Dom Bruno se unió a la resistencia y poniendo en riesgo su vida estableció una red de escondites para niños judíos.
Al nacer en una piadosa familia católica de clase media alta de Bruselas, no fue raro que Henri Reynders eligiera dedicar su vida al sacerdocio. Pero en muchos otros aspectos, Reynders resultó ser una persona poco usual, y también un héroe. Después de asumir sus votos en Roma en 1925, condujo una vida monástica. Tres años más tarde, al ordenarse como sacerdote, se unió a la orden benedictina en el pueblo de Louvain y adoptó el nombre religioso de Dom Bruno. A pesar de ser profundamente religioso, su pensamiento se rebelaba respecto a algunas de las doctrinas de la iglesia.
Tras la invasión alemana a Polonia en setiembre de 1939, Bélgica movilizó a su ejército y Dom Bruno actuó como capellán en el 41 regimiento de artillería. Cuando los alemanes invadieron Bélgica, el pequeño país fue dominado rápidamente y el Rey Leopoldo se rindió en la batalla de Dunkirk. Dom Bruno fue herido en una pierna y pasó los siguientes seis meses en campamentos para prisioneros de guerra en Wolfsburg y Doessel, Alemania, brindando apoyo religioso y moral a los otros prisioneros.
Después de que el Rey Leopoldo se reuniera con Hitler, los alemanes liberaron a muchos prisioneros de guerra, entre ellos a Dom Bruno. Al regresar a la abadía, continuó con su carrera docente. Debido a sus fuertes creencias antinazis, se contactó con el floreciente movimiento de resistencia belga y ayudó a salvar a pilotos aliados que habían sido derribados para que pudieran regresar a Gran Bretaña.
Dom Bruno con algunos de los niños judíos que salvó durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial
Al completar los campos de exterminio en Polonia en 1942, los nazis comenzaron a deportar a los judíos de Bélgica. Dom Bruno recibió permiso del abad para trabajar como capellán en un hogar para ciegos en un pequeño pueblo. Allí Dom Bruno descubrió que el director del hogar y muchos de sus residentes en verdad eran judíos que se estaban escondiendo. Tanto adultos como niños habían encontrado allí un refugio gracias a Albert van den Berg, un conocido abogado que trabajaba con organizaciones cristianas de beneficencia.
La situación era extremadamente peligrosa, porque los nazis estaban cazando activamente a los judíos y en el área había muchos informantes belgas. Cuando Van den Berg y Dom Bruno comprendieron que el hogar ya no era un lugar seguro, lo cerraron y dispersaron a los judíos en áreas rurales. Dom Bruno tomó entonces la arriesgada tarea de organizar escondites para los niños, usando toda su influencia con amigos y conocidos. Él envió a los niños a hogares privados, incluso a la casa de su propia madre y de su hermano.
Viajó a diversas instituciones católicas, tales como internados, y pidió que albergaran a niños judíos. Él acompañaba personalmente a los niños y regresaba a visitarlos para llevarles noticias de sus padres si también ellos estaban ocultos. Dom Bruno les proveyó documentos falsos con nombres no judíos y tarjetas de raciones.
Dom Bruno viajaba de un lugar a otro en su bicicleta, solucionando problemas y asumiendo la responsabilidad incluso por los detalles pequeños de los planes. Al principio trabajó solo, recibiendo solamente ayuda económica de la operación de Van den Berg y del banquero belga Jules Dubois-Pelerin. Después de expandir sus contactos con otros grupos de resistencia, Dom Bruno tuvo que escaparse cuando la Gestapo comenzó a sospechar de sus actividades. Cuando la Gestapo registró la abadía Mont César, afortunadamente Dom Bruno no estaba allí, pero se vio obligado a esconderse, cambiar su hábito de sacerdote por ropa civil y usar una boina para ocultar su cabeza afeitada. Otro sacerdote le dio un documento falso.
A pesar del grave peligro, él continuó ayudando a los judíos incluso cuando él mismo se ocultaba. Su valentía salvó la vida de 400 judíos, la mayoría de ellos niños.
Quienes fueron salvados por Dom Bruno expresaron su profundo agradecimiento. Gilles Rozberg recuerda: “Una noche en 1943, cuando acababa de cumplir 13 años, me encontré con el Padre Bruno en la calle. Él no me conocía, pero yo lo reconocí por la forma en que caminaba, la túnica que vestía y su alto y elegante sombrero. Me arrojé a él y le supliqué que me ayudara. Tras unos breves segundos de sospecha y preocupación, me dijo que estaba dispuesto a ayudarme. Dos semanas más tarde me llevaron junto con mi hermano pequeño a un escondite”.
Dom Bruno en Jerusalem con algunos de los niños que ayudó a esconder
Gracias a la acción de la iglesia católica y al valiente movimiento de resistencia, tres cuarta parte de los 100.000 judíos de Bélgica lograron sobrevivir la guerra, pese a la masiva colaboración que existió. Tras la liberación de Bélgica en setiembre de 1944, Dom Bruno ayudó a reunir a los niños que estaban ocultos con sus padres y con otros miembros de sus familias. Sin embargo, los representantes de la comunidad judía se opusieron a los esfuerzos de algunas familias cristianas para adoptar a huérfanos judíos. Trágicamente, muchos de los niños más pequeños no podían recordar sus orígenes judíos y deseaban permanecer con las familias que los habían adoptado de forma no oficial. Bajo la ocupación nazi, Dom Bruno no permitió que convirtieran al catolicismo a los niños judíos. Posteriormente cambió su posición, porque creyó que el factor más importante era tener en cuenta lo que era mejor para cada niño.
Cuando terminó la guerra, Dom Bruno regresó brevemente a la abadía pero su orden lo reasignó a otros lugares en Bélgica, Francia y Roma. Su último puesto fue como vicario en el pueblo de Ottignies, donde se ocupó de los ancianos, los enfermos y los discapacitados.
En 1964, Yad Vashem honró a Dom Bruno como uno de los “Justos de las naciones”. Cuando su enfermedad de Parkinson empeoró, Dom Bruno se retiró a un hogar de ancianos. Murió a los 78 años y lo enterraron en su amada abadía.
Diez años después de su muerte, una plaza de la ciudad de Ottignies fue nombrada en su honor y colocaron una placa que dice: “Dom Bruno, benedicto (1903-1981). Héroe de la resistencia. Arriesgó su vida para salvar a 400 judíos de la barbarie nazi”.
If we were to ask what key word epitomises the society Jews were to make in the Promised Land, several concepts would come to mind: justice, compassion, reverence, respect, holiness, responsibility, dignity, loyalty. Surprisingly, though, another word figures centrally in Moses’ speeches in Deuteronomy. It is a word that appears only once in each of the other books of the Torah: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers.[1] Yet it appears twelve times in Deuteronomy, seven of them in Parshat Re’eh. The word is simcha, joy.
It is an unexpected word. The story of the Israelites thus far has not been a joyous one. It has been marked by suffering on the one hand, rebellion and dissension on the other. Yet Moses makes it eminently clear that joy is what the life of faith in the land of promise is about. Here are the seven instances in this parsha, and their contexts:
The central Sanctuary, initially Shilo: “There in the presence of the Lord your God you and your families shall eat and rejoice in everything you have put your hand to, because the Lord your God has blessed you” (Deut. 12:7).
Jerusalem and the Temple: “And there you shall rejoice before the Lord your God, you, your sons and daughters, your menservants and maidservants, and the Levites from your towns” (Deut. 12:12).
