Chanukah and the Fear of PDJs (Public Displays of Jewishness)

Chanukah always occurs at the darkest time of the year (the new moon closest to the winter solstice) and this year, for sure, the world feels inescapably dark. We reel from the massacre of 1,200 Israelis, Hamas’s sadistic trickle of releasing hostages in exchange for convicted criminals, and all the tragedies of war.

Simultaneously, the Jewish community is thunderstruck by the surging antisemitism that we’re experiencing. On Tuesday, the presidents of three elite universities—Harvard, MIT, and the University of Pennsylvania—testified at a congressional hearing on the Jew-hatred that is raging on America’s elite college campuses. They were each asked if calling for the genocide of Jews constituted antisemitic hate speech and violate their schools’ code of conduct. Not one of those presidents had the courage to answer “yes.”

Self-evident are the disgraces of America’s college campuses, the aggressions that every Jew is experiencing on social media, and the hypocrisy of “progressives” who deserve no claim to the term—as the antisemitism of the far-left bends around backward so far that it kisses the far-right. When you say you believe that rape is always and forever a war crime—except when it is perpetuated by Hamas against Israelis—you forfeit your right to be called “progressive.”

The ripple effects of the war are broad, but here I want to address one in particular: the fearfulness of PDJs, “public displays of Jewishness.”

“Most people know about lighting the Menorah, but many forget that an essential aspect is to put the Menorah prominently where it can be seen, to announce to the world the miracle of the Maccabees long ago, and that miracles still happen today. ”

There are many reasons to be nervous. More and more Jewish institutions have been vandalized in the past few months with anti-Jewish slogans. In my suburban town, swastikas have found in both a middle school and the high school in the past few weeks. Every synagogue has a security guard or police officers keeping a carefully eye on Shabbat worshippers; in more densely populated communities, there’s a police car out front during Shabbat services.

(Still, it’s hardly as fearful as it has been for Jewish communities in Europe, who in many places have learned that in order to be tolerated by their neighbors they have to remain as innocuous as possible. If you intend visit a synagogue as a tourist in much of Europe these days, expect to tell them of your visit weeks in advance and to send ahead a copy of your passport; it is simply not safe in much of the world to pray as a Jew in a synagogue unannounced. No doubt your local sociology professor can explain why this is an aspect of an emerging social justice movement.)

What I hear from many of my students is an increasing fear of being recognizably Jewish in public. Some parents are telling their children—even in the tony suburbs of Massachusetts—to tuck in that chai or Jewish star before going out in public. I’ve even heard, with shock and sorrow, of children asking their parents to take down the Mezuzah from their front door. (Ironically, a Mezuzah case is often decorated with a biblical name of G-d, “Shaddai,” which is often interpreted as an acronym for shomer delatot yisrael, “Guardian of the Doorways of Israel.”)

I understand these fears, even while I chafe at them and push back. Chanukah couldn’t be timelier.

After all, the core of message of Chanukah is: when the world seems dark, have courage to assert yourself. This is found in the basic Mitzvah of lighting the Menorah:

נר חנוכה מניחו על פתח הסמוך לר"ה מבחוץ אם הבית פתוח לר"ה מניחו על פתחו
ואם יש חצר לפני הבית מניחו על פתח החצר, ואם היה דר בעליה שאין לו פתח פתוח לר"ה מניחו בחלון הסמוך לר"ה
ובשעת הסכנה שאינו רשאי לקיים המצוה מניחו על שלחנו ודיו

We place the Chanukah light at the entrance which faces the public domain, on the outside.
If the house opens to the public domain, place the Menorah at its entrance. If there is a courtyard in front of the house, place it at the entrance to the courtyard. If one lives on the upper floor, with no entrance to the public domain, one should place the Menorah in a window that faces the public domain.
In a time of danger, it is enough to place the Menorah on the table.

—Shulchan Arukh, Laws of Chanukah, 671:5

 This is the central Mitzvah of Chanukah. Most people know about lighting the Menorah, but many forget that an essential aspect is to put the Menorah prominently where it can be seen, to announce to the world the miracle of the Maccabees long ago, and that miracles still happen today.

In other words, Chanukah is about proclaiming our identity without apology, even at a time when our instinct is to be more circumspect. Personally? I feel prouder than ever to be a Jew, as Israel fights a just war and as apologists for terrorism rip down posters of 5 year-old Jewish hostages in Gaza.

I realize that I write from a place of privilege. I really am in no danger, even at this time, in asserting my identity, but the same is not true for others. For instance, I realize that as a male, I don’t experience the vulnerabilities that women feel. Nonetheless, even with the caveats, I think this is a time like never before for Jewish self-assertion:

1. To wave those signs that say BRING THEM HOME or STAND WITH ISRAEL AGAINST TERRORISM or to wrap our trees and mailboxes with blue ribbons.

2. To represent as a Jew publicly, unafraid. (I wear a kippah all the time in public now—as much a celebration of my identity as it is an act of spiritual awareness of the omnipresence of the Shekhinah.)

3. And by all means, and most importantly, to put that Menorah in the window as its light increases day by day.

As Judah Maccabee might have instructed us: Let the world know we’re here, and we will not be cowed by those prefer their Jews quiet and quavering.

Let them know that we are committed to sharing the light of the season—and that we are, as we have always been, full-fledged partners in the work of freedom and justice and peace. But when hypocrisies and slanders are flung in our faces, or when they dissemble about dead Jews or consider Zionism to be racism, we will defend ourselves, and stand prouder for our values that go against the grain of the cultural conformist fashion. 

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Reflections on the Rally for Israel in DC

Aerial photo of the Rally for Israel in Washington DC, with an estimated crowd of 290,000 people. Image: Washington Post

A few days ago, I wrote about how this week’s Rally for Israel in Washington, DC, was arousing old and important memories for me. Namely, I’ve been thinking of Freedom Sunday, the national march for Soviet Jewry in this very same spot back in 1987—and what a pivotal moment that was in my life, the awakening of my own political consciousness.

So how profound that this afternoon, as my son Avi and I entered the National Mall, I turned and bumped into—Natan Sharansky.

Natan Sharansky speaking at the rally, November 15, 2023

Sharansky, of course, was the “face” of the Soviet refusenik movement. When I was a kid, his face peered down from posters in the Temple Shalom Hebrew school, with the slogan PRISONER OF ZION or LET MY PEOPLE GO! (He was called Anatoly back then; only when he was freed and reached Israel did he start going by his Hebrew name, Natan.) Of course, he became a prominent public figure in Israel—but he was also there that day on the Mall back when I was in high school, a searing voice of conscience from the stage.

This time, Sharansky was the first invited guest to speak, and he reminded everyone of the rally for Jewish freedom thirty-six years ago. His presence this week made clear: this, too, is a moment for Jewish people to stand in support of one another in the face of another tyrannical, violent regime.

Looking around, the numbers were astounding. We’ll see what the news reports say in the days ahead; the Times of Israel is putting attendance at 290,000. (That seems right – I’ve been in football stadiums with 80-90,000 people before, and this felt much bigger.)

There were some inspiring speakers from the podium. I was particularly moved by the passion of Ambassador Deborah Lipstadt, House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries, and—most especially—by the families of Israelis who are currently being held hostage in Gaza. The politicians were from the left and right, and most everyone stayed on-message: Israel is fighting a just war; bring the hostages home now; and we are all united in the fight against the antisemitism that has emerged aboveground in the past 37 days.

