I am a Jew and I am on Fire

Wednesday, 21 January 2015

To Tell or Not to Tell: Our Jewish Legacy

It's certainly been a long time since I've posted on this blog, but I haven't been overly inspired to write about anything (cohesive) until today.

As a Teaching Assistant for a third-year Modern Drama class (https://moderndramaatwestern.wordpress.com/), our syllabus explores a multitude of plays that address social and political issues spanning the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Today we watched a version of Caryl Churchill's "Seven Jewish Children"(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWKGbjJ7LxE) which has received both positive and negative reviews from the greater global and academic community.

Churchill's play was written in response to the refusal of BBC to broadcast an internationally backed appeal for aid relief for the Palestinian people. In response to her work, Richard Sterling wrote Seven Other Children, a play which mimics Churchill's in almost every facet, except in that it draws on the Israeli perspective.

Writers including Phillips (2009), Jacobson (2009), Nathan (2009), Newkey-Burden (2009) flatly asserted that Churchill's play was an anti-Semitic play disguised as a "critique of Israel".

One of my students today in class pointed out that while Churchill's play begins with a profound and poignant representation of the Holocaust--emphasizing the Jews as its oppressed victims-- it concludes with the Israel/Gaza conflict in order to explicitly position the Jews as today's oppressors.

In line with my student's comment, Jacobson, in the Independent, remarked that Churchill's anti-Semitic "tactic" is successful through her narrative frame (a topic we explored in class). He writes, "No sooner are the Jews out of hell of Hitler's Europe than they are constructing a parallel hell for the Palestinians."

Although Churchill denied accusations of anti-Semitism ("My play is not anti-Semitic", 2009), I cannot help but agree with Jacobson--to the extent that Churchill's narrative sets up a problematic oppressed/oppressor binary that suggests the Jews, as victims of the Holocaust, have internalized a genocidal hatred to the point of using the Palestinians as an outlet for their past sufferings.

Certainly the conflict in the Middle East is one that involves a spectrum of opinions, and I commend Churchill for pinpointing something that many others may not have not necessarily picked up on in their critique of her work (which I will discuss later on in this entry), but given the history of the Jewish people, and the current political climate, a play of this nature only exacerbates the ever-growing issue of anti-Semitism in Europe and the increase of Holocaust deniers currently among us.

Racism is a blanket term for the irrational hatred of, and discrimination against, a particular race. If hating Jews was never (or currently not) a concern, then why is there a specific term for it?

The Palestinians have no doubt been through a kind of hell in their own right. When the Jewish nation reclaimed Israel, the Palestinians lost more than just their land--thousands perished and many are currently living in squalor.

But why don't people question why this happened? Do you really think that the Jews randomly decided to go to war on a whim, without just cause? I've seen enough famous people perform parodies of the concept "Why can't we all just get along?" as though that's even remotely possible given the extensive and bloody history of the Middle East. Both "sides" claim right to the land (and this post has no intention of engaging with that particular minefield), yet people who have no connection to Palestine or Israel whatsoever somehow find ways to assert their own opinions on the subject.

Like Churchill.

I strongly doubt I have ever read a piece of literature by a Jewish person on another ethnic group's experience. I seriously question whether this work even exists, though I very well could be wrong. But there is certainly no end to non-Jewish writers who write on the Jewish experience.

Churchill wanted to respond to the BBC's refusal to broadcast an internationally backed appeal for aid relief for the Palestinian people. Great--I'm all for challenging censorship at every turn.

But then why choose to speak from a Jewish perspective, emphasizing Gaza's plight, and not the Jewish state's? Why not, in line with the bombardment of images of bloodied and broken Palestinian children, choose a Palestinian to narrate the story to a Palestinian child and not a Jewish one?

Initially, I can understand why Jacobson and other writers called out Churchill for a borderline anti-Semitic undertone.

In this particular adaptation, there are several moments where this appears quite blatant.

Around the 6:23 mark, the woman speaking pleads to the listener not to tell the girl that they (Palestinians) throw stones, but then half chuckles that the stones "aren't much good against tanks." As she is speaking from the Jewish perspective, this suggests that Jews, specifically Israeli Jews (because remember, not all Israelis are Jewish or identify as Jews), find the Palestinians' attempt to defend themselves amusing, which completely elides the destructive weaponry that Gaza has launched on Israel which results in Israel's use of tanks in order to defend themselves. This comment also ignores Hamas' genocidal child television programming (the kind of programming that does not exist in any form in Israeli television) as well as Gaza's blatant disregard for human life (as shown through the 2006 exchange for Israeli soldier, Gilad Shalit, for the 1027 known Palestinian terrorists).

Of course innocent Palestinian civilians have been hurt due to the conflict in the Middle East and of course Israel has made multiple poor decisions (though frankly they are not left with much choice), but if Israel had no "Iron Dome" they too would have thousands of casualties, but more poignantly, they would no longer exist.

I have written this here before, but I must say it again: if Gaza put down its arms, there would be peace, but the very moment Israel put down its arms, there would be no more Israel.

I have seen videos of ignorant American Ivy League students condemn a man waving an Israeli flag, while cheering on the same man waving the flag of Hamas in the same breath.

The media has turned the entire world against Israel, which is why many Jews in Israel no longer identify as Jewish, and it is certainly why many Jewish writers shy away from discussions of their own Judaism because they do not want to be lumped in with Israeli Jews.

I have seen posts on forums by many Americans who throw the word "Zionism" around as though they are on the same level as Hamas and other terrorist organizations.

Like feminism (the equality between men and women), people grossly misunderstand what the term actually means.

The definition of Zionism (coined in 1890) is simply the idea that all Jews should return to Israel, their homeland, the land of their forefathers.

Critics of Zionism, of course, include those that assert that Zionism is a "racist" and "colonialist" ideology that calls for the dispossession and expulsion of the "indigenous" Palestinian people.

But the Jews lived in Israel long before Palestine ever became a state. The Jews were expelled from Israel long before the "Conflict in the Middle East" (as we know it today) began.

People, of course, contest this, as much as they contest Judeo-Christian religion itself, but you can't accuse Israeli Jews of racism when Hamas is gunning for the destruction of every Jew in the world.

Jewish people wanted a homeland, a place where they could call home, since they had been essentially kicked out of every land they have ever inhabited.

The Greeks persecuted and murdered over a million Jews for not conforming to their religion. They destroyed the Second Temple.

Jews were expelled from Alexandria (Egypt), Mainz (Germany), England, France, Warsaw (Poland), Sicily (Italy), Lithuania, Portugal, Spain, Brandenburg (Germany), Bavaria, Frankfurt (Germany) all the way up until the Holocaust itself.

When the Jews tried to escape Germany, even Canada refused to take them in ("None is too many").

None of this, of course, includes all the blood libels, the extensive massacres, the burning at the stakes, the never-ending conversions and the infamous "Protocols of the Elders of Zion".

