Tengo un perro que quiero mucho. Él alegra mi vida y hace sonreír a muchas personas. Muchas veces escuché decir que los animales no tienen alma, o que sus almas son diferentes a las de los seres humanos. Cuando miro a mi perro siento que su alma está en un nivel superior al de muchas personas que conozco, particularmente debido a su naturaleza desinteresada. No tengo dudas de que él sabe distinguir entre lo correcto y lo incorrecto, y que hará todo lo que pueda para alegrar a quien necesita un poco de ánimo. Los animales piensan, expresan emociones y sienten dolor y placer. ¡Muchos seres humanos ni siquiera son sensibles cuando otra persona necesita apoyo emocional!
¿Qué opina el judaísmo sobre la espiritualidad de los animales en general, y de los perros en particular? ¿Los animales tienen alma? ¿En el Cielo hay un lugar especial para los animales buenos?
Espero que pueda aclararme este tema.
Respuesta del Rabino de Aish
Formulas una pregunta muy profunda.
Los grandes cabalistas explican que todos los seres vivos, los humanos y los animales, tienen alma. Sin embargo, no todas las almas son iguales. Como se describe en Génesis 2:7, el ser humano tiene tanto un néfesh como una neshamá. El néfesh se define como el alma animal; la fuerza vital, los impulsos instintivos, animales. En contraste, la neshamá es un componente exclusivamente espiritual, una chispa Divina que diferencia al ser humano de los animales. Esta es la parte de la persona que anhela espiritualidad y cercanía a Dios.
Tanto los humanos como los animales tenemos respuestas emocionales como amor, temor, lealtad, imaginación, memoria, inteligencia, etc. Huimos del peligro, tenemos instinto de supervivencia y un impulso para procrear. Todo esto emana del alma animal, el alma inferior.
Sin embargo, en los humanos hay otra entidad espiritual, muy diferente y mucho más elevada. Los humanos también tienen un alma espiritual, Divina. Sólo esta alma tiene la capacidad de crear una relación con Dios, con la dimensión trascendental de la existencia. Es aquí donde los humanos ingresan al ámbito del libre albedrío, de tomar decisiones morales. Sólo los humanos tienen la capacidad de elegir placeres más elevados, placeres del alma, como ayudar a los pobres, incluso si eso implica recibir menos placeres físicos, como no acaparar más alimentos para nosotros mismos. Nunca verás a un perro hambriento decirle a sus amigos: “No peleemos por esto” o “Dejemos algo para Fido, que llegará más tarde”.
Los seres humanos estamos en una batalla constante para ver qué alma dirigirá nuestra vida. La medida de verdadera “humanidad” es el grado en que uno controla al alma animal, porque de lo contrario la persona se comporta como un animal. (En verdad, tal como explican los Sabios, es peor que un animal. Desperdiciar el potencial espiritual es algo por lo que sólo un ser humano puede ser considerado responsable).
En base a esto, la Torá prohíbe el consumo de sangre (ver Levítico 7:26). El Talmud explica que el alma animal reside en la sangre de la bestia y, dado que el alma animal en esencia es rústica y no refinada, comer sangre internaliza ese rasgo. El mensaje de la Torá es: “No tomes el instinto animal, su fuerza vital animal, y no dejes que se incremente en tu personalidad. Minimiza esa parte de ti y maximiza tu aspecto espiritual”.
A propósito, para que la carne sea kósher, se le debe sacar la sangre a través de un proceso de salado y enjuague, o asándola al fuego. Irónicamente, en diversas épocas los judíos fueron acusados del Libelo de sangre, es decir, de matar a niños cristianos para usar su sangre al hornear matzá. Además de ser en sí misma una acusación absurda, lo es aún más porque la Torá prohíbe comer sangre.
Todo esto no tiene la intención de denigrar a los animales de ninguna manera. Así fueron creados y, por supuesto, cumplen un rol importante en el mundo. A menudo se los menciona en la Biblia y en el Talmud por sus grandiosas cualidades. Por ejemplo, en hebreo perro se dice kélev, una contracción de las palabras kol lev, que significan “todo corazón”. Por eso del perro podemos aprender el significado de la lealtad.
Es interesante que un versículo de la Torá dice que si un judío tiene un trozo de carne no kósher, debe arrojárselo a los perros (Éxodo 22:30). Otro versículo dice que los perros reciben la carne no kósher como una recompensa especial por no haber molestado a los judíos durante el Éxodo.
Hay otra gran diferencia entre los animales y los humanos. El alma Divina humana es absolutamente independiente de toda sustancia física. En el ser humano, cuando el cuerpo muere, su alma espiritual vive para la eternidad. El alma de los animales, en cambio, muere junto con su cuerpo. Por lo tanto, a pesar de que tienen un lugar importante en este mundo, no hay un Cielo para los animales.
The story of Hur is one of heroism, tragedy and, ultimately,
redemption.
Let us start from the beginning.
According to tradition, Moses’ older sister, Miriam, married Caleb, son of
Yefuneh.(1) Miriam and Caleb had a son, whose name was Hur.
The first time we meet Hur is during the war with Amalek. It
was very soon after the Exodus, and the nation of Amalek aimed to poke a hole
in the invincibility of this newborn nation:
Moses said to Joshua, “Pick men for
us, and go out and fight against Amalek. Tomorrow I will stand on top of the
hill with the staff of G‑d in my hand.” Joshua did as Moses had told him, to
fight against Amalek; and Moses, Aaron, and Hur ascended to the top of the
hill.
It came to pass that when Moses would raise his hand, Israel would prevail, and when he would lay down his hand, Amalek would prevail. Now, Moses’ hands were heavy; so they took a stone and placed it under him, and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur supported his hands, one from this [side], and one from that [side]; so he was with his hands in faith until sunset . . .(2)
x`
Hur, one of the three people who went up the hill to pray
for salvation, was obviously a man of stature who was close to his venerated
uncle Moses.
The next time we meet him is when Moses is climbing Mount
Sinai for a 40-day learning session with the Divine, and tells the elders,
“Wait for us here until we return to you, and here Aaron and Hur are with you;
whoever has a case, let him go to them.”
At the most important junctures of Jewish life in the
desert, Hur was there, together with his uncle Aaron.
The subsequent—and final—time we meet Hur is just a few
weeks later. Moses had told the Jews that he would ascend the mountain and
remain up there for 40 days. The Jews miscalculated, and when Moses did not
descend the mountain by the deadline, they decided to create a Golden Calf.
Just 40 days after hearing the words “Thou shall have no other god,” they danced and celebrated before a Calf of Gold. And just two score after saying yes to “Don’t commit adultery,” they broke that cardinal rule as well.(3)
Idolatry, adultery—and murder. They also committed murder at
the scene of the Golden Calf.
Says the Midrash:
The sixth hour of the day arrived, and Moses had not descended from the heaven . . . They immediately gathered around Aaron. At that time Satan took advantage of the opportunity and made an image of Moses visible suspended lifeless between heaven and earth. The Jews pointed to the image with their fingers and said, “For this is the man Moses . . .”(4)
At that moment, Hur arose against
them and said, “You severed necks! Do you not remember the miracle that our G‑d
did for you?” Immediately, they arose against him and killed him.
You read that right. It was six weeks after “Thou shall not
murder,” and there they were, murdering Moses’ own nephew!
At the foot of Sinai, the Jews committed the three cardinal
prohibitions. Moses would break the Tablets and beseech G‑d for mercy, and
history would be changed forever in many ways as a consequence of this one
morning.
You might think that Hur, who had just helped save the Jews
from a terrible enemy a few weeks prior, and was now murdered for standing up
for the honor of G‑d and His servant Moses, would end his story here at this
all-time low.
But there is a postscript to Hur’s story. The Torah tells us that when it came time to build the Tabernacle, G‑d told Moses to appoint an architect for this endeavor. The name of this young architect? Bezalel, son of Uri, son of Hur.(5) The honor to build the home for G‑d was given to the grandson of he who stood up to sanctify G‑d’s name.
Meaning of the Name
The Ohr Hachaim (6) offers an insight into the name Hur. Hur (Chur) shares the same root word as chorin, “freedom.” He explains that it was only through building the Tabernacle that the Jews were finally freed from the blemish of their sins at the Golden Calf. Building a home for G‑d was their rectification of the sinful behavior that pushed G‑d away from them.
In other words, Betzalel, grandson of Hur, provided the Jews
with the freedom from their sins that
included killing his grandfather.
Hur, the lover of Jews(7) and defender of the faith, must have been deeply proud that the honor of G‑d and the unity of His people has been restored, thanks to his own grandson.
Thus, Hur’s story ends not with tragedy, but with forgiveness and redemption.
The ship set sail with over 900 Jewish refugees and was rebuffed by the United States and Canada.
During World War I, Max Loewe was a hero fighting for his country Germany and earning the coveted Iron Cross. Twenty years later, like Jews across Germany, he found himself in a very different country. Under Nazism, Jews were barred from virtually all professions and forbidden even to set foot into many public spaces.