Sacred food that may be eaten only in Jerusalem: “Eat them in the presence of the Lord your God at the place the Lord your God will choose – you, your sons and daughters, your menservants and maidservants, and the Levites from your towns – and you are to rejoice before the Lord your God in everything you put your hand to” (Deut. 12:18).
The second tithe: “Use the silver to buy whatever you like: cattle, sheep, wine, or other fermented drink, or anything you wish. Then you and your household shall eat there in the presence of the Lord your God and rejoice” (Deut. 14:26).
The festival of Shavuot: “And rejoice before the Lord your God at the place He will choose as a dwelling for His name – you, your sons and daughters, your menservants and maidservants, the Levites in your towns, and the strangers, the fatherless, and the widows living among you” (Deut. 16:11).
The festival of Succot: “Be joyful at your feast – you, your sons and daughters, your menservants and maidservants, and the Levites, the strangers, the fatherless, and the widows who live in your towns” (Deut. 16:14).
Succot, again. “For seven days, celebrate the feast to the Lord your God at the place the Lord your God will bless you in all your harvest and in all the work of your hands, and your joy will be complete [vehayita ach same’ach]” (Deut. 16:15).
Why does Moses emphasise joy specifically in the book of Deuteronomy? Perhaps because is there, in the speeches Moses delivered in the last month of his life, that he scaled the heights of prophetic vision never reached by anyone else before or since. It is as if, standing on a mountaintop, he sees the whole course of Jewish history unfold below him, and from that dizzying altitude he brings back a message to the people gathered around him: the next generation, the children of those he led out of Egypt, the people who will cross the Jordan he will not cross and enter the land he is only able to see from afar.
What he tells them is unexpected, counter-intuitive. In effect he says this: “You know what your parents suffered. You have heard about their slavery in Egypt. You yourselves have known what it is to wander in the wilderness without a home or shelter or security. You may think those were the greatest trials, but you are wrong. You are about to face a harder trial. The real test is security and contentment.”
Absurd though this sounds, it has proved true throughout Jewish history. In the many centuries of dispersion and persecution, from the destruction of the Second Temple to the nineteenth century, no one raised doubts about Jewish continuity. They did not ask, “Will we have Jewish grandchildren?” Only since Jews achieved freedom and equality in the Diaspora and independence and sovereignty in the State of Israel has that question come to be asked. When Jews had little to thank God for, they thanked Him, prayed to Him, and came to the synagogue and the house of study to hear and heed His word. When they had everything to thank Him for, many turned their backs on the synagogue and the house of study.
Moses was giving prophetic expression to the great paradox of faith: It is easy to speak to God in tears. It is hard to serve God in joy. It is the warning he delivered as the people came within sight of their destination: the Promised Land. Once there, they were in danger of forgetting that the land was theirs only because of God’s promise to them, and only for as long as they remembered their promise to God.
Simcha is usually translated as joy, rejoicing, gladness, happiness, pleasure, or delight. In fact, simcha has a nuance untranslatable into English. Joy, happiness, pleasure, and the like are all states of mind, emotions. They belong to the individual. We can feel them alone. Simcha, by contrast, is not a private emotion. It means happiness shared. It is a social state, a predicate of “we,” not “I.” There is no such thing as feeling simcha alone.
Moses repeatedly labours the point. When you rejoice, he says time and again, it must be “you, your sons and daughters, your menservants and maidservants, and the Levites, the strangers, the fatherless, and the widows in your towns.” A key theme of Parshat Re’eh is the idea of a central Sanctuary “in the place the Lord your God will choose.” As we know from later Jewish history, during the reign of King David, this place was Jerusalem, where David’s son Solomon eventually built the Temple.
What Moses is articulating for the first time is the idea of simcha as communal, social, and national rejoicing. The nation was to be brought together not just by crisis, catastrophe, or impending war, but by collective celebration in the presence of God. The celebration itself was to be deeply moral. Not only was this a religious act of thanksgiving; it was also to be a form of social inclusion. No one was to be left out: not the stranger, or the servant, or the lonely (the orphan and widow). In a remarkable passage in the Mishneh Torah, Maimonides makes this point in the strongest possible terms:
And while one eats and drinks, it is their duty to feed the stranger, the orphan, the widow, and other poor and unfortunate people, for those who lock the doors to their courtyard, eating and drinking with their family, without giving anything to eat and drink to the poor and the bitter in soul – their meal is not a rejoicing in a Divine commandment, but a rejoicing only in their own stomach. It is of such persons that Scripture says, “Their sacrifices shall be to them as the bread of mourners, all that eat thereof shall be polluted; for their bread is a disgrace to their own appetite” (Hos. 9:4). Rejoicing of this kind is a disgrace to those who indulge in it, as Scripture says, “And I will spread dung upon your faces, even the dung of your sacrifices” (Mal. 2:3).[2]
Moses’ insight remains valid today. The West is more affluent than any previous society has ever been. Our life expectancy is longer, our standards of living higher, and our choices wider than at any time since Homo sapiens first walked on earth. Yet Western societies are not measurably happier. The most telling indices of unhappiness – drug and alcohol abuse, depressive illness, stress-related syndromes, eating disorders, and the rest – have risen by between 300 and 1,000 per cent in the space of two generations. Why so?
In 1968 I met the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneersohn, of blessed memory, for the first time. While I was there, the Chassidim told me the following story. A man had written to the Rebbe in roughly these terms: “I am depressed. I am lonely. I feel that life is meaningless. I try to pray, but the words do not come. I keep mitzvot but find no peace of mind. I need the Rebbe’s help.” The Rebbe sent a brilliant reply without using a single word. He simply circled the first word of every sentence and sent the letter back. The word in each case was “I.”
Our contemporary consumer is constructed in the first-person singular: I want, I need, I must have. There are many things we can achieve in the first-person singular but one we cannot, namely, simcha – because simcha is the joy we share, the joy we have only because we share. That, said Moses before the Israelites entered their land, would be their greatest challenge. Suffering, persecution, a common enemy, unite a people and turn it into a nation. But freedom, affluence, and security turn a nation into a collection of individuals, each pursuing his or her own happiness, often indifferent to the fate of those who have less, the lonely, the marginal, and the excluded. When that happens, societies start to disintegrate. At the height of their good fortune, the long slow process of decline begins.
The only way to avoid it, said Moses, is to share your happiness with others, and, in the midst of that collective, national celebration, serve God.[3] Blessings are not measured by how much we own or earn or spend or possess but by how much we share. Simcha is the mark of a sacred society. It is a place of collective joy.
[3] The great French sociologist Émile Durkheim (whose father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all rabbis) argued, in The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (trans. Karen E. Fields [New York: Free Press, 1995]), that religion is born in the experience of “collective effervescence,” which is closely related to simcha in the biblical sense.
שמור את חדש האביב ועשית פסח לי-ה-ו-ה אלהיך כי בחדש האביב הוציאך יהוה אלהיך ממצרים לילה
Keep the month of spring, and make the Passover offering to the Lord, your God, for in the month of spring, the Lord, your God, brought you out of Egypt at night. (Devarim 16:1)
There is little doubt that Halacha greatly complicates life for the religious Jew. There is no other religion that requires so much dedication and includes so much emphasis on detail. There is hardly a nook or cranny of a Jew’s life in which Halacha does not make its demands. Many halachic volumes and responsa have been written about minor issues, seemingly blowing them out of all proportion.
The exact amount of matza that must be eaten at the Pesach Seder is a case in point. The law requires the consumption of a ke-zayit (a unit of volume approximately equal to the size of an olive) to fulfill one’s obligation. But what is the size of an olive? For hundreds of years, halachic scholars have debated this question, and have even deliberated over the exact weight of an olive. Is today’s olive equal in size to the olive from the time of the Bible or of the Talmud? Many opinions have been suggested, and to this day a substantial number of religious Jews will adhere to one and reject others, believing that only a larger measurement will ensure that one has completely fulfilled one’s obligation according to all opinions.
