tradition, while also being open to the needs of the community. He was pleasant and modest. In 1938 he visited his father, who lived in Jerusalem. He was one of the candidates for Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv. When he did not win that position, he returned to the Netherlands. In due course, he was among the Jews deported and murdered by the Nazis.

Reform Judaism in the Netherlands has never been popular among Western Sephardim. A group of German refugees established a Reform congregation to which the Amsterdam Sephardim donated a Sepher Torah. The relationship remained cordial but distant. While most Western Sephardim lived as secularists, they loved their synagogue, their rabbis, their music, and were very proud of their tradition. In this climate of mutual respect and high tolerance, the majority of the Sephardim felt no need for Reform Judaism.

When Nazi Germany invaded the Dutch Kingdom in May 1940 there were around 140,000 Jews in the country, of whom some 120,000 lived in Amsterdam. About 4,300 of these were Sephardim. Comparatively little has been written about the community’s history during the war years. At the end of World War II, a ravaged community of some 600 survivors returned to where the refugees from the Inquisition had once built up a flourishing Jewish culture.

The Ashkenazic Rabbi, Justus Tal (1881–1954), led the community in Amsterdam between February 1944 and May 1945, while all other Rabbis were deported and murdered. Together with Rabbi Barend Drukarch (19171998) and the congregation’s sexton, Salomon Mendes Coutinho, worship services continued until the very end of the war, Shabbath May 5th 1945. Services were conducted, at a private home of the sexton, one week in accordance with Ashkenazic, the other in accordance with Sephardic tradition. In these final days of WWII it was permitted to Dutch Ashkenazim and Sephardim alike to consume rice and beans on Passover.

    As the liberation of the European continent was on its way Major Dr. Salomon Rodrigues Pereira (18871969), Haham of The Hague, returned to the Netherlands with the Royal Dutch Princess Irene Brigade, as its chaplain. Soon after the war, the trustees appointed Rodrigues Pereira Haham. He continued to live his life as a freeman in the city of Hilversum, and would visit Amsterdam during the holidays. To mark his fortieth anniversary as Haham of the Sephardic community in The Hague and his work after World War II in Amsterdam, Queen Juliana conferred Knighthood in the Order of the Dutch Lion on him. The Haham did his utmost to rebuild what had existed before the great catastrophe, although he only worked part-time.

            In 1968 Haham Rodrigues Pereira recommended that the trustees appoint Rabbi Barend Drukarch as Dayan. Both the holocaust survivors, as well as the new immigrants arriving from North Africa and the Near East, and from Surinam and the Dutch West Indies, found in Rabbi Drukarch everything they wished for and more. In 1980 the trustees appointed him Haham.  

In 1981 Rabbi Simon Haliwa of Tetuan, Morocco arrived to lead the Congregation. He was well liked, but as a result of differences with Haham Drukarch, he moved on to become a rabbi in Nice, France. At that time Haham Drukarch, assisted by Chaplain Samuel Behar, led the congregation. The congregation opened a second synagogue in Amstelveen. In 2012 Rabbi Dr. Marc D. Angel, Minister Emeritus of Congregation Shearith Israel in New York installed Dayan Dr. Pinehas Toledano as the Haham in Amsterdam.

In conclusion, the extraordinary legacy of the Western Sephardim included its great hidalguismo, its reverence for its past and the dignity of its culture. It traces its origins to the Iberian Peninsula, Italy, North Africa, and the Ottoman Empire. Characteristically, its long-standing tradition of tolerance was directly reflected in the policies of the Chief Rabbinate throughout its early history, and into modern times.

 

This is the list of Senior Ministers appointed by the Mahamad to Haham of Congregation Talmud Torah, the Portuguese-Israelite Community of Amsterdam in the Netherlands, as traditionally recited annually, preceding ‘Arbit, on the Eve of Kippur:

 

Haham Joseph Pardo (16021619)*

Haham David Pardo (16191657)

Haham Saul Levi Mortera (16161660)

Haham Abraham Cohen de Hereira (16021635)

Haham Isaac Uziel (16101622)

Haham Menasseh Ben Israel (16221657)

Haham Isaac Aboab de Fonseca (16601693)

Haham Jacob Sasportas (16751698)

Haham Salomon Jessurun d’Oliveira (16751700)

Haham Salomon de Ja’acob Aylion (17001728)

Haham David Israel Athias (17281753)

Haham Isaac Abendana de Britto (17281760)

Haham Salomon Shalem (17621781)

Haham David A’Cohen d’Azevedo (17811792)

Haham Daniel A’Cohen d’Azevedo (17921822)

Dayan David Lopes Cardozo (18521890) [not on list]

Dayan El’azar Aaron Vaz Dias (18521885) [not on list]

Haham Isaac Palache (18851927)

Haham Salomon Rodrigues Pereira (19451969)

Haham Barend Drukarch (19681998)

 

 

*These are the dates the Hahamim were in office.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Koenen, Hendrik Jakob (1843). Geschiedenis der Joden in Nederland (History of the Jews in the Netherlands), p. 387.

Campus Fellows Report: February 2018

To our members and friends, 

Our Campus Fellows throughout North America and Canada continue to develop meaningful programming that brings together a wide variety of Jewish students to discuss issues of relevance under the banner of our Institute. Please read about the many and diverse programs they are running and leading!

Rabbi Hayyim Angel

National Scholar, Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

 

Marc Generowicz and Sarah Pincus, Binghamton

We hosted a discussion of the blessing, “SheLo Asani Isha” after reading Rabbi Avi Weiss’s piece on it.

 

Yael Jaffe, Brandeis

The Joy of Text LIVE went extremely well! It was a successful co-sponsorship between the Brandeis Orthodox Organization (BOO) and the Jewish Feminist Association of Brandeis (JFAB), which affirmed BOO's willingness to collaborate on and invest in compelling feminist content. 

 

In addition, I have continued coordinating Senior Mishmars, which has involved a great deal of helping individual seniors think through and prepare their shiur/speech. It has been extremely rewarding to see these students empowered to speak before an audience of their peers, imparting words of Torah and personal advice in the environment of the beit midrash.

 

Finally, I worked with the BOO education coordinator, Shira Levie, to organize a shiur from Rabbi Daniel Reifman from Drisha. I have also assisted with the planning of the YCT/Maharat Meorot Fellowship occurring at Brandeis as well. 

 

Albert Kohn, Columbia University

I am organizing an event with Professors Yonatan Brafman and Suzanne Stone about how we use traditional Jewish texts to discuss modern political questions. In a few weeks, I am hoping to recreate an event I did last year before my Purim Seudah in which we discuss the place of drinking in a religious context. 

 

Rebecca Jackson, Cornell

I am planning a women’s Purim experience with a women’s tefillah and Megillah reading, divrei Torah from women in the community and a matanot la-evyonim project for the local women’s shelter. Beyond this, I plan to continue to run Shabbat afternoon learning events (philosophy shiur on Levinas) and help facilitate participation in a new JLIC women’s learning and current events weekly event. 

