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A MONTH OF REMEMBRANCE

November is a month of remembrance. Jewish remembrance of Kristallnacht, the ‘Night of the Broken Glass, of 9^th November 1938, when Nazi persecution of the Jewish people turned to violence, almost coincides with the anniversary of Armistice Day, when the First World War finally ended at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918.

Mentioning both these dates in the same sentence reminds us that just 20 years after the so-called ‘war to end all wars’, another world war beckoned. This year, BHPS will be participating in two days of remembrance of the First and Second World Wars, beginning with 11^th November, when the Shabbat service will include special prayers and readings, and will be followed by an afternoon of creative writing and reminiscence, accompanied by an exhibition. The exhibition will also be displayed on Sunday, 12^th November, when we will be hosting the Brighton and Hove Branch of the Association of Jewish Ex-Servicemen and Women for a special Remembrance Sunday service.

Importantly, despite the proximity of 9^th and 11^th November, they belong to very different calendars of remembrance. A series of November dates in Jewish history tells an all-too-familiar story. On the 1^st November 1290, the Christian ‘Feast of All Souls’, the Jews of England were expelled, following the edict of expulsion signed by Edward the Confessor on 18th July of that year. A century later, the Jews of France were expelled on 3^rd November 1394. On 9^th November 1526 Jews are expelled from the city of Pressburg in Hungary. On 13^th November 1757 the Talmud was burned in Poland. On 22^nd November 1547 the tiny Jewish community of Asolo near Treviso in Italy was massacred. On 23^rd November 1510 the Jews were expelled from Naples

Jewish remembrance turns, paradoxically, on, both, our continual recollection of our ancestors’ liberation from slavery during the daily evening and morning services, each Shabbat and annually, at Pesach, and remembrance of our history of churban – ‘destruction’ – in particular, at Tishah B’Av, which marks the destruction of King Solomon’s Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE.

Interestingly, amongst the November dates that tell the story of churban, we find two that played a part in transforming the destiny of the Jewish people in the 20^th century. On 2^nd November 1917, Lord Balfour wrote to Lord Rothschild concerning the British government’s support for a Jewish homeland in Palestine – a letter that has since become known as ‘the Balfour Declaration’. On 29^th November 1947, the United Nations voted to support the partition of the disputed land into two states, Israel and Palestine. Thirty years apart, there is no doubt that if it hadn’t been for the Sho’ah that UN vote would never have taken place. As it happens, Lord Balfour’s letter to Lord Rothschild made it clear that the British government support for a homeland for the Jewish people was contingent upon ensuring that “nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine.” Sadly, events between 1917 and 1947 were not conducive to a mutually acceptable solution that would enable both peoples to enjoy sovereignty and security. And events since 1947 – not least, the 1948-49 war against the newly established Jewish state, and the Six Day War of June 1967 and subsequent occupation of the land beyond the 1949 ceasefire ‘green line’ – have so far scuppered every attempt at achieving a just peace. We can only hope that another milestone, the 70^th anniversary of the establishment of Israel in May next year, will bring renewed efforts towards creating at long last, a State of Palestine alongside the State of Israel.

WHAT DO WE REMEMBER?

The cycle of the Jewish year is a journey of commemoration that encompasses, both, milestones in our formative history as a people, and those that have been incorporated into the calendar along the way – including in recent times. And so, in Nissan, the first month of the Jewish year, the month of Aviv, ‘Spring’ in the Torah, our first and defining memory as a people is of the Exodus from Egypt, commemorated at Pesach (15 Nissan). When in 1951, the Israeli K’nesset designated 27 Nissan as Yom Ha-Sho’ah, the proximity to Pesach was not an accident: the Warsaw ghetto uprising against the Nazis began on Erev Pesach, 19 April 1943. And so, the decision to remember Jewish resistance alongside the murder of the six million. From the perspective of Israel in 1951, the placing of Yom Ha-Sho’ah eight days before Yom Ha-Atzma’ut, the anniversary of the establishment of the State of Israel on 5 Iyyar/14 May 1948 is also significant, forging a Pesach-like connection between persecution and redemption.

These modern commemoration dates, so closely connected with Pesach, take place during the seven-week period that culminates in the festival of Shavuot, ‘Weeks’. The transformation of Shavuot by the rabbis after the destruction of the Temple by the Romans in 70 CE, from Yom Ha-Bikkurim, ‘the day of first-fruits’ to Z’man Matan Torateinu, ‘the season of the giving of our Torah, ensured that the events at Mount Sinai, just over seven weeks after the Exodus would also be remembered for all time: from persecution to redemption to revelation.