Despite practically every other religion, culture, and nation that persecuted and massacred the Jews over thousands of years, the world somehow managed to concoct a crazy conspiracy theory. Behind this theory lay the idea (dreamed up in Paris by some member of the Russian secret police) that there was a council of Jews (Zions) whose sole aim was to enslave or exterminate every Gentile in the world. This conspiracy, in turn, became one of the most convincing pieces of Nazi propaganda that ultimately led to the mass murder of millions of Jews.

Until this day, most Arab schools teach their students that this conspiracy is fact.

Circling back to Churchill, although "Seven Jewish Children" is certainly an impressive piece of theatre, it unfortunately encourages - whether she meant for it or not - problematic perceptions of Jewish people.

However, Churchill gets to the heart of something that I myself never thought of before, as unsettled as I was by watching the performance.

The sheer desperation behind the woman's attempt to decide what to tell and what not to tell the next generation struck me as quite powerful and equally terrifying.

Our Jewish legacy is continuously in question. More Jewish people are turning from their faith than those who are returning to it. Very soon, there may be no one at all left to tell or not to tell.

Although we certainly want to impart a legacy that is truthful, we want our children, and their children, to be proud that they are Jews.

Her desperation certainly speaks to this fear, but it also provokes a pressing question: what has led us to this desperation? If we truly have nothing to fear, if we really find the "rocks" something to laugh at, why do we still seem to be fighting a losing battle?

Although the world may not believe me, the Jewish people want peace. That's all they've ever wanted. Their own bit of land and the opportunity to serve God without having to worry about yet another expulsion or massacre. For the sake of my people, and the good of humanity, I wish more than anything for this conflict to end.

And, to be quite honest, I've never exactly been good at making decisions.

Sunday, 1 June 2014

Letting Go - Loving Torah

N.B. I am currently studying at Pathways Plus (program on Judaism) in Jerusalem, Israel. I arrived here on May 26 and will be here until June 16.

Although I never ended up writing about Passover back in April, a lot of what I’ve been learning in Israel—at least the first week I’ve been here—relates directly to the theme of ‘letting go’—a concept that the holiday of Passover specifically emphasizes. I was also informed that if you’re intent on ‘starting afresh’ in your life—be it getting over an addiction, or wanting to make a significant change—Passover is the time to do it.

Although Passover ended in April, I am currently still in the process of applying its central lesson.

Moreover, since tomorrow is Shavu’ot—the celebration of when the Jewish people were given the Torah—I feel as though now, more than ever, I should be taking the ‘letting go’ lesson more seriously.

The first class I attended when I arrived here last week was a class on anger and how to deal with it.

I’ve been dealing with a lot of anger issues over the last few years. I’m angry at those who let me down, angry at the world for being the way it is, angry at society for letting it get this way, but also extremely angry at myself. This is something I’ve been trying to work on for a long time. People have always told me to “let it go”, but I just couldn’t bring myself to actually do it.

There are five different types of people who deal with their anger. There are those who become angry when something doesn’t go their way. There are those who are difficult to anger, but are dangerous when angry.

There are those who are also difficult to anger, but only slightly affected by it. There are also those who are difficult to anger, but also easily appeased once angered. Finally, at the highest level, there are those persons who are so devoid of ego that they never experience anger.

One of the central sources of anger is pride.

During the class, I experienced a sudden moment of clarity into the last few years of my life. I always used to judge and weigh everything by how much another person hurt me, how someone’s actions offended me, or how someone embarrassed me. I was continuously focused on my own pride and certainly my own ego.

According to Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe, the antidote to anger is patience, or more specifically, tolerance. In fact, the word “porter” comes from the root of the Hebrew word. As we all know, porters are required to carry heavy loads. Moreover, the word “carry” can also be found in the Hebrew word for marriage.

In all relationships, we must be patient and tolerant. Like the song “Lean on Me”, we must help our loved ones carry the load or burden they bear, and in turn, they too will help us with ours. Although our friends or significant others may cause us pain, we—like God, with his infinite patience and tolerance for the sinner until he/she repents—must tolerate the person who hurts us until the person mends their ways.

That being said, Judaism stresses that once you have done all that you can for those that you love, and they continue to exhaust every last ounce of your resources, you must do what’s best for you and let them go.

Although Judaism encourages us to emulate God, we must always remember that we are not God. Our patience and tolerance is certainly not infinite. But we certainly possess the tools to love with all our hearts.

My struggle with strengthening my tolerance and lessoning my pride began at the beginning of this school year. I have had a number of ups and downs, particularly with friends, and I’ve struggled to the point of physical pain in my attempt to ‘let things go’.

Judaism teaches us that we are meant to feel pain and suffering in order to be spiritually productive.

Only in the last few months have I been able to channel my anger, and my suffering, into something far more productive—the fairly continuous and growing study of Torah.

The holiday of Shavu’ot is a time to celebrate when the Jewish people received the Torah. We celebrate this holiday by staying up the entire night reading and studying Torah. During this holiday, it is custom to read the Book of Ruth which tells the story of a Moabite princess who abandoned a life of wealth and privilege in order to join the Jewish people as a penniless convert. Ruth’s decision to return to the land of her people led to her eventual marriage to Boaz. Their union, roughly four generations later, produced King David—the founder of the Jewish dynasty.

Ruth left a world of luxury and comfort behind her. She turned her back on everything she knew, converted to Judaism, because she felt it was the right thing to do.

Before they were married, Boaz spoke with Ruth regarding his perception of her character. He informed her that her conversion, in many ways, made her more remarkable than Avraham—the patriarch of the Jewish people—since he only abandoned his ancestral home after Hashem spoke to him, while Ruth chose to do so of her own violation.

During one of our ‘reflective’ classes, the head of our Pathways Plus program quoted Hillel the Elder (110BCE). He once asked: “If I am not for myself, who is for me? And when I am for myself, what am ‘I’? And if not now, then when?”

Having just finished reading the Book of Ruth—never having read it before—I find it particularly fitting, given what I was taught when I first arrived here in Israel. Ruth let go of everything she had and gained everything because of it in return. It took great courage, but she remained humble and grateful for the opportunity to be part of the Jewish nation.

I too am grateful for the opportunity to study here in Israel, the land of not only the Jewish people, but also of my ancestors. Having visited and left a note at the kotel, I can now appreciate who I am and where I come from. Most importantly, I can now better understand my purpose here on earth.

Be deliberate in judgment; educate many disciples; and set protective bounds for the Torah.
(Ethics of the Fathers, 1:1)

Tuesday, 4 March 2014

The "Open-Secret" of Purim

N.B. Thank you to Christine for her exceptionally helpful notes (my own were illegible, especially on cue cards) and to Aish Western for hosting such interesting classes and offering insightful reading material.

In The Novel and the Police (1988), D. A. Miller presents a powerful idea regarding Victorian novels: that “the secret subject is always an open secret” (205). Essentially, we – as readers – know that the novel’s secret(s) is (are) known, but we persist in guarding it (them) nonetheless.