But speakers were besides the point. The point was presence, showing up in the face of all that’s happened in such a short time: the massacred Jews and towns and kibbutzim that have been decimated; the 240 hostages held in Gaza’s dungeons; the insane apologetics for terrorism against Jews; the silence of so many who, ahem, see “very fine people on both sides.”

Lest we forget precisely what this fight is all about.

This wasn’t a warmongering crowd. (Sure, in any crowd of nearly 300,000, there will be some who are off-message.) This was a gathering in support of a people ravaged by terrorism, who are responding with justice. As I’ve written before, anyone who doesn’t grieve for all innocent victims of war has lost their moral bearings. But yes, we believe that the sadism of Hamas must be uprooted—for the well-being of Israelis and Palestinians alike; and, for that matter, for the good of America, Europe, and the Arab world that fears the rise of Iranian-backed terror groups.

Did we accomplish anything? I hope so.

First, it was invigorating to hear the Congressional leadership declare that standing by Israel is a bipartisan American ideal. Here’s an idea: let’s hold one another to that as the presidential campaign unfolds!

Second, there was a feeling of klal yisrael / Jewish unity in the air: while it is sad that such a tragic crisis has brought a fragmented Jewish community together, the truth is it has brought us together. 

And third, I hope that our Israeli friends and family see such a massive demonstration and find some sense of comfort and strength in this testimony that they are not forgotten. Indeed, they are in our thoughts perpetually.

I do know this: attending the rally was personally important to me. Living as a Jew in the Diaspora is difficult when Israel is under siege; there is a heartsickness that comes with being far away. (And Moses’s words in Numbers 32 continue to haunt me:  הַאַֽחֵיכֶ֗ם יָבֹ֙אוּ֙ לַמִּלְחָמָ֔ה וְאַתֶּ֖ם תֵּ֥שְׁבוּ פֹֽה / “Are your brothers and sisters going to go to war—while you stay here?”) There is a desire to be there, to want to do something more. (Surely that’s why I can’t stop clicking on each of those Tzedakah opportunities—to support the families of the hostages, to send necessary supplies to the reservists, to care for the victims and the communities that have been devastated…)

More than anything, this rally restored in me—and perhaps in you—a much-needed sense of hope. I admit that, even at the beginning of this week, I was feeling very low on hope. The brutality of Hamas is clear. Even worse, their knee-jerk, juvenile supporters in the streets and on campus were making me feel terribly disheartened and alone. Surveying the scene on university after university, never before I have been so acutely aware that there is no correlation whatsoever between being educated and being moral. And that was making me terribly sad.

And then… this. Hundreds of thousands of us, insisting by our very presence that the abandonment of the Jews is not moral and it won’t happen on our watch. This war against Hamas will be won—but today I’m a bit more hopeful about what comes afterward as well.

And on a very personal note, I must say: It was also wonderful to be there alongside my son Avi, who works at the Israeli Embassy in DC. I hope it’s not maudlin to observe: in 1987 I stood for Jewish peoplehood on this historic patch of land with my father. On Tuesday, I stood here with one of my sons.

Am Yisrael Chai! 

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Time to Show Up Against the Insanity

Next Tuesday’s MARCH FOR ISRAEL—and Rally against Antisemitism—is bringing back memories from my adolescence, when my own political awakening first began.

December 6, 1987, was “Freedom Sunday,” a similar rally on the National Mall in Washington, DC, opposite the site where in a previous generation the civil rights movement gathered to hear Martin Luther King, Jr., describe his Dream. A junior in high school, I was just figuring out about political action. Alongside posters of Led Zeppelin, the Grateful Dead, and the New York Giants, my teenage bedroom had a large poster that read: GLASNOST FOR SOVIET JEWS!

“This is a political movement but not a partisan one; people of all persuasions will prove they can (still, in 2023) come together as one in the face of unmitigated evil.”

The movement to free Soviet Jews from their relentless persecution, imprisonments and exiles, and inability to emigrate had been around for twenty years. My classmates and I all “twinned” with Soviet Jews for our bar/bat mitzvahs: We included the names of Soviet Jewish 13 year-olds on our invitations, and reserved a seat on the bimah, saying, “This is for my Soviet Jewish twin who is prohibited by law from practicing Judaism.” At our suburban shul, we gathered together on Sunday mornings to make public phone calls to the Mendeleev boys—Karen Schwartz’s bat mitzvah twins—and to insist to the apparatchik on the other end that we would not forget them.

But the culmination was that rally in DC. Our synagogue chartered buses and headed for the capital, where we joined 250,000 others, carrying signs and chanting slogans and singing “Am Yisrael Chai” and “We are Leaving Mother Russia.”

The amazing thing about “Freedom Sunday” is that we won. Not long afterwards, Gorbachev began to thaw the totalitarianism of the Soviet Union—and Jews began to abandon Russia in massive numbers. Over 1 million left for Israel; over 300,000 came to America, and a quarter of a million went to Germany. And those who stayed were permitted to rediscover and renew Jewish life in Russia, which a century earlier had by far the largest Jewish population in the world.

It's for these reasons that the Soviet Jewry movement has been called “the most successful human rights movement in history.”

These things leave a mark on an impressionable teenager. That was the beginning of my political consciousness—of the power of a group of like-minded people in a democratic society to bring about change, and to support one another when the forces of evil seem to have the upper hand.

Now, this generation is being called to show up. Next Tuesday’s rally will take place on that same patch of land, steeped as it is in the history of justice and protest. And once again, we’ll be called upon to raise our voices against hatred, fascism, and antisemitism.

The stakes are higher than ever. Not just in Israel, where war is being waged against a satanic sort of evil—the perpetrators of murder, rape, and social media-enhanced beheadings; the kidnappers of 240 innocents between the ages of 5 and 85—but also against the closer-to-home evil that considers Hamas to be some sort of social justice movement, the hideous apologists for terrorism on social media and on the disgraced campuses of America’s colleges.

We will be the voices of decency, truth, and freedom. On November 14, we will demand in a single voice to bring the hostages home. We will let our Israeli friends and family know that they are not alone: that despite the echo chambers of hate online and on campus, the overwhelming majority of us stand with them against terrorism.

The assembly will include people from across the political spectrum, left and right; and will it cross the religious spectrum: orthodox, liberal, and secular. This is a political movement but not a partisan one; people of all persuasions will prove they can (still, in 2023) come together as one in the face of unmitigated evil.

There are moments when we are called to show up to lift our voices, to say no to hate, to call for moral clarity and truth—even at a time when truth seems to be a trampled-upon and degraded idea.

קְרָ֤א בְגָרוֹן֙ אַל־תַּחְשֹׂ֔ךְ כַּשּׁוֹפָ֖ר הָרֵ֣ם קוֹלֶ֑ךָ
Cry with a full throat without restraint!
Raise your voice like a shofar! (Isaiah 58:1)

Will I see you there? I hope so! (Now, I wonder if I can still find those old posters from my childhood…)

A Letter to a Liberal Minister Friend

Dear Reverend L.,

Thank you for your note. I, too, am saddened that the Jewish-Muslim program in which I was invited to participate was cancelled for Sunday. I am very committed to these sort of programs and agree that they are more important than ever.

And I very much appreciate the spirit in which your note was written.

I probably should stop writing here. But I cannot.

 
You write, “I am someone who believes in both Israel’s right to be a nation as well as the rights of the Palestinian people to have their own state.” I do too.