In 1937 German authorities had built the notorious Buchenwald concentration camp near the picturesque German town of Weimar. At first primarily political dissenters found themselves imprisoned there, and in 1939 Jews began to be sent to the prison camp where they received brutal, often fatal, treatment at the hands of sadistic guards. Max Loewe was one of the many thousands of Jews sent to Buchenwald. He was beaten so severely by guards that afterwards he walked with a pronounced limp.
Max was released from Buchenwald and he and his wife desperately tried to find a way out of Germany. By 1939, only wealthy Jews could leave: they had to pay a steep fee to leave the country, and high payments to other countries that might be willing to offer visas to let them in.
Many Jews yearned to go to America but the 1924 Immigration Act set firm limits on the number of immigrants who could be admitted annually. In 1939, the number from Germany was 27,370, and it was filled almost immediately. Public sentiment in the United States was firmly against letting in Jewish refugees. A Gallup poll taken in November 1938, two weeks after Kristallnacht asked Americans “Should we allow a larger number of Jewish exiles from Germany to come to the United States to live?” 72% answered no.
Other countries also refused to take in large numbers of desperate refugees. In Britain, the notorious 1939 White Paper limited Jewish immigration to Palestine to just 75,000 over five years. One by one, the nations of the world shut their doors against the Jews.
One marked exception was Cuba. The island nation allowed tourists to visit without a visa. Cuba’s corrupt director of immigration, Manuel Benitez, however, began issue “landing permits” to visitors that looked like visas. It was a money-maker for him and gave assurance to hundreds of desperate Jews that Cuba would allow them to visit, escaping the horrors of Nazi Germany. Max Loewe was one of the many Jews to obtain one of these so-called “Benitez visas”.
Hundreds of other Jews were allowed to leave Germany on the condition that they pledged never to return. They agreed to draconian terms that if they were ever to come back to Nazi Germany, the would be thrown into a concentration camp once more.
Over 900 Jews, including Loewe and his wife, booked passage on the cruise ship MS St. Louis, departing from Hamburg in Germany and destined for Havana. The ship was a luxury liner but virtually none of its passengers were taking a vacation. Virtually all of the 937 passengers on board were Jewish refugees. On May 13, 1939, the ship set sail with great fanfare. A band played and friends and relatives lined the shore, waving goodbye. The passengers watched as their homeland became a small dot on the horizon.
Before setting sail, Captain Gustav Schroder called a meeting with his 231-member crew, explaining that the passengers were all paying guests and were to be treated with the utmost dignity, even though they were Jews. He ordered the large portrait of Adolf Hitler taken down from the ship’s Grand Salon so that his Jewish guests would feel more comfortable.
That night, Cpt. Schroder recorded in his diary: “There is a somewhat nervous disposition among the passengers… Despite this, everyone seems convinced they will never see Germany again. Touching departure scenes have taken place. Many seem light of heart, having left their homes. Others take it heavily. But beautiful weather, pure sea air, good food, and attentive service will soon provide the usual worry-free atmosphere of long sea voyages. Painful impressions on land disappear quickly at sea and soon seem merely like dreams.”
For two weeks, the passengers enjoyed the sensation of freedom that had eluded them so long back in Germany. Alice Oster, who was in her 20s during the journey, recalled the thrill of hearing an orchestra play Strauss, something denied to Jews in Germany.
They didn’t yet realize that the “Benitez visas” that virtually all of the St. Louis’ passengers held were worthless.
Unbeknownst to the Jewish passengers, anti-immigrant and anti-Jewish feeling was running high in Cuba, and the authorities were under intense pressure to stop allowing Jewish refugees to settle in the island. An anti-Jewish rally in May drew 40,000 Cubans, the largest crowd ever assembled in the country. On May 5, eight days before the St. Louis even set sail, Cuba’s President Frederico Laredo Bru stopped honoring Benitez’s landing rights. They didn’t yet realize that the “Benitez visas” that virtually all of the St. Louis’ passengers held were worthless.
Early in the morning on May 27, 1939, bells rang out on the St. Louis alerting passengers that they’d arrived in Cuba. At first, nobody was worried about the fact that instead of pulling up to a dock, the ship was anchored in the middle of the harbor. By afternoon, however, Cuban police officers stood guard at the harbors piers and the passengers began to realize something was horribly wrong.
Later on, Cuban officials boarded the ship and marked the refugees’ passports with a big “R” for return. The passengers panicked. Many had relatives already living in Cuba and their worried friends and relations chartered boats to come up to the St. Louis so they could shout messages at the passengers trapped on board. Four Spanish citizens and two Cubans were allowed off, as well as 22 Jews who had full Cuban visas enabling them to settle permanently on the island. For the over 900 Jews without the right papers, Cuba seemed like a distant dream.
Liesl Joseph Loeb, who travelled on the St. Louis as a child, later recalled the passengers’ despair: “At the time we were in the harbor of Havana and things just weren’t moving along. We had some suicide attempts, and there was near panic on board because…many of the men all had to sign they would never return to Germany and if we had returned to Germany, the only place where we would have ended up was in a concentration camp because we had no homes left. We had no money left and we had nothing left… The world just didn’t care.”
One of those passengers contemplating suicide rather than go back to Germany was Max Loewe. On the night of May 30, 1939, while the St. Louis was still docked in Havana’s harbor, he slit his wrists then jumped overboard. Miraculously, he was fished out of the water by another passenger who jumped in after him and was rushed to the Calixto Garcia Hospital in Havana, the only visa-less Jew to reach Cuban soil.
A group of passengers formed a committee to negotiate with the Cuban authorities, and a representative of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee travelled to Havana to offer President Bru funds if he would take in the refugees. For a while, it seemed that Bru might accept money in exchange for the Jews. The Joint Distribution Committee had offered $125,000 to accept the Jews. President Bru insisted he wanted four times that, then broke off negotiations abruptly, declaring he would not allow the refugees to disembark.
Cpt. Schroder didn’t want to give up. Instead of steering his ship back towards Germany, he headed north, to Florida. He anchored off the coast of Miami, hoping that negotiations could continue and that America would agree to take in his passengers.
The St. Louis passengers went into action. The ship’s children mailed stacks of letters to First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt begging her to take them in. The adult passengers sent a telegram to President Roosevelt reading “Most urgently repeat plea for help for the passengers of the St. Louis. Mr. President help the nine hundred passengers among them over four hundred women and children.”
American newspapers covered the plight of the St. Louis extensively. Many noted that the ship was running low on food and water. Hollywood stars sent telegrams to Pres. Roosevelt urging him to accept the refugees, to no avail. The only official response from the US Government was to send Coast Guard ships and airplanes to follow the St. Louis to make sure it didn’t make landfall.
Cpt. Schroder continued to try and find local islands in which to dock, but his search proved fruitless. For a while it seemed that the St. Louis might be allowed into the Dominican Republic, or into an island off the coast of Cuba. But he was never given permission and finally, on June 7, he started travelling – slowly and circuitously to prolong his journey – back to Germany.
The Joint Distribution Committee continued to work feverishly to prevent the passengers from returning to Germany. On June 13, with the St. Louis still at sea, they announced a deal. The Committee had pledged $500,000 to four countries, and in return the Governments of Britain, France, the Netherlands, and Belgium agreed to take in the refugees. The ship was nearly back in Europe, and the passengers felt they’d had a sudden reprieve from near-certain death. Instead of Nazi Germany, they would surely now be able to build new lives elsewhere. On July 17, the St. Louis docked in Antwerp; from there the passengers were sent to their new homes.
England agreed to take in 287 refugees. One of these was Max Loewe; once he’d recovered enough to travel, he was forced to leave Cuba and moved to Britain. France took in 224 passengers, Belgium took in 214 and the Netherlands took 181. The refugees had no way of knowing that soon most of these countries would be part of the Third Reich and their Jewish communities destroyed.
The passengers of the St. Louis weren’t entirely typical of European Jews, and their survival rate was higher than for many of their compatriots. Many had relatives abroad and some were able to receive visas to other countries. 87 of the original passengers were able to emigrate out of Europe before Germany took over most of the continent in 1940. Virtually all of the passengers resettled in Britain survived the war, and they were aided by the American Joint Distribution Committee financially so they did not become a burden on the state. However the passengers forced to live in France, the Netherlands and Belgium faced the full fury of the Nazi killing machine. 254 St. Louis passengers were murdered in the Holocaust, most in Auschwitz and Sobibor.
My grandfather lived in Vienna and was only able to escape Nazi Europe after going into hiding in 1940. He was in Germany in July 1939 when the St. Louis was forced to return to Europe and he always used to tell me that was the worst day of his life. He listened to Hitler on the radio, ranting and raving that it wasn’t just him, it wasn’t only Nazis, who hated Jews. “See, the whole world hates the Jews” my grandfather recalled Hitler screaming.