For example, Elizabeth Braddon’s Lady Audley’s Secret (1862). The reader is led to doubt Lady Audley’s madness, despite all evidence to the contrary. We learn that her mother was mad, that madness is termed a “hereditary disease”, and that madness primarily comes about in females (remember: this is a nineteenth century text). However, the novel also provides counter-evidence to her madness: her bigamy (Lady Audley’s “secret”), her act of arson and attempted murder all count as crimes in the legal sense and are motivated by a kind of calculated and rational self-interest. Yet, the novel’s conclusion results in her being pronounced mad and tossed into a ‘mad house’. According to Miller, the novel’s secret is not whether or not Lady Audley is mad, but that she must be treated as such. The secret that which is not named: society’s inability to deal with the possibility that Lady Audley is not out of her mind, but very much of sound mind. How could society conceive (conceal, categorize) such a being?

According to Oscar Wilde, secrets are the thing “that can make modern life mysterious and marvelous. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it.”

By shrouding every day events in mystery, they – despite their otherwise banality or seemingly coincidental appearance – suddenly become all the more interesting. We wish to decipher them all the more.

In fact, the “open secret” has a long-standing place in Judeo-Christian thought. In Religio Medici (1643), Sir Thomas Browne describes nature as an open mystery, a mystery-religion paradoxically open to humankind. Essentially, nature becomes an “open book” when we begin to read and interpret every day events and subsequently discover or uncover divine revelation.

For those of you who don’t know, the Jewish holiday of Purim is just around the corner. This year, Purim begins on the evening of March 15 and ends on the evening of March 16 (in the Hebrew calendar, it is the 14^th of Adar).

To give some context to non-Jewish people, let me frame it this way: Purim is our Halloween and St. Patrick’s Day (which happens to fall on the day after Purim this year) combined.

Essentially, we dress up as other people and—you guessed it—get absolutely piss-drunk-stupid.

In Hebrew School, we dress up as the characters from the Purim story, swing our gregors, and eat our delicious hamantaschens.

When you’re older, you continue to do all of this, but you also drink until—as the sages say—you don’t know the difference between Haman (the villain) and Mordechai (the hero) of the Purim story.

Most people don’t actually realize that Purim is, in fact, the holiest Jewish holiday. When asked “What is the holiest Jewish holiday?” most responses would be “Yom Kippur”.

Brief Hebrew language lesson:

“Pur” in Hebrew means “lots”—as in lottery. In the Megillah (The Book of Esther), we know that Haman—the jackass who wanted to annihilate the Jews entirely (yes, Hitler wasn’t the only one)—drew lots (Esther 9:24).

Moreover, “Yom Kippur” is not the actual name of the holiday. It’s actually “Yom Kippurim”—a day like Purim.

Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement. We fast, pray, and repent all our sins of the previous year. Essentially, we act like monks for 24 hours.

So how could a holiday that commands you to get so drunk you can’t distinguish between the good guy and the bad guy be the holiest holiday of the year?

Moreover, why on earth would we name the holiday “Purim” after the lots that Haman—the bad guy—drew?

In The Queen You Thought You Knew: Unmasking Esther’s Hidden Story (2011), Rabbi David Fohrman asserts that Haman didn’t just draw lots in order to choose an arbitrary date to destroy us on—he did it to terrify us. As in, he used psychological warfare against us.

That is to say, Haman was leaving the date of the Jewish genocide up to chance, but the Jewish religion is the exact opposite of chance—God is behind the scenes, hidden, but that does not mean he isn’t around.

Why do I bring this up?

The Purim story is found in “The Book of Esther” - not "God is Awesome" or "God Saved the Jews" or "God Loves the Jews". Moreover, the word “God” isn't actually mentioned anywhere in the text. How is this possible if every other holiday goes out of its way to mention God and Purim is supposed to be the holiest holiday?

We mention God in every other holiday because “Big God” (like I mentioned in my first blog post) was present. I refer, of course, to the supernatural miracles such as splitting the sea and 'passing over' the Jewish houses in Egypt.

In Purim, it was “little God”—in the details of the every day—pushing things along.

When we are taught the story of Purim, most people get the impression that the story takes place over a couple of days when, in fact, it takes place over the course of nine years.

Why isn’t God mentioned anywhere in The Book of Esther? Simply: because he’s present in every ‘coincidental’ detail of the story.

In Hebrew, the “Book of Esther” (or the Esther Scroll)—Megillat Esther—means “revealing the hidden”.

Esther—the ‘hidden’ Jew among the many Persian women who came from far and wide to participate in King Ahasuerus’ beauty pageant (the winner of which would become Queen)—was the wrench that was thrown into Haman’s evil plan. She “revealed” herself as Jewish to the King, her husband, at the right moment.

Mordechai, Esther’s uncle, who ‘overheard’ two guards’ plan to kill the King, “revealed” the secret plan to the King and was eventually awarded (through the execution of Haman) for his deed.

So why do we call the holiday “Purim”? To emphasize the irony of Haman’s plot gone awry?

According to Rabbi Fohrman, there’s something more at work here.

In the Book of Numbers, there is a discussion of the “annulment of vows”. The verse refers to “husband”—“a husband will affirm it; a husband will annul it”—but a mere difference of vowels transforms the word to “woman”.

When Mordechai encourages Esther to approach the King in his private chamber - an act that could have cost her her life - to save her people, he interprets the Book of Numbers as prophecy, specifically for her.

The Hebrew word “vepheirena” derives from the word “pur” – pei, vav, reish (Hebrew letters) which equal the word “annul”.

Haman drew lots to annihilate the Jews while Esther “annulled” his genocidal decree (N.B. The King gave Esther and Mordechai the King’s signet ring which would allow them to write whatever they wished about the Jewish people as the King’s word could not be undone. This ultimately meant that they could not undo Haman’s decree (which had been decreed with the king's ring) despite the fact that he was already dead; they could only counter it by decreeing that the Jewish people could fight back against their enemies. Essentially, by countering it, they nullified it, ergo, annulled.)

Therefore, the holiday of Purim was not about random chance but decisive action.

When writing the scroll, Esther and Mordechai knew precisely what they were doing. They were revealing that which was hidden—God—who had been with them (the Jews) all along.

For Miller, the “open secret” does not collapse binaries, but ‘fantasmatically recovers’ them” (207).

So when the sages say that we need to drink to the point where we don’t know the difference between Haman and Mordechai, they aren’t literally saying that Haman and Mordechai are one in the same person.

More broadly speaking, we are all human beings and should make every effort to strive for peace and universal brotherhood. Purim is the holiday which blurs distinctions. At the end of the day, what makes us different is not essential, but that which brings us closer together.

Since The Book of Esther ends on a note of peace carried on through the generations of Jewish people, I’d have to vehemently concur that Purim is the holiest of Jewish holidays.

I wish you all a healthy, happy, and—most importantly—a peaceful Purim.

And if you’re looking for interesting costume ideas that embody the spirit of Purim (drinking, fraternity, and 'blurred lines'), here’s a hint:

Drink up me hearties, Yo Ho!