 

Corey Gold, Harvard

Much of the funding this semester went toward funding an off-campus Shabbaton for Orthodox undergrads we just had this weekend. This was a unique opportunity for just the Orthodox undergraduates to spend quality time together. There were many opportunities for communal reflection and the sharing of divrei Torah, and Rav Dani led a text study on Shabbat afternoon.

We’re planning more programming for the rest of the semester, of course - continuing learning programs that we began last semester like “Lunch with Rav Moshe” (lunch and learns as Rav Dani give shiurim on Rav Moshe Feinstein tshuvot), semi-weekly mishmars, onegs, etc.

 

Ezra Newman, Harvard Law School

We’re running a similar slate of programming as last semester - 6 “lunch and learn” style learning discussions given by students at the law school. We’ve already had 1 this semester, given by Jesse Lempel, titled “The Ten Commandments and #MeToo”. The next one will be this coming Thursday - topic TBD (though presumably something related to Purim).

 

Eitan Zecher and Tova Rosenthal, University of Maryland

Our next program this semester is going to be a University of Maryland Sermon Slam. This is an art and slam poetry event with a Judaic theme. We have had this program the last two years and experienced great success with around 120 people showing up each time! We are still working on choosing a theme and date and when we do I will make sure to e-mail that information over to you. 

 

Zachary Tankel, McGill University

We have continued our Thursday Night Torah program, and this coming Thursday, we'll be holding it in a new community for the first time. Additionally, we're planning a few Shabbatons this semester, the first of which is happening this Shabbat. Atop of all that, we're also planning to start holding some lunch n learns. I'll keep you updated on everything that happens!

 

Sigal Spitzer, University of Pennsylvania

One program I am planning is with Rav Itamar Rosensweig. Lunch shiurim worked very well last semester so we are planning to cater a lunch and have 10-15 students come and learn. He wants to do it before Pesach so I will keep you posted!
 

Devora Chait, Queens College

We have held our third Pop-Up Mishmar, where we have two students each give a ten-minute mini-shiur followed by a discussion. Usually we discuss an article, but this time our conversation centered around Torah learning at Queens College: what we have now, what more we are looking for, and what we hope to build. In light of that discussion, we are preparing to launch a weekly Thursday Parsha chabura at a different student apartment each week, where students learn the parsha in advance and gather to discuss their questions and thoughts. The idea is to create a Torah-learning community, not necessarily one with polished answers or messages but rather one where students can be invested in their own Torah learning with each other. We are also set to run at least one more Pop-Up Mishmar this semester, but potentially we will run two or three more.

Raffi Levi and Benjamin Nechmad, Rutgers

We ran an event with Rutgers poetry professor Yehoshua November on Tuesday February 13th. Professor November read selections from his two volumes of poetry, God’s Optimism (a finalist for the L.A. Times Book Prize) and Two Worlds Exist (a finalist for the National Jewish Book Award and the Paterson Poetry Prize). November also shared some of the experiences and teachings that inspired him to choose a life rooted in the unlikely combination of contemporary poetry and Orthodox Judaism.

 

Asher Naghi, UCLA

We hosted Rabbi Menachem Leibtag for our mishmar program and hope to bring Rabbi Yitzchak Etshalom to speak about the Megillah in the next couple of weeks. We also hope to soon host a number of student taught mishmars in the near future.

 

Rachel Rolnick, Yale Law School

We have been running a Shabbat dinner & dialogue series, where Professors host students for Shabbat dinner, and we discuss Judaism and Jewish life at the law school. We will be hosting a Lunch & Learn seminar on law and Judaism later in the semester, as well as a lecture on the Bill of Rights and Religious practices. 

 

 

 

Syrian Jews: Renaissance and Modern Era

 

 

   Some Spanish Sepharadeem, refugees, made their way to Aleppo and Damascus early in the 16th century; and many more to Constantinople, Salonika and Izmir. In Damascus, where they had arrived in larger numbers than in Aleppo, they established their own synagogues, houses of study, and burial grounds, alongside colonies of Karaites, Samarians, Iraqis, and the native Jews (the Musta-Arab-een), we are told by Rabbi Moshe Basola of that period. With time, they abandoned the use of the Spanish language and before long became acculturated, an integral part of the native Jewish community. Their more worldly education saw many of them in a prosperous state and in the leadership of Jewish life, positions they maintained for centuries. Aleppo’s Spanish refugee Sepharadeem, fewer in number, had also been received with cordiality and the respect due their scholarliness. A separate section of the Great Synagogue was reserved for them. This too passed away as the ‘Spaniol became embodied in the Jewish life of the city, although they continued to be distinctive. Among them were members of the Kassin (Qaaseen) and Laniado (Langiado) families, who contributed leading rabbis to the city for hundreds of years and to the present day, in Aleppo-in Flatbush and other Syrian colonies. The Dayan family, also distinguished scholars in Aleppo for centuries, had originated in Baghdad and lay detailed claim, generation by generation, descent from King David. It was the Dayans who established the revered House of Study — and prayer — Bet Nasi, “The House of the Prince.” It functioned in Aleppo until the “days of trial” in 1947, a harrowing period which the testimony of refugees now in Flatbush will reveal to us.

   Yet another wave of European Sepharadeem came, a small one, mostly from Italy, who were to be continually distinguished and prestigious in Near East Jewish life. Perhaps among the first of them to come was a maternal forebear of this writer, Signor Isaaco Silvera from Livorno (Leghorn, Italy), earlier from Gibraltar and Spain.

   His presence in Aleppo was uncovered to me by Gershom Scholem in his biography (1973) of Shabbetai Sebbi (Sevi), the false Messiah. Scholem relates that among the foremost advocates of Shabbetai prior to 1666 the date of enunciation of Shabbetai’s ‘Messiahood’, were”. . . Signor Hakham Shelomo Laniado and Signor Isaaco Silvera.” To Hakham Laniado, Shabbetai had awarded the “Kingdom of Aram Soba” (The Hebrew term for Aleppo, Psalms 60:2), and to my ancestor Silvera, the “Kingdom of David.” No doubt Silvera had contributed importantly from his considerable wealth to the Messiah’s mission. With Silvera’s presence in Aleppo, other wealthy Italian Sepharadeem had followed, to form a small but eminent group.

   Soon after the Crusades, Aleppo had become increasingly important in commerce with Europe. Earlier, such trade had been small although continuous for many centuries. Thanks to the sharpened appetite for Oriental spices and silks and the like, brought back with them by the returning Crusaders, and with the advancing decay of the feudal system, the rise and the influence of the Towns, and the revival of a money economy in place of barter, European trade with the Orient began to grow and to become a source of great wealth.

   It was largely to Halab (Aleppo) that the early Venetians, the Dutch, and the French had arrived to establish trading colonies; “Alep”, as the French 15th and 16th century traders had labeled it; the Italians had transposed it to “Alep-po,” the name used by the English. How to negotiate this trade with Aleppo’s merchants, since the English spoke no Arabic and the Aleppoans no English? Through local Aleppoans with a knowledge of Italian, French, or Spanish, largely the Spanish Sepharadeem and the Italian Jews. In addition to the Jews, Armenians and native “Byzantines” (Greek Orthodox Catholics) also participated.