Knowing that the St. Louis with its cargo of over 900 Jews had been rebuffed, not only by Cuba and the Dominican Republic, but by the United States as well, my grandfather, for the first time, felt that the whole world was indeed turning its back on Europe’s Jews.
I prefer the biblical views on
joining the People of Israel over the “gate keeping” rules rabbis came up with
1900 years ago.
Before the catastrophic Jewish uprisings against the Romans in last part of the 1st Century and first half of the 2nd Century C.E., we Jews had a rather relaxed and informal way of welcoming those who would join us. Ruth and Jethro’s simple declarations of faith and loyalty to the God of Israel were enough to be regarded as the paradigmatic converts.
Those who would join us were
accepted among without the interrogation of rabbinic court panels and
compulsory naked immersion in a miqveh or other natural body of water in the
presence of 2 witnesses, compelled circumcision, or the ritual of drawing a drop
from a circumcised penis to symbolically reenact the Brit Milah – all
post-biblical requirements of the rabbis.
It has been argued that the rabbis formalized conversion to the “religion of Moses and Israel” as way of restricting access to Gentile followers of Paul who taught that you could be a spiritual “Child of Abraham” without adhering to the bulk of Jewish law. Others put forward the idea that these barriers were erected to filter out Roman spies.
In any event, like many other
aspects of Jewish life after the failed revolts and the destruction of the
Temple and its sacrificial cult, there was a sea change in the approach to what
it meant to be a Jew. Rules and regulations took the place of bringing pious
offerings as the rabbis supplanted the Kohanim, our sacred priesthood
that claimed descendance from Aaron, the bother of Moses.
Before those rabbis erected their barriers, those who came to be part of us were called Gerim(sojourners). They were expected to put away their idols, accept the God of Israel, and conform to the customs and practices of the People of Israel. Gentile women who married Jewish men were de facto regarded as Jews. Gentile men had to agree to be circumcised, although there was no rabbinic court overseeing it or any other aspect of their assimilation into our people. Children of Jewish men and Gentile women were considered Jewish, in some measure because their mothers were now considered Jewish by marriage.
There apparently was also a category besides Gerim called Nilvim– those who “accompany” us in the “Way of the Lord.”They did not have to be married to Jews, nor did the males require circumcision. The Book of Isaiah refers to them:
“Also the sons of the foreigner, Who join themselves to the Lord, to serve Him, And to love the name of the Lord, to be His servants—Everyone who keeps from defiling the Sabbath, And holds fast to My covenant. Even them I will bring to My holy mountain, And make them joyful in My house of prayer. Their burnt offerings and their sacrifices Will be accepted on My altar; For My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations.”8 The Lord God, who gathers the outcasts of Israel, says, “Yet I will gather to him others besides those who are gathered to him.”(56:6-8)
In fact, sacrificial offerings were accepted from these Nilvim on the Temple altar in Jerusalem, and one of the areas of Temple was even called “The Courtyard of the Gentiles”.
In my synagogue we have some Gerim who elected to formally convert, and several wonderful Nilvim who faithfully join in prayer and study. I regard the process of becoming a “child of Israel” as a kind of naturalization – becoming familiar and comfortable in our ways and identifying with us rather than with any other religion, not having to jump through artificial hoops.
Frankly, it makes no sense whatsoever to me to count as one of us a “Jew by birth” who has no feeling for our heritage, does nothing to identify with us, and raises “Jewishly indifferent” children, while excluding those who have a passionate connection to the our people and our God, but don’t conform to the rules of atavistic rabbis. To me turning away those good people smacks of racism, where your biology is more important that your convictions. We all know who else thought that way in the 20th Century!
It’s no wonder so many “Millennials” regard being Jewish as ethnic rather than religious. That’s the same misbegotten thinking that is implicit in the classical rabbis’ “who is a Jew” rules that might have made sense in their day, but are irrelevant and even counterproductive in ours!
There was a time when the world understood the need for a Jewish state; somehow, it’s now up for debate
For 25 years of growing up in Israel, never have I imagined the existence of my state, or my state of being for that matter, becoming a topic of debate. Of course, I remember the stories of my grandparents living an entirely different reality than mine, but even to them, the State of Israel has always been an answer, and never once a question. And yet I find myself in 2019, approaching three years in the United States as a Jewish Agency Israel Fellow, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I have heard the phrase “Israel’s right to exist” being discussed. At times as an academic question, others as a historical debate; even as a theoretical exercise. Here in the United States, there is a certain privilege in having intellectual debates such as these. For me, there is nothing academic or debatable about any of it. To me, it’s simply home, and every time that question comes up, I can feel my foundation shake.
The Jewish Agency Israel Fellows program was envisioned and created in the early 2000s with the leadership of Natan Sharansky, both out of the increasing concern for Israel’s reputation on college campuses, and the notion that Jews of college age are straying away from Israel. The topic of Israel has become partisan, young Jews did not necessarily view Israel as the haven their parents and grandparents told them about, and the optics of the political situation in Israel were not making it any easier. In those days, we used to call Israel’s foreign affairs approach “Hasbara.” In simple terms, it means “Explaining.” Israel was out to explain to the world what was really going on. The way I see it, the need to explain came from two different approaches — one, is that the situation in Israel is always, as we like to say, complicated. Hence, by us explaining, showing the nuanced and “full” picture, Israel’s supporters were hoping to set the record straight and gain public support in the US and around the world. The other piece, and this is the interesting one, is our constant need to justify ourselves. Why did a sovereign country, which has been around for more than 50 years at the time, need to justify its existence? Maybe it is what the discussion has always really been about? Even today, 71 years since its establishment, people still grapple with the question of Israel’s mere existence. Israel’s critics aren’t just occupied with questions of morality, territory disputes or human rights issues — in the back of their minds, their well-articulated articles and their campus podium performances, there is forever a question much more basic than any of these complex issues — should Israel even exist?
In order to deal with this question, we find ourselves “explaining.” If we stop explaining, then it is not merely that we need to deal with the UN resolutions condemning Israel daily, the stabbing attacks in the streets, the entire world thinking it has the magic solution to the problem and “why can’t we all just get along.” If we stop “explaining,” we might lose our legitimacy to exist. When Israel was established in 1948, and although I’d be the first to say the Holocaust might have been an accelerator to the process but not the ignition, the world understood what it meant to not have a home for the Jewish people. The world may not have liked the idea of a Jewish state, but it understood its necessity. With Holocaust survivors seeking refuge all over the world, and a small core of Jews in the land of Israel pushing for sovereignty, it sure was not an easy claim to make, but at least most understood that it was time for the Jews to self-govern. Today, that same need has not changed one bit, but as criticism rises on policies in Israel and issues regarding the conflict (as justified as they may be), the question of Israel’s mere legitimacy is again rising, shamelessly even.
And how does all that feel to a 28-year-old Israeli, living in the US, working on college campuses every day in the field of Israel education? On one hand, I am relieved that we have stopped explaining. Explaining always felt a little insecure to me. Now we educate, we engage with Israel, we help American Jews and every American for that matter, to form their own nuanced and genuine relationship with Israel. We understand that relationships are the only thing strong enough to endure the constant criticism, questioning and turbulence these young American Jews will go through in their lifetime regarding Israel. And all of that is fine – I prepared myself for a rocky road, for difficult questions, for those who see things totally different than me. Those difficult conversations are actually my favorite, because they allow me to reconsider my own standings, challenge my perceptions, engage in a different outlook. But I could never be prepared for the discourse around “Israel’s right to exist.”
Jewish organizations such as IfNotNow remain intentionally ambiguous on the “question of statehood” (I, for one, didn’t realize my legal ID and identity were even a question). With those voices increasingly becoming louder and more dominant in the conversation around Israel in the US, something in me is cracking. For almost three years on college campuses in America I have seen it all — from speakers blatantly lying about Israel to a cheering crowd, through protests against “baby killing soldiers” like myself, and people, sometimes close to me, unable to recognize and empathize with Israelis being murdered because “you put yourself in that situation.” I, along with my fellow Jewish agency Israel Fellows, have found a way to separate our own feelings, and really be there as educators and facilitators in those difficult conversations. I have been doing that for so long that I was almost able to disconnect my “Israeliness” from it all. But when Natan Sharansky envisioned this program, not only was he seeking great educators or ones that can throw the most incredible Yom Ha’atzmaut parties; he wanted us to be first and foremost — Israelis.
As “Americanized” as I’ve become (meaning a little more politically correct and a little less hot blooded), there are still moments where my Israeli stomach is twisting and turning. Normally, I bite the bullet, choosing the high road that I know allows me to reach more students in my work, to have more of those difficult conversations. But there are fractions of moments where I have to just be Israeli. When the conversation, far too often, revolves around the question of Israel’s right to exist, it becomes personal, whether I like it or not. When articles in the most widely read American newspapers are published, calling to “speak out” against Israel, I’m sure their ivory tower doesn’t shake one bit, but the people they are talking about, like myself and my friends on Shlichut, feel invisible. Most of these articles, these catchy titles, this discourse on the “question of statehood,” may feel strictly political to those who engage and perpetuate it, but, on the ground, it is awfully personal.