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

Can't Take the Religion Out of Being Jewish

In December, I read an article entitled "Can you Be an Atheist and a Jew at the Same Time? David Silverman Says No”. A friend of mine posted it on his Facebook and I subsequently shared it on my wall. An interesting debate ensued which will be the focus of this post.

In the article, Silverman, a self-identified atheist raised by Jewish parents, encourages Jews who don’t believe in God to “come out” to their family and friends as atheists.

After much personal struggle, Silverman finally asserted that Judaism—a religion—is incompatible with atheism.

He makes an important distinction between Jewish culture—which is regionally based—and the religion itself. What all Jews have in common though, he realized, was the Torah.

I commend Silverman for his efforts and his views, as I wholeheartedly agree with him.

Despite his beliefs (or non-beliefs as the case may be), he is married to a woman who attends Orthodox services during High Holidays but who is, ultimately, Reform in practice. They both have agreed not to force their views on each other and they have a successful and loving marriage. Moreover, Silverman gave the Old and New Testament to his daughter, among other commentators on said works, and asked her to decide for herself about God’s existence.

This is how I envision my own future. Religion is not something that should be forced on anyone and I have no intention on forcing it upon any of my hypothetical children. I will, due to my own beliefs regarding Judaism, introduce my children to it, but I will not expect or demand them to follow in my footsteps.

Growing up, I defined myself as “culturally Jewish” as did (and do) many of my friends back home.

I take issue with this for the following reasons:

As Silverman himself points out, Judaism is a religion, not a culture. There are aspects of Jewish living, however, that are culturally-based such as the food, music, habits, etc. But there are many things that Jewish North American families participate in that are certainly not “cultural practices” but are most definitely religious ones.

I was raised in a Reform household. Due to my limited knowledge, I assumed my experience (8 years of Hebrew School, a bat mitzvah, attending synagogue during the High Holidays, family dinners—including substantial prayers recited in Hebrew—for said holidays, lighting the Shabbat candles, keeping kosher in the house, and attending a Jewish sleepover camp) were the sum experiences of all North American Jewish children. Out of all these experiences, the only “cultural” experience would be the latter—attending a Jewish sleepover camp. There are religious aspects to this particular experience, but it is on the whole a cultural experience.

That is to say—if you went to Hebrew School, you prayed every day. Who exactly were you praying to? If you had a bar or bat mitzvah, what is the significance of participating in such a ritual when in secular society you are not actually an adult until you are 18/19/21—in whose eyes are you now an adult? If you attend synagogue or read from the siddur/haggadah with your family during the High Holidays, what exactly are you celebrating and in whose name? If you light the Shabbat candles with your mother, who are you envisioning as you close your eyes? If your family kept kosher, whose law was it that commanded you to do so?

I ask these questions for a purpose. I ask them because I wish to assert that being “culturally” Jewish has nothing to do with being Jewish.

You can't take the religion out of Judaism just as you can't separate being Jewish from religion.

People who are raised Jewish can certainly engage in Jewish cultural practices, but to be Jewish—in any shape or form—means not only to accept the existence of God, but to believe in God.

There is no separating God from Judaism. If you don’t believe in God, that’s perfectly fine. You can certainly engage in Jewish cultural practices and practice Jewish philosophy (which would be far more meaningful than the former) but that doesn’t make you Jewish.

I know that’s hard to hear, but let me tell you why.

As a child of Jewish parents, especially if your mother is Jewish, you are—according to Judaism—a Jew. And even if you aren’t a religious or observant Jew, you can still certainly be Jewish. Judaism isn’t, after all, all or nothing.

However, if you do not believe in God, then you don’t believe in the Jewish people, and therefore—if you define yourself as culturally Jewish—don’t believe in yourself. Let me explain.

According to Jewish history, everyone started off “Jewish”. Because everyone was of one faith, there was technically no such thing as being Jewish because there was no need to make the distinction.

When God flooded the world, Noah—descendant of Adam and Eve—was left to repopulate. There was a period of roughly 292 years between the flood and Abraham (born 1976 BCE). It took the ancestors of the Jewish people almost 300 years to return to monotheism. It then took another ~400 years before Moses and God’s presentation of the Torah to the Jewish people.

But my point in bringing this up is that the Jewish people didn’t actually come into existence until the moment they were given the Torah. All other nations rejected God’s words, but this group of people—the Jews—accepted it.

Many people claim that they are “proud” of their Jewish heritage. Perhaps, to them, this means that their grandparents survived the Holocaust. I do not, and would never, deny anyone their right to feel proud of their Jewish heritage, whatever that may be. I myself am certainly a proud Jew.

However, my pride stems from an awareness of thousands of years worth of history and the understanding that, without God, there would be no such thing as Judaism, as the Jewish people, as Jewish heritage.

I commend and encourage Jews to take pride in their Jewish heritage. I also strongly encourage people to indulge in Jewish cultural practices and practice Jewish philosophy. My point, however, is that Jewish heritage is more than just about Jewish food, Jewish rites of passage, and Jewish sleepover camps.

Our heritage is that we chose. We chose God, his commandments, and his teachings.

Those who say they are “culturally Jewish” but shy away from any kind of “religious” talk—particularly in denying the existence of God, or even in choosing not to acknowledge that God has anything to do with being Jewish—then they are actually saying that the Jews, as a people, do not exist and never existed because no God ever presented them with the Torah: the foundation and very core of Judaism.

Our ancestors witnessed God presenting the Torah to Moses.

In Exodus (19:9), God said to Moses: “I am going to come to you in a dense cloud, so that the people will hear me speaking with you and will always put their trust in you.”

Through this act, the Jewish people heard God speak to Moses. He became their prophet and their champion.

Our Jewish heritage is that we witnessed and received the Torah.

There is one very important prayer, one that is known to most Jewish children, because it is usually recited to them before they go to sleep, or drilled into their heads in Hebrew School. My parents never sung it to me as a child, but I certainly recited it three days a week for eight years while attending Hebrew School.

I refer, of course, to the Shema.

The first six words of the Shema are: Shema Yisrael Adonai eloheinu Adonai ehad.

In English: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”

Often, the last letter of the first and last words of the Shema verse are written in larger print in the siddur (prayer book). These letters form the word “ed”—witness—and remind Jews to witness God’s sovereignty by leading exemplary lives (since humankind was made in “God’s image”). Just as the Jewish nation witnessed God speaking to Moses, we are reminded, every day, of God's existence by reciting this prayer.

In the New Testament (Mark 12:28-31), Jesus is asked: “Of all the commandments, which is the most important?” Jesus responds with these very words (and of course, eventually, love thy neighbour).

The shema is an interesting prayer because it is usually said when we are alone before we go to sleep. Reciting the shema is one’s declaration of faith and commitment to God. It also expresses our connection to God and the Jewish people, and how we are all connected to each other.

To end my post, I would like to share with you the following story. It is a story that has now been told to me by three Rabbis. I first heard it at the Aish conference and each time I've heard the story, I've cried.