“I appreciate that you believe in “Israel’s right to be a nation,” but please consider what a paltry statement that is. ”

But: Is that what you think this war is about? Seeking a two-state solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?

Two weeks ago, at least 1,400 Jews were massacred; more Jews in a single day than at any other time since the Shoah (“the Holocaust”). Perhaps you saw the videos of the teenagers who were slaughtered at a desert music festival in Israel. Or the images of towns where most of the populations were murdered by terrorists who went house to house, executing everyone within. (I recommend Anderson Cooper’s “The Whole Story” on the festival massacre, which was released on HBO-MAX today.)

Perhaps you have seen how the terrorists have posted videos to social media of beheadings, burnings alive, desecrated bodies, and humiliated hostages, with the same sort of twisted satanic joy that we saw on the faces of the perpetrators of the lynchings years ago in the American south.

There are currently at least 230 Jewish people who have been kidnapped and held hostage by Hamas, secreted away in subterranean tunnels that were constructed for the purpose of terror. Some of them are octogenarian grandmothers and grandfathers. Some of them are children.

Today, a friend of mine—an Israeli rabbi, a lifelong advocate of peace and interfaith bridge-building—officiated at the funeral of a family of four; two parents and two of their children. One son, the lone survivor of his family, spoke, somehow, at the ceremony. They were members of Kibbutz Be’eri, a communal town that in 2021 had a population of 1,047. At least 10% of Be’eri is dead.

Do you think this massacre of Jews is about the failure of the two-state solution? It is not.

“Hamas” is not equivalent to “the Palestinian people.” Speaking as someone who knows Palestinians, who has spent time in their homes and knows well their frustrations and true grievances and injustices they have suffered, I know that those of good faith are likewise held back by the Hamas—a fascist and repressive terrorist organization. What Israel is experiencing is the proportional equivalent of twenty 9/11’s. The elimination of Hamas is not only just—it is rational and necessary for both Israelis and Palestinians in order to have any sort of livable future.

What about Iran? Every indication is that this terrorist assault was planned meticulously for months—and that it has the fingerprints and probably a greenlight from Tehran on it. Do you think Hamas and Iran are working for a two-state solution? They are working for the goal that is articulated in the Hamas charter: the annihilation of the Jewish state.

I appreciate that you believe in “Israel’s right to be a nation,” but please consider what a paltry statement that is. “We agree you have a right to exist.” That’s really not a very high or generous standard, is it? (Although there are plenty of monstrous people in the world who will not even grant that.)

“Hamas is the “good people on both sides” moment of 2023.”

Reverend, I want you to know about the conversation that is happening in every Jewish community in America right now:

First, we are grieving. Jewishness is first and foremost about being part of the Jewish people. Our history and our traditions emphasize that Jews are one interconnected family, a subset of our larger human family. So there is pain—an open, bleeding wound—in every Jewish community in the world right now.

We are praying collectively for the hundreds who are being held hostage in terror cells. We are praying for those families that have been ripped apart. We are praying for the dead.

Second, we grieve for the suffering of innocents everywhere. Most every Jewish community grieves for the suffering of innocent Palestinians, and those who will inevitably suffer in this war.  Anyone who cannot feel compassion for all innocents who suffer has surely lost any figment of a moral compass. I know that my community prays for all the victims of war and terror everywhere, and we pray for peace.

But we also know that the Palestinian people suffer from Hamas’s fascism and cruelty. We are not warmongers—but we also are not pacifists; we recognize that there are moments when evil must be counteracted with the force of justice. We learned that lesson in World War 2 and many other times in the history of the past century.

Third, Jewish communities are asking today who our allies are. Every day, I’m hearing shock and dismay—and worse—from Jews who are experiencing the ugliest sort of old-school antisemitic hate, especially on social media. We see the pro-Hamas rallies in the streets of some cities, where the protestors seem positively euphoric about the deaths of Israeli Jews. We see demonstrations on college campuses from “progressive” faculty and students who point their fingers at us to say: It’s your fault. While we’re attending funerals, these people tell us that we are responsible for the rapes, beheadings, and abductions.  

Jewish students on college campuses are shocked by the amorality of their professors, administrators, and others in authority, in their “both-sidesism”. Every synagogue and Jewish community center in America has amped up its security for protection in ways that we never imagined we would have to do in the 21st century. We are waiting to see who our allies are.

Last year, we all flew Ukrainian flags in support of the victims of unchecked terror and aggression. We suspect that, no matter how many Jews are murdered, our neighbors will not be flying Israeli flags anytime soon. The title of Dara Horn’s recent book on antisemitism is People Love Dead Jews, and she has a point: Dead Jews can be martyrs, but Jews who defend themselves from those who would murder them are somehow less sympathetic.

After Charlottesville—when white supremacists chanted “Jews will not replace us”—the President of the United States claimed he saw “good people on both sides.” He was appropriately excoriated for it.  Hamas is the “good people on both sides” moment of 2023, especially for progressives. Anyone who cannot unequivocally say, “We stand with Israel in its fight against terrorism,” will fail the test.

So, L., please know that I understand where you’re coming from; you thought you were being compassionate with your note. I appreciate that. Please know that I wouldn’t have taken the time to write if I didn’t hold you in high esteem as a man of peace. But Jews need to know who our friends are right now, and who will stand on the sidelines, in that Swiss sort of amoral neutrality.

Sincerely,

Neal

Seeking Inspiration Before Shabbat Noach

Like you, I can’t think of anything else.

I can’t sleep; I wake up thinking about Israel and go to sleep at night saturated with the war. I can’t stop thinking of the victims, the bereaved families… and the 200 people seized by terrorists and being held hostage in the subterranean web of tunnels beneath Gaza City.

And I suspect, like you as well, my thoughts occasionally drift to Hamas’s apologists nearby: the sycophants so consumed with satanic bloodlust that they would gaslight the Jews, suggesting that the victims of rape and murder justifiably brought this on themselves.

I’m not afraid to use that word, “satanic”; I wish I could find in my vocabulary an even stronger word. I think of the kibbutzim where a significant portion of their residents were slaughtered, like Nahal Oz and Be’eri (400 people massacred on Be’eri alone). Children and their grandparents – a merism for others in-between, too – kidnapped, raped, beheaded; paraded through the streets of Gaza and displayed to the world on social media by human monsters with the same looks on their faces that we see in the old photos of southern lynchings from a generation ago.

Tonight, The Atlantic is reporting on a seized Hamas handbook that describes in detail how to kidnap children and adults (yes, kidnapping children was part of their plan from the beginning) – and how to execute any hostages that prove to be difficult.

As I think of those at Harvard, Yale, Berkeley, Columbia, and so many other campuses who think that their facile commitment to “social justice” justifies their blood libel, I keep returning to this poem by Natan Alterman:

אז אמר השטן: הנצור הזה
איך אוכל לו
אתוֹ האמץ וכשרון המעשה
.וכלי מלחמה ותושיה עצה לו

 ואמר: לא אטל כחו
ולא רסן אשים ומתג
ולא מרך אביא בתוכו
ולא ידיו ארפה כמקדם,
רק זאת אעשה: אכהה מחו
.ושכח שאתו הצדק

 כך דיבר השטן וכמו
חוורו שמים מאימה
בראותם אותו בקומו
.לבצע המזימה

So Satan said: This besieged one,
how can I defeat him?
He has bravery and talent,
Weaponry and cleverness and knowhow.