Israel is the only home I have ever had, and to be honest, it is a great one. It has faults, wrongdoings, even some concerning political trends, but it is still my home. And for the past two and a half years, I have had a front row seat to the conversation around it here in the US. Somewhere along the way, the strong voices legitimately raising criticism of Israel and the conflict have stopped pushing for justified change, and started creating a dangerous conversation, suggesting that my home, my country, has no legitimacy.
The Jewish Agency sent me here to do an almost impossible job — to be an Israeli in America. To engage in political conversations with young passionate minds, to challenge them, and to challenge myself to see other perspectives; and yet, to always remain proud, to be fearless, to be Israeli. To balance those two approaches, I found myself often telling the Israeli in me to take a back seat, as ironic as that may seem. But as the world around me continues to entertain itself with the question of Israel’s right to exist, there’s nothing I am prouder to be than Israeli.
About the Author
Linor Stein is a 3rd year Jewish Agency Israel Fellow to Hillel. For 2 years Linor served as the Israel Fellow at Boston University Hillel, and now works at Georgetown University and Hillel International’s Israel Engagement Group. Linor was born in Ramat Gan, served as an intelligence officer for 6 years, and completed her B.A in Communications and Sociology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem before embarking on her Shlichut journey.
La porción de Tetzavé -según destacan los comentaristas – tiene una particularidad: es la única desde el comienzo de Shemot y hasta el final de Bamidbar que no contiene el nombre de Moisés. A raíz de esto, han surgido varias interpretaciones.
El Gaón de Vilna sugiere que esto se relaciona con el hecho de que, la mayoría de las veces, esta parte se lee durante la semana del siete de Adar, el día en que falleció Moisés. Durante esa semana, sentimos la pérdida del mayor líder judío, por lo que su ausencia en Tetzavé refleja dicha pérdida.
Baal Ha Turim lo relaciona con el pedido que Moisés le hace a Di-s para que perdone al pueblo de Israel. “Y si no les perdonas, ruégote me borres del libro que escribiste”, dice Moisés. Existe un principio que dice que “la maldición que profiere un sabio se hace realidad, incluso, si esta fue hipotética”. Por lo tanto, por una semana su nombre fue “borrado” de la Torá.
Paaneaj Raza lo vincula con otro principio que dice que “no existe enojo que no deje huella”. Cuando Moisés, por última vez, rechaza la invitación de Di-s a ser el líder del pueblo judío para conducirlo fuera de la tierra de Egipto y le dice: “Por favor, envía a alguien más”, Di-s “se enfureció con Moisés” y le dijo que su hermano Aarón lo acompañaría. Por esa razón, Moisés perdió el rol que podría haber tenido, el de ser el primer sacerdote de Israel. En cambio, ese rol le fue dado a su hermano Aarón. Por ese motivo es que no figura en Tetzavé, que está dedicada al rol del koen.
Estas tres explicaciones hacen foco en la ausencia. Sin embargo, quizá, la explicación más simple sea que Tetzavé está dedicada a una presencia, una que tuvo una influencia decisiva en el judaísmo y en su historia.
El judaísmo es inusual en tanto que no reconoce un único tipo de liderazgo, sino dos: el del navi y el del koen, el del profeta y el del sacerdote. La figura del profeta siempre ha capturado nuestra imaginación. Los profetas suelen ser personas llenas de dramatismo quienes “transmiten la verdad a los poderosos” sin miedo a enfrentarse a reyes y a tribunales ni siquiera a sociedades enteras en pos de ideales superiores (e incluso, utópicos). Ninguna otra personalidad religiosa ha tenido el impacto que tuvieron los profetas de Israel, de los cuales el más importante fue Moisés. Los sacerdotes, en contraposición, fueron figuras más pasivas, apolíticas, que servían en el santuario más que en el centro del debate político. Sin embargo, al igual que los profetas, mantenían la santidad del pueblo de Israel. De hecho, aunque Israel fue convocado a convertirse en “un reino de sacerdotes”, nunca fue llamado a ser un pueblo de profetas. (Moisés dijo: “Ojalá que todos en el pueblo de Di-s sean profetas”, pero este fue solo un deseo, no una realidad).
Por lo tanto, debemos considerar algunas de las diferencias entre los profetas y los sacerdotes:
El rol del sacerdote se transmitía como en una dinastía, de padre a hijo. El rol del profeta no se transmitía de esta manera. Moisés no fue sucedido por su hijo sino por Ioshúa, su discípulo.
El rol de sacerdote estaba relacionado con su oficio. No era personal o carismático por naturaleza. En contraposición, los profetas impartían sus mensajes con una impronta muy personal. “No hubo dos profetas con el mismo estilo”. (De hecho, este es el motivo por el cual sí hubo profetizas pero no sacerdotisas. Esto corresponde a la diferencia que existe entre el oficio formal y la autoridad personal).
Los sacerdotes usaban uniformes especiales, los profetas no.
Existen ciertas normas de kavod (respeto) hacia el koen, pero no hacia los profetas. A los profetas se los honraba escuchándolos, no por medio de algún protocolo formal de respeto.
A los sacerdotes se los apartaba del pueblo, servían en el Templo y no se permitía que fueran profanados. Existían restricciones respecto de con quiénes podían contraer matrimonio. Por su parte, los profetas solían ser parte del pueblo, algunos eran pastores, como Moisés o Amós, o granjeros, como Elisha. Hasta el momento en que tenían una visión o recibían un mensaje, no realizaban trabajos especiales ni pertenecían a una clase social diferente.
Los sacerdotes ofrecían sacrificios en silencio. Los profetas servían a Di-s por medio de la palabra.
Ambos vivían en modalidades de tiempo diferentes. Los sacerdotes se basaban en el tiempo cíclico, el día (o la semana o el mes) que es igual ayer o mañana. Los profetas vivían en el tiempo del pacto (algunas veces mal denominado lineal), un presente que es radicalmente distinto al ayer o al mañana. El servicio del sacerdote nunca cambiaba, a diferencia del servicio del profeta que estaba en constante cambio. Otra forma de expresar esto es decir que el sacerdote trabajaba para santificar la naturaleza, mientras que el profeta trabajaba en pos de la historia.
Por ende, los sacerdotes representaban la estructura principal de la vida judía, mientras que los profetas representaban la espontaneidad.
Las palabras clave en el vocabulario del koen son kodesh y jol, taor y tamei, sagrado, secular, puro e impuro. En el vocabulario de los profetas, las palabras clave son tzedek, mishpat, jesed y rajamim,rectitud y justicia, bondad y compasión.
Los principales verbos del sacerdocio son learot y leavdil, instruir y distinguir. La principal actividad de los profetas era proclamar “la palabra del Señ-r”. La diferencia entre la conciencia sacerdotal y la conciencia profética (torat koanim y torat nevi’im) es esencial para el judaísmo, y se ve reflejado en las diferencias entre ley y narrativa, halajá y hagadá, creación y redención. El sacerdote transmite la palabra de Di-s para todos los tiempos, el profeta lo hace para este tiempo. Pero sin los sacerdotes, los niños de Israel no se habrían convertido en el pueblo de la eternidad. Esto se encuentra resumido de una manera muy hermosa en los primeros versos de Tetzavé:
“Y ordenarás a los hijos de Israel que te traigan aceite de oliva puro para encender una luminaria permanente en el tabernáculo de reunión. Fuera del velo tendido delante del Testimonio, Aarón y sus hijos se encargarán de que esté siempre encendida ante el Eterno, desde la tarde hasta la mañana. Esto será ley perpetua para las generaciones de los hijos de Israel”.
Moisés, el profeta, es figura central en cuatro de los cinco libros que contiene su nombre. Pero en Tetzavé, por única vez, es Aarón, el primero de los sacerdotes, quien aparece como protagonista, sin verse disminuido por la presencia rival de su hermano. Aunque fue Moisés quien encendió el fuego en las almas de los integrantes del pueblo judío, fue Aarón quien tomó ese fuego y lo convirtió en “una llama eterna”.
Once hechos interesantes sobre las conexiones judías con este antiguo país.
Hoy día Siria aparece en muchos titulares. He aquí once hechos interesantes sobre las conexiones judías con este antiguo país.
1) Orígenes bíblicos
Los residentes de Alepo, la ciudad al norte de Siria que durante milenios fue hogar de una vibrante comunidad judía, remontan el origen de su ciudad al patriarca judío Abraham. Ellos aseguran que Abraham pastoreaba su rebaño por la zona y distribuía leche de oveja a los residentes locales.
La palabra hebrea para leche, jalav, se convirtió en el nombre del pueblo. (Tanto en árabe como en hebreo Alepo es conocida como Jalab).