Obsessive Halacha
The same is true about the lulav and etrog.[1] How tall must a lulav be? How green do the leaves have to be so that they are not considered dry? What if the etrog is not completely spotless? Is it still halachically acceptable? What is the correct size? What happens when its pitom, which botanists call its stigma (a flowered blossom protruding at the top), has been partially damaged? Thousands of questions like these are found in the Talmud and in the writings of later authorities.
To this day, the religious Jew takes delight in these debates, and in fact discusses them as if his life depends on it. To an outsider this looks altogether ludicrous, and the dismissal of it all as “hair-splitting” is well known. One wonders what people would say if they were told that their Christmas tree has to be of a certain measurement, with a particular number of leaves and ornaments. What if there were to be major differences of opinion among the authorities on whether the leaves must be fully green or may include some spots that are a bit yellow? And what if, “God forbid”, one ornament is missing or damaged?
What is behind this obsessive way in which Halacha deals with all these issues? What has this to do with religion? Isn’t religion the realm of the soul, of deep emotions and beliefs?
In this week’s parasha, we find a verse that directly deals with our problem:
Safeguard the month of the early ripening [Nissan] and bring the Pesach offering unto the Lord your God, for in the month of the early ripening the Lord your God took you out of Egypt at night.[2]
According to Jewish Tradition, this verse instructs the people of Israel to ensure that Pesach, which commemorates one the most important events in Jewish history, will always be celebrated in the spring.
Rabbi Ovadia Seforno, the great Italian commentator, comments on this verse in a most original way:
Guard with constant care that Nissan will fall in the spring by means of the ibbur, the aligning of the lunar and solar months through calculations, so that the lunar and solar years are equal.[3]
A careful reading of Seforno’s comment seems to reveal a most daring thesis, which directly deals with our question. Since the lunar year has fewer days than the solar year, and since the Jewish year is, to a great extent, based on the lunar year, it is necessary after a few lunar years to add an extra month—Adar Sheni, around March—to make sure that Nissan (and therefore Pesach) will fall in the spring and not in the winter.
In that case, alludes Seforno, there is a most important question: Why does the Jewish calendar not simply follow the solar year? If, in any case, we must make sure that Pesach falls in the spring, what is the purpose of consistently following lunar years when eventually one has to align these with the solar years?
The Purpose of Judaism is To Disturb
His answer is most telling: so as to complicate life. In order to make sure that the month of Nissan and the festival of Pesach will always fall in the spring, one has to make difficult astronomical calculations. The Torah deliberately complicated the Jewish year by modeling it on the lunar year, so that Nissan would not automatically fall in the spring, and so that the sages would have to make complicated calculations. Sure, it would have been much easier to follow the solar year. But that would have come with a serious religious setback. “A smooth sea never made a skillful mariner,” says the English proverb.
Judaism wants to make the sages and the Jewish community constantly aware that they live in the presence of God, and to accomplish that goal life must be complicated and an ongoing challenge! Only through constant preoccupation with the divine commandments and their minutiae, and only by confronting the obstacles to implementing these commandments, can one be cognizant of God’s presence.
Religion’s main task is todisturb. It should ensure, on a very pragmatic level, that we do not take anything for granted in our day-to-day lives. It is through challenges and complications that we are constantly surprised. These give birth to wonder, which then reminds us of God’s presence. It is not philosophical contemplation that brings man closer to God. God is not an intellectual issue, but the ultimate reality of life. Only in the deed, in the down-to-earth and heart-rending existence of daily life, which asks for sweat and blood, does one escape superficiality and enter awareness and attentiveness. By studying astronomy, encountering major complexities, and using scientific instruments for the purpose of ensuring that Pesach falls in the spring, the sages were forced to find solutions, which then made them aware of the sheer uniqueness of this world. Their total commitment to a biblical commandment, including the need to investigate, discuss, and implement it, gave them a sense of the mystery of life. Through the constant wonder that accompanied them in their search and ultimate resolution, they became aware of the Living God.
To Live Means to Stay Alert
This idea runs contrary to our way of thinking. If anything, Western civilization looks for ways to make life less complicated. Many of our scientific inventions are founded on this premise. And no doubt this is of great importance. Man’s life should be less complicated. It would grant him more time to enjoy life, to investigate elements of spirituality, and to search for deep, sacred beauty. But in these matters it is ongoing effort that is required. Were that not to be the case, one would fall into devastating boredom, which, after all, is the result of no longer noticing the uniqueness of our lives. This has disastrous consequences for the human spirit. It will slowly die. To live means to stay alert, to take notice. When it comes to the spirit, man should never live an effortless and uncomplicated life.
Scientific research has often revealed parts of our universe that can stir the heart of man in ways that were not possible in earlier times. Scientists dedicate their lives to the minutest properties of our physical world. They are fascinated with and often get carried away by the behavior of cells, the habits of insects, and the peculiarities of the DNA code (Heschel). As the saying goes, God is in the details.
Under the Microscope
So too, halachic authorities look for the smallest details so as to make man sensitive to every fine point of life. By making us careful about how much matza to eat, what size lulav to use, and to what extent our etrog should be spotless, they create a subconscious awareness in us of every dimension of life. Everything is put under a microscope in order to ensure that we never take anything as a given. Halacha is an anti-boredom device. It is the microscopic search for God.
Indeed, Judaism’s main purpose is to complicate life so as to create a psychological environment that makes the Jew constantly aware they are living in the presence of God and enjoying it to the fullest. This is in no way an eccentric observation; it is consistent with the very purpose of religious life.
Religion is a protest against taking life for granted. There are no insignificant phenomena or deeds in this world, and it is through Judaism’s demands and far-reaching interference in our daily life that we are made aware of God as our steadfast Companion.
This is clearly the meaning of the famous talmudic statement by Rabbi Chanania ben Akashia when he said: “The Holy One, blessed be He, desired to make Israel worthy, therefore He gave them Torah and mitzvot in abundance, as it is said:[4] ‘God desires for the sake of His righteousness that the Torah be expanded and strengthened.’”[5]
But all this comes at a heavy price: One of the great challenges confronting Judaism today is the problem of behaviorism. The habitual performance of Halacha is the result of getting used to the way Judaism wants man to respond to life; all aspects of life should be nothing less than extraordinary, but for many of us, this is no longer the case.
The observance of Halacha for the sake of observance can easily lead to “hair splitting,” when man becomes robotic, is obsessed with detail, and can no longer see the forest for the trees. This, in turn, drives him to fanatical behavior.
Halacha Has Become Self-Defeating
Halachic living has become self-defeating for many of us. It actually encourages what it wishes to prevent: observing Halacha by rote, and failing to see the extraordinary. New ways must be found to prevent this phenomenon. We must teach Halacha as a musical symphony in which all students see opportunities to discover their inner selves. Halacha teachers must stand in front of their classes as a conductor stands before the orchestra and draw the Halacha out of its confinement, moving it beyond itself. They must show their students how to pull the ineffable out of the dry law and turn it into an encounter with God, the Source of all mystery, thereby transforming the world into a place of utter amazement where one lives in a constant state of awe and surprise. This will be possible only when we take a fresh look at ourselves and ask who we are and why we live. But as long as man hides behind his own superficiality, no halacha will accomplish its goal. We live on the fringes of this world and have lost contact with our inner selves. Halacha then becomes an external entity, cut off from its living roots.