A rabble of ex-slaves became a people at Mount Sinai; a people with a goal: to enter the land beyond the River Jordan and establish a society governed by laws of justice and centred on the acknowledgement of the Eternal – Creator, Liberator and Teacher. Significantly, the Jewish calendar does not commemorate any dates connected with life in the land, except those associated with domination by Imperial powers – chiefly the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple built by King Solomon by the Babylonians in 586 BCE –over six hundred years after our ancestors crossed the Jordan (c. 1250 BCE). That traumatic event gave rise to three commemorative dates: Tishah B’Av, the 9^th day of Av, the day of destruction (which begins this year on 31 July), 17 Tammuz, the date three weeks earlier when the Babylonians breached the walls of Jerusalem, and 10 Tevet, which falls in the winter, the day when the Babylonians siege of Jerusalem began. In fact, just as the Exodus is so significant to the identity of our people that we recall it twice daily in the blessing of liberation after the Sh’ma, and when we inaugurate Shabbat each week, remembrance of the devastation of Jerusalem is considered so important to our awareness of our personal identity as Jews that with the breaking of the glass, it breaks into the joyous celebration of a wedding.

As the cycle turns to the Days of Awe, remembrance of our people’s odyssey combines with our personal journeys towards renewal. On Rosh Ha-Shanah, we recall Abraham’s ‘binding of Isaac’, and on Yom Kippur, we reflect on our long history. And then on Sukkot, we re-connect with the Exodus story as we remember our ancestors’ wilderness wanderings. The post-biblical festivals that follow also jog our collective memory: On Simchat Torah, as we complete the Torah reading cycle and begin again; at Chanukkah, as we recall the Maccabees’ victory against the Assyrian Greeks conquerors in 164 BC and the rededication of the Temple; at Purim, as we tell a story that encapsulates our experience as a persecuted minority – and then conclude it with a happy ending. What do we remember? Both times of destruction and liberation. And we continue to look towards the future with hope. Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

(published in Sussex Jewish News, July 2017)

Why are we here today? There are many possible responses to this question. Some of us are here today on Rosh Ha-Shanah morning because we were here last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Of course, I realise that the use of the word ‘here’ needs to be qualified. This year, we are here in our beautiful new synagogue building; we are celebrating the Jewish New Year for the first time in our stunning new congregational home – and isn’t it wonderful! But the response that says I’m here today because I’m here every year is not about physical location. It speaks of habit and commitment.

As it happens, some people are attending a Rosh Ha-Shanah morning service for the first time. It’s a new experience – at turns, bewildering and fascinating and awe-inspiring. Some people are here because Rosh Ha-Shanah marks a threshold between the past year and the unknown future that lies ahead, and they appreciate the opportunity to make a new beginning. Some are here because they are consciously choosing to embark on a journey of t’shuvah, of ‘return’; of self-examination and repentance that will conclude on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Some are drawn to attend each year, not just because that’s something that they always do, but because they are enticed by the prospect of listening to the blasts of the shofar, the ram’s horn, which is the distinctive defining ritual of Rosh Ha-Shanah.

I’ve mentioned a few possible responses to the question, why are we here today? There are many more possible responses. No doubt, some of you are reflecting on your reasons for being here, as I speak. Ultimately, the question is not, why are we here? The question is why am I here? Whatever our responses, each one of us is addressed by this question. And then, another question clamours for attention: what am I doing here? After all, we are not spectators. We are not onlookers witnessing a spectacle. Each one of us is a participant in the drama. And despite our familiarity with the drama – like a play by William Shakespeare, so well-known that we are able to anticipate the famous speeches and what’s going to happen next – the script of our particular Rosh Ha-Shanah drama is only an edifice. We are the characters, and however well we know the familiar lines of the liturgy, we are challenged to find between the familiar lines our own language to explore the unique drama of our lives and articulate our tasks and our responsibilities towards others.