In 1945, after the Holocaust, Rabbi Eliezer Silver—founder of the Vaad Hatzalah (Rescue Committee)—sought to locate hundreds of displaced Jewish children who were given up by their parents at the start of the Holocaust in order to save their lives. Many of these children were raised in convents and monasteries.

These children lost more than just their parents and relatives—they lost their Jewish heritage and identity.

Rabbi Silver was given knowledge that one monastery in the Alsace-Lorraine region of France sheltered a number of children whose parents deposited them there before the start of the Holocaust.

Upon his arrival, the monk informed Rabbi Silver that there were no Jewish children there. The list of Jewish names Rabbi Silver presented to the monk could easily have been any other (non-Jewish) German child.

Rabbi Silver asked if he could return to the monastery later that evening before the children went to sleep so he could speak with them.

When he returned that evening, he entered the large dorm room and began to sing the Shema.

While he sang, other children began to sing with him. Many cried and called out for their mothers. Upon hearing the prayer, they were immediately reminded of their parents, their home, and who they were.

The shema enabled Rabbi Silver to return these children to their families and their Jewish heritage.

I know many of my friends who define themselves as “culturally Jewish” most likely do not recite the shema when they wake up or before they go to sleep. I myself am only just working towards doing that.

You certainly do not have to say the shema every night to be Jewish, but some part of you does need to believe in the existence of an omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent being.

You don’t need to call Him God. But you should be aware that, without him, Jewish people wouldn’t exist.

And that includes your Jewish “cultural” indulgences as well.

To all those “culturally” Jewish people: the next time you light your Shabbat candles, wish someone L’Shana Tova (tikatev v’taihatem), or read from your Pesach Haggadah, please ask yourselves:

Who exactly am I praying to?

M.B.

Friday, 27 December 2013

Holocaust Writings and their Educational Importance

N.B. This entry has been updated since it was first published.

Last week, I finished reading Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief. It was a particularly powerful novel, told from the perspective of the wearied but sardonic character of Death. In this novel, Death is the reluctant, yet careful gatherer of souls who finds particular interest in a nine-year-old girl named Liesel Meminger.

Liesel is a non-Jewish German girl who is sent, along with her brother, to live with the Hubermanns since it is no longer safe to remain with her mother. On the way to her new home, Liesel witnesses her brother’s last breaths. Given up by her mother and haunted by her brother’s ghost, Liesel must accept her new life on Himmel (ironically “Heaven”) Street.

On top of being out of place among her peers due to her lack of education, Liesel also experiences the bitter taste of hunger and poverty. Moreover, she has no contact with her mother. It is Hans Hubermann, Liesel’s adopted father, who befriends Liesel and eases her suffering. Through his amateur accordion music, he soothes her ever-present nightmares. But more importantly, despite his own limited education, he teaches her how to read.

One evening, a young Jewish man, Max Vandenburg, arrives at their home and their lives are forever changed. In the previous war, Max’s father saved Hans’ life. To repay the life-debt, Hans hides Max in the basement despite the dire consequences of being found out.

Over time, Liesel and Max become close friends. She reads to him and he writes her stories. Together, they begin to understand the power of words.

Words are an incredibly powerful tool to not only impart information, but also meaning.

On the back cover of my book, there are a number of quotations from reviewers regarding the novel.

One review struck me as not only odd, but also disconcerting.

People magazine remarked that Zusak’s novel “[d]eserves a place on the same shelf with The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank … Poised to become a classic.”

I have an issue with this for multiple reasons.

The first is that People equates a memoir of a real person with a fictional narrative.

Moreover, Zusak’s novel is not only told from the perspective of death, but from a non-Jewish girl.

Certainly the novel, though fictional, is useful for Holocaust education. It is necessary for students to understand, as Zusak himself remarks in an interview recorded at the back of the book, that there was “another side of Nazi Germany, where certain people did hide their Jewish friends to save their lives (at the risk of their own).”

But that does not mean it should be placed on the same shelf as a Holocaust memoir. In fact, it is something to be advised against. For, in time, people may in fact believe Anne Frank’s diary to be one of fiction too.

In his book Why the Jews? , Dennis Prager discusses Lillian Hellman’s Broadway adaptation of Anne Frank’s diary.

The diary was adapted almost verbatim, except for one integral passage of the diary.

In the Broadway version, Anne’s character asks: “Why are the Jews hated?” and she answers her own question by stating: “Well, one day it’s one group, and the next day another…”

But these were not the words of Anne Frank.

On April 11, 1944, Anne Frank wrote in her diary:

“Who has inflicted this upon us? Who has made us Jews different from all other people? Who has allowed us to suffer so terribly up till now? It is God that has made us as we are, but it will be God, too, who will raise us up again. If we bear all this suffering and if there are still Jews left, when it is over, then Jews, instead of being doomed, will be held up as an example. Who knows, it might even be our religion from which the world and all peoples learn good, and for that reason and that reason alone do we have to suffer now. We can never become just Netherlanders, or just English, or representatives of any country for that matter; we will always remain Jews, but we want to, too.”

Anne Frank knew, just like Hitler himself declared in Mein Kampf, that there was something different about the Jews. Specifically, anti-Semitism—an intense hatred of Jewishness—is clearly distinct from the history of all other bigotry and racism. As a whole, bigotry and racism is something to be deplored and actively fought against. However, my point—as many others have made—is that there is something particular about Jewishness that seems to make other people uncomfortable.

Why else would they re-write that specific part of Anne Frank’s diary for Broadway? Yes, perhaps they wanted to make the play more accessible to other people, but it was still a diary written by a Jewish girl during the Holocaust. You can’t pick and choose history to suit your own ends. These historical documents serve as not only reminders as to what happened to the Jewish people, but also—and more importantly—prove that these events did in fact occur. Moreover, we know that racism and genocide continue to occur every day. But a specific kind of racism is not a fad. It doesn’t just change from one day to the next.

But Lillian Hellman decided to take the Jewishness out of anti-Semitism by changing Anne Frank’s words.

In 2007, Ernst Zundel—a Holocaust denier—was convicted of 14 counts of incitement of racial hatred and sentenced to 5 years in prison. The maximum number of years allowed under German law for denying the Holocaust.

Before his conviction, Zundel lived in Canada for 40 years and was taken to court multiple times, arguing for the “freedom” to express his anti-Semitic views in books and on the internet.

In 2005, he was deported to Germany, the Canadian Federal Court deeming him a “threat to national security”.

In several European countries, it is a criminal offence to deny that the Holocaust happened.

It should be illegal, in any country, to deny that any genocide happened. To deny the Holocaust, or any genocide, is a hate crime in itself as it defaces and dishonours the memories of those who were ignored, abandoned, tortured, raped, and ultimately murdered for who they were as individuals and as a culture or race as a whole.

To deny that the Holocaust happened is to deny those who perished a voice.

It is certainly useful to give a voice to those who could not speak for themselves, but an author should be extremely careful when constructing a fictional Holocaust narrative.

During my graduate studies, I wrote a paper comparing a fictional Holocaust narrative—John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pajamas—with Eli Wiesel’s Holocaust memoir, Night.