No halacha can be taught in a vacuum. It can be transmitted only when the entirety of life is present. We must ensure that we can see all of life reflected in one detail of the Halacha, that it is infused with all the colors life offers us. This is impossible when the codes of Jewish Law are taught as self-contained works. They are just the outer shells of the music behind the notes. Just as musical notes are useless unless you play and pace your own music with these notes, so studying the codes is a meaningless undertaking unless with these notes we hear and play the music that cries out from our inner selves.
In a play on Nietzsche’s observation that “anyone who has looked deeply into the world may guess how much wisdom lies in the superficiality of men,”[6] I would suggest that one of the great tragedies of today’s halachic man is his obliviousness to how much profundity his halachic superficiality hides.
To paraphrase Abraham Joshua Heschel: Halacha is of no importance unless it is of supreme importance.
Notes:
[1] The lulav (palm branch) and etrog (citron) comprise two of the Four Species, or Arba’at ha-Minim, that are taken on Sukkot. See Vayikra 23:40.
During the first three years of WWII thousands of Arabs and Jews from Mandate Palestine had fought side by side against the Nazi scourge.
One day, completely by chance, Professor Mustafa Abbasi from the village Jish in the upper Galilee, uncovered a family secret. Abbasi had wondered aloud how there could be a five-year difference between his mother’s date of birth and that of her younger sister. He then heard for the first time that his grandfather, Said Abbasi, had spent five long years away from home, volunteering with the British Army in World War II, battling the Nazis alongside Jewish volunteers.
Only later, after he had become a researcher and delved into the subject, did Abbasi learn how widespread a phenomenon that had been: thousands of Arabs and Jews from Mandate Palestine had fought side by side against the Nazi scourge.
As a historian and as a professor of the history at Tel-Hai Academic College, Abbasi has personally interviewed or secured testimonies from dozens of Palestinians who served in the British army in World War II and fought alongside Jews.
Radwan Said of Kafr Kana told Abbasi that he had served as a sniper and killed three Nazi soldiers in battles in Italy.
Abbasi spoke to the elders in his home village of Jish. One, Zaki Jubran, fought the Nazis along with his brother.
Abbasi would eventually discover lists of more and more Arabs who volunteered for the British army and served alongside Jews – from Jaffa, Jerusalem, Safed, Jenin, and Nablus. Tiberias alone, a city in which Jews and Arabs coexisted peacefully for many years, supplied hundreds of Arab volunteers. Hundreds of Arab fighters lost their lives. Others were taken prisoner. Yet more are still missing in action, over 70 years later.
This is a historical episode that is rarely discussed. It does not align with the various narratives about the history of the Jewish-Arab conflict prior to or after the war years. Abbasi’s research reveals that this was certainly no passing “phenomenon.” He writes about the joint Jewish-Arab war service in an in-depth article published in the last issue of Katedra, the oldest academic journal on Land of Israel studies, published by the Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi. He might turn it into a book.
Some 12,000 Arabs from Mandate Palestine volunteered for the British army during World War II.
All in all, some 12,000 Arabs from Mandate Palestine volunteered for the British army during World War II, approximately half the number of Jewish volunteers who joined up. Hundreds of Palestinian fighters were captured. Approximately 300 died in battle. Relations between the Jewish and Arab volunteers were mostly good. The leaders of the Jewish Yishuv, Chaim Weizmann and David Ben-Gurion, eventually had the Jewish volunteers removed from the mixed unit to establish the famous Jewish Brigade, which would go on to provide a crucial military basis for Israel in the 1948 War of Independence. The leaders had never liked the idea of Jews and Arabs from Mandate Palestine serving together, and there were also plenty on the Arab side who were against it.
At the time, the Arab population in pre-state Israel was split between the Husseinis, under Grand Mufti Haj Amin al-Husseini – a Nazi partner – and the Nashashibi clan, who openly supported the British and usually maintained good ties with the Jewish population. The years of the Arab revolt (1936-1939), which al-Husseini led against the British only a few years before World War II, did not make it easy for Arabs to volunteer for the British army. Abbasi believes the Arab enlistment was no surprise.
“About 60% [of the Arabs] supported the British and opposed the Husseinis. A large part was pro-Jew and pro-British and was even willing to compromise and accept the Partition Plan. In contrast to what we were erroneously taught in school, not all of them worshiped the Mufi Husseini. It was actually the Jewish side that tried and eventually succeeded in breaking up the partnership because the Zionist movement had a stronger national agenda. Ben-Gurion and his friends demanded a Jewish force that would fight under a Jewish symbol and a Jewish flag, and not in mixed units, and they eventually got it,” Abbasi says.
The Middle East Commando
Abbasi’s work demonstrates that many volunteers were motivated by financial need. In the first half of 1940, the auxiliary unit known as the “diggers force” was established. The diggers worked mostly in construction under the command of Maj. Henry Cater. The platoons included both Arabs and Jews. The commanders were British. A British propaganda campaign that aimed to increase the number of Arab volunteers featured heads of Arab towns and village leaders. Rallies were held in Abu Dis, Hebron, Jenin, Kafr Qaddum, and Jerusalem. Well-known Egyptian writer Abbas Mahmoud al-Aqqad said on a Radio Palestine broadcast that “The war is between humane, lofty values that England represents and the forces of darkness represented by the Nazis.”
On April 2, 1941, 6,000 people convened in the Hula Valley. The conference was organized by valley leader Kamal Hussein al-Youssef and attended by the mayor of Safed Zaki Kaddoura. After a feast, the Hula Valley dignitaries agreed to allow young Arabs to enlist in the British army and applauded King George VI.
In the first few months of 1942, as the Allies’ situation on the North African front grew worse, the British authorities began appealing to Arab women, as well. In May 1942, another large conference was held, this time in Tulkarem, and the mayor reminded those present about how brutally the Italians – who were allied with the Nazis – were treating the Libyans.
Abbasi has found that most of the Arab volunteers were village youth. Residents of cities, who enjoyed a higher quality of life, were less enthusiastic about military service in a distant country. Nevertheless, some “city boys” did enlist. These included hundreds of dock workers from Jaffa who lost their jobs when trade at the port tapered off during the Arab Revolt.
The lists of missing and dead Abbasi has found include the names of many prominent urban Arab families. Although many volunteers were motivated by money, there were those who signed up because of ideology, because they opposed the Nazi ideal of a master race and believed in the British and their values.
“Mostly upper-class urban [youth] and educated people who had been influenced by British education and culture [joined]. … When the Italians bombed Tel Aviv and Jaffa and Haifa, hundreds were killed, both Jews and Arabs,” Abbasi notes.
Abbasi has also discovered that several dozen Jews and Arabs fought together alongside thousands of British and Egyptian troops at the First Battle of El Alamein in July 1942. The British Eighth Army managed to check the advance of Gen. Erwin Rommel’s forces and cause them heavy casualties. A few of the volunteers also took part in the Allied invasion at Normandy in the summer of 1944.
Jews and Arabs from Mandate Palestine fought together against the Nazis in Italy and Greece. They served in the transport, logistics, medical, and engineering positions. On Aug. 6, British War Secretary Anthony Eden informed Parliament that the British army would be establishing an Arab Brigade and then a Jewish Brigade within the infantry.
As January 1942 approached, the infantry corps included 18 platoons, seven Arab (one from Transjordan) and 11 Jewish ones. There were a total of 4,041 Arab volunteers and 10,000 Jewish volunteers from Palestina in the British infantry. Members of the 401st platoon who took part in fortification work and laying down railway tracks in France helped stall the Germany forces. That platoon included 250 Arabs and 450 Jews. When they returned to Palestina, they were welcomed as heroes by the High Commissioner.