The word ‘journey’ has been so overused in contemporary culture that for many people it has ceased to convey real meaning. That is very unfortunate because it is a very important word – or rather, concept – that expresses something fundamental about the existential human condition. We share so much with all the other creatures of the Earth, but there is a crucial defining difference: our awareness that life is not just about surviving today. We are conscious that we are on a journey from birth to death. And so, even those who are here today because they were here last year and the year before, are aware that with the passing years, quite apart from the particular events and moments that mark each year of our lives as distinctive, we are experiencing the physical signs that tell us that we are growing older.

And so, we are not simply here today, each one of us is summoned here today to act; to reflect on the past year; to think about what we did and what we didn’t do; to examine our relationships with the significant people in our lives, and what we have done and not done to nourish and cherish those relationships. And we are challenged to act because whatever we do or don’t do, as the Latin dictum puts it, tempus fugit, ‘time flies’; so let us transform the inexorable journey of our lives from birth to death into a journey of purpose and meaning.

Significantly, the human existential condition is also, specifically, the Jewish existential condition. The narratives we find in the Torah tell us that the story of the Jewish people begins with a journey: the journey of Abraham and Sarah, our first ancestors, who left their land, their kindred, and their family home to walk towards new horizons.^[1] From that first journey: journey followed journey followed journey. Interestingly, the Torah uses very simple language. It speaks of ‘going’ and ‘walking’: the Hebrew root, Hei Lamed Kaf conveys both. There is no sense of urgency or menace: to go is simply that; to put one foot in front of the other. But the sense of purpose is important. That’s why it is appropriate to speak of a journey. A journey has a destination. In the case of Abraham and Sarah, they were on a journey to a land that the Eternal One promised to show them.^[2]

But of course, that first journey was complicated. For one thing, it had a beginning, but it turned out to be an endless journey that did not end even, with their deaths – first the death of Sarah; ^[3] then the death of Abraham.^[4] And it also included other journeys – not least, the three day journey that Abraham took with his son Isaac from B’eir Sheva, where the family lived, to Mount Moriah;^[5] a journey that occurred shortly after, at Sarah’s behest, Abraham had banished his first-born son Ishmael and concubine, Hagar, from the family home into the wilderness.^[6] Both of these perilous journeys constitute the Torah readings for Rosh Ha-Shanah, which we read in alternate years.^[7] This year, we will be reading about Abraham and Isaac’s excruciating journey.

We learn from these two particular journeys that taking a journey involves courage, trust and hope: the courage of Abraham and Isaac; the courage of Hagar and Ishmael. Abraham’s trust that he would not, in the end, have to sacrifice his son, and as Isaac walked alongside his father,^[8] his trust that his father would not do him any harm. Hagar’s trust that she and her son would not be abandoned to die in the desert. And for all these characters in these epic dramas, perhaps a sense of hope, also, helped them to overcome their fear of what lay before them: the hope of survival; the hope of a future.

From the days of our first ancestors until today, migration has been an integral element of Jewish experience. In the contemporary debates about immigration, which reached a crescendo in the EU referendum campaign a few months ago, the on-going assumption seems to be, not only that immigration is a problem, but that somehow migration is abnormal; as if people haven’t been leaving their home countries for millennia. And then there is the curious opposition that is created between ‘migrants’ and ‘refugees’. While many would say that Britain and other countries should provide a refuge to those in flight from persecution, they also argue that the borders should be closed to those who are motivated by economic considerations, and are simply in search of a better life for themselves and their families. The basic problem with this argument, which assumes a binary division between ‘migrants’ and ‘refugee’s is that it ignores the stark reality of poverty and economic hardship in so many countries across the globe. Yes, many millions of people are driven from their homes by war, persecution and tyranny, but many millions more don’t have enough food for themselves and their families. As one of the richest nations in the world, the insistence that a distinction be made between deserving refugees and undeserving migrants is outrageous. Just imagine the desperation for migrants and refugees alike that drives them to leave their homes with the few possessions they can carry and take such hazardous journeys.

So, what to do? In an ideal world, there would be no borders. But we don’t live in an ideal world. We live in a world, dominated by a global capitalist economy, in which the division between the haves and have-nots is getting wider, not narrower. We live in a world, pockmarked by despicable tyrannical regimes, riven by conflict and division, ravaged by war. In such a world – the real world – we have to prioritise, and, of course, the number one priority for the prosperous nations, including Britain, must be to ensure safe refuge for the millions in flight from violence and terror – in particular, those fleeing from the deadly conflict in Syria. In this respect, let us applaud German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, who in the immediate aftermath of bomb and knife attacks in Germany this past summer that increased the volume of anti-immigration hysteria to fever pitch, reasserted Germany’s commitment to take in refugees.^[9] Of course, it’s no accident that Germany is providing the lead. Given the recent history of that nation’s descent into hell during the Nazi period, followed by its division between the capitalist West and the communist East, the affirmation of humanitarian values represents the only decent antidote to tyranny.