 And he said: I will not take his strength
And I will not harness him with a bridle and rein
And I will not make him succumb to fear
Nor will I weaken his arms like in the past.
No, this is what I will do: I’ll blur his thinking
And he will forget that his cause is just.

Thus spoke the devil,
And the heavens grew pale
Watching him step up
To fulfill the scheme.

I’ve been thinking about this poem all week. I’m ambivalent, because of my difficulty with Alterman. He’s one of the great voices of the first generation of the State. But his politics were quirky: early on he was the conscience of the new nation, associated with the left wing Mapai party; but after 1967, he shifted to the far-right. In a sense, he’s claimed by every Israeli—and he’s a bit of heretic to everyone, too.

But those words—“he will forget his cause is just”—are emblazoned on my mind as I hear about intelligent people who are devoid of decency or morality.

Yet Shabbat is coming. I’m searching for words of… not hope, and not comfort; offering those things would be shallow and fake.  But there is inspiration to be found:

I find inspiration in the staggering stories of bravery of individuals like Noam and Gali Tibon, who drove into the combat zone and rescued their children and grandchildren and other survivors of the music festival massacre on October 7. And there are more stories like this: of responders whose impulse is to go towards the chaos to save lives, not to run.

I find inspiration in the student leaders who are putting themselves at significant risk by standing up for truth in the face of dissembling professors and the forces of antisemitic hate on their campuses.

I’m inspired by those who do the work of Tzedakah and Tikkun Olam. My inbox—like yours—is full of invitations to support the work of those who are providing healing and strength; this is the Jewish reflex. The Kavod Tzedakah Fund gave away over $8,000 this week to support Israelis who are hurting.

And, frankly, I’m inspired by some of our leaders—G-d bless President Biden for his moral clarity!

I’m even grateful for certain elements of the news media. It is very easy (and appropriate) to criticize the tendency for moral equivalency in the media, and I realize that I may be naïve and this may change next week. But I have to say:  I’ve had CNN on constantly these past few days, and I’ve seen reporting that is overwhelmingly sympathetic to the victims of terror and will provide no outlet for the dissembling of Hamas or its sycophants. Shoutouts to Jake Tapper! Kaitlin Collins! Wolf Blitzer! Anderson Cooper!

And I find inspiration in the Torah. This week, we read anew the story of the Noah and the Flood, recalling a time when the whole world seemed full of nothing but brutality, cruelty, lawlessness, and hate. But that’s my translation. In the Hebrew Bible, there is a single word for “brutality, cruelty, lawlessness, and hate” that describes the state of the world before the Flood. That word is חָמָֽס / hamas.

Of course, in the Torah hamas subsumes the world, and Creation is destroyed.

But after the Flood, G-d makes a promise to Noah and to all subsequent humankind:

וְזָכַרְתִּ֣י אֶת־בְּרִיתִ֗י אֲשֶׁ֤ר בֵּינִי֙ וּבֵ֣ינֵיכֶ֔ם וּבֵ֛ין כּל־נֶ֥פֶשׁ חַיָּ֖ה בְּכל־בָּשָׂ֑ר
וְלֹֽא־יִֽהְיֶ֨ה ע֤וֹד הַמַּ֙יִם֙ לְמַבּ֔וּל לְשַׁחֵ֖ת כּל־בָּשָֽׂר׃

I will remember My covenant between Me and you and every
living creature among all flesh, so that the waters shall never again
become a flood to destroy all flesh. (Genesis 9:15)

The point is: G-d tells humankind that there are no more “do-overs.” When the fires of hate and murderousness rise, it will take human beings to put out the flames. And, as Alterman said, don’t be distracted by those forces that will make you doubt the justice of your existence.

One more thing: I’ve heard many Jewish friends remarking, “Where are our interfaith neighbors? Why are they so silent at this time?” Perhaps you’ve felt this way too. I was starting to think that way on Tuesday, and my mind was drifting to some very dark places…

And then my doorbell rang. It was my next-door neighbor, an older woman who moved in over the summer; we’ve just begun getting to know her and her husband. In her arms—a large peace lily, whose white flowers were just beginning to bloom. She said:  “You and your family have been constantly in our thoughts. You must be in so much pain. We wanted to bring you this gift, with our affection and blessings.”

And then I was inspired anew, because all these cases remind me that light and love and decency have not been completely extinguished from this world.

The Battle for Decency and Truth Has Begun: Big-P and Little-P Politics

The people of Israel are like a single body and a single soul…
If one of them is stricken, all of them feel pain.
—Mekhilta d’Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai 19:6

 
Can it be that this is only the fifth day since hell emerged on earth? Only five days since Hamas terrorists spilled out of Gaza, slaughtering and beheading and raping and kidnapping, murdering Jewish teenagers and children and elders and adults, gleefully posting the pictures of their carnage on social media, with the lust for Jewish blood dripping from their lips, recalling the festival-atmosphere around Black lynchings in the American South?

Less than a week from October 7, 2023, the day on which more Jews were slaughtered than any other day since the Holocaust? Since the massacre of Kibbutz Be’eri, where Hamas terrorists calmly walked from room to room, executing over 100 children and adults?

In Israel, the names of the 150 Jews who have been kidnapped and stolen away into the dungeons under Gaza are still being tallied and released. The funerals have begun. The hospitals are full of the wounded.

We here in the Diaspora sit with broken hearts, watching our screens with a mélange of helplessness, outrage, grief, and devastation. Many of us are increasingly feeling the dismay and outrage as we see the propaganda war that is beginning against the victims of Hamas’s carnage. Already we are hearing the gaslighting that would turn the victims into the perpetrators.  

The fight will be political, and it will be rough. But I’d like to point out that there are some signs out there that we are not going to be all alone.

I want to differentiate between “Politics” with a big-P and “politics” with a little-p.  

By “big-P” Politics, I mean the actions of our elected leaders and people with power. If it gives you any peace of mind at all—it does for me—I feel inspired by the leadership of many of our officials. Starting at the top, praise must be given to President Biden. Every public statement he’s made has been note-perfect: the message is unequivocal and exactly right, and the tone is genuinely empathetic and honest. And Biden’s speech from Tuesday—please watch it in full—is just the most perfectly toned message that we could ask for.

Further, there is the spectacle of world landmarks being lit up with blue-and-white and the images of the Israeli flag. There seems to be a momentary awareness, for the time being at least, that Israel’s fight against terror is the world’s battle as well. Scroll through these pictures - some of them from cities with grotesque antisemitic histories - and be amazed at what is being expressed:

Brandenburg Gate, Berlin (!!!)

10 Downing Street, London

Bulgarian Parliament, Sofia

Kyiv, Ukraine

Melbourne, Australia

Eiffel Tower, Paris

Baku, Azerbaijan

Ground Zero, New York City

I’m not naïve; perhaps all this goodwill will evaporate as the battle in Gaza rages on. But for the time being, it is good to know that there are leaders out there with moral clarity.

Closer to home, there were hundreds of us at the Boston Common on Monday, and all the senior leadership of Massachusetts was present: two U.S. Senators, the Governor, and the Mayor of Boston. Senator Elizabeth Warren—who historically has not been a champion of Israel—was superb. Her message was crystal-clear and to-the-point: the U.S. Congress will support Israel with the resources it needs to defeat this vicious enemy. What more could we ask for?