The English Levant Company

  Consul North tells us of the importance of the Aleppo Jews in their relations with the English and others. Said North: “The factoring trade is in the hands of the Jews, dominated by them.” Further, he states that, “When a European began to trade through a Jew, no other would take his ‘commission,’ for by a compact among themselves no other was permitted to accept the client.” The Jewish agents earned the esteem and confidence of their clients, they were highly spoken of and their reputation spread in England for their uprightness and trading skill.

   The privileges of their foreign patrons sometimes rubbed off on to the Jewish agents, who were thus placed in particularly high regard in their community. They became Nafs Firmanli, an Ottoman-Decree (Protected) Individual. In some few instances their patrons bestowed on them full foreign national status, including Extra Territorial Rights, endowing them with greater prestige.

   In addition to the migration into Aleppo of the refugees from Spain as was noted, there were the Italian Jewish merchants. The Italians sent younger sons to serve their needs at first hand. They came on buying ‘visits’, but instead stayed, and soon married the daughters of Spanish and Musta-Arab-een (indigenous) Jews. They become known as “Francos” (French) and “Franj,” enjoying the rights and privileges of Extra- Territoriality. They were always referred to as Signors, (“Sir, in Italian; “Signor-eem” is the Hebrew plural term for this Italian title). Through their wealth and aristocratic status they became the most distinguished of the local Jews. Their piety, scholarliness and generous support of community organizations placed them at the pinnacle of their co-religionists’ esteem. The leading family among them was that of Picciotto; who were to become De Picciotto when they received titles of knighthood from the Austrian Emperor Joseph II, whom they served as consuls. Picciotto, Belilos, Bigio, Farhi, Ancona, Silvera, A1tar and a few others constituted the Franj group in Aleppo. In Damascus it was the families of Angel — (“Shemaya), Pinto, Molcho,  Farhi, Attieh Lisbona and others, who were the elite Franj.

   Late in the .18th century Shalom Ha-Cohen of Aleppo ventured into India and with the assistance of others from Halab, members of the Shaib, Tebele, Duek, Laniado families, two Settons/Suttons, as well as several Baghdadians, served to found the Calcutta Jewish community. It flourished for almost 150 years, until the British left India in 1947.

Everyday Jewish Life

   From the many recent spoken histories of individuals who recounted to me memories of life experience in Aleppo/Halab and in Damascus, we are further able to reconstruct the everyday life of the Jews there from some years before the beginning of the 20th century. In many ways it was typical of Jewish life throughout the Near and Middle East. Arabic was the universal language (except in Turkey, and some European countries under Ottoman rule.) Arabic was the common language from Iraq (Mesopotamia) on the East, to Morocco, facing the Atlantic Ocean. Culturally, too, there was broad commonality characteristic of almost all Fertile Crescent lands.

   At the crest of Aleppo and Damascus population early in this century, each city had perhaps 15,000 to 20,000 Jews. In Aleppo, everyone Jewish lived within the confines of the old and virtually invisible city-wall lines (the inner city), until about 1900-1905, when a small movement began to the-then outskirts of the city, to the Quarter called the Djamil-iyeh (named after Djamil Pasha), with broad streets and fresh air. (In the last three or four decades almost all Jews had moved there, except the direly poor.) The community was firmly ruled by the Bet Deen, the religious Court, supported by the Comite (Fr.), the community committee, formed of leading individuals— ah-kalz-behr, “notables” which administered the Jewish institutions. It was self-ruled, as was previously observed, in accordance with Ottoman and earlier, Roman and Arab regulations, which gave due recognition and respect in most periods, to each of the religious communities. This permitted an orderly and stable life over the centuries, one in which the Aleppo and Damascus Jewish populations led a generally satisfying life — constrained only by personal economic limitations.

   The Hakham Báshi was the Chief Rabbi, an institution established in Istanbul/Constantinople some four hundred years ago, largely a political one. The local Hakham Bashi was appointed by the Chief Hakham Bashi, an influential Ottoman Empire official in the Capital — with the consent of the city’s Jewish elders. He was frequently a non-native of Aleppo or Damascus, hailing from Smyrna, Istanbul, or Salonika. Often he did not match the scholarliness of the cities’ native rabbis or their religious authority, although his Office was held in much awe by the populace. The Bet Deen, the religious court, set the rules and standards for rigid religious and civil observance for the mass of Jews. They ruled in disputes between Jews, and so universally and highly were they regarded, that a Muslim with a civil complaint against a Jew preferred to have it adjudicated by the Bet Deen. He was confident that the ruling would be unbiased and just. Leading rabbis were highly respected by the Muslim leaders and their counsel was often sought.

   Rabbis of the city were also highly esteemed by fellow Jews in Palestine, Mesopotamia (Iraq) and other parts of the Ottoman Empire; respected for their learning and devoutness, from the days of Saadia, Maimonides and earlier. Over the centuries only a few had succeeded in having their scholarly religious works published. Some with valuable texts did not possess the means and know-how to achieve publication in one of the principal Sepharadi centers, in Livorno, Istanbul, Amsterdam. Only now are some of these early works being uncovered and published.

   In Syria, relations with Islamics were amicable, but formal. A state of inward uneasiness always marked the sentiments toward those of the dominant religion. The Muslims were generally friendly, but “no one put complete trust in goyeem” (Hebrew maxim) or in their continuing peacefulness, since not all Muslims were educated, or well-mannered.

The Dhimmis: ‘Protected’ Jews and Christians

    What is the reality of conditions under which the Dhimmi, the so- called ‘Protected’ people, lived? Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians who believe in one God, had special status following the teaching of Muhammad. They were known as Ahhl il Dhimmi [ pronounced “thzimmeh”], People of Faith, Conscience. They were to be protected, allowed to lead a self-ruled life, following their religion, unmolested both in their faith and in their civil rights. However, because they would not accept Islam, they were to have measures of humiliation shown to them, they were to regard themselves as “inferiors.” A special small tax was imposed on them, a jizya (a penalty). In other ways too in some periods, they had to have their inferiority made evident — through dress, restrictions on the height of their houses of worship, the lowly animals (donkeys, etc.) they were permitted to ride, the need to give way before a Muslim, and similar means of indicating their inferiority. In everything else their rights were to be protected. The Covenant could be annulled at will by Muslims when they alleged violations on the part of a minority, to be replaced with still greater severities, sometimes demanding conversion to Islam, on pain of death.

 

Good Relations with Muslims

   The Muslims of Aleppo were indeed of a more peaceful character than those of Damascus. No uprisings, no massacres of Jews in Aleppo have ever been uncovered by this writer. Jews accepted their role of submissive inferiors, but with dignity. They knew their own worth, and their economic importance in the metropolis, a bustling city of traders.  Aleppo Jews seldom had to submit to more than petty abuse, and only from individual ignorant and fanatic Muslims. Such elements had created riots and massacres in Aleppo in 1659-1860, but directed against Christians, with no major disorders since that time.