Interestingly, the narratives in the Torah also reveal a distinction between ‘migrants’ and ‘refugees’ – on both an individual and a collective level. And so, in the story of Jacob and his twin brother Esau, after Jacob cheated Esau out of their father’s blessing as the firstborn, he fled from Esau’s wrath, terrified that Esau might kill him. We read that Jacob ‘went towards Charan’: va-yeilech Charanah, ^[10] to the place where his grandparents and his mother came from. But Jacob’s journey does not represent a simple reversal of those original journeys. The verse begins: Va-yeitzei mi-B’eir Shava – ‘He went out from B’eir Sheva.’ As I mentioned earlier, the Hebrew root Hei Lamed Kaf, simply means to ‘go’ or to ‘walk’. By contrast, the Hebrew root, Yud Tzadi Aleph means to go out, and is also used for the exodus of the slaves from Egypt.^[11] Unlike, Abraham and Sarah and Rebekah before him, who went on their journeys, Jacob ran for his life.

Nevertheless, despite this distinction between the experience of those who go and those who flee, the justice legislation in the Torah makes it clear that when it comes to geirim, sojourners, regardless of how they came to be sojourners, they are to be treated equally with the home-born. In parashat K’doshim, Leviticus chapter 19, known as the ‘Holiness code’, which will be our Torah reading on Yom Kippur afternoon, we find these verses:^[12]

And when strangers sojourn with you in your land, you shall not wrong them. / The sojourners that sojourn with you shall be to you as the home-born among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt: I am the Eternal your God.

Ki geirim heyitem b’eretz mitzrayim – ‘for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt.’ Our sojourn in Egypt was over 3000 years ago, and even the continual repetition of that experience in the daily liturgy, each Shabbat, and every year at Pesach, with the associated Pesach rituals, cannot transform what happened long ago into felt experience. Tomorrow (October 4) marks the 80^th anniversary of ‘The Battle of Cable Street’, when, proclaiming ‘they shall not pass,’ the residents of the East End came together to prevent Oswald Mosley’s fascist ‘black shirts’ from marching through the streets.^[13] But only a tiny number of Jews now remain in the East End, and we have largely lost touch with the experience of grandparents and great grandparents who arrived there in flight from persecution in Russia and Eastern Europe. Indeed, even our proximity to the Sho’ah, and the presence of refugees and survivors from Nazism amongst us, cannot bridge the gulf between their experience of terror and tyranny and our lives today.

Of course, as soon as we think about the presence of refugees and survivors here in our own congregation, we are also conscious, as we enter this sacred season, of a yawning absence, following the death on July 14of our beloved Emeritus President, Hans Levy, Zichrono Livrachah – May his memory be for blessing. Like other Jewish children, who came to this country on the kindertransports, Hans never saw his parents again. Hans shared with us his own particular, personal story of the Sho’ah. But he did much more than provide us with glimpses of the terror and loss he had experienced. Embracing life with joy, and responding to everyone he met with generosity and kindness, Hans showed us, by his example, that life is a gift to be lived and enjoyed. The question is, can we learn from Hans’ example? Can we really enter into the story of his life – the whole story, including how Hans chose to live his life, after the kindertransport gave him the gift of life? Even in the case of a beloved, familiar presence in our midst for so many years, can we bridge the gulf between his experience of life as a refugee, forced to flee his country, his kindred and his parents’ home and our experience of life today?