In the paper, I discussed the connection between trauma, adventure fiction and the child, but for this entry I want to focus on the importance of distinguishing between fictional Holocaust narratives and Holocaust memoirs.

As an ever increasing focal point in today’s media and literature, tensions surrounding the child, its body and voice, are constantly presenting a great concern.

The child survivor, prevalently, is often depicted in multiple fantasy series’ narratives.

I mention this for one particular reason:

To emphasize that the Holocaust—both as a historical event and as a narrative—is forever being perpetuated in the pages of our beloved fantasy novels.

But many people fail to see it because the narrative is glammed and glitzed up, but more problematically, glorified.

Let’s take a gander at some fantasy novels, shall we?

Let’s start with J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter.

Harry Potter is the son of a wizard and a muggle-born witch. He’s a Half Blood.

Harry is destined to vanquish You-Know-Who, also known as The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Lord Voldemort, and—back in his younger years—Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Tom’s got one hell of a grudge against his muggle-born father and the world. He grows up an orphan, not fitting in, seeking ultimate power and vengeance against a world that not only didn’t seem to want him, but also one of which he felt rightfully belonged to him.

Sound familiar? Let’s break it down.

Hitler had his own beef with the world. He too had a complicated relationship with his father, one that often involved heated disagreements and misunderstandings. Orphaned at the age of 18, rejected multiple times by the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna, and deemed unfit for military service, Hitler looked for a scapegoat to pin his less than stellar life on. Swayed by Christian prejudice and fear of eastern Jews during his stay in Vienna, and convinced that the Jews were responsible for Germany’s downfall during World War I, Hitler soon became a die-hard anti-Semite. After becoming the Chancellor of Germany in 1933, Hitler spent the next 12 years systematically eradicating European Jewry.

Over an even longer period of time—roughly 50 years—Riddle transforms himself into Lord Voldemort and, with the help of his posse of Death Eaters, engages in open warfare. He has two primary goals: to take over the world and annihilate all those who are not pure blood wizards.

He fails, of course, and spends the entirety of Harry’s young adult life rebuilding his power and his army. By the end of the series, Voldemort’s plan is still the same: he aims to wipe out every muggle (non-magical person), muggle-born (“mudblood”) wizard, Half Blood (even though he himself is one) wizard, as well as “muggle-lovers” who side against him.

The characters, as we know, prepare for war. But it is not war that Voldemort rages, but genocide.

Everything down to the book’s terminology—its words—is a dead ringer for a Holocaust parallel.

Terms such as “mudbloods” (i.e. “dirty” blood) and “Halfbreeds” are reminiscent of the language Joseph Goebbels—Hitler’s head of propaganda—used during the Holocaust to describe the Jews.

Just as Voldemort wished to purify the wizarding race, Hitler too wished to purify the Germans by purging not only Jews, but also any person who did not fall under Hitler’s Aryan “higher race” of beings, which included, but were not limited to: those were physically and mentally impaired; those of a different sexual orientation; and those of a different religious background or political mindset.

Both Hitler and Voldemort set out to rid the world of a particular group of people and hated these people with such an unfounded and zealous passion that they were willing to destroy their own people—Germans and magical people—in order to bring it about.

When asked if she used World War II as a model for Voldemort’s reign, J.K. Rowling responded with the following:

“It was conscious. I think that … if you were asked to name a very evil regime we would think of Nazi Germany. There were parallels in the ideology.”

Although I respect J.K. for producing something that clearly changed the world over, I’m disappointed with her half-hearted response. If she actually knew about the Holocaust, and what it entailed—which she clearly must—then it is not just a parallel, but a re-writing. In fact, it is integral to her book.

Although later on in her answer to the question, she claims that it wasn’t “exclusively that” (Nazi Germany) and then poked fun at her own government’s foolishness and hypocrisy. Granted, the British government can be quite a hoot sometimes.

However, she then concludes with this:

“The Potter books in general are a prolonged argument for tolerance, a prolonged plea for an end to bigotry, and I think … that’s a very healthy message to pass on to younger people that you should question authority and you should not assume that the establishment or the press tells you all of the truth.”

What was the fundamental declaration after the Nuremberg Trials? Never. Again.

Essentially, an end to persecution and the creation of a check and balance system of order.

The trial’s legacy led to a number of important historical events, some of which included the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948), the Geneva Convention (1949; 1977), and the eventual creation of the International Criminal Court.

There are certainly more “parallels” to be drawn between Harry Potter and the Holocaust, some of which are mentioned here: http://www.the-leaky-cauldron.org/features/essays/issue27/nazi-germany; http://www.the-leaky-cauldron.org/features/essays/issue1/ThirdReich). The latter article provides a number of interesting and useful sources on both subjects.

Before I move on, I’d like to make one thing very clear: although the parallels between the Holocaust and the Harry Potter series are undeniable, I argue that the books are a commentary on genocide as a whole, not just the Holocaust. This, of course, makes them extremely useful and valuable—not only for young children, but also for people of all ages. However, I still feel that it is necessary to stress that J.K. had Hitler and the Holocaust in mind when she created her story.

Sometimes, it is necessary to use fiction to perpetuate the morals and lessons of history, especially when history alone is not always enough.

Recently, I watched the second installment of the Hunger Games series, Catching Fire, and found similar parallels.

There are multiple places on the internet which have, for years, drawn parallels between these two things.

As many have already said, Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games is a combination of a number of things: the life of Spartacus, the myth of Theseus saving children from the Minotaur, as well as Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo in terms of depictions of starvation.

More strikingly, however, is the genocidal undertones of the Capitol’s agenda.

President Snow, in the first Hunger Games installment, asks the Gamemaker why they don’t just round up 24 people every year and kill them off. Obviously Hitler had no interest in keeping any non-Aryans alive, but the absolute cruelty of having children wipe each other out bred bad blood between Districts and ensured their separation from each other, not only via the barriers, but also through the psychological and emotional distance in having to one day face them in the arena.

Sound familiar?

During World War II, the Jews were rounded up and ghettoized. Forced into abject poverty and desperation, they were left to fend for themselves and often turned against each other in order to survive.

It wasn’t until I saw Catching Fire that I noticed the extent of the parallel.

When President Snow discusses the upcoming games with the new Gamemaker, he remarks:

“[Katniss Everdeen’s] species must be eradicated.”

Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Gamemaker, asks: “Her species, sir?”

President Snow then replies, “The other victors. Because of her, they all pose a threat. Because of her, they all think they’re invincible.”

This returns to my point about the importance of words. I don’t know for certain that these exact words were used in the books, but even if they weren’t, it still provides particular insight into how we market our literature to the world.

Why the word “species”? Why not simply say, “We must eradicate all the victors.”

This would clarify things, because the emphasis would be on the fact that President Snow wished to extinguish their hope. By killing all the victors, hope would be lost, and the Districts would finally stop fighting back and resign themselves to despair.