If your elected leaders have done likewise, they need to hear from you (and so does President Biden): A short, concise email or phone call that says: “Thank you for the clear and unambiguous support of Israel and the Jewish community in their battle against terror.” Anyone who’s worked in an elected office will tell you:  Critics always make their voices heard, but it is so important to hear encouragement from constituents when leaders do the right thing.

And then there’s this letter that the Massachusetts Board of Rabbis received today from the Black Ministerial Alliance in Boston, representing over 20,000 Black parishioners in the region:

It is breathtaking in its courage and compassion. To each signatory to this letter: Thank you; THIS is what moral leadership looks like.

Which leaves the “small-P” politics, the propaganda wars that spread locally, on social media, and on campus.

Here, too, it’s not all bad. I must tell you: yesterday I was walking the dog downtown, and a stranger approached us. She said, “I see that you’re Jewish. Do you have friends and family in Israel?” (“Yes.”) And then she proceeded to say how horrified she is, and expressed her sympathy and support. It meant so much; I hope you’ve had similar interactions.

Because surely encounters like these counterbalance Twitter (X), Facebook, and Instagram, the cesspools of antisemitism and conspiracy theories that consume the “progressive” left as much as the reactionary right.

American universities, too, have fallen from places of serious discourse to places of Jew-hatred (where we pay hundred thousand-dollar tuitions for the privilege of being scapegoated).  Well-documented, already, is the shame of Harvard University, reminding us that higher education is often synonymous with higher antisemitism. But it's happening everywhere, as cowardly college presidents “All Lives Matter” the Jews by issuing statements that wring their hands over the suffering of “all sides.”

When a “friend” posts anti-Israel rhetoric that blames the victim and sympathizes with terrorists, you essentially have two choices.

If the person is someone with whom you have a real-life relationship and you think actually respects you, you might engage in a conversation that starts like this: “Your post is extremely hurtful right now. This is a community in mourning, and you are compounding their—my—pain with your thoughtlessness. Please remove your hateful words.”

And if the person is someone who doesn’t respect you, and is in no sense a “friend,” you really only have one option: “Your post reveals that you are an antisemite who has no grasp of the situation, and it is hateful. You have chosen the side of some of the most bloodthirsty killers in the world. I have no interest in engaging with you from this point forward. Goodbye.” Unfriend immediately.

I fear we will be living with this into the foreseeable future. And I greatly fear for our students on campus, as well as all of our kids who will be assaulted on social media. But there are also occasional reminders that we are not alone in this moral and righteous fight—and for that we must express our gratitude.

Kohelet Speaks

We awoke on Shabbat morning to emergency alerts on our phones about the terrorist assaults in Israel: the massacres, the kidnappings, the missiles, the bloodthirsty sadism of Hamas. It was the 50th anniversary, to the day, of the Yom Kippur War—when the Arab nations launched a coordinated surprise attack against Israel on the holiest day of the year. The timing was lost on no one.

The kidnappings—they’re preoccupying me more than anything. The perversity of seizing over 100 elders, teenagers, and children—and dragging them across the border for the most hideous sort of cruelties. The ghastly social media videos of terrorists celebrating the display of their humiliated captives, which remind me of the old photos of southern lynchings and the celebratory smiles of the Klan and their allies.

My friends relate: Today Israeli TV is reporting that Hamas has kidnapped a mother with her one year-old and five year-old. Hamas has put out videos on social media of Gazan children beating a 5 year-old kidnapped Israeli child. It is being estimated that well over 100 people are being held hostage.

The brazen evil of the enemy is staggering.

I’m writing now on Sunday morning. The events are unfolding in real time. Israel is the only story that’s being discussed on the news. It’s a nightmare. There are political pundits much smarter and more authoritative than I, so I won’t contribute anything new here.

All I want to relate is what I experienced in shul. Saturday was Shemini Atzeret as well as Shabbat, the culmination of the Days of Awe. It’s supposed to be a day of cumulative joy, a day that reflects on the intimacy that communities have experienced with each other and G-d over the past 3 ½ weeks since Rosh Hashanah (as reflected in the Haftarah reading from 1 Kings 8).

But we also read Kohelet (Ecclesiastes), one of the most astonishing books of the Tanakh. Kohelet is astounding because of its humanness, its profound awareness that faith cannot provide easy answers to the true reality of a world that can be cruel and unjust. Kohelet, more than any other book of the Bible, acknowledges the dissonance between religious faith and the fact that the world can be terrifying.

Knowing that terrorism was ripping through Israel, it seemed to me that the words of Kohelet were on fire. This happens sometimes—the Rosh Hashanah after 9/11 comes to mind—when the words of the ancient text come scorching off the page, filled with resonances that we’d never seen before.

Here are some of the verses of Kohelet that grabbed me. I offer them here for no solace, no comfort, and no radical insights. Simply that they spoke to my soul yesterday and they continue to do so today:

וְשַׁ֣בְתִּֽי אֲנִ֗י וָאֶרְאֶה֙ אֶת־כּל־הָ֣עֲשֻׁקִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר נַעֲשִׂ֖ים תַּ֣חַת הַשָּׁ֑מֶשׁ
וְהִנֵּ֣ה ׀ דִּמְעַ֣ת הָעֲשֻׁקִ֗ים וְאֵ֤ין לָהֶם֙ מְנַחֵ֔ם וּמִיַּ֤ד עֹֽשְׁקֵיהֶם֙ כֹּ֔חַ וְאֵ֥ין לָהֶ֖ם מְנַחֵֽם׃

I further observed all the oppression that goes on under the sun:
the tears of the oppressed, with none to comfort them;
and the power of their oppressors—with none to comfort them (4:1).

וְאִֽם־יִתְקְפוֹ֙ הָאֶחָ֔ד הַשְּׁנַ֖יִם יַעַמְד֣וּ נֶגְדּ֑וֹ
וְהַחוּט֙ הַֽמְשֻׁלָּ֔שׁ לֹ֥א בִמְהֵרָ֖ה יִנָּתֵֽק׃

Two are better off than one…
For if one attacks, two can stand up to him (4:12).

אֶת־הַכֹּ֥ל רָאִ֖יתִי בִּימֵ֣י הֶבְלִ֑י
יֵ֤שׁ צַדִּיק֙ אֹבֵ֣ד בְּצִדְק֔וֹ וְיֵ֣שׁ רָשָׁ֔ע מַאֲרִ֖יךְ בְּרָעָתֽוֹ׃

In my own brief span of life, I have seen both these things:
sometimes someone good perishes despite their goodness,
and sometimes someone wicked endures despite their wickedness (7:15).

…וְעֵ֣ת וּמִשְׁפָּ֔ט יֵדַ֖ע לֵ֥ב חָכָֽם׃
כִּ֣י לְכל־חֵ֔פֶץ יֵ֖שׁ עֵ֣ת וּמִשְׁפָּ֑ט כִּֽי־רָעַ֥ת הָאָדָ֖ם רַבָּ֥ה עָלָֽיו׃
כִּֽי־אֵינֶ֥נּוּ יֹדֵ֖עַ מַה־שֶּׁיִּֽהְיֶ֑ה כִּ֚י כַּאֲשֶׁ֣ר יִֽהְיֶ֔ה מִ֖י יַגִּ֥יד לֽוֹ׃

…Someone wise, however, will bear in mind that there is a time of doom.
For there is a time for every experience, including the doom;
for calamity overwhelms.
Indeed, what is to happen is unknown;
even when it is on the point of happening, who can tell? (8:5b-7)

…גַּם־זֶ֖ה הָֽבֶל׃ אֲשֶׁר֙ אֵין־נַעֲשָׂ֣ה פִתְגָ֔ם מַעֲשֵׂ֥ה הָרָעָ֖ה מְהֵרָ֑ה
עַל־כֵּ֡ן מָלֵ֞א לֵ֧ב בְּֽנֵי־הָאָדָ֛ם בָּהֶ֖ם לַעֲשׂ֥וֹת רָֽע׃

And here is another frustration: the fact that the sentence imposed for evil deeds is not executed swiftly, which is why people are emboldened to do evil (8:10b-11).