   In earlier periods, prior to the advent of surging nationalist Zionism in Palestine, many commercial Jewish partnerships existed with Muslims and Christians, often in enterprises involving agricultural products; Jews were partners with herders, in large-scale operations involving sheep, etc. The Jews had confidence in the integrity of their Muslim partners, their courteous friendliness and their faithfulness to their religion. Sometimes the partners were bedu (bedouins), nomads.  Jewish Murad Faham and members of the Jemal/Djmal families owned huge herds consigned to Muslims, or were partners with them; both were important manufacturers of cheese. Faham is the hero who was later to rescue the ancient and sacred Aleppo Codex: the Codex of ben Asher, spiriting it out of the country to Israel at considerable risk to his safety.

   With educated Muslims a cordiality, somewhat formal, could exist, formed perhaps through commercial transactions. However, intimate friendships with Muslims were not common. Despite cordiality with some, there was little social interaction, Jewish and Muslim families did not exchange visits; men customarily socialized in cafes. Nevertheless, on respective holiday occasions the men would sometimes pay courtesy calls to their friends of the other religion. The Governor, too, the Pasha, would pay such a courtesy call to the Chief Rabbi. In turn, the Hakham Bashi would acknowledge an Islamic or governmental holiday by a visit to the Pasha.

Everyday Life in Twentieth Century Syria

   Everyday activity in the early years of the twentieth century in Aleppo and Damascus continued the traditional and unhurried life in the midst of the countless minarets and the many large and important souks. Earlier, Jews lived — by choice — in their separate Quarters, the Saha, il Illeh, Bah-seeta, and Harrit il Yahood, the Jewish Quarter and other nearby neighborhoods, sometimes neighbors of Muslim families, but never of Christians. They occupied residences with an inner courtyard, with chambers around it, rooms not interconnected in most instances. Outhouses provided the sanitary facilities (which were periodically — sometimes tardily — emptied by the cesspool cleaner). Wealthy families occupied a private residence; others had contained two or three families, each occupying one or two rooms to accommodate their usually large numbers.

   The rooms necessarily served as living quarters by day and as bedrooms at night. They were sparsely furnished. In the poorer homes the furniture consisted of a low table with a mansaf, a large tray, and cushions, dishaks, on which they sat, close to the floor. One or two large armoires, chests, held their clothes and household wares. A deewaan, a sofa, was found in most homes, reserved for visitors. Except for the wealthy where beds were used, bedding consisted of mattresses placed on the floor. These were aired in the morning, then piled in a corner of the room, freeing it for daytime use. For those in modest circumstances and the poor, heating the chamber was by means of braziers in which a few sticks of charcoal were burned. Illumination was provided by one or more wan-a-seh, a pan filled with oil, with lighted wicks, or by kerosene lamps. Some rooms had a small raised alcove, a m’rah-bah which added to the useable space. A small deep cellar, m’gha-ra, usual in every home, provided an area where perishable food was kept somewhat fresh.  A floor covering was a necessity. Those who could afford them had rugs on the floor, from  Ajam, (Persia), or from Turkey. Others laid down a haseereh, a large woven mat of vegetable fibers.

   Housewives whose husbands had means could employ domestic help. For the majority — the poor and the near-poor — the housewife was responsible for restoring the sleeping room into a sitting room, airing the bedclothes and storing them in a corner. She washed the clothes, cooked the meals, drew water from the cistern for the family needs, and sewed or repaired the clothing. In addition, of course, she attended her many young children. She saw to the grinding of her wheat at the local mill and prepared the dough for the bread, a large part of every meal. This was sent out usually twice a week — to a nearby baker, a soo-sahnie.

   Those in the middle and upper classes usually retained a Jewish female domestic worker, who went to her own home at the end of a demanding day. She, too, washed, cooked, kneaded dough, and looked after her other household chores. Servants were often, but not always, married women. The poor provided the wet nurses for those who could not nurse their own children.

   Since clothing factories did not exist, tailors and dressmakers often gave sewing work to be performed in the home — at niggardly prices. Some women were skilled seamstresses; others, makers of wigs and hair-pieces, etc., who spent individual days working in the homes of patrons, Jewish, Muslim, and Christian. (This contradicts the popular belief that wives of Oriental Jews did not work gainfully like Jewish matrons in Eastern Europe; there, it was not uncommon for some women to be actively engaged in commerce.)

   For the poor, breakfast usually consisted of bread and white cheese; some could afford only bread and inexpensive zatar, a combination of tangy herbs. (Bread was dipped into oil and then into the zatar.) A piece of halava served as ‘dessert.’ Lunch and supper often comprised the leftovers of the food of the previous day or else of an omelet, prepared with cheese, potatoes, eggplant or other available vegetables. Laban, yoghurt, was a staple, widely consumed, in addition to cereals and beans of every description; they were cheap.  The principal meal was in the evening. Few meat dishes were available, they were too expensive for most, but were served at the Sabbath meals.

   Most Jews were either lower-middle class or (the greater number) — were poor. They were craftsmen, stall-keepers, cobblers, clerks, peddlers, porters and others without skills.The life of the middle-class Jews and the wealthy permitted comfortable homes and enabled them to live well in all respects, enjoying a wide variety of foodstuffs, meat, fish, seasonal vegetables and delectable fruits.

Marriages

   Jewish marriages in the Orient were almost always arranged by the parents, usually with the aid of a semi-professional, part- time broker, a khat-ahb. He knew most families, and thus could recommend suitable mates; it was important to find spouses of suitable lineage — those of the same social class. A marriage could sometimes be arranged with another, but only one class level above or below.  Among the poor, marriages were more expeditiously arranged, without the need of an intermediary — and negotiations.

Entertainment

   Rich and poor delighted in the Sabbath, a day of complete relaxation. Some relished the occasional Sabt, the festive mid day elaborate celebratory Sabbath breakfasts after synagogue service. These often were accompanied by the singing of traditional pizmoneem, non-ritual religious songs. Aleppoans are very fond of music, outstandingly so.

   Entertainment in earlier years — 70 or 80 years ago was quite limited. Apart from visits to cafes, family and friends, public entertainment was narrowly circumscribed. Once or twice each year there was a gala concert of Arabic music. A little music was available publicly in some cafes, mostly by means of phonograph records. The “Shahh-bandar,”, a large cafe on what was then the outskirts of the city — it has since been absorbed by the exploding city — featured vocalists and a live musical ensemble. Those who could afford it thronged this green oasis in a city denuded of trees (cut down for fuel during World War I, and never replanted). On a pleasant evening, one of the residents, usually among those in humbler circumstances, would produce an ood, a lute, to be joined by neighbors in his courtyard, and often by those of an adjoining courtyard, who would enjoy and contribute to the quiet entertainment.