Jews and Arabs also served together in the Middle East Commando unit, which included 240 Jews and 120 Arabs, under a team of British commanders. The volunteers with the unit underwent exhausting physical training and long marches in difficult conditions. At the end of 1940, some members of the unit took part in the first British attack in the Western Desert and burst through Italian lines at Bardia, on the Egyptian-Libyan border. In the winter of 1941, the unit fought fierce battles against the Italians.
One of the female Arab volunteers is pictured in the Falastin newspaper | Photo: Falastin (archive)
Nearly 200 Arab women from Palestina served in the Women’s Auxiliary Corps and in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. The person responsible for assigning Jewish and Arab women jobs was Audrey Cheety, who was warned that she was taking on a dangerous job. A total of 60 women went through basic training. Only four were Arab, but Cheety managed to get them into officers training after she scolded Palestinian women’s organizations into helping the war effort.
The newspaper “Falastin” also threw itself into the war effort and published articles and pictures of female volunteers in uniform, such as Rahel Shaherazade from Jerusalem. Most of the female Arab volunteers were from cities.
One of the notable female volunteers was Anastasia (Asia) Halabi, who served as a driver and then became an officer. She was the sister of Jerusalem artist Sophie Halabi. The sisters’ mother was Russian, and their father was Arab. After 1948, Asia Halabi went on to serve as a liaison officer between the Jordanian army and the UN in Jerusalem.
Arabs and Jews serving closely together led to one ironic mistake that was reported in Haaretz a few years ago. Shahab Hajaj, an Arab who joined the British army, was captured by the Germans and died in 1943. To this day, Hajaj is commemorated as a fallen Israeli soldier on Mount Herzl in Jerusalem. Someone assumed he was Jewish.
“I believe that history can bring people closer, seek out common chapters, events that connect us. There are those, too.”
When asked if it’s possible that after the war, the same Jews and Arabs who had fought with the British as comrades wound up fighting each other in the 1948 War of Independence, Abbasi says “it’s definitely possible.”
“A lot of the Arab volunteers later joined the Jordanian Legion. The Jordanian Legion, as we know, fought against the Jews in 1948,” he says.
However, Abbasi stresses that he has not found proof that this actually happened, apart from stories he has heard, not first-hand.
Another historian, Prof. Mustafa Kabha, quotes research by Lebanese historian Bian Nowihad al-Hut in his book “The Palestinians – a People Dispersed.” Al-Hut based her research on research conducted by the Palestine Liberation Organization. She counted three Arab commando units and one commando unit comprised of Jews and Arabs that fought with the Allied forces in France.
Abbasi says that although he is aware of the personal side of the topic, it is not why he chose to research it.
“This is a widespread phenomenon in which Jews and Arabs found themselves on the same side. In our country, people are always looking for reasons to separate and stir up conflict between Jews and Arabs. I believe that history can bring people closer, seek out common chapters, events that connect us. There are those, too.
“There aren’t many, unfortunately. But they exist, and I thought that nothing could be more connecting than this partnership and comrade’s bond. This chapter of history has a mission – to open hearts, and not just seek out fights and enmity. With all due respect to the national narratives, people are more important,” says Abbasi.
“We meet at this historical point. In the first three years of World War II, Jews and Arabs fought, ate, trained, were taken prisoner, and killed together. That gives us a sliver of hope for the future. There are episodes of good neighborly relations, joint business ventures, mixed cities, and as a historian, a Muslim, and an Arab citizen of the state of Israel, I’m happy that I’ve had the privilege of revealing one of these times. Of course, it demands more, in-depth research.”
Indeed, the wealth of research into the time of the British Mandate, the thousands of volunteers from Palestina – Jews and Arabs, serving in mixed units and separate ones – have been almost totally forgotten. In his work, Abbasi quotes from the diaries of journalist and educator Taher al-Fatiani and Jerusalem writer Subhi Gusha, who recorded the sentiments of Arab society and the disputes that raged within it over the issue of volunteering for the British army and fighting alongside Jews.
Prof. Yoav Gelber has noted that after Crete and Greece fell in April 1941, 1,600 soldiers from Palestina were captured, including about 400 Arabs. Yitzhak Ben-Aharon, a leader of the Labor movement at the time, was one. Later, Ben-Aharon would go on to tell the story of how the Jews and Arabs joined forces in the prisoners’ camp. Yosef Almogi, a former cabinet minister, describes in his memoirs the unusual “togetherness” forced between the prisoners.
Abbasi’s research ends on a less positive note. The positive atmosphere, he says, “and the temporary closeness between [both] the British and the Arabs and the Arabs and the Jews came to an end. The difficult times that began immediately after the war have caused this special chapter in the history of the country to be forgotten.”
[In top photo: Arab residents of Jerusalem gather for an enlistment rally outside the Old City | Photo: Library of Congress]
How to attain greater peace of mind in world filled with risk and insecurity.
by Emuna Braverman
There are those who love rules and order, who make quick decisions and like closure. For these people, uncertainty and risk are rather painful. On the other hand, there are those who thrive on uncertainty, who prefer to keep all their options open, who have a very difficult time with decision-making, with being forced to choose one thing (or person) over another. These are the types of personalities that find uncertainty easier to live with, that are better able to tolerate risk, that could choose jobs in areas like sales and entertainment where there are no “guaranteed” salaries. (They also need spouses who have some ability to tolerate the uncertainty as well!)
Whether it’s an innate character trait or not, we all need to learn to live with uncertainty. We can’t know the future. We don’t know how our decisions will play out. We aren’t told whether our actions will lead to success our failure, whether this relationship will last or fade. We want certainty because it offers up the illusion of control. And we don’t have it because the Almighty wants to spare us this illusion. He wants us to recognize that ultimately He’s in charge.
Only by truly recognizing – and deeply internalizing – the idea that He wants our best and that everything is for our good can we cope with the unknown. The Torah suggests that at the end of his life, our forefather Jacob was given a vision of the end of days. He was desirous of sharing this information with his children, the leaders of the tribes of Israel. The Almighty, however, prevented him from doing so.
I think there are a number of reasons for this. If the end of days was too distant, they may have felt depressed and unmotivated. If it was too soon, they may have felt excited and unmotivated! Those are real concerns. But on the deeper level, I think that only through uncertainty can we come to faith and trust in the Almighty.
I say this as someone who loves structure, rules and order. I say this as someone who is always desperate for closure. A friend in sales says that their motto is “Better a slow yes than a quick no.” I’m afraid that, psychologically anyway, I prefer the quick no. I say this as someone who makes quick decisions (some that I live to regret – did I really want that color paint in the bathroom?). But I also say this as someone who recognizes that I have some growing to do, particularly in this area. I also say this as someone who understands that faith and trust require letting go.
The future is in the Almighty’s hands. There is NOTHING I can do to change that, and acceptance of this fact coupled with recognition of His love and kindness can only lead to greater peace of mind. We delude ourselves into thinking that greater control will lead to greater calm. If I continue to work on recognizing the Almighty’s love and care for me, His investment in my future and my good, then I could learn to tolerate uncertainty – even with equanimity. That’s my goal because, in the end, I really have no choice.
We all have to learn to live with uncertainty and to trust in the Almighty. Some of us are born with personalities that make this particular aspect of our relationship with God a little easier, but it’s incumbent on all of us to discover the inner resources that allow us to accept the reality that we are not in full control. And run with it.
At the end of his life, Moses makes two requests of God concerning leadership in the Land of Israel: one, in this week’s parsha, that he be allowed “to cross over and see the Good Land beyond the Jordan River,” where he presumably can continue to lead [Deuteronomy 3:23-25]. God’s response: “You must command Joshua, strengthen him and give him resolve, for he shall cross before this nation and shall bring them to inherit the Land” [Deut. 3:28].