And of course:

עֵ֥ת מִלְחָמָ֖ה וְעֵ֥ת שָׁלֽוֹם׃

A time for war and a time for peace (3:8).

Pray for the safe return of the hostages.

Demand justice.

Support the victims. (Some prominent Tzedakah organizations are already mobilizing on the ground: IsraAID, the Joint Distribution Committee, and more.)

Refuse to tolerate equivocation and “both sides-ism” in the media. Failure to retaliate would be immoral: it would allow evil to flourish unchecked.

Call your Israeli friends and let them know that we are doing these things.

And may G-d have mercy on us all.

Allon. Gabriel Allon.

As the doggiest days of summer are upon us, I find myself savoring every moment of the season’s blessedly slow pace.  I think I cling to summer a little more desperately than most people, even more than the kids on my block who are celebrating its freedoms. And I treasure having the time to read, especially fiction.

One sure sign of summer for me is the arrival of a new Gabriel Allon novel. Gabriel Allon is sort of an Israeli James Bond; a globetrotting superspy working for the Jewish State against its many enemies whose evil, more often than not, threatens the world order beyond the Middle East.

Gabriel Allon is the creation of author Daniel Silva, a journalist-turned-novelist who earned his stripes by serving for many years as a Middle Eastern correspondent for United Press International. He’s created a series of novels that have certainly struck a chord with the public: Each summer’s new Gabriel Allon adventure rises to the top of the bestseller lists. As Israeli politics more and more elicit a sigh (and an oy), it’s a fun fantasy to step into this world.

“Gabriel Allon doesn’t want to carry the weight of the Jewish future—or the world’s—in his hands, but it is regularly thrust upon him: a theme which is very Jewish.”

Since it’s a literary conceit that superspies have superpowers, Gabriel has one too: he’s a master art-restorer. In these novels, before he’s called into to service, he’s often found in Italian cathedrals, a Jewish artist restoring Grand Masters’ church altarpieces with his meticulous paintbrush. (There’s an interesting metaphor at work there, but it’s summer and I don’t want to think about it too deeply.) Gabriel’s world inevitably brings together recurring characters such as London gallery owners, Corsican mafiosi, secretive Vatican officials, and world-famous classical musicians.

But Gabriel Allon is quite different from James Bond doing his duty for her majesty’s secret service. Gabriel doesn’t wear tuxedos or play cards with super-villains in Monte Carlo, nor is he a suave womanizer. He’s full of reticence and ambivalence, though when a mission arrives, he will ruthlessly see it through to a just conclusion.

Gabriel is no lone wolf like 007 either. Over the arc of the series, Gabriel has gone from being a master spy/assassin, to the ambivalent Head of the Mossad, to the now-retired figure who keeps getting sucked back in to saving the world. He works with a recurring team of Israeli Mossad agents, each one a distinctive Israeli character: a feral Russian, a passionate Yemenite, a woman damaged in her youth from a terrorist’s bomb, an aging scholar who worked in a Vienna office hunting Nazi war criminals before being recruited, and so on.

My favorite recurring character in these novels is the elderly and retired spymaster Ari Shamron, a fictional figure who is presented as the founder and shaper of Israel’s spy network, ruthlessly hunting down Israel’s enemies “by way of deception” (Proverbs 24:6, and the title of a famous expose of the Mossad). In the novels, Shamron earned his legendary status by engineering the capture Adolf Eichmann, which makes him an imaginative amalgam of Isser Harel and others. He’s a father figure to Gabriel, but also often gives voice to the coldblooded ruthlessness of the task at hand—a counterpoint to the moral ambivalence that Gabriel, or the reader, may feel.

What makes Daniel Silva stand out in the genre of spy fiction is the authority with which he writes about the world’s crises. Sure, the books are summer potboilers, and as such, they don’t qualify as great literature. But they seem rooted in very timely evils. The new novel The Collector was written in 2022-23, and the ongoing Russian assault on Ukraine provides the intrigue. While the book is populated by art thieves, corrupt energy officials, bloodthirsty Russian oligarchs, and amoral white collar criminals of all sorts, there is one archvillain behind it all: “Volodya,” as his nervous acquaintances know him. Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

Putin never actually appears in the novel, but the author makes clear that he is the mastermind of the Russian kleptocracy that inherited the Soviet Union’s morals and values—and its nukes. As such, this villain is significantly scarier than, say, Goldfinger or Dr. No or Ernst Stavro Blofeld, because Putin is all-too-real.  

The book elaborates on Putin’s viciousness. As the Russians plot a false-flag operation in Ukraine, we read this exchange among his subordinates:

“How many will die?
General Belinsky had shrugged. They were only human beings, after all.
“But they’re Russian citizens.”
“So were the people in those apartment buildings back in ninety-nine. Three hundred were killed, just to make certain that Volodya won that first election.” (The Collector, p.336)

 
The Gabriel Allon adventures provide several valuable gifts. For starters, they are “just” novels—their primary purpose is the pleasure of a good page-turner, perfectly timed for summer reading.

Second, Daniel Silva’s writing has the scent of insider-truth. He not only has done his investigative homework, but he also seems to know things from the contacts he made through his years as a correspondent in Washington and the Middle East. I trust him, for instance, when he implies that Putin’s insidiousness and cruelty go far deeper than most of us realize. (I write this in the days after Yevgeny Prigozhin, the mercenary who led a rebellion against Putin’s military two months ago, was killed in a mysterious plane crash.) All of Silva’s books seem full of insider information—and all of them have an Author’s Note at the end that delineate which aspects of the book are fiction and which are rooted in reality.

Most importantly, there’s the question of whether or not the world needs an Israeli James Bond.

The key distinction between Gabriel Allon and James Bond is the most obvious: Allon is Jewish, working for the security of the Jewish state. As such, he doesn’t have the luxury of being an amoral, smirking playboy like Bond. Although the series almost never gets preachy about Zionism, there is always, beneath the surface, a sense of “we’re fighting for our lives, because we have to.” Gabriel Allon, a fictional creation, was recruited in the wake of the very real Munich Olympics Massacre, when Palestinian terrorists murdered 11 Israelis while the whole world was watching. As Gabriel sought out and assassinated the perpetrators, he paid a devastating price: a terrorist’s car bomb killed his son and maimed his first wife. That wife, Leah, recurs in the novels as a spectral presence living in a hospital in the Jerusalem hills, unable to make new memories, caught in an awful moment in time of Jewish victimhood and personal tragedy.

This darkness gives the books an edge, an awareness, that most potboilers lack. Gabriel Allon is a perpetually ambivalent figure. We sense that he’d prefer to be with his wife and kids, or with his paints and brushes. He doesn’t want to carry the weight of the Jewish future—or the world’s—in his hands, but it is regularly thrust upon him: a theme which is very Jewish.