Community Organizations

   The community had several social institutions in addition to the kteh-teeb, the Hebrew Schools. Mohar  u-Mattan was concerned with facilitating marriages for the poor. A few gold pounds were made available to a poor couple, to permit them to buy the minimum household needs. Without the means to buy these articles, marriages could be delayed indefinitely. Sedaqa u-Marpeh, “Charity and Healing,” looked after the needy sick. It maintained a clinic and a couple of ‘hospital’ beds, the part-time cooperation of a trained doctor, as well as a drug dispensary. Mattan ba Seter was a fund which assisted the genteel poor who would not openly accept charity. A large Fund saw to the needs of the many poor families who were regularly allotted small sums to keep them from starving. A pittance was doled out, too, to dozens of poor rabbis, to allow them adequate Sabbath meals.

   There were many orphan children, numerous offspring of impoverished, undernourished parents who died young; outbreaks of tuberculosis or cholera, plague, typhus or diphtheria, were common in some earlier years. A sizeable orphanage was maintained, whose support was made barely adequate by appeals to Syrians living in New York, Manchester, Egypt and Buenos Aires. “Joe” Duek, a successful businessman, retired early to devote his time and efforts to the needs of “his” orphans.

Jewish Commerce and the Souks

   Aleppo’s merchants, Muslim, Jewish, and Christian, are traditionally serious-minded men, in a city which lacks the heady, irresponsible effervescence of Damascus. Halab had less politics and less fanaticism. While Damascus is the town of the “Arab,” Aleppo is the city of the merchant.

   A large part of trade and commerce was dominated by the Jews of Aleppo. A small number were private bankers, called sir-eh-feen, ‘changers’, money-changers (sar-raf, sing.). In a country and city where its residents had no faith in paper money — their confidence was in dahab-at — gold pieces!. Some of their trade in silver and gold pieces was international in scope. Their activity and that of the many Jewish merchants dealing in textiles and a variety of other important commodities permitted them the acquisition of impressive fortunes, very discreetly held, and most ‘modestly’ spent.

   The merchants of Aleppo carry on their activities in the khans and souks. A khan is a caravanserai (a “palace”  for caravans). A souk is a trading street or lane, in some countries referred to as a “bazaar.” But not all souks are alike. Those who visited Jerusalem and its souk (“shouk,” in Hebrew) can little imagine the size and scope of Aleppo’s souks. The latter are roofed, and constitute a sizeable “town” extending for many miles; souks which are deemed more important than those of Damascus and Cairo. Off the principal souks are found the many khans. In several of them our Jewish merchants carried on their trade, principally in the huge Khan ii Gimrog — “the Customhouse Khan” and the vast Khan il Qassabiyeh — the “Khan of the Gold Threads.” There they maintained their offices, attached to which were their sizeable warehouses.  Each craft, in traditional fashion, is established in its own “street” and thus the visitor progresses from the leather workers to the smiths, to the merchants of silks and cotton cloths, or to the souks which sell spices, with their curious haunting fragrances. Aleppo has more than 150 hammams, ‘Turkish baths’, whose beauty and luxuriousness were highly praised.

Jewish Schools

   In Aleppo as in Damascus, in the unhurried and traditional life of old, few influences of the Age of Enlightenment had penetrated or were available to the people of the cities and to the Jewish population. Exceptions were the relatively small but important number of Jews who were able to attend the schools of the Alliance Israelite Universelle. With the self-esteem and self-satisfaction with which they lived, Jews (and Muslims), lacked the quest and thirst for secular education, which characterized the Jews of Europe. Jewish education, except for Alliance students, was in the ktehteeb (kittab sing.) elementary Hebrew schools, for boys. When boys “graduated” at about age thirteen “they went down to the souk” to seek gainful work. Children of families with some means remained in the Alliance until they achieved ‘senior’ graduation at ages 17 to 20.

   Traditional early Jewish schooling taught the male children prayers, and the Bible — which was taught in Hebrew of course, but with some chapters memory-instilled in formal (archaic- classical) Arabic translation, very likely the translation of Saadia Ha-Goan, achieved almost one thousand years ago. The boys became familiar with AinYaacob, a simple recounting of rabbinic aggadah (parables, legends), and other similar works. Most students, with their bar mizva, went out to seek work; but children of wealthy parents, if not at the Alliance school, continued their studies, going on to instructions in the Talmud and other rabbinic works, in batteh midrash, halls of study. They attended there for a few years, before going on to the serious business of gaining money, in order to permit them to marry and to establish their own families. Newlyweds without much means lived with “his” or “her” parents, depending on their relative means, for a few years. A few wealthy men with large homes maintained several married sons and their families in a patriarchal pattern, as a truly “extended family.”

   In addition to study of religious texts in the kittab, the traditional Hebrew elementary school, an hour or so every other day was devoted to learning to read and write Arabic and write the customary cursive Hebrew Script known as nus’alam (‘half a pen’) somewhat similar to Rashi script. This is a medieval form of the written Hebrew coming down to us in the Cairo Geniza fragments of the 10th to 14th century. The men of ancient Cairo, like present-day Jews in Aleppo and Damascus, used the Hebrew script to write letters whose texts were often in Arabic. The students, particularly those whose learning years were limited by the need to work, left the kittab without much ability to write either Hebrew or Arabic — but, were of course, able to read Hebrew printed texts.

   The overwhelming majority of both Jews and Muslims — particularly the latter, had no mastery of writing, although every Jewish child submitted to some schooling with the consequent ability to read (Hebrew), and perhaps to read and write some Arabic. Limited writing lessons introduced into “senior” classes in the kitttab left the boy little time to master writing before he left school at age thirteen.

The Alliance Israelite Universelle and other Schools

   Alliance Israelite students did acquire the ability to write French, some Arabic and Hebrew. They received a Western style education which included a few hours every week of Hebrew prayers and some Biblical texts. Very religious parents provided private tutors for additional religious studies. Otherwise, most Alliance education was in French. Advanced students who deviated by speaking any Arabic in the school were made to pay a small fine for infractions.

   The Paris-based Alliance had its European-trained Sepharadi Jewish teachers. “Sophisticated” and “not very religious,” they were looked at with some suspicion by the ultra Orthodox.  They had little regard for the religious element, although they were careful in Aleppo not to flout the orthodoxy of the community.  Despite some mild disapproval on the part of some unsophisticated Aleppo rabbis, parents continued to send their children to the Alliance. Commercial advancement was impossible without the education the Alliance Israelite was able to provide — in a community of merchants.

   The brightest Alliance graduates were offered tuition-free advanced study in the Alliance schools in and near Paris. These were teacher-training schools, which required graduates to take teaching posts for a period of several years at the discretion of the Alliance in any Near/Middle East country where the Alliance had schools. Not enough can be said, or is acknowledged, of the benefactions that the Alliance Israelite Universelle schools brought to the Jews of the whole of the Near and Middle East, Turkey and Greece, (and some Balkan countries). This blessing is taken for granted, even by many who gained immeasurably by attending. The Aleppo school was established in 1869 for boys, a school for girls was instituted few years later. The lives and careers of Alliance students were affected, to benefit them for many years, in the Near East, and when many went to distant lands and new endeavors.