The second request came in Pinchas, “Let (God) appoint a leader over the witness assembly” [Numbers 27:15-16], a request coming after the Torah informs us that the daughters of Tzelafhad can inherit their father’s share [Num. 27:11].
Listen to the words of the Midrash: “What caused Moses to request his replacement, after [the story of] the daughters? Since these daughters inherited their father, Moses declared, ‘This is the right moment for me to claim my need. After all, if these women can inherit [their father] my sons should certainly inherit my glory.’ The Holy One, blessed be He, said to him: ‘… Your sons sat idly by themselves and were not occupied in the study of Torah. Joshua, on the other hand, served you well and extended to you much honor. He would arrive at your courthouse early in the morning and leave late at night. … Appoint Joshua the son of Nun as your successor, to fulfill the verse, ‘the guardian of the fig tree shall eat of its fruit’” [Proverbs 27:18].
Both requests by Moses are denied. That his children be his successors is denied because his sons are found wanting. Perhaps Moses understands that he himself bears some guilt for the flaws in his children. After all, he is so consumed with his relationship with the Divine that he doesn’t seem to have the time or the patience for family.
Moses apparently is more comfortable requesting that he be allowed to enter the Promised Land. Does he not deserve to reach his life’s goal, enter the Land of Israel, and begin this new era of Jewish history with himself as leader? And yet, that request, too, is denied: “And the Lord was angry at me because of you, and He did not accept my plea … saying that I may not speak of this anymore” [Deut. 3:26].
Perhaps both rejections emanate from the same source, and Moses is really blaming himself. Remember that when God had originally asked Moses to assume the leadership of the Israelites, Moses demurred, claiming to be kevad peh, “heavy of speech” [Ex. 4:10]. And then the Bible testifies that “the [Israelites] did not listen to Moses [about leaving Egypt] because of impatience and difficult work” [Ex. 6:9]. Most commentators explain that the Hebrews had no energy to resist their slavery; the hard work of servitude sapped their inner strength and prevented them from even dreaming about freedom. But Ralbag [1288-1344] explains this to mean that it was because of Moses’ impatience with his people [the Hebrews], because of his difficult work in making himself intellectually and spiritually close to the Divine.
Moses was into the “heavy talk” of communicating with God and receiving the Divine words. He did not have the interest or patience to get into the small talk, the necessary public relations of establishing personal ties and convincing one Hebrew after another that it was worthwhile to rebel against Egypt and conquer the Land of Israel. He was a God-person, not a people-person, or even a family-person. He’s not blaming them; he is ultimately blaming himself. He spent his time communicating with God, receiving God’s words for the generations; as a result, Moses sacrificed his ability to move his own generation to accept God’s command to enter the Promised Land.
A leader must share the destiny of his people. If they could not enter the Land, even if it was because of their own backsliding, he may not enter the Land, because he did not succeed in inspiring them.
The very source of Moses’ greatness — his lofty spirit and closeness to God — was what prevented him from getting down to the level of his congregation and family to lift them up. Moses succeeded like no one else, before or after him, in communicating God’s word for all future generations; but he did not do as well with his own generation. Hence his words are honest and very much to the point: “The Lord was angry at me because of you” — because I did not have sufficient time to deal with you on a personal level, to nurture and empower you until you were ready to accept God’s teachings and conquer the Promised Land.
Perhaps Moses’ requests were denied in order to teach us that no mortal, not even Moses, leaves this world without desires unfulfilled. And perhaps he was refused merely to teach us that no matter how worthy our prayer, sometimes God answers “No,” and we must accept a negative answer.
Faith, first and foremost, implies our faithfulness to God, even though at the end of the day He may refuse our request.
Entendiendo el uso positivo y negativo de las etiquetas.
“Las etiquetas son para la ropa, no para las personas”, suelen decir. Una versión más honesta sería esta: “Las etiquetas son para la ropa y para otras personas, ¡pero no te atrevas a tratar de etiquetarme a mí!”.
La mayoría de las personas detestan que les pongan rótulos, pero les encanta etiquetar a los demás. Como seres humanos complejos, nos resistimos a ser reducidos a un prolijo y pequeño paquete. Nuestras almas anhelan ser libres, sin ataduras y auténticas, por lo que nos irrita que nos encierren y nos limiten dentro de las diversas categorías sociales.
Pero las etiquetas también tienen un propósito (aparte del que tienen en las prendas), y un mundo que se resiste en exceso a las etiquetas quizás sea también un mundo que no está cómodo con los límites y las definiciones. Sin duda el deseo de no limitarse a uno mismo es positivo, pero si nunca te limitas ni te defines… ¿entonces quién eres realmente? Una palabra es significativa porque significa algo, pero sólo significa algo porque no significa otra cosa.
Tomemos por ejemplo la etiqueta “judío”. Si la palabra judío significa cualquier cosa que uno desee, entonces la palabra pierde su significado. Esto no significa que la definición de ciertos términos y etiquetas no vayan a ser polémicos y debatibles, pero el punto de partida debe ser que, es necesaria una definición y esto no es intrínsecamente ofensivo. En un mundo en el que cada vez hay más definiciones subjetivas, se vuelve cada vez más difícil discutir ideas. Al final de cuentas, si cada uno tiene su propia definición de las palabras, ¿cómo podemos usar esas palabras para discutir sobre ideas y mantener una comunicación significativa?
Las etiquetas son constructivas cuando proveen claridad y ayudan a promover el diálogo y el entendimiento. Pero a menudo se las usa para impedir la comunicación.
Esta es la distinción básica entre un uso positivo o negativo de las etiquetas. Las etiquetas son constructivas cuando proveen claridad y ayudan a promover el diálogo y el entendimiento. Pero a menudo se las usa exactamente con el propósito contrario: para descartar a alguien e impedir la comunicación. Conversaciones importantes se interrumpen porque una o ambas partes se niegan a ver más allá de la identidad o de la etiqueta de la persona con la que están conversando para llegar realmente a discutir el contenido.
¿Cuántas veces vimos que alguien intenta aclarar un punto significativo en una discusión política y se lo descarta simplemente diciendo: “¡izquierdista!” o “oligarca!”. El deseo de etiquetar a los demás en este contexto es claro. Si puedo demostrar que alguien es del “otro equipo”, entonces simple y convenientemente puedo rechazarlo en base a su identidad, sin llegar a relacionarme con la sustancia misma de lo que dice. El pensamiento introspectivo o la conversación matizada es mucho más complicada que permanecer en una cámara de eco. La misma dinámica entra en juego cuando se discute sobre religión.
Hace poco completamos el período de las tres semanas y Tishá BeAv, donde guardamos duelo por la destrucción del Templo. Dado que el Templo fue destruido a causa del odio infundado, la manera en que podemos contrarrestarlo es con abundante amor. Superar nuestros egos y nuestras parcialidades, nuestros juicios y nuestra estrechez mental y en cambio abrir nuestros brazos, nuestras mentes y nuestros corazones. Hoy más que nunca esto puede parecer algo imposible, pero siempre fuimos un pueblo que acepta lo imposible.
Causa más daño lo que se siente internamente, que el rechazo causado por los demás.
El rechazo es un sentimiento conocido por todos, cada quien lo ha sentido a su manera y en algún momento de su vida. Éste, causa heridas emocionales que a pesar de no se verse, lastiman al alma y aumentan el sentimiento de soledad, desconexión y desamor.
El rechazo duele porque lastima directamente la autoestima. La persona rechazada siente que es inadecuada, diferente o que simplemente no es aceptada. El rechazo cuestiona el valor propio y hace dudar a la persona.