2) Siria en la Torá
En la antigüedad, Siria fue un importante socio comercial de Israel. Damasco, la actual capital, era un oasis de descanso en las rutas comerciales entre Mesopotamia e Israel. Los judíos estuvieron en Siria desde los tiempos del Rey David, cuando conquistaron Damasco y por un breve tiempo nombraron gobernadores sobre la ciudad (Samuel II 8:5-6).
Durante el reinado del rey judío Ajab, un rey de Siria llamado Ben Hadad luchó contra el Reinado de Iehudá. Dios ayudó al rey Ajab y al ejército judío y prevalecieron. Posteriormente Ben Hadad renunció a su dominio sobre las ciudades judías y permitió que los judíos comerciaran en Damasco: “Las ciudades que mi padre tomó de tu padre, te las devolveré; y tú podrás controlar los mercados en Damasco, tal como mi padre lo hizo en Samaria” (I ReyesI20:34).
3) Vida judía
Por encontrarse adyacente al antiguo Reino de Israel, los judíos vivieron en Siria desde tiempos antiguos. Un residente judío destacado fue Iehudá HaNasí, famoso por haber redactado la Mishná. Él poseía terrenos cerca de lo que hoy día es Damasco. La Mishná menciona muchas ciudades sirias en las cuales habitaron judíos, incluyendo Kefar Karinos, Rom, Aratris y Bet Anat.
Maimónides, el gran rabino medieval, cita a la comunidad judía de Alepo como una de las comunidades judías más espirituales y dinámicas de la Tierra de Israel: “En toda la Tierra Santa y en Siria, hay una sola ciudad y es Jalab (Alepo) en donde hay quienes son verdaderamente devotos de la religión judía y del estudio de la Torá”. (Igrot Uteshuvot Rambam, Epstein Publishing, Jerusalem, 5714, pág. 69). La monumental obra filosófica del Rambam, La guía de los perplejos, fue escrita en forma de correspondencia con un rabino sirio, Iosef ben Iehudá ibn Shimón.
4) La inquisición española
Cuando el rey Fernando de España expulsó de su país a la comunidad judía, el sultán del Imperio Otomano, Beyazid II, envió sus barcos para traer a los judíos a tierras otomanas. “¿Acaso alguien puede decir que este rey sea sabio e inteligente?”, preguntó respecto al rey Fernando. “¡Él empobrece a su país y enriquece mi reinado!”.
Los judíos de España llegaron en cantidades a las antiguas comunidades judías de Siria. Durante algunas generaciones, los recién llegados mantuvieron una cultura distintiva y hablaron ladino en vez del árabe local. Pero a mediados del siglo XVIII los judíos de España ya se habían mezclado con el resto de las comunidades judías de Siria.
5) El famoso Códice de Alepo
A comienzos de la Edad Media, un escriba judío llamado Ben Asher copió laboriosamente a mano la Torá y otros manuscritos sobre pergamino, luego los unió e hizo un códice, una forma primigenia de libro. A diferencia de los rollos de la Torá, este códice contenía puntuación, vocales y notas musicales, por lo que era especialmente valioso para los eruditos que trataban de entender los textos judíos claves.
Cuando en 1099 los cruzados saquearon Jerusalem y asesinaron a sus habitantes, un cruzado cristiano registró la escena que vio cerca del Muro Occidental, “donde hubo tal masacre que la sangre de los enemigos le llegaba a nuestros hombres hasta los tobillos”. Uno de los tesoros que se llevaron de la ciudad para pedir rescate (junto con los líderes judíos) fue el códice.
Eventualmente los judíos les compraron el códice a los cristianos. En 1375 lo llevaron a Alepo, uno de los mayores centros de estudio de Torá, y lo depositaron en la Gran Sinagoga. Allí el códice adquirió una importancia casi mística. La gente viajaba para rezar cerca de él, e incluso llegaron a decir que si el códice alguna vez partía de Alepo dejaría de existir allí la comunidad judía.
Quinientos años más tarde esa profecía comenzó a volverse realidad. En 1947, cuando la ONU votó a favor de la creación de un estado judío en la Tierra de Israel, los árabes se sublevaron alentados por los oficiales del gobierno, atacaron a la comunidad judía de Alepo, asesinaron multitudes e incendiaron muchos edificios, incluyendo la Gran Sinagoga. El códice desapareció. Lo sacaron de contrabando de Siria y lo llevaron a Israel. El códice reapareció en 1958 en Jerusalem, pero le faltaban alrededor de 200 páginas. Se supone que algunas de esas páginas se encuentran en manos de judíos sirios que las consideran objetos sagrados; algunas pueden haber sido vendidas en el mercado negro. El resto del Códice de Alepo se encuentra hoy en día en el Museo de Israel en Jerusalem.
6) El líbelo de sangre de Damasco
Conocido durante mucho tiempo en Europa, el infame líbelo de sangre (la mentira de que los judíos matan cristianos para usar su sangre al hornear matzot) se difundió a una tierra fuera de Europa por primera vez en 1840, cuando un fray franciscano y su sirviente desaparecieron en Damasco.
Los oficiales sirios, en ese momento bajo el gobierno de las autoridades coloniales francesas, arrestaron y torturaron a varios judíos destacados. Dos judíos murieron en prisión y uno aceptó convertirse al islam para salvar su vida. El presidente norteamericano Martin Van Buren se horrorizó tanto por el uso de la tortura, que su secretario de estado aseguró que “no pudo evitar expresar su sorpresa y dolor respecto a que en esta época avanzada se acuda a medidas tan bárbaras para obligar la confesión de los imputados”.
7) El crecimiento del antisemitismo
Como recién mencionamos, en diciembre de 1947, cuando la ONU votó a favor de la partición de Palestina en dos naciones y el establecimiento de un estado judío por primera vez en dos mil años, los residentes musulmanes de Alepo se levantaron contra sus vecinos judíos con un frenesí asesino. Alentados por los oficiales del gobierno, asesinaron a decenas de judíos e incendiaron muchos edificios, entre ellos la famosa Gran Sinagoga de Alepo.
El escritor Matti Friedman entrevistó a un sobreviviente del pogromo: “Del exterior se oían aullidos de furia. Alguien gritaba que los judíos de Palestina estaban arrancando a los bebés musulmanes de los vientres de sus madres”. Sus padres construyeron barricadas para proteger a la familia en la habitación principal de la casa… Cuando la muchedumbre llegó a la puerta, el niño se escapó descalzo por una ventana… Después de apropiarse de los bienes valiosos de la familia, usaron el kerosene y el carbón que sus padres guardaban para el invierno y prendieron fuego al edificio. (Tomado de The Aleppo Codex, por Matti Friedman, Algonquin Books, 2012).
El antisemitismo continuó intensificándose en Siria y los judíos comenzaron a huir, principalmente hacia Israel y los Estados Unidos. De los 40.000 judíos que había en el país en 1947, en 1967 sólo quedaban unos pocos miles.
8) Espía en Damasco
En los años 60, uno de los hombres más apuestos de Damasco era Kamal Amin Taabet, un sirio que había vivido en Argentina y que cultivó conexiones y amigos en los más altos niveles del nuevo gobierno baathista de Siria.
En realidad, Kamal era Eli Cohen, un espía israelí, cuya esposa, Nadia, lo esperaba de regreso en Israel. Él nació en Egipto, hijo de padres sirios judíos, llegó a Israel siendo un niño. Eli se ofreció voluntariamente para trabajar encubierto en Siria, a pesar del gran peligro involucrado.
Eli Cohen en las alturas del Golán con personal militar sirio
Una de las grandes amenazas a Israel en ese momento era la determinación de Siria de desviar el agua del río Jordán, privando a Israel de una de sus principales fuentes de agua. Las tropas sirias también utilizaban las elevadas montañas del Golán para disparar hacia los pueblos y las granjas israelíes. Eli Cohen proveyó a Israel importante información de inteligencia sobre ambos temas. Después de usar sus contactos para procurar un tour por las alturas del Golán, Eli sugirió que las tropas sirias plantaran árboles en sus bases militares para proveer sombra y refugio. Posteriormente Israel logró localizar la ubicación exacta de las bases militares gracias a esos árboles.
En 1965 Eli Cohen fue descubierto enviando un mensaje secreto por radio a Israel. Lo arrestaron, lo torturaron y lo ejecutaron en público. Siria continúa negándose a devolver su cuerpo, aunque a finales del 2016 emitieron por primera vez un video de su ejecución y lo publicaron en una página de Facebook llamada “Tesoros artísticos de Siria”.
9) Los judíos sirios-norteamericanos rescatan a sus hermanos
En 1989, cuando miles de judíos sirios estaban atrapados en Siria y enfrentaban un antisemitismo brutal, un grupo de judíos sirios-norteamericanos formaron el Consejo para el Rescate de los Judíos Sirios, dirigido por la abogada de Nueva York, Alice Harary Sardell. Entre 1989 y 1995, el Consejo presionó intensamente a políticos y diplomáticos norteamericanos y extranjeros; estos trabajaron para difundir el sufrimiento de los judíos sirios a una audiencia más amplia. “Necesitamos dar a conocer al mundo el sufrimiento de los judíos sirios”, explicó Clement Soffer, vicepresidente del Consejo.