   In later years some Jewish families eager for more intensive education for their male children enrolled them in the superior school operated by the monks, girls at the convent schools of the the Sisters — the nuns. Jewish and (the fewer) Muslim students there were excused from attendance at Mass and from classes in Christian theology.  In Aleppo, no Jewish children were ever known to have converted to Christianity. A recently-arrived reliable informant stated that in the late 1930’s and early 1940’s, 20 percent of Jewish families had given their children such Catholic school education — families which were regarded as of ‘normal’ Jewish observance.

   With the installation of French Mandatory rule in 1922, the French authorities had established the Mission Lycee, the Laique, the secular school of high caliber. The curriculum began where the Alliance ended. Graduation from the Laique school enabled students to qualify for college or university education in Beirut or in Paris, for such as wished to pursue a career in law, medicine, or other professions. A few Jewish Laique graduates did so, to become lawyers and physicians.  

 

 

A-political Jewry

   Jews in Syria and in most other Ottoman countries were entirely a-political. They could not participate in partisan politics because of the delicacy of their situation in a Muslim world. Content to lead their separate community life without molestation, they were grateful for the privilege of being left to live in peace. Thus they did not have the urge of fervent Zionism, like the oppressed Jews in Czarist countries. As I witnessed in a 1933 visit to Aleppo, the Jewish community leaders were required by the Muslim authorities to publicly “disavow any sympathy with Zionism.”  It was only in the mid-to-late 1930’s that Zionism began to grow in Aleppo — although not to flourish. Zionist-influenced sports and cultural activities on a small scale began then, manifested by the “Maccabi Football (soccer) Club” and small Zionist discussion groups. Jewish recruiters from Palestine visited Aleppo in the late 1930’s and early 1940’s; they influenced a small number of young people to move to the Holy Land. The majority, however, were satisfied to continue their accustomed pattern of life, although they became increasingly uneasy. (Some Aleppoans and Damascenes who later located in Egypt and Lebanon tell us in their oral memoirs of bustling but discreet Zionist interest and activity there.

Beginning Migrations

   With the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, some Aleppoan and Damascene Jews migrated to Egypt seeking better economic opportunities. Others, merchants, had gone to Manchester, England to represent their partnerships and family enterprises which had been importing English cotton goods through commission merchants.

   Toward the end of the 19th century, a few intrepid pioneers set out from Syria, seeking the opportunity to earn enough money to provide them with a small capital, and to return to their native cities. The incentives for travel were World Fairs, the Expositions in Paris in 1859 and the Columbian Exposition in 1893. At the end of the Expositions, alas, none had made their fortune. Some returned to their native city; others stayed on waiting for the next Fair — the Pan American Exposition of 1901 in Buffalo, or the St. Louis World’s Exposition of 1903. Except for one individual, none had settled in the United States before 1903, when several Aleppo and Damascus Jews decided to stay and make their home in New York.

The Nucleus of Mass Migration

Dire need in many Jewish families in Syria was aggravated by the several economic crises, worldwide depressions which affected Aleppo’s commerce as well. 1903 saw such slack in trade, to be repeated in 1907. Commercial houses went bankrupt or were compelled to discharge employees — who were left destitute, with no income or the means to secure food. Having heard of the few Jews who had migrated to the Americas, pioneers who wrote back reporting their ability to work and earn in New York, Mexico, and Buenos Aires, an emigration trend, a small tide set in, inducing men with hungry homes to leave their cherished families and friends and the accustomed orderly Jewish life, to seek a livelihood elsewhere. Most of them left with little more than the clothing on their backs to go to distant and strange lands where they arrived like deaf-mutes, unable to speak the new languages, to understand and to be understood. Since an alternative to the helpless misery of their life in Aleppo and Damascus presented itself, they had seized it, those with courage enough to embark on the unknown. Still another factor encouraged emigration.

   The “Young Turks” movement of army officers had forced the abdication in 1908 of the despot Sultan Abd il-Hamid II, who had clung to the politics of an earlier and antiquated era. Turkey was humiliated by defeats in several small wars, because of the archaic and thoroughly corrupt official government structure. With the overthrow of Abd il-Hamid the Army sought greater strength — and large numbers of soldiers. This was a calamity for Jews under Ottoman rule. Under the old regime Jews and other minorities were “not desired” to mingle with the Muslim soldiers; with the payment of a f’kehk, a “release,” a small tax, non-Muslims were considered to have made a substitute contribution. The need for a new and larger army ended this exemption; every able bodied ‘young’ man was made subject to conscription. As soon as conscription appeared imminent, Jewish men quietly disappeared, to make their way to a new and strange land.  

   Encouraged by the reports from New York from the early immigrants who were sending money to their impoverished families, many more made their way to New York’s Lower East Side.  Buenos Aires, Mexico, and New York were equally known in Damascus and Aleppo as the “goal” for those compelled to emigrate. (Some who were denied entry at Ellis Island also turned to Argentina or to Mexico.) The years 1908-1913 saw the nucleus of a Syrian community in Mexico as well as in Buenos Aires and New York.  

 

 

 

 

When Worlds Collide: Why Observant Student Teachers Refuse to Teach in the Mamlachti Dati School System

 

When Worlds Collide[1]: Why Observant Student Teachers Refuse to Teach in the Mamlachti Dati School System?

 

     During the past several years as an educator in the fields of Tanakh and Jewish studies, I have come across a prevalent and disturbing phenomenon: most of the religiously observant student teachers whom I have met  are not at all  interested in teaching in the mamlakhti-dati school system (the religious public school system in Israel). When the time comes for them to decide on a professional placement, they apply to secular schools, or to the new model of specialized dati-hiloni schools (religious/secular schools), or to pluralistic religious schools. Several years ago, as the head of the Tanakh department of such an experimental dati-hiloni high school, I found that more than half of the Jewish studies faculty was comprised of incredibly dedicated and talented religious young people. When I asked them to describe the thought process that brought them to an experimental framework, (in our case, a particularly demanding one), the majority of them admitted to never having even considered Mamad (religious public school system) as a professional option, for reasons that will be discussed in this paper. Some had tried to teach in the Mamad system and had given up.

     Why is this true?  Why are these bright, highly motivated, religiously observant young people, who are extremely knowledgeable in both Jewish and general studies, opting out of the mamlakhti-dati school system?  And if they are opting out, then who is teaching our children?

     In this article I would like to address these questions by relating several stories that reflect the changes that are taking place in the Mamad schools and in the teachers colleges. I want to examine how and why these changes, which are occurring in both the formal and informal frameworks of the Mamad, are alienating many young, committed and engaged religious student teachers out of its educational system. In addition, I would like to suggest conceptual and practical changes to improve an ever worsening situation.

Observations from the Field: Primary School

A Story about Matisse

     When our daughter was in fifth grade at the local Mamad (religious public school), she decided to do her personal project on Matisse. We went to do research at the Israel Museum art library and spent several hours reading his biography and examining books of Matisse’s paintings.  Some weeks later I bumped into the teacher in the school hall, and couldn’t resist asking her what she thought of my daughter’s project. Well, she said hesitating, it was a bit skimpy. Skimpy?!  I cried in disbelief. She’s in fifth grade. She could have chosen “Water” or “Color” or “Why is the Sky Blue?” Instead she picked a difficult topic and handed in work she did herself. What do you mean by skimpy? Well, she said quietly, the truth is… I have never heard of Matisse.