Sentir rechazo paraliza y genera pena interna que cuesta trabajo superar, porque la persona siente como si le clavaran un puñal directo en su alma, el cual deja una cicatriz silenciosa y un vacío emocional.
Cuando una persona es rechazada, se siente juzgada y excluida del grupo, la familia o hasta de su propia pareja. Cuando esto sucede, se pierde la seguridad personal y aumenta la vulnerabilidad y desprotección.
El rechazo afecta a las emociones y al humor, ya que el daño que se siente, se registra en la mente, justo en el mismo lugar donde se localiza la sensación cuando hay dolor físico. Así, las reacciones son similares. El dolor es dolor, no importa si es físico o emocional.
Desafortunadamente, el daño generado por una causa mental no se ve y solo lo siente la persona que ha sido rechazada, por lo tanto, nadie le da la importancia más que la persona que ha sido rechazada.
Cuando la tristeza y la soledad causadas por el rechazo no se cuidan, se convierten en depresión. Cuando esta depresión se agudiza, la recuperación de la persona se complica y no siempre se puede sanar.
Desde luego que hay diferentes tipos de rechazos, no es lo mismo el rechazo en las redes sociales, que sentir rechazo familiar, de la pareja, de un trabajo o de amigos cercanos. No es lo mismo un raspón leve, que una fractura de un hueso. El tiempo y el cuidado para sanar son muy distintos en cada caso.
El problema más grave del rechazo es que cuando sucede, no importa la razón, ni la explicación, la persona rechazada se atormenta y ella misma se juzga con más crueldad, sufre porque no es aceptado y se sufre aún más por las ideas que el alimenta en su mente.
El rechazo se convierte en una tortura que se revive continuamente y dirige la atención sólo a los aspectos negativos, destructivos y tóxicos de la persona, perdiendo de vista todo lo bueno y positivo que también es.
El mejor antídoto para el rechazo, es hacer “higiene mental” continua, por medio de la claridad de los pensamientos, validando la convicción propia, y no tomando tan personalmente la opinion de los otros.
Hay que ser noble con uno mismo y aceptar que no siempre la gente nos va a aceptar.
La receta: Protegiéndose del rechazo
Ingredientes:
Claridad de pensamientos – ser objetivo y realista con el pensamiento
Fortaleza – valor para defender los valores y las ideas personales sin crear lucha de poder
Determinación – disciplina para seguir, luchar y continuar el camino
Convicción – validarse a uno mismo para no depender de la aceptación de los demás
Actitud positiva – no darse por vencido, buscar la conexión por todos los medios necesarios
Afirmación Positiva para protegerse del rechazo:
Tengo y valoro mi opinion propia. Me gusta compartir mis ideas, pero si no son aceptadas, no me voy a sentir rechazado. Respeto la forma de pensar de los demás y me gusta que me respeten a mí. Tengo claridad en mis pensamientos, fortaleza para defender mi valor propio, convicción en mis ideas y valor para conquistar el miedo al rechazo. Me enfoco en lo bueno, lo positivo y lo que me ayuda a ser mejor.
Como superar el rechazo:
Busca a quien te quiere y te respeta por lo que eres y dices. NO te aferres a las personas que no te respetan y te tratan mal. Hay muchas personas en este mundo, rodéate con gente que te entienda y te valore.
La opinion y la persona más importante para tomar en cuenta eres tú mismo. No debes tratar de complacer a los demás, porque por hacerlo, puedes comprometer tus valores, tu tranquilidad y al final igual nunca vas a quedar bien con todos.
Aplica primeros auxilios emocionales constantemente. Valídate, trátate con gentileza, enfócate en todos los aspectos positivos de tu personalidad. Nutre tu amor propio. Recuerda que si tú no te quieres, difícilmente otros lo harán por ti.
“No puedes controlar a quien te rechaza, pero tienes absoluto control de tus reacciones hacia el rechazo y la forma como te tratas a ti mismo”.
En la parashá de esta semana se esconde discreta una frase breve con un potencial explosivo que nos lleva a pensar de nuevo acerca de la naturaleza de la historia judía y acerca de la tarea que tiene hoy en día el judaísmo.
Moshé le recordaba a la nueva generación, a los hijos de aquellos que habían abandonado Egipto, la extraordinaria historia de la que eran herederos:
Ciertamente, pregunta ahora acerca de los tiempos pasados que fueron antes de ti, desde el día en que Di-s creó al hombre sobre la tierra; inquiere desde un extremo de los cielos hasta el otro. ¿Se ha hecho cosa tan grande como ésta, o se ha oído algo como esto? ¿Ha oído pueblo alguno la voz de Di-s, hablando de en medio del fuego, como tú la has oído, y ha sobrevivido? ¿O ha intentado dios alguno tomar para sí una nación de en medio de otra nación, con pruebas, con señales y maravillas, con guerra y mano fuerte y con brazo extendido y hechos aterradores, como Hashem tu Di-s hizo por ti en Egipto delante de tus ojos?1
Los israelitas no habían cruzado todavía el Iardén. No habían comenzado aún su vida como pueblo soberano en su propia tierra. Pero aun así Moshé estaba seguro, con una certidumbre que sólo podía ser profética, de que eran un pueblo como ningún otro. Lo que les había sucedido era extraordinario. Habían sido y eran un pueblo destinado a la grandeza.
Moshé les recuerda de la gran revelación en el monte Sinaí. Recuerda los Diez Mandamientos. Da el discurso más famoso de toda la fe judía: “Escucha, Israel: Hashem es nuestro Di-s, Hashem es uno”. Da la más majestuosa de todas las órdenes: “Ama a Hashem tu Di-s con todo tu corazón y con toda tu alma y con toda tu fuerza”. Dos veces les dice a las personas que le enseñen estas cosas a sus hijos. Les da su misión eterna como pueblo: “Porque tú eres pueblo santo para Hashem tu Di-s; Hashem tu Dios te ha escogido para ser pueblo suyo de entre todos los pueblos que están sobre la faz de la tierra”.2
Luego dice:
Hashem no puso su amor en vosotros ni os escogió por ser vosotros más numerosos que otro pueblo, pues erais el más pequeño de todos los pueblos.3
¿El más pequeño de todos los pueblos?¿Qué había pasado con todas las promesas de Bereshit, de que los hijos de Abraham serían muchos, incontables, tantos como las estrellas que hay en el cielo, como el polvo de la tierra, como los granos de arena que hay en la playa? ¿Qué hay con la declaración de Moshé mismo al comienzo de Devarim: “Hashem vuestro Di-s os ha multiplicado y he aquí que hoy sois como las estrellas del cielo en multitud”?4
La respuesta es sencilla. Los israelitas eran en efecto numerosos en comparación con lo que habían sido. Moshé mismo así lo dice en la parashá de la semana próxima: “Cuando tus padres descendieron a Egipto eran setenta personas, y ahora Hashem tu Di-s te ha hecho tan numeroso como las estrellas del cielo”.5 Habían sido una pequeña y única familia: Abraham, Sara y sus descendientes, y ahora se convertían en un pueblo de doce tribus.
Pero (y este es el punto de Moshé) en comparación con otros pueblos, aún eran pocos. “Cuando Hashem tu Di-s te haya introducido en la tierra donde vas a entrar para poseerla y haya echado de delante de ti a muchas naciones: los hititas, los gergeseos, los amorreos, los cananeos, los ferezeos, los heveos y los jebuseos, siete naciones más grandes y más poderosas que tú…”.6 En otras palabras, los israelitas no sólo eran menos que la gente de los grandes imperios del mundo antiguo. Eran incluso menos que la gente de los otros pueblos de la región. En relación a sus orígenes, habían crecido, pero en comparación con sus vecinos aún eran pocos.