Neither Allon nor Daniel Silva is prone to making long speeches about the justice of their cause. In fact, we sense that each of them is well aware of the moral imperfections of their case. Gabriel Allon’s Jewishness is not found in the Talmud or the synagogue. It’s found in a wearying view of Jewish history, especially in Europe, that led to tragedy and the absolute need for a Jewish homeland (and its defense forces). Here’s a brief exchange from The Collector, between Gabriel and his Danish intelligence counterpart:

“A promising beginning.”
“It’s early, Lars.”
“I’ve always believed in the power of positive thinking.”
“That’s because you’re Danish,” said Gabriel. “I find it comforting to prepare myself for a calamity and to be pleasantly surprised if it turns out to be a garden-variety disaster instead.” (p.268)

There’s also no small amount of fantasy-projection going on in these novels, too. Any Jewish reader of these stories will say, “If only we had a secret weapon like Gabriel Allon!”

Throughout this hot summer of 2023, Israel’s existential threats seem to be internal as much as external. No superspies will rescue us from the current crisis, which calls upon the Jewish people as a whole to take a stand.  In the meantime, I’m glad to know that Gabriel Allon is out there where he belongs, ready to set aside his paintbrushes and step into service when he’s needed. Just in time for summer.

Rags and Bones: Remembering Robbie Robertson

The death of Jaime Robbie Robertson this week had lots of baby-boomers-and-people-who-love-them returning to some of his classic songs with The Band: “The Weight,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Chest Fever,” and so on.

For me, I went back to a song of Robbie’s that appeared on one of The Band’s lesser-known, later efforts:  “Rags and Bones,” from their 1975 album Northern Lights—Southern Cross:

Catch a taxi to the fountainhead
Blinking neon penny arcade
A young Caruso on the fire escape
Painted face ladies on parade

The newsboy on the corner
Singing out headlines
And a fiddler selling pencils
The sign reads: Help the blind

Coming up the lane callin’;
Working while the rain’s falling
Ragman, your song of the street
Keeps haunting my memory…

“Rags and Bones” evokes an immigrant saga in the New World at the turn of the 20th century. It could be one of many North American cities, although in this case it happens to be Toronto. And it’s significant because it’s as close as Robbie Robertson ever got to really exploring his Jewish roots with The Band, a motley assemblage some of the most important musicians of the rock era.

For those who don’t share my obsessions, here’s a quick background. In the late 1950s—really at the dawn of rock and roll—a teenage Robbie Robertson joined up with a Canadian rockabilly group called Ronnie Hawkins & the Hawks, where he quickly became not only a skilled lead guitarist, but also a prolific songwriter. The group traveled around North America, where they became intimately familiar with indigenous American music (including rock, country, and blues) and indigenous American dysfunction (racism).

But their immortality came from hooking up with Bob Dylan, providing the electric backing for him in 1965 and in his world-changing tour of 1966. After that, they moved to Woodstock and, under the very democratic moniker “The Band”, began producing some of the greatest music of the 1960s.

The rest of the story of The Band is important: Watkins Glen in 1973 with the Dead and the Allman Brothers, the largest rock concert of all time; the barnstorming 1974 tour with Dylan; the tragic self-induced chemical hell that consumed so many of the generation, including Band members Richard Manuel and Rick Danko. And of course the legendary “final show” on Thanksgiving Day 1976 that was filmed as The Last Waltz. But those are just the broad outlines.

Robbie Robertson is never included in those perennial lists of “Jews in Rock.” His songwriting, incredibly rich as it is, rarely has allusions to Judaism or the Bible beyond its mythic status. (There are exceptions, like “Daniel and the Sacred Harp.” Although I’ve read that Robertson insisted that the line “I pulled into Nazareth” in “The Weight” refers to Nazareth, Pennsylvania.) But it’s noteworthy just how many Jewish musicians were part of Dylan’s revolutionary mid-60s scene, including Mike Bloomfield, Al Kooper, and Harvey Brooks (who still advertises his services as a music teacher in Jerusalem).

As Robbie Robertson tells it, his mother Dolly was Mohawk, and he spent part of his Canadian childhood on the Six Nations Reservation where she had grown up. The man whom young Robbie was told was his father was named Jim Robertson, an alcoholic who abused Robbie and his mother. Eventually Dolly and Jim split up.

It was a few years later in late adolescence that Robbie discovered the identity of his real father: a man named Alexander David Klegerman, a Toronto hustler and gambler and the child of Jewish immigrants, who had fallen in love with Robbie’s mother. Alex was apparently a pretty sketchy figure. Long before Robbie’s maturation, he was killed in a hit-and-run, which was rumored on the streets not to have been an accident.

Robbie learned this from his uncles Morrie and Natie Klegerman, Jewish underworld figures who took a liking to the kid. In his 2016 autobiography Testimony, Robbie wrote about regular trips to the heart of Toronto’s Jewish neighborhood, and how even though it was completely different from his upbringing in the suburbs or on the reservation, it struck something deep in his soul.

The most Jewish event in Testimony occurs when Morrie and Natie take teenage Robbie to meet his paternal grandfather for the first time. Shmuel Chaim Klegerman was a devout Yiddish-speaking Jew. Robbie describes their introduction this way:

The old man trembled with emotion. He put his hand on his chest and lowered his head as if in prayer. Then slowly he raised his eyes to look at me, a combination of joy and sorrow on his face. I felt frozen in the moment as he studied me, searching, I’m sure, for traces of his departed son. He gave a nod of recognition and a tear rolled down his cheek.

Then he spoke in English. “Alex was my favorite. Your father was my favorite.” I managed a slight smile in acknowledgement before glancing at Natie with sympathy, concerned he’d be upset by his father’s stark favoritism, but he waved it off—as if it didn’t bother him in the least. He signaled for me to join them. I walked over and took both their outreached hands, profoundly moved by the whole experience. But though I knew Natie meant for it to bring me closer, in this strange new world I still couldn’t help feeling like an outsider. (Robbie Robertson, Testimony, p.66)

His Uncle Natie said, “Well, Jaime, how about that? I bet you didn’t know you were Jewish.”

Again, this background doesn’t make Robbie Robertson a “Jewish songwriter.” But it seems important to me that someone who spent so much time exploring the mythology of America in his writing has a strong fiber of Judaism running through his makeup.

In the liner notes to Northern Lights—Southern Cross, Robbie recalled Old Toronto (again, in language that could just as well describe Old Boston, or Newark, or Baltimore, or a dozen other places in the New World):

People would come from the old country that were intellectuals and scholars… I had a grandfather who was one of these people. He was an intellectual but he made his living in Toronto as a rag man. I remember as a little kid, there was a lane behind our home and I remember hearing this guy coming up the land singing this song ‘Rags and bones, old iron.”

…As a kid, there was something a little scary about this. Then, years later finding out that it had a connection to my heritage inspired me to write this song.

The song was “Rags and Bones,” with its refrain:

Keep haunting my memory
Music in the air
I hear it everywhere
Rags, bones, and old city songs

One of Robbie Robertson’s gifts is to remind us that the collective culture we call “Americana” is a polyglot of immigrant stories—including the stories of transplanted Jews. Like Philip Roth—and, for that matter, Bob Dylan—Robbie Robertson’s legacy is much bigger than “Jewish writing.” But his (North) American writing includes Judaism in its DNA, an important acknowledgment that our presence here is as authentic and distinct as anyone else’s. And, for that matter, it reminds us that to begin to understand “America” includes understanding the story of the Jewish experience here.