     After recovering from the sad implications of this story, we need to ask ourselves some hard questions: Why is a person with so little intellectual curiosity, or basic professional self-respect, hired to teach school children? Once hired, why are such teachers maintained?

     The status of teacher knowledge in the secular primary schools is, unfortunately, not much better than that of the teachers in the Mamad system. It is unlikely, however, for a teacher in a secular school never to have heard of Matisse, implausible that she would not refer to an encyclopedia while grading her student’s work, and inconceivable that she would look the student’s parent directly in the eye and say: “I have never heard of Matisse."

     Why are so many Mamad teachers like this, particularly--but not exclusively--in the younger grades?  And why does a teacher in the Mamad system feel safe in doing this?  The answers are not pleasant. One: Matisse was not Jewish.  [In the eyes of the narrowly Orthodox] non-Jews don’t count.  Two: Matisse was an artist. Art is irrelevant.  If the fifth grader’s paper had been a biography of a great rabbinic sage, the teacher would certainly have done her homework.  Three: Matisse painted nudes. Nudity is immodest and immodesty is the cardinal sin, greater than ignorance and intolerance (more on this later). In fact, the teacher had asked my daughter to remove one of Matisse’s abstract line drawings of a nude from the paper. The principal insisted that it stay in. Poor Matisse, he never had a chance.                                 

     So why is this person permitted to teach our children?

     The answer lies in the ever changing face of the Mamad teacher. Whereas once the Mamad teacher and principal were observant Jews who prided themselves on their abilty to combine love of Torah with love of all knowledge, today more and more Mamad teachers pride themselves on their insularity, and yes, their ignorance of all things not Jewish.

     I would like to underscore this point with 3 stories from my recent experience in Mamad teachers colleges.

Observations from the Field of Teacher Training

     Recently, I taught at a well-respected college for primary school educators, considered for years a pillar of dati leumi (religious Zionist) Judaism. For administrative reasons, the college hosts students from an influential hareidi –leumi midrasha (hareidi Zionist school) who pursue their B. ED at the college. They are excellent students, and their influence on the school is great—as are their demands.

Feminist Research

     Early on in the semester, in a course on pedagogy, I referred to a research study by feminist scholars on a gender related educational issue. After class, some of the students approached to further discuss my conclusions, but questioned my reference to feminist scholarship. 

     That night, I received a call from a faculty representative from the midrasha.  His official job was liaison between the midrasha and the seminar; his unofficial job was to be a watchdog for religiosity. He asked that I meet him the next day in his office allotted to him by the college.

      I was told the following: academic research is not important to us. Please avoid referring to it. Feminist research is anathema to us. If you happen to teach Tanakh, do not teach comparative parshanut a la Nechama Leibowitz. We don’t evaluate the great parshanim (classic rabbinic Bible commentators) - they are all equally great. We don’t compare and contrast. Who are we, after all?

 

A Trip to London

     Wanting to prevent further such confrontations, I avoided all areas of controversy--not my natural inclination. During a class exercise demonstrating varying approaches to planning, I asked my students to plan a trip to London. I noticed one pair sitting and not working. I approached to ask if they needed help. The following conversation ensued.

We have never been to London.

OK, I said, make believe.

We don’t want to go to London.

Ok. I said, (thinking perhaps that they were Anglophobic). How about Paris?

We don’t want to go to Paris either.

OK. Where do you want to go?

They thought for a moment and said, To the Golan.

 

 

Literary Analysis

     Soon after, I began teaching at another dati leumi College intended for junior high and high school educators, also a prominent institution in dati leumi education.  The school was eager to develop into an Israeli model of Yeshiva University, a degree granting religious university. In this vein, the school held a half day conference on the topic of literary approaches to teaching Tanakh. All the presenters were religiously observant. I delivered a paper on the topic of thematic reading. When I returned to class, I found my normally compliant students up in arms. How could I apply literary tools to the reading of Tanakh? Tanakh is a sacred book, not literature.  It is forbidden to apply literary text analysis to the Torah.

     This was compartmentalization at its best. Literary analysis, a gentler cousin of Biblical criticism, has a way of unnerving some religious people.  The students’ instincts were right; this material is sensitive and troubling. But what struck me most was the fear, a near panic, at what they had heard, and a refusal to have a discussion.  In a house of learning, the response to ideas that challenge our assumptions cannot be flight or fear. That is the hareidi way; it is not meant to be the approach of classical dati leumi education. In addition, these were students preparing for high school teaching. Certainly the day would come when one of their students would question them on this topic. What will their response be?  

     The colleges and students alluded to are not marginal or atypical. They serve as major feeders of teachers to the Mamad school system.  Those students are the teachers of our children today.  

     What the above stories have in common is that they all reflect the growing influence of the hareidi ideologies on Mamad education via hareidi-leumi teachers and attitudes: lack of curiosity bordering on disdain  for all things not Jewish; distrust of academia--even while earning an academic degree; distaste for feminism- even while benefiting from the contribution of feminist activism to the equality of women in the workplace; fear of critical thinking; refusal to recognize and grapple with issues of modernity and post-modernist humanist thought; extensive use of  the advances of modern research in areas of medicine and technology, along with an unwillingness to admit or to acknowledge the central role of the university in bringing about these advances.   

     The hareidi-leumi worldview, while clearly one I do not share, has the right to its input into the religious and political discourse of the State of Israel. But the legitimate place for the dissemination of its values is within its own schools and communities. The dati leumi school system, once the pride and joy of the dati leumi world, is emptying at a frightening rate, because the liberal dati leumi establishment refuses to acknowledge that, despite a shared commitment to the observance of (certain) mitzvoth and to the state of Israel, what divides us is greater than what unites us.

     On Sukkot 2005, Ne’emanei Torah V’Avodah hosted a joint conference with Edah,[2] an American organization associated with religious Zionism and modern Orthodoxy.[3] In a keynote address, Rabbi Saul Berman delineated the major ideological issues on which the hareidi world and the modern Orthodox world differ: pluralism/tolerance, the religious meaning of Medinat Israel, Jew and Gentile, da’at Torah, Torah u’maddah, humrah, women in halakha, outreach, and activism. On the majority of the issues listed, the hareidi- leumi attitude is closer to the hareidi attitude than to the dati leumi attitude. [4] Aside from the approach towards the State, we differ on the central, most significant issues of modern Jewish life.

     These ideological differences weigh heavily upon the young students with whom I have contact. Humanistic in their orientation and pluralist in their outlook, they do not want to teach in the Mamad schools, because they do not want to instill values that are not theirs. They all (women and men) have academic degrees, some in Bible and in Talmud, as well as in literature, history, music, and art. They embrace the world because it is awesome, and they are curious. They cannot teach honestly without alluding to all that they know, nor do they want to.