Luego Moshé les dice lo que esto significa:
Si dijeras en tu corazón: “Estas naciones son más poderosas que nosotros, ¿cómo podremos desposeerlas?”, no tengas temor de ellas; recuerda bien lo que Hashem tu Di-s hizo al Faraón y a todo Egipto”.7
Israel sería el más pequeño de los pueblos por una razón que tiene que ver con el corazón mismo de su existencia. Para mostrarle al mundo que un pueblo no necesita ser grande para ser grandioso. No tiene que ser numeroso para vencer a sus enemigos. La extraordinaria historia de Israel comprobará que, en las palabras del profeta Zejariá (4:6): “‘No por el poder ni por la fuerza, sino por mi Espíritu’ dice Hashem Todopoderoso”.
En sí mismo, Israel sería testigo de algo más grande que sí mismo. Como lo expresó el filósofo exmarxista Nicolái Berdiáyev:
Recuerdo cómo la interpretación materialista de la historia, cuando en mi juventud intenté verificarla al aplicarla a los destinos de los pueblos, no funcionó en el caso de los judíos, en el que el destino parecía inexplicable desde el punto de vista materialista […]. Su supervivencia es un fenómeno misterioso y maravilloso que demuestra que la vida de este pueblo es gobernada por una predeterminación especial, que trasciende los procesos de adaptación que explica la interpretación materialista de la historia. La supervivencia de los judíos, su resistencia a la destrucción, su capacidad de soportar las condiciones más difíciles y el papel fundamental que jugaron en la historia: todo esto apunta a los fundamentos, tan particulares y misteriosos, de su destino.8
La declaración de Moshé tiene enormes implicancias para la identidad judía. La proposición implícita a lo largo del Covenant and Conversation de este año es que los judíos han tenido una influencia sin proporción con su número porque todos somos llamados a ser líderes, a tomar la responsabilidad, a contribuir, a marcar una diferencia en la vida de los demás, a traer al mundo la presencia Divina. Como somos pocos, estamos todos y cada uno destinados a la grandeza.
S. Y. Agnon, el gran escritor en lengua hebrea, compuso un rezo para acompañar el Kadish de Duelo. Se dio cuenta de que los niños de Israel siempre han sido pocos en comparación con los de otras naciones. Luego dijo que cuando un rey gobierna a una población numerosa, no se da cuenta cuando una persona muere, porque hay otras personas que ocupan su lugar. “Pero nuestro Rey, el Rey de Reyes, el Sagrado, santificado sea… Nos eligió, y no porque seamos un pueblo numeroso, porque somos uno de los más pequeños. Somos pocos, y a causa del amor con que él nos ama, cada uno de nosotros es para él una legión entera. No tiene muchos reemplazos para nosotros. Si uno de nosotros falta, que el Cielo lo prohíba, entonces las fuerzas del Rey se ven disminuidas y su reino se debilita, como ha sucedido. Una de sus legiones se va y su grandeza se reduce. Por esta razón, es nuestra costumbre recitar el Kadish cuando un judío fallece”.9
Margaret Mead dijo una vez: “Nunca dudes de que un pequeño grupo de personas atentas y comprometidas pueda cambiar el mundo. De hecho, es lo único que alguna vez lo ha cambiado”. Gandhi dijo: “Un pequeño cuerpo de espíritus determinados, motivados por una fe infranqueable en su misión, puede cambiar el curso de la historia”. Esa debe ser nuestra fe como judíos. Podremos ser el más pequeño de todos los pueblos, pero cuando prestamos atención al llamado de Di-s, tenemos la capacidad, como lo prueba numerosas veces nuestro pasado, de enmendar y transformar el mundo.
Notas al Pie
1. Devarim 4:32-34.
2.Devarim 7:6.
3.Devarim 7:7.
4.Devarim 1:10.
5.Devarim 10:22.
6.Devarim 7:1.
7.Devarim 7:17-18.
8.Nicolái Berdiáyev, The Meaning of History, Transaction Publishers, 2005, 86 (hay edición castellana: El sentido de la historia, Encuentro, Madrid, 1979).
Rabbi Azariah and Rabbi Acha said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan: When, at Mount Sinai, the Israelites heard the word “Anochi” (“I” — the first word of “The Ten Words”), their souls left them, as it says:[1] “If we hear the voice of God any more, we will die.” It is also written:[2] “My soul departed when He spoke.” Then the Word went back to the Holy One blessed be He and said: ”Lord of the Universe, You live eternally and Your Torah lives eternally, but You have sent me to the dead. They are all dead!” Thereupon, the Holy One blessed be He sweetened the Word for them… Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai taught: The Torah that God gave to Israel restored their souls to them, as it says:[3] “The Torah of the Lord is perfect, it restores the soul.”[4]
It may perhaps be argued that this Midrash, like no other text, encapsulates the essence of Judaism and its dialectic nature. The tension between Jewish Law and the near hopelessness of man to live by it, survive it and simultaneously obey it with great fervor is at the very core of Judaism’s complexity.
The Divine Word is deadly and causes paralysis. The Word, wrought by fire in the upper world, is unmanageable and wreaks havoc once it descends. Its demands are not of this world; they belong to the angels. The Word therefore comes to naught once it enters the human sphere, since there is no one to receive it. All have died before the Word is able to pronounce its second word. How then can it delight the living soul?
The answer is: sweetness. It has to have grace and therefore must be put to music. The problem with the Word is that it carries the possibility of literal-mindedness[5] and takes the word for what it is, robbing it of its inner spiritual meaning. The language of faith employs only a few words in its own spirit. Most of its terms are borrowed from the world in which the Word creates physical images in the mind of man. But the Divine Word needs to be heard, not seen. To hear is to perceive what is beyond the utterance of the mouth. To live with the Word is to discover the ineffable and act on it through the direction of the Law. The mitzvot are founded on the appreciation of the unimaginable, but they become poison when performed only for the sake of the deed.
Rabbi Shefatia said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan: If one reads the Torah without a melody, or repeats the Mishnah without a tune, of him Scripture says:[6] “So, too, I gave them statutes that were not good and laws by which they could not live.” [7]
When one learns Torah without spiritual sweetness symbolized in a melody, which takes the words far beyond their literary meaning, the biblical text turns into a deadly poison. Similarly, to observe a commandment without sweetness is like consuming a medicine in which the healing components have gone bad. They are not only neutralized but have become mortally dangerous.
The function of music is to connect the Word with Heaven. It is not so much the music that man plays on an instrument or sings, but the music of his soul, which is externalized through the use of an instrument or song. It leads man to the edge of the infinite and allows him to gaze, just for a few moments, into the Other. Music is the art of word exegesis. While a word on its own is dead, it is resurrected when touched by music. Music is the refutation of human finality. As such, it is the sweetness that God added to His Word when the Word alone was wreaking havoc. It is able to revive man when he dies as he is confronted with the bare Word at Sinai. Life without music is death—poignantly bitter when one realizes that one has never really lived.
There is little meaning in living by Halacha if one does not hear its grace. It is not a life of Halachic observance that we need, but a life of experiencing Halacha as a daily living music recital. Observance alone does not propel man to a level of existence where he realizes that there is more to life than the mind can grasp.
Jewish education has often been founded on the Word before it turned to God to be sweetened. As a result, there are many casualties and a large part of our nation has been paralyzed.
It is the great task of Jewish educators and thinkers to send the Word back to God and ask Him to teach them how to sweeten it.
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Centro Estudios Judaicos del Sur de PR 