El Consejo publicó páginas enteras en el New York Times y el Washington Post pidiendo que Siria “Deje salir a mi pueblo”. Fervientemente participaron en entrevistas de radio y televisión. Ayudaron a organizar demostraciones simultáneas en Londres, París, Roma y Sídney, exigiendo que los judíos de Siria pudieran salir.
Finalmente, el 27 de abril de 1992, Siria anunció que anulaba las restricciones de viaje para los judíos que desearan partir. El banquero sirio brasilero, Edmond Safra, pagó tres millones de dólares en pasajes aéreos para 4.500 judíos sirios, y varias agencias judías, incluyendo el Consejo para el Rescate de los Judíos Sirios, ayudaron a arreglar y financiar su establecimiento en Brooklyn, New York. Clement Soffer explicó que “si hubieran permanecido en Siria, probablemente los habrían asesinado”.
10) La abuela canadiense que rescató a judíos sirios
Judy Feld Carr era una música judía ashkenazí común y corriente que vivía en Toronto con su esposo cuando oyó por primera vez hablar sobre el intenso antisemitismo que enfrentaban los judíos sirios y las dificultades que tenía la comunidad judía para escapar luego de que el partido antisionista Baath llegara al poder en 1963. En ese momento, pocos judíos se ocupaban de ayudar a los judíos sirios; la mayor parte de la atención institucional estaba dirigida en cambio a la comunidad judía soviética.
A pesar de que Judy no era siria y de no vivir en Nueva York, donde era activo el Consejo para el Rescate de los Judíos Sirios, ella y su esposo Ronald se pusieron en contacto con una sinagoga en Damasco y comenzaron a enviar artículos religiosos para ayudar a la comunidad judía. En 1975 una amiga de Judy regresó a Alepo para visitar a su hermano. Su amiga fue detenida brevemente en una prisión siria y eventualmente regresó a Toronto con una carta de la comunidad judía que había logrado sacar de contrabando. “Era una carta como las que sólo se encuentran en tiempos del holocausto”, explicó Judy Feld Carr. “Era una carta escrita por tres rabinos de Alepo y decía algo así como: ‘Nuestros hijos son sus hijos. ¡Sáquennos de aquí!’”.
Judy comenzó a reunir fondos en su sinagoga en Toronto y en la comunidad judía, y logró juntar dinero para sobornar a oficiales para que permitieran salir a un judío de Siria. Este judío había estado preso y lo habían torturado en Siria después de que sus hijos intentaran huir del país. Como sufría de cáncer, lo internaron en el hospital Monte Sinaí de Toronto. Le quedaba sólo un último pedido: quería ver a su madre anciana y enferma, que vivía en Israel. “Luego podré morir en Israel”, explicó. Judy lo llevó a Israel. El día antes de su muerte, Judy fue a visitarlo. Él le suplicó que ayudara a escapar a una de sus hijas. Para honrar el deseo de un hombre moribundo, Judy le prometió que lo haría, y efectivamente ayudó a escapar de Siria a la joven de 19 años que se casó y construyó una familia en Israel.
“Ese fue el comienzo de los rescates”, explicó posteriormente Judy Feld Carr. Uno por uno, financiados por la Fundación Dr. Ronald Feld para los judíos en tierras árabes en la sinagoga Bet Tzedek de Toronto, Judy organizó el escape de “exactamente 3.228 judíos, de a uno por vez” durante los siguientes 28 años.
En el año 2012, Judy le dijo a The Times of Israel: “Debemos enfrentarlo. Yo soy una madre que vive en Toronto, no soy una experta en maniobras de rescate en el extranjero… Eso no tiene nada que ver con mi antigua profesión ni con ser la madre de seis hijos”. Judy nunca visitó Siria y durante años operó en secreto, sometiéndose a un terrible peligro, porque las fuerzas de seguridad sirias habían descubierto su identidad. Su esfuerzo sólo fue reconocido en los años 90.
En 1995, Itzjak Rabin, que en ese momento era Primer Ministro de Israel, le escribió a esta abuela de Toronto: “Las palabras no pueden expresar mi gratitud por los 23 años de arduo y riesgoso trabajo. Muy pocas personas —si es que hay alguna— han contribuido tanto como usted. Los judíos de Siria que fueron rescatados y el Estado de Israel le deben mucho y nunca serán capaces de recompensarla como se lo merece”.
11) La ayuda actual a los refugiados sirios
Desde el comienzo de la Guerra Civil en Siria en el 2013, más de 2.000 sirios entraron ilegalmente a Israel para recibir tratamiento médico que les salvó la vida. El Centro Médico Ziv en Tzefad trató a más de 800 sirios heridos, convirtiéndose en uno de los mayores centros de tratamiento para sirios en el mundo. Siria se mantiene formalmente en guerra con Israel y se niega a reconocer al estado judío. Cuando los sirios que son tratados en Israel regresan a Siria, no pueden contar en dónde estuvieron. El personal médico israelí quita toda escritura en hebreo de los medicamentos y de los equipos para proteger a los pacientes sirios.
Los israelíes también ayudan a los sirios de otras formas.
El empresario israelí Moti Kahana invirtió más de 2,2 millones de dólares de su propio dinero para enviar ayuda humanitaria al sur de Siria. Él fundó Amaliah, que en hebreo significa “trabajo de Dios”, una organización que ayuda a coordinar voluntarios israelíes y al ejército israelí para enviar medicinas, agua potable y material educativo a Siria. Amaliah también ayuda a traer sirios a los hospitales israelíes y organiza talleres de fortalecimiento para mujeres sirias. En septiembre de 2016, cuando la ONU consideró que era demasiado peligroso llevar ayuda de emergencia a Siria durante el festival musulmán de Eid, Amaliah trabajó con las Fuerzas de Defensa de Israel para transportar una tonelada de carne al país.
Otra organización israelí, “Operación Brote de Esperanza” junta dinero a través de campañas públicas para ayudar a los refugiados sirios que están anclados en Europa. Fundada por el israelí Shajar Zahavi, la “Operación Brote de Esperanza” estableció cincuenta centros de recolección en Israel, donde se reunió más de una tonelada y media de productos invernales para los refugiados, incluyendo abrigos, pulóveres, botas, medias, frazadas y bolsas de dormir.
La organización humanitaria israelí Israel Flying Aid (IFA) opera en Siria desde el 2011, entrenando y equipando a casi 2.000 de los famosos “cascos blancos”: voluntarios que efectúan búsquedas y misiones de rescate entre los escombros de la letal guerra en Siria. IFA también entrenó a 22 médicos y a muchos técnicos médicos. Durante años, los voluntarios de IFA trabajaron en Siria sin revelar su identidad israelí. Gal Lusky, fundadora y directora general de IFA, recuerda que cuando sus colegas descubrieron que ella era israelí, uno de sus colegas sirios se puso de pie y declaró: “Ahora lo entiendo. Tú no eres mi amiga. Eres mi enemiga. Después de Assad iremos por ti”. A pesar de esos sentimientos, los voluntarios israelíes de IFA continúan proveyendo ayuda vital a los sirios.
Llegar a una edad madura, cumplir más años y tener una larga vida, no es una tragedia, es un privilegio desperdiciado por la sociedad moderna.
La falsedad más grande que hay es sentirse viejo y creer que la edad avanzada es el sinónimo de llegar al final de la vida y entrar en la época de extinción. Pareciera ser que encontrar trabajo en muchas empresas después de los cincuenta es prácticamente imposible. Existe la creencia que a los sesenta años uno se tiene que retirar, y desde luego, los setenta u ochenta… ya es un anciano deteriorado. Cuando en realidad la calidad de vida ha mejorado a tal manera, que hoy las personas fácilmente pueden vivir hasta los 90 o incluso 100 años.
Entonces ¿quién es la persona considerada vieja? La persona que pierde el interés por la vida, que deja de soñar y de sonreír a cada día, la persona que ya no tiene ilusiones y que deja de creer que la vida todavía tiene más. Una persona que se enoja, se irrita y se pelea con el mundo, esa es la persona que ha envejecido. Una persona vieja es la que piensa que ya terminó su jornada y que no tiene nada más que aportar.
El cansancio y la edad no generan gran impacto en el alma; la calidad de vida espiritual, sí. La paciencia, bondad, la fuerza de voluntad, el amor, la armonía y la curiosidad son atributos que nunca envejecen.
Existen personas de 80 años que son “jóvenes” y personas “ancianas” a los 30 años. El tiempo no es el único factor responsable que causa enfermedades o deterioro físico y emocional. El miedo a vivir en plenitud y la actitud negativa es lo que daña y arranca la vida, lastimando la mente y el cuerpo.
Si bien la naturaleza y el paso del tiempo biológico hacen que la persona disminuya su actividad física, esta misma condición permite que la persona madure y sea capaz de disfrutar de cuestiones que la calma y la tranquilidad ofrecen. Afinar los sentidos y perfeccionar la claridad mental con el fin de poder captar y disfrutar la esencia y la verdad de la vida.