     These dati students have been to China and India, some even to London! They believe Jews are special, but they don’t believe that everyone else is devoid of values. They go to concerts, they know who Matisse is, and they know a thing or two about wine. The men know how to cook… and most of the women wear slacks.

     They are rigorous in their thinking, but not rigid in their outlook. They struggle to find the interface--often through reexamination of religious sources--between the yeshiva/midrasha and the university, between Levinas and dati leumi, shiurim and shira, Carlbach and Kleinstein. Their challenge is to make these worlds overlap, not to compartmentalize them.

They represent the oft alluded line between dati and leumi, between modern and Orthodox. These are the students who should be teaching our children. Most of them will not.

The Dress Code

     A disturbing corollary of hareidi- leumi influence that threatens the caliber of teachers in the dati leumi schools system is the growing obsession with the dress code relating to women. Part of the reason why the teacher in the Matisse story continues to teach in our schools is because she looks the part.  She and hundreds like her are teaching in our schools, despite the fact that they may be inferior teachers, because her elbows are covered, her skirts are long, and in the case of married women, her head is covered.   

     Over the past 10-15 years, the dati-leumi establishment has become obsessed with the dress code of women. Prominent rabbis write outrageous articles measuring centimeters on the neck and on the arms. While the suitability of male teachers is measured in how much they know and the quality of their prayer, in the case of women, the skill of pious dressing can override the skills of good teaching.

     Modesty is a significant tenet of Jewish life, but we have begun to lose all sense of proportion. When appearance is secondary to talent in a school system, the big losers are the children. 

     A case in point: Several years ago a new Dati Leumi academic school opened in our neighborhood to address the needs of our predominantly liberal dati-leumi population. Most of the parents, working people, professionals and academics, were eager for a superior local school for their children that could compete with excellent schools outside the neighborhood. The girls’ school, however, was headed in a different direction. From its inception, it insisted that homeroom teachers wear head coverings at all times, that is, outside of school as well as in. All non- homeroom teachers, that is, art, history, math, were requested to wear a head covering in school,  even if they didn’t do so in their personal lives. Thus, with one swift religious stringency, the eagerly awaited alternative dati-leumi school committed to excellence, disqualified all outstanding religious teachers who didn’t "look the look.”[5]  While the boys' school, instituted at the same time, searched for the "best and the brightest," the girls’ school front line concern was attire.  Not only did the students have a dress code, so did the teachers.

     It is not within the scope of this paper to discuss the halakhic ins and outs of these dress demands.  The point of emphasis here is that this stringent dress code does not reflect the norms or the values of the religiously observant parent body.  The vast majority of the mothers in this school do not cover their hair and many wear slacks. At the opening ceremony of the school the number of mothers counted with head coverings was 10 out of 150! Thus the unstated message conveyed to girls is that their mothers are not qualified to be their religious role models. [6] 

     The ever increasing insistence on a dress code for teachers is another reasons my religious students avoid teaching in the Mamad system. It is important to note that some of my married dati students do in fact wear head coverings, but some do not. Some wear head coverings and slacks and want to continue to do so, not because they are rebellious, but because slacks are comfortable and efficient. These young women are halakhically committed, and halakhically informed, many are well versed in Talmudic texts. They know that the ban on slacks is a sociological issue, not a halakhic one[7], and that head covering has become the sociological equivalent of a kippah only recently.  Graduates of midrashot and yeshivot, they spend countless hours examining the sources. Thoughtful and honest, they are looking for ways to be true to halakha and true to themselves.

     Thus these young dati-leumi teachers opt for schools that will let them wear what feels comfortable, while retaining their personal sense of modesty;  schools that will focus on their thinking abilities, their pedagogic skills,  and their ability to touch the hearts and minds of their students. They are not going to the Mamad system.

     Yet, aren’t these the very teachers we want teaching in our schools? 

Conclusion

     The Mamad school system has lost its sense of identity; it is no longer responsive to the needs of its community.  The vacuum created is being filled by ideologies that do not reflect the vision and the values of the majority of the pupils’ homes and communities. By allowing vast hareidi leumi influence on our schools, we abrogate our responsibility to our own community. Not only are young teachers leaving the system, so are the children. 

     Talented teachers with a more embracing attitude to the modern world as well as to its challenges will find work elsewhere, in the secular public school system and in other frameworks mentioned in the opening of this paper. But who will teach the thousands of children from liberal dati leumi homes? For now, the majority of dati leumi parents are not looking for alternative frameworks, although with each passing year, more and more are doing so. They are still eager for a neighborhood school that reflects their combined commitment to Torah and general wisdom, in the broadest sense of the word. 

     In the final analysis, it is the teachers who make a school. In order for children to return to the Mamad system, we need to make spiritual room for the many talented young religious teachers who are grappling with the same issues as the families,  teachers whose intricate approach to the world is similar to that of their students.

A Practical Suggestion for Change 

     The past few years has seen the development of several excellent academic programs throughout Israel which support promising young students financially in exchange for a commitment to teach Jewish studies in the religious public school system for a stipulated number of years.  I would like to see the creation of similar programs that would prepare bright and motivated religious university students for teaching in the Mamad system. In exchange for tuition and financial support, perhaps by the religious branch of the Ministry of Education, as well as private donors committed to liberal religious values, they would be asked to commit to several years of teaching in the Mamad.

      In addition to the regular courses in disciplinary knowledge and in pedagogy, there would be classes and workshops devoted to issues such as: the implications of the past 100 years’ of Biblical research; recent Talmud research; issues related to women; national service; conflicts arising between Synagogue and State; democracy and Judaism; attitude toward non-religious Jews, and so much more. As of now, most of these issues are discussed only in informal youth programs like Gesher. Their place is in the schools.

     In order to accomplish this, we need teachers who are not afraid.

     There are many options for such a program of study, worthy of a separate paper. But in order for such a program to be effective, there needs to be more than specialized education for students. Just as the general public school system is reevaluating its attitude toward Jewish studies and therefore training teachers to spearhead that movement, so does the dati leumi school system need to do some serious self- reflection. Only then will they be able to bring back young dati teachers who think out of the box, who are committed to halakha and to academic research, who are rethinking old approaches--not rejecting them--who love children, love knowledge, and embrace the world.  

 

 

 

 

[1] When Worlds Collide is a 1933 science fiction novel co-written by Philip Wylie and Edwin Balmer

[2] Edah was an organization "committed to ... modern Orthodoxy, which maintains a serious devotion to Torah and Halakhah while enjoying a mutually enriching relationship with the modern world.”

[3] Closest Hebrew and Israeli equivalent:dati-leumi

[4] The exceptions being: Medinat Israel, outreach and activism.

[5] The “other” girls’ school this school was meant to compete with still retains the educational , and I contend, the religious, edge. There is no demand for head coverings from the married teachers, including those who teach  religious subjects.  

[6] See “Chok Ha’Kovah Ko’vei’ah, ” by Esther Lapian, an unpublished  paper delivered at Kolech Conference,  2006.