However, the word species is used and then clarified. But not before it draws attention to itself. Not before President Snow slips up. His true, and more malevolent intention, is that he desires to eradicate the outer Districts because he ultimately feels that they are a disease and will destroy the Capitol’s perfection.

Katniss’s symbol is the mockingjay—a symbol of the resistance. When the people of the districts discovered that the Jabber Jays—bred solely for the purpose of spying—were reporting back to the Capitol, they began feeding lies to them. Soon, the Jabber Jays were abandoned and left to fend for themselves in the wild. Instead of becoming distinct, they mated with mockingbirds. A new species was born—one created without the ‘permission’ of the Capitol.

Many people might not see the parallel between the Hunger Games and the Holocaust since Hitler almost successfully annihilated the Jews. Instead of starting a glorified rebellion against Nazi Germany, the Jews were sent to the gas chambers. The possibility of any large-scale rebellion was futile.

However, there were those who banded together to rise up against their oppressors.

In 1943, in the Warsaw ghetto, Jewish residents rebelled. In response, the Germans, commanded by General Jurgen Stroop, systematically burned the district's buildings, killed roughly 7000 rebels and sent survivors to concentration camps. SS leader Heinrich Himmler documented the event. Time magazine published the photo. After the war, the Allied leaders used this photo as evidence against. Stroop. He was tried and convicted of war crimes. He was then executed by hanging on March 6, 1952.

In other ways, people fought back during the Holocaust.

Jews were often hid from Nazi soldiers by other German families, anti-Nazi literature was transmitted to de-brainwash German citizens, and Jews were also transported to safer locations outside Germany.

Moreover, the imagery within Hunger Games—particularly the fire imagery—echoes that of the Holocaust and its aftermath.

In The Book Thief, Zusak makes an interesting observation about Nazi Germany:

“You see, people may tell you that Nazi Germany was built on anti-Semitism, a somewhat overzealous leader, and a nation of hatefed bigots, but it would all have come to nothing had the Germans not loved one particular activity: To burn” (24).

The word Holocaust refers to a great destruction resulting in the extensive loss of life, especially by fire.

In Middle English, the word means burnt offering, referencing biblical sacrifice in which an animal was wholly burnt on the alter in worship of God.

The word comes from the Greek word holokauston—“that which is completely burnt”—which was a translation of Hebrew—“that which goes up” in smoke.

In the 17th century, the meaning of the word broadened to “something totally consumed by fire”.

As the “girl on fire”, Katniss Everdeen represents those districts which are being persecuted by the Capitol. Moreover, District 13—the ghost district that no longer exists at the start of the series— was destroyed by fire.

District 12, Katniss’ district, meets the same fate.

The firebombing of District 12, its mass grave at the end of Mockingjay, and Katniss’ memory book to honour the dead all echo the Holocaust and other examples of starvation and genocide under totalitarian regimes.

With all of this in mind, popular children’s and young adult’s fiction are effective educational tools since students can better empathize with the children/young adults depicted in its pages. Even if students do not learn the magnitude of the horror of the Holocaust specifically, they can still internalize the universal message of the Holocaust’s aftermath and carry that message forward into the future.

Moreover, there is something unique about the child survivor’s trauma and testimony. These narratives are useful in better understanding other victims’ early childhood traumas.

Of the six million Jewish people killed during the Holocaust (1933-1945), one and a half million were children (“child” being defined as 16 and younger).

Only 1% of the prewar children survived World War II. These children are now the only remaining witnesses to the Holocaust.

That is why it is integral to present as close to the truth as possible—not merely just the facts, but the emotional reality behind an event of such magnitude.

John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pajamas attempts to convey such an emotional reality. Similar to The Book Thief, it is told from the other side of the camp.

Told by an unnamed narrator from the perspective of a nine-year-old boy named Bruno, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas describes the obligatory relocation of a German family to “Out-With” (Bruno’s pronunciation of Auschwitz). To combat his boredom, Bruno often gazes out his bedroom window and discovers the strange people garbed in striped pajamas. As Bruno’s story unfolds, the informed reader learns of his father’s role under Hitler’s command as well as the family’s close proximity to a Jewish concentration camp.

I could discuss the book in great detail, but I wish to focus solely on its ending—the book’s and Hollywood’s interpretation of it.

Although critics dismiss Boyne’s text as inciting empathy for the perpetrators, his careful depiction of Bruno’s family offers further interpretations behind the Holocaust and insight into the minds of those on the other side of the fence.

Essentially, it is not that the wrong boy died, it is that Bruno, like Shmuel (the Jewish boy Bruno befriends in the concentration camp), died without grasping the meaning of their deaths.

The entire premise of the book is centred on Bruno’s misunderstanding of his entire situation which represents, in various ways, that there is the very real possibility that there were those who remained ignorant to what was happening.

I myself have struggled with this idea for years. How could there be people unaware of what was happening during the Holocaust?

During my MA degree, a fellow colleague, from South Africa, informed our class that she was in school during Apartheid and wasn’t aware of what was happening. From our perspective, especially receiving all the media coverage, we are at a loss as to how this could be possible.

But it certainly is possible and was during the Holocaust.

This theme of incomprehensibility culminates in the text’s conclusion: Bruno’s father sits in the same spot outside the fence where Bruno shed his clothes and crawled under the fence.

The only evidence Boyne provides as to whether Bruno’s father realized what happened to his son is the description of him looking “into the distance … and followed it through logically, step by step, and when he did he found that his legs seemed to stop working right – as if they couldn’t hold his body up any longer – and he ended up sitting on the ground in almost exactly the same position as Bruno had every afternoon for a year, although he didn’t cross his legs beneath him” (216).

In this moment, Bruno’s father appears to make the strongest effort to empathize with his son, to understand what happened to him. His legs giving out, as in the physical shock of sudden comprehension, suggest that he does uncover the truth of Bruno’s disappearance.

In allowing the soldiers to remove him from “Out-With,” Bruno’s father demonstrates his disinterest in life, no longer caring “what they did to him any more” (216). In shutting down, Bruno’s father reveals that he, at long last, gains a glimmer of understanding: in failing as a father to Bruno, he loses far more than just the war—he loses his desire to live, and importantly, his right to life.

Ending his text on an ironic note, Boyne writes “Of course all this happened a long time ago and nothing like that could ever happen again. Not in this day and age” in order to emphasize that genocide does continue to occur and will continue to do so unless humans learn the true meaning of empathy.

This insight—the ability to emotionally access the Holocaust, or any other genocide—allows for a unique and useful empathy to be evoked.

What is not useful, however, is the re-writing of Boyne’s novel in visual form. Hollywood’s version, instead of leaving audiences with an unsettled feeling, garner an intense emotional reaction to Bruno’s death. Bruno’s father, mother, and sister, all realize what happens to Bruno. Their agonizing faces and sobs echo in viewer’s minds and ears.

Although gassed with a number of other people, including a young boy his own age, Bruno’s death is what Hollywood encourages audiences to be affected and affronted by. Nevermind that Bruno’s father had already successfully gassed hundreds of people in that camp by the time Bruno lost his life.