Cada uno es tan joven o viejo como se quiera sentir. La edad radica en la actitud y en la forma de vivir. Las dietas y todos los tratamientos para permanecer joven no regresan los años, pero el hecho de percibirse como una persona joven y saludable, rejuvenece la energía y la juventud en el alma resurge.
El secreto para gozar de la eterna juventud es amar con sinceridad, sentir alegría por la vida, tener paz interior y sobre todo reír diariamente encontrando el gusto por lo que se hace.
La batalla por preservar los años no es la que le regala vida a la gente, pero la sabiduría, la generosidad y la luz que uno irradia mantienen el espíritu joven y fuerte.
La receta: Manantial de la juventud
Ingredientes
Generosidad – amabilidad, gentileza, cortesía, con gusto por vivir.
Alegría – entusiasmo, felicidad interna, satisfacción y gratitud.
Respeto – reconocer el valor de lo que se es, se tiene y de los demás.
Paciencia – perspectiva y sabiduría para aceptar la vida como es.
Conciencia – aceptar la magnitud del mundo, vivir el presente en plenitud.
Afirmación positiva
Agradezco la oportunidad de este nuevo día. Tengo la fortuna para poder disfrutar este día. Amo la vida y encuentro nuevos retos para conquistar. Acepto mi edad con gratitud y reconozco la bendición que tengo por vivir más, por entender mejor y por ver con claridad todo lo que sucede. La felicidad, la alegría, la paz interior, la fuerza de voluntad y las buenas acciones son cualidades que nunca envejecen.
Como conservar la juventud
La edad tiene su propio encanto, belleza y valor. Reconocer el valor de la edad y de la vida incrementa la magia de ser jovial y encontrar razones para vivir y disfrutar lo que se tiene.
Eres tan joven como te sientes. La actitud y la manera de actuar determinan tu edad no los años que tienes. Los pensamientos positivos fortalecen el alma y rejuvenecen el sentido de la vida.
La mente nunca envejece. Cuando uno tiene una visión jovial y activa, la vida se convierte en un reto estimulante y las personas que te rodean se benefician de tu presencia, tu experiencia y tu conocimiento.
“La edad no sólo es una suma de los años vividos, sino también es la cosecha de sabiduría obtenida a través del tiempo que se tiene”.
Ten Questions for Rabbi Cardozo by Rav Ari Ze’ev Schwartz
Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo
Question 5
Your writings are filled with references to many great religious and philosophical thinkers. Two recurring names in your writings are the Kotzker Rebbe and Baruch Spinoza. Can you share a little about what these two thinkers mean to you? What have they, in their own ways, taught you about life?
Nathan Lopes Cardozo: It would be too much to say that I was “raised on the knees” of Spinoza, but it’s definitely true that my father was a great admirer of his and often spoke about him and his teachings. I’m not sure if he understood Spinoza or just used some of his ideas to justify his own secular life style. My father had all of his major works in Dutch and many other introductions to Spinoza’s philosophy. I read them all as a youngster, although some were really over my head.
There are two reasons why as a child I was attracted to Spinoza. First of all, he was a member of the Portuguese Spanish Jewish Community in Amsterdam. This is the very community of which my father was a member, as were all my ancestors since my family came to Holland via Portugal and Italy about 150 years after the Spanish Inquisition (1492). My father always spoke about this community and was extremely proud of it, although he was not an active member. (Remember, my father was in a mixed marriage!)
Secondly, I was intrigued by the fact that Spinoza had been expelled by this community at a young age, when his ideas about God and Tanach became somewhat known (a long story, which I have spoken and written about in great length). This is the gravest and most notorious ban in all of Jewish history. In fact, it probably made Spinoza more famous than his actual philosophy did. While some people claim that Spinoza was the greatest of all philosophers in the seventeenth century, I greatly doubt it. But that’s a discussion for another time. Three years ago, while participating in a forum of major international Spinoza experts at the University of Amsterdam, I pleaded to revoke the ban, but to no avail. (This, again, is a long story, which I have written and spoken about.)
I found it most painful that somebody was banned for speaking his mind. After all, a ban is an expression of fear and is in fact very un-Jewish.
I wondered what this story was all about, so I started reading about his life and philosophy. In no time, I was completely absorbed in this. I drew closer and closer to his personality and his thoughts; and so, paradoxically, I was indirectly introduced to Judaism. After all, Spinoza is probably the most severe critic of Judaism and often wrote about it. In short, I started to look into Judaism to discover why he so strongly objected to its beliefs and practices. While I became more and more convinced of his supreme mind, I realized that he was misrepresenting Judaism—sometimes due to ignorance, but also deliberately. While he was well-versed in Tenach, he had very little knowledge of Jewish Tradition! This was not a fair game, and it involved double standards, especially when you compare his observations on Judaism with those he made about (liberal) Christianity, which were much less critical and sometimes even flattering. (See Emil Fackenheim: To Mend the World: Foundations of FutureJewish Thought, Schocken Books, New York, 1982, chap. 2; and David Hartman, Joy and Responsibility, Ben-Zvi-Posner (Publishers) Ltd., Jerusalem, in cooperation with the Shalom Hartman Institute, Jerusalem, 1978, chap. 5)
I believe something else was going on in me subconsciously. However much I realized that Spinoza was not as truthful as he wanted his readers to believe, I had a weak spot for him because of the way he was treated. Since my childhood, I abhor close-mindedness and attempts to use power in order to silence somebody. Clearly, it was my father who instilled this in me. But Dutch society at large, which has always been very liberal, also played a role. This is why in the seventeenth century, unlike almost any other country in Europe, it allowed Jews to come and live in the Dutch republic and practice their religion more or less openly. Many works of so-called heresy, which could not be published in any other country, were published in Amsterdam in the same and later centuries. The fact that today you can legally buy soft drugs and that (many kinds of) euthanasia and prostitution are legalized is the other side of the coin. While I will surely not compare my mind with Spinoza’s intellectual genius (and there really is no comparison!), I do encounter a lot of opposition from people who try to silence me in ways that are not far removed from those used against Spinoza. (I indeed nearly had a ban imposed on me.) One thing I definitely learned from him and that is the way to react to this. He stayed calm, almost never lost his temper, and continued to live with an inner tranquility, although I am convinced that sometimes he must have been deeply hurt. I think you can find this in some of his harsher observations in his Tractatus Theologico Politicus.
But the greatest tragedy is that Spinoza was lost to the Jewish people and Judaism. The rabbis who dealt with him didn’t know how to approach him and his as yet underdeveloped opinions. They reacted out of fear, which is the worst thing you can do when you’re confronted with a young man who is struggling with his Jewish identity and Judaism. Instead of appreciating the struggle, they couldn’t cope with doubt and challenge and took the easiest way by casting him out of the Jewish community.
The truth is that the City of Amsterdam also played a huge role in this. They had made a condition that the Jewish community could stay in the city only as long as it would not make any problems for Christianity. When Spinoza began to express his thoughts and challenge orthodox Christian beliefs, the city had the right to expel the entire Portuguese Spanish Jewish community, something that the leaders of that community wanted to prevent at all costs. They therefore decided to impose a harsh ban on Spinoza so as to show the City of Amsterdam that they no longer considered him one of theirs and could not take any responsibility for him. It seems that Spinoza was then forced to leave Amsterdam. The ban worked; otherwise I would have been born in another country!
To this day, any challenge to its tradition and beliefs is still one of the greatest fears of the Orthodox Jewish community, and I have no doubt that this has done, and still does, a lot of harm to Judaism in our own days. Lots of young people cannot live with this kind of dogmatic Judaism and therefore walk out.
I think it is this tragedy that moves me to show how real Judaism doesn’t have to be afraid of any challenge, and that struggle and doubt are part of its tradition. In many ways, its multifaceted and contradicting opinions are the proof of its strength. My unusual and often controversial essays and lectures are the outcome of this conviction. So I believe that the tragic story around Spinoza has greatly influenced me. In some way, Spinoza’s image is always in front of me when I think about the topics I write and speak about. In fact, an actual portrait of him, painted by my father when he was hidden in Amsterdam during the Shoah (Holocaust), hangs in my study! A welcome reminder.
This brings me directly to the Kotzker Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859). I’ve always wondered what would have happened if Spinoza had met the Kotzker. They lived in different centuries, but I would love to write a play about this! Both were obsessed with truth, but each approached it from a different point of view. In Spinoza’s pantheism, there is a strong Kabbalistic element but, simultaneously, a denial of a personal (biblical) God. However much some Spinoza scholars want to claim that all of his philosophy was based on ratio (pure reason), it is very clear that there are ambiguous elements in his philosophy that reveal aspects of mysticism!
Both were searching for God and knew no compromise.