That was one of his blessings to us—alongside some of the most immortal songs of the century.
!יהי זכרו ברוך

Image: Bob Dylan and Robbie Robertson, Forest Hills, New York, 1965 © Daniel Kramer

Against Defeatism

“Pessimism,” says my teacher Donniel Hartman, “is a luxury we cannot afford.” There is simply too much at stake at this political moment in Israel.

By now, regular readers of this blog know that I’m utterly preoccupied by the Israeli pro-democracy protests. It’s been two weeks since I’ve returned from Jerusalem, and I’m still processing all that I experienced. As the very fabric of Israeli society appears to be unraveling. I have no doubt that the righteous protesters in Israel are fighting for the nation’s soul.

“For me, Judaism is the antonym of defeatism and hopelessness. So, for that matter, is my Zionism.
”

As you know, Netanyahu’s coalition just struck down the Supreme Court’s ability to declare extreme legislation “unreasonable.” This is just the first salvo in an attack on one of the basic pillars of democracy: a system of checks and balances of the legislature by an independent judiciary. No wonder the despicable National Security Minister Itamar Ben Gvir—a racist thug with a terrorist background—tweeted that “the salad bar is open.” What he meant: This initial legislation is just the appetizer; a full entrée of laws castrating the court and dismantling democratic norms is now on its way to being served from the legislative kitchen.

This is what those demonstrations in the streets of Israel are fighting against.

I’ve written about this in previous posts over the past few months. But today I’m struck by what I’m hearing from some American Jews, and I’m distressed.

Since my return, I’ve heard from many acquaintances—in person, via email, and on social media:

Many are despondent about what’s taking place in Israel.

Some have suggested that they’ve lost hope in Israel’s future: the ultra-nationalist, theocratic takeover is nearly complete.

Some have said that, after a lifetime of supporting Israel, that they’re “out,” and can no longer pay lip service to a regime so antithetical to their democratic values.

Some are saying they will now refocus their identity as a “proud Diaspora Jew,” shaping a Jewish identity that excludes Zionism.

Some well-known Israeli pundits—and not necessarily those of the left—are grieving Israel’s future.

Some rabbis in prominent synagogues have announced that they can no longer recite Tefillat HaMedina / the Prayer for Israel at Shabbat services. Periodically we hear of rabbis (in non-prominent communities) declare that they are non-Zionist, if not outright anti-Israel.

And so on.

I don’t know how widespread those feelings of defeat are, but the sentiment is growing. And for every Jew who declares that they’re “out,” there will no doubt be a much larger number of silent resignations, of Jews who simply will construct their Jewish lives without Israel.  

I feel the pain that is inherent in every one of those exchanges. These are the heartfelt reflections of people who historically have acknowledged that Israel’s situation is different from ours: its battle against bloodthirsty enemies is existential. But many of these same individuals are now asking: How can I support a regime whose values have so profoundly diverged from my own?

But I can’t go there. And it’s desperately important that you don’t, either. We cannot afford pessimism—not when there is so much on the line.

This is my respectful response to all those friends and students who have shared their fears and concerns with me:

Our Israeli friends need our support, now more than ever. I’m quite clear that the battle that Israel is facing—from within this time—is as much an existential battle as it has ever faced from external enemies.

All around the country, hundreds of thousands of Israelis have been demonstrating for more than half a year, every Saturday night. (Israel’s population is approximately 9.7 million people. Do the math and be amazed by the breathtaking, massive proportion of the country that has taken to the streets in the name of democracy!)

Here are three more points I’d ask every person who is wavering to keep in mind:

(1)   The protests have been going on for 30 weeks!, and show no sign of weakening.

(2)   The patriotism of the demonstrators. The rallies are oceans of blue-and-white, with flags everywhere. Most rallies open or close with “Hatikvah.” In a world where the right wing tends to co-opt patriotic symbols, this is remarkable.

Consider this, by way of contrast. During the Trump years, I and many of you went to our share of political rallies: the Women’s Marches and Black Lives Matter. We believed in those causes. But what would it have taken for us to go and demonstrate every single Saturday night for months on end? That’s the depth of the commitment Israel’s pro-democracy camp has made.

And for that matter: Imagine showing up at a Women’s March or BLM rally with an American flag and singing the national anthem. It would have been more than strange—it would have been completely tone-deaf and out of place. By contrast, the rallies in Israel are a united call of the authentic voice of Zionism: democratic, patriotic, and inclusive.

(3)   What about the “insurmountable demographics” that we keep hearing about? Some of the defeatism has stemmed from a great resignation that these battles will never end, as birthrates among the religious right soar.

But that misses the point of what these demonstrations are all about. Because the revolt against Netanyahu’s coalition is not primarily a leftist revolt. It is a great upheaval by the broad democratic MAJORITY of the country: the center-left, center, and center-right. They may disagree on a wide variety of public policies, but who completely agree about the heart of the matter: That Zionism and Judaism are inherently democratic, and that an assault on Israel’s basic democratic institutions endangers everyone.

For me, Judaism is the antonym of defeatism and hopelessness. So, for that matter, is my Zionism.

For those with long memories, there have been dark times before. Israel emerged from the ashes of the Shoah—when 1/3 of the Jews in the world were murdered and the very question of any Jewish future at all was worth considering. There was June 1967—and a news blackout when it wasn’t clear for several days whether or not Israel had been wiped off the map. There was October 1973, when Jews ran from their synagogues on Yom Kippur to fight off a multilateral sneak attack by there enemies. There was, and remains, the threat of a nuclear Iran.

In none of these moments did we concede defeat or abandon our vision of the future. 

Diaspora voices in this struggle are crucial. Israelis are telling us that we are desperately needed for this battle. If you’ve ever been inspired by Israel’s seemingly endless reserves of innovation and perseverance in the face of implacable enemies… well, this is the moment when that inspiration and fortitude is needed more than ever.

Reliable polls show that this government has lost the backing of its supporters and a significant majority of Israelis—left, center, and the democratic right. A line has been crossed by the empowerment of theocratic fascists: that’s what those demonstrations are about.

There are no guarantees. Who knows how much damage this regime can wreak before it collapses or is voted out? But I do know this: If America’s liberal Jews sit this one out, or if we renege on the seventy-five-year commitment to the State of Israel, we will be complicit in empowering the forces of an anti-democratic theocracy in the Jewish state.

I’m writing these words on Tu B’Av, a date in the Jewish calendar devoted to love. “Love” is the way I was raised to describe our relationship to Israel. Love, of course, demands conviction and dedication over the long haul. We say to people whom we love: “My love for you is not conditional. We will, on occasion, disappoint one another. I will challenge you and criticize you when you let me down. But my commitment to you is undying.”

If you share similar sentiments, please: Do not submit to defeat. Recall the words of the Talmud, written in tears at another time of Jewish anguish:

,כּל הַמִּתְאַבֵּל עַל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם — זוֹכֶה וְרוֹאֶה בְּשִׂמְחָתָהּ
.וְשֶׁאֵינוֹ מִתְאַבֵּל עַל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם — אֵינוֹ רוֹאֶה בְּשִׂמְחָתָהּ

Whoever mourns for Jerusalem will merit to see her future joy,
and whoever does not mourn for Jerusalem will not see her future joy. (Ta’anit 30b)

Those words tell me that we will win this struggle, too. But we must not surrender to despair. To be part of the grand wonder of Israel means we must share in her battles, and not give up on the vision of what the state could and should be.