Words are particularly powerful—we must always be careful how we visually represent them to the uneducated masses.

Unlike the adaptation of Boyne’s novel, the ending of Zusak’s novel is particularly effective.

At the novel’s conclusion, Death converses with the girl Liesel—now an old woman—about Liesel’s novel, The Book Theif, that she wrote about her life.

Liesel asks Death if he could make any sense of it. Wanting to explain many things to Liesel, Death thinks about how the “same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant” (550).

He finally says to her, “I am haunted by humans.”

Human beings are capable of so much good and yet so much destruction. That is why these narratives, be it in fiction or memoir form, are necessary in perpetuating the lessons of the Holocaust in order to not only educate future generations, but also lesson the likelihood of other Hitlers, and those like him, from rising up and annihilating all that is good and right in the world.

Friday, 6 December 2013

Don't Hate Me 'Cause I'm a Jew - Part III (and final)

With Chanukah ending yesterday, I’d like to connect the holiday to the conclusion of my antisemitism series by finishing up with Rabbi Spiro’s book.

Since Chanukah is a time to be loud and proud about our Jewishness, it’s important to know where we come from and what it took for us to get here.

The thing about history, though, is that it’s often written by the winners and more often than not the minorities are excluded. But this, thankfully, is not the case when it comes to the Jews. The facts are all there, but the real issue comes down to how these facts are narrated.

The interesting thing about telling history is not only a matter of perspective, but also the order and structure in which you tell it.

Rabbi Spiro’s book is such a retelling of history. People might argue that if you wrote this book from another perspective or narrative structure, its meaning and conclusion would be entirely different (similar to how I am also retelling this history).

But I would wholeheartedly disagree. The book does not dismiss other cultures or their impact on civilization. Instead, it acknowledges that all cultures helped shape this world, but it emphasizes the extent of Jewish influence and that the Jew's mission and democracy’s mission is, and always was, one in the same.

When Abraham destroyed all his father’s idols, he became the first person since Adam and Noah to declare the existence of one God.

From Abraham to Isaac, Isaac to Jacob, Jacob to his 12 sons (the Tribes of Israel) this belief was carried forward. This tradition is known as “ethical monotheism” and the greater part of the world 4000 years later adapted it as absolute.

But how did this come about?

After Joseph, who I discussed in my first post, was sold into slavery and went to Egypt—and successfully became the number two guy there—the Jews enjoyed a period of affluence and prosperity.

However, despite their years of loyalty to Egypt, the Jews soon began to be viewed as a threat to Pharaoh. Next thing you know, more than 600,000 Jews became slaves in Egypt. Cue Moses, the 10 plagues, and the freeing of the Jewish people.

To Moses, God said:

“You shall love the stranger as yourself, because you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

Unlike the Gods of the Greeks, Romans, Syrians, and most of the Mediterranean peoples—whose Gods were amoral and indifferent to mankind—the God of Abraham, and the Jews, was one of righteousness.

More than 1700 years have passed since Abraham’s time. While Israel has been attacked by the Philistines, Babylonians, and Assyrians, none of the invaders—since the Maccabean revolt against the Greeks—tried to annihilate the Jews because of their faith.

Eventually, the Greek Empire fell away and the Roman Empire took its place—though it absorbed its Hellenistic culture. Of the 50 million people living in Rome at that time, as many as six to seven million (14%) were Jews.

Like the Greeks, the Romans had a huge problem with Jews. Even though the Jews made up a minority, the Romans realized that their citizens were so convinced by Judaism, that many people began converting in large numbers.

Only once did the Jewish kingdom try to force a group of people—the Indumeans—to convert.

And it cost them dearly.

Not long after, Rome invaded Israel and conquered. The Jews fought back—which was nothing short of suicidal—and miraculously drove Rome from Jerusalem.

While the Rabbis suggested reconciliation, the zealot extremists had had enough. They killed 6,000 Roman soldiers. Coincidentally, the victory was won on the exact same spot where the Maccabees vanquished the Greeks.

Without a doubt, the Jews had betrayed their fundamental principles. Had it not been for Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, the Jews might have been lost forever.

Smuggling himself out of the city in a coffin, Zakkai was eventually granted an audience with the leader of the Roman army and, having found the general in good spirits after learning that Nero was dead and he was to be emperor, he spared the center of Torah learning at Yavneh along with many Jewish scholars.

The Jewish challenge to Rome that began in 66 C.E. lasted 70 years. But by then, Jerusalem—Israel’s capital King David had created one thousand years earlier—was now emptied of Jews.

Jerusalem had fallen. The Temple was no more. And Israel was lost.

Jesus eventually arrived on the scene along with the introduction to Christianity to the world.

The Jews, no longer viewed by the majority of the world as the “chosen people”, now merely functioned—for the Roman Catholic Church—as living proof of the validity of the Old Testament as well as the “Second Coming” of Jesus.

But due to the Reformation and invention of the printing press, the Bible found its way back into the hands of the masses. Everyone was being introduced to Jewish principles once more.

The English Revolution changed the course of European history by bringing about the near end of European nobility. And it would not have happened without the Bible. The Puritans were obsessed with it and they used it for a model of a just society.

The Puritans saw themselves as the mirror image of the Jewish people and their struggle against the pharaoh of Egypt.

John Milton himself event felt that there were “no songs comparable to the song of Zion; no oration equal to those of the prophets; and no politics like those which Scripture teach.”

Given that the Book of Deuteronomy spoke of the Jews being scattered “from one end of the Earth to other” and that the medieval Hebrew name for England was Ketzeh Ha-Eretz—“end of the Earth”—the Puritans reasoned that the “Second Coming” could not happen without the Jews returning to England. The Jews, eventually, made their way back to England in small numbers.

When Cromwell died, so too did Puritan rulership. But their legacy outlived them.

The Enlightenment—which stressed that the human mind was necessary for the advancement of civilization—also embodied the belief that the mission of human beings was to improve humanity.

A mission that the Jews had been carrying out centuries before.

The Puritans brought their values to America—a country that many consider to be the pinnacle of modern society. Debatable, in many respects, but let’s accept it for argument’s sake. So, the Puritans—solely influenced by the Jews and their bible—founded America: the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Of course many Americans today are bible-thumping Christians, but the Old Testament is still considered the original and pure source of Christian values—as well as a legalistic and ritualistic guide—something that the New Testament was not.

Moreover, education for all was the hallmark of Puritanism in America. Again, one of the fundamental values of Judaism. In fact, at some of the most prestigious American universities, both Hebrew and Bible studies were offered as required courses.

Hebrew was, in fact, so popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, that several students at Yale delivered their commencement orations in Hebrew.

Many of America’s founding fathers, in their speeches, would quote extensively from the Old Testament.

Rabbi Spiro spends a lot of time breaking down the wide-reaching extent of Judaism’s impact on early America, but I want to jump right to the end of his book.

He concludes by citing Congressional Quarterly’s comparison of urban public school problems of 1940 with those of 1990.