What the Kotzker Rebbe could have shown Spinoza is that the Judaism he left behind and detested was terribly puritanical, dogmatic, and not authentic. It was deeply rooted in the experience of the Marranos, preferably called Conversos—Jews who were forced to become Catholics during the Inquisition. For hundreds of years, they were brought up in the Catholic Church and transplanted its ideas into the kind of Judaism that prevailed in the Portuguese Spanish Kehilla in Amsterdam. In many ways it was Christianity without the cross, combined with large doses of religious law and ritual, which was completely misunderstood. Faith was seen as obedience and bowing to a higher authority without any personal input, rooted in blind routine. Spinoza strongly objected to it but never took the time to investigate whether real Judaism would actually agree with this notion. The Kotzker would have taken Spinoza by the ear and shlepped him out of this kind of Judaism, showing him that the truth was very different, although Spinoza was probably more levelheaded than the Kotzker who was very eccentric.
For the Kotzker, it was rebellion that was the essence of Judaism, not spiritual capitulation. According to him, Judaism was against any kind of conformity and outward appearances, even those hallowed throughout the generations. He referred to a person as “worse than a scoundrel” if he offered a prayer today as he did yesterday. (How many religious Jews, including me, understand this?) Outside pressures didn’t work for the Kotzker. Pleasing anybody—even oneself—was a tragedy, and learning Torah was seen as a danger if it turned into accepting its claims without tearing them apart so as to discover what it really says, however uncomfortable that may be. Anything else is AvodahZarah (idol worship).
Both men worked to bring about a spiritual renewal, but Spinoza was so boxed in and limited by the Judaism he found in Amsterdam that he couldn’t liberate himself from it without leaving and condemning it altogether. This is still a problem for many Spinoza experts today. Most do not manage to bypass him and have a fresh and honest look at Judaism. They are completely indoctrinated by Spinoza’s misguided reading of Judaism. The Kotzker could have saved Spinoza and them from this very tragedy.
It is for this reason that my Judaism has been influenced by the Kotzker Rebbe and that I rebel against the commonplace Judaism I encounter today in most Orthodox communities. Not that my personal conduct lives up to the requirements of the Kotzker—they are sometimes too radical—but I make an honest effort. It is extremely hard, but I see it as the only authentic representation of Judaism. That some of my opponents call me an apikores (heretic) is very understandable. They want me to walk the walk and talk the talk, but this is completely impossible for me. I consider it a falsification of Judaism. My whole personality objects to it. I would rather walk out altogether than go for this kind of forged Judaism. Better to follow Spinoza, who was honestly looking for the truth, and then somehow (unlike him) find a genuine path to Judaism.
I believe that Spinoza’s story was the greatest tragedy in modern Jewish spiritual history, second only to the tragic story around the false mashiach Shabbetai Zvi, which took place in the same century. With Spinoza’s breaking away from Judaism, we entered the world of Jewish secularism, which over the years has become a major force that is still alive and well today.
I read recently that AI (artificial intelligence) has advanced so far that some robots can now pass the Turing test, which tests whether a machine’s ability to exhibit intelligent behavior is indistinguishable
from a human’s. While robots are still not indistinguishable in all ways, that day is not too far off. Does this mean an AI-powered robot might someday be considered a human according to Jewish law? Could it be counted for a minyan?
Reply
As the wise King Solomon put it, “There is nothing new under the sun.”1
The concept of man-made men (golems), and the question of their humanness (or lack thereof) has been discussed since Talmudic times. (Of course, there is a huge difference between a “living”
golem and a man-made robot powered by AI, but this would seem to be the best place to start our discussion).
The Talmud relates that Rava once created a “man” through the mystical codes within the
Sefer Yetzirah (“Book of Formation”). He then sent this man to Rabbi Zeira, who spoke to it, but the man was incapable of speech and did not reply. Rabbi Zeira then said to it, “You are a creation of one of my colleagues; return to your dust!”2
The Approach of the Chacham Tzvi
Was this “man” created by Rava considered human? Was Rabbi Zeira liable for murder?
The biblical term for “human” is often “[one who was] born from a woman,”3
implying that the definition of a human is one who was born from one. Additionally, Scripture describes murder as “spilling the blood of a human with[in] a human.”4
Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch Ashkenazi (known as the Chacham Tzvi, 1656–1718), whose own grandfather Rabbi Eliyahu of Chelm reportedly created a “man,”explains that only one who kills a person that was formed within another human being is liable for murder. Thus,
killing a being created from another source does not constitute murder.5
The question of murder aside, would this “man” be Jewish and be counted for a
minyan? The Chacham Tzvi cites the rabbinic teaching that “the works of the righteous are their offspring.” Thus, one might consider a creation of a (righteous) Jew to be Jewish. However, he notes that since Rabbi Zeira did not hesitate to destroy Rava’s
creation, it is evident that it was not qualified to count for a minyan. For had there been even a minimal use for this “man,” to destroy it would have been wasteful.6
Rabbi Tzvi Hirsh Shapiro of Munkacs (1850–1913), in his work
Darkei Teshuvah, points out that since the Chacham Tzvi (and others7) needed to cite a specific source in Scripture to prove that
killing a humanoid did not constitute murder, apparently he held that it may very well have some element of humanness, independent of the question of murder. He therefore entertains the question of whether the
shechitah (“kosher slaughter”) performed by such a creation would be valid.8
The notion that a
golem may have an element of humanness left some, including the Chacham Tzvi’s two sons, a bit puzzled.
It Has No Soul
Both sons, Rabbi Avraham Meshulam Zalman, in his work
Divrei Rabeinu Meshulam,9 and Rabbi Yaakov Emden in
Sheilot Yaavetz,10 quote Kabbalists,11
who explain that only G‑d has the power to draw a human soul down from heaven. At best, a person using the power of the
Sefer Yetzirah can only animate something on par with an animal. It is for this reason that if one “killed” such a creature (as in the story with Rava), they say, it is not considered murder.
From Golems to Robots
It should be noted that unlike a robot, a
golem has some sort of a spiritual spark animating it. It is brought to life through a righteous individual using the secrets of creation hidden within the
Sefer Yetzirah. This is clearly not the case for a man-made robot powered by algorithms.
Thus, our robots, powered by computers, are seemingly even less “human” than a
golem. Nevertheless, putting that aside for argument’s sake, there is one aspect where a robot may have an advantage over a golem.
Artificial Intelligence and Speech
Everything in the world can be divided into four “kingdoms”: mineral, vegetable, animal, and human. The word for “human” is
medaber, which means “speaker.”12 This implies that the ability to speak is integral to who we are as humans. Thus, unlike the Chacham
Tzvi, many explain that the reason we can’t count a golem for a minyan is that it lacks the faculty of speech. At first blush, this would imply that if the creature could just talk (as today’s robots certainly can), it would be considered human.
However, as many point out, the key defining characteristic of humanity cannot be speech alone, for there are people who cannot speak—and parrots that can.13
Therefore, they explain that when we refer to humanity as medaber, the actual intent is intelligence.14
Based on this, there are some who have made the surprising claim that if one would somehow make an intelligent and speaking
golem (a feat many mystics say is theoretically possible15) it perhaps could be counted for a
minyan.16 If this is true for a
golem, then perhaps it would be true for a robot powered by AI!
However, many point out that when the rabbis say “intelligence,” they aren’t merely referring to the collection of data and facts, or even the ability to analyze and problem-solve, but to what
some would call “moral intelligence,” or as others put it, “free will.”17
It All Comes Together: Speech, Intellect and Soul
The chassidic masters question why humanity is defined as
medaber (“speaker”) and not maskil (“understander”).18 After all, as we have pointed out, there are people who are unable
to talk and animals that can!
Rabbi Sholom Dovber of Lubavitch explains that the use of the term
medaber is indeed precise; however, it doesn’t just refer to the ability to talk, but rather to the
koach hadibur, the potential or power to talk.19 Human speech is different than any other similar type of communication, for it
is not merely an external “revelation”; rather, it reveals what is “hidden” inside the person. Certainly, one can parrot words and sounds, but
medaber refers to the power that gives shape, letters and words to one’s thoughts, which are then spoken with one’s mouth. The chassidic masters explain that the faculty of speech is in fact rooted in the essence of one’s soul, and it is therefore much
higher and deeper than intellect itself. Thus, although two people may have the same exact thought, they express it in their own unique, individual way.
Thus, even when we characterize humans as
medaber, “those who talk,” we are essentially also characterizing them as having unique, G‑d-given souls.
See, for example, Kuzari 2:8-24; Eitz Chaim, Shaar Derushai A.B.Y.A. 1. See also Targum Onkelus, Genesis 2:7, which describes man as
ruah memalala, i.e. “one who speaks.”
See, for example, Targum Onkelos on Genesis 2:7 and 3:22 (note that he describes man as being given a “speaking spirit,” but at the same time also explain that the uniqueness of man is that only man has the capacity to know good and bad); Rashi on Genesis
2:7 and 3:22; Rambam, Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah 5:1;Rambam on Genesis 2:7.
Centro Estudios Judaicos del Sur de PR 