Maybe we can’t. But that doesn’t mean that we can abrogate our responsibility in relation to the plight of migrants and refugees today. To return to the question that I asked a few moments ago: So, what to do? Brighton and Hove has been designated as a City of Sanctuary, an oasis of welcome for refugees.^[14] But what does this mean in practice? Here at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue, we have a weekly collection of non-perishable foods and toiletries for refugees, supported by the charity, Brighton Voices in Exile. I know that our collection, urgently needed, is appreciated. It is the minimum that we can do to make a difference to the lives of the strangers in our midst. We need to do more. And when I say ‘we’, each one of us needs to ask ourselves what else we can do, personally. Within the lifetime of some of us, ordinary people in this country opened their homes to lone refugee children fleeing Nazism. Such generous hospitality is required today in conjunction with the requisite support services from the wider community, including, counselling, sports activities and language classes; whatever it takes for young refugees to rebuild their lives.^[15]

I began this sermon a few minutes ago by suggesting that we need to ask ourselves the question: what am I doing here? As with the Torah maxims to love our neighbours and the stranger as ourselves,^[16] at the heart of Jewish teaching is the awareness that in order to act in the world for good, each one of us is challenged, as philosopher and biblical commentator Martin Buber, put it, ‘to begin with oneself ’.^[17] But Buber did not leave it there. He wrote:

To begin with oneself, but not to end with oneself; to start from oneself, but not to aim at oneself; to comprehend oneself, but not to be preoccupied with oneself.

In an important sense, Buber’s reflection summarises our task today on Rosh Ha-Shanah, and for the days that follow until we arrive at Yom Kippur. We have begun a journey together; we have begun our own individual journeys in the company of one another. We have begun with ourselves. The challenge for each one of us is not to end with ourselves, but rather to consider our responsibility towards others, in particular, the most vulnerable and marginal in our midst. I would like to close by quoting the famous dictum of the sage Hillel, included in Pirkey Avot, the ‘Chapters of the Sages’ appended to the Mishnah. The wisdom of Hillel’s words transcends the centuries to address all of us today: ^[18]

Im eyn ani li, mi ani? If I’m not for myself, who will be for me?

U’ch’she’ani l’atzmi, mah ani? But if I’m only for myself, what am I?

V’im lo achshav, eimatai? And if not now, when?

If not now, when will we begin to repair ourselves and our relationships, our society and our world? If not today, on Rosh Ha-Shanah, on the day that we embark on our journeys of renewal, when will we make a commitment to embrace all those who journey in search of a new life?

Kein y’hi ratzon: May this be our will. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton & Hove Progressive Synagogue – Adat Shalom V’rei’ut

Rosh Ha-Shanah Shacharit 5777 – 3^rd October 2016

1. Genesis 12:1-4. ↑
2. Gen. 12:1. ↑
3. Gen. 23:1-2. ↑
4. Gen. 25:8. ↑
5. Gen. 22:1 ff. ↑
6. Gen. 21:1 ff. ↑
7. Traditionally, there are two days for Rosh Ha-Shanah. Genesis 21 is read on the first day, and Genesis 22 on the second. In Liberal Judaism, where Rosh Ha-Shanah is observed for one day only, these readings may be read in alternate years. They are both found in the LJ prayerbook for Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur, Machzor Ruach Chadashah (London, 2003, pp.123-128). ↑
8. Genesis 22: 6; 8: va-yeil’chu sh’neihem yachdav – ‘and the two of them walked on together.’ ↑
9. A train attack at Würzburg on July 18 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-36827725On July 22, the fifth anniversary of a series of attacks were perpetrated by far right extremist Anders Breivik in Norway on July 22, 2011 ( http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-14260297 ) an 18-year-old, suffering with mental illness, killed nine people in Munich before killing himself: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-3688060 On July 24 two more attacks in Germany: a 21-year-old Syrian refugee killed a woman with a kebab knife in Reutlingen http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-36882445 and a 27-year-old Syrian refugee blew himself up in Ansbach, injuring fifteen others, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-36882831 ‘Merkel rules out migrant policy reversal after attacks’: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-36912141 ↑
10. Genesis 28:10. ↑
11. The Exodus was later referred to by the first rabbis as yitzi’at Mitzrayim, ‘the going out of Egypt’. See: The blessing of day recited on Erev Shabbat (Siddur Lev Chadash, Liberal Judaism, London, 1995, pp. 564-5. ↑
12. Leviticus 19:34-35. ↑
13. The Borough of Tower Hamlets has organised the festival: http://www.towerhamletsarts.org.uk/?cid=61727&guide=Events JW3, the London Jewish Cultural Centre has also planned a calendar of events to mark the anniversary: https://www.jw3.org.uk/cablestreet ↑
14. https://brighton-and-hove.cityofsanctuary.org/2015/06/10/what-makes-brighton-hove-a-city-of-sanctuary For local campaigns and projects in support of refugees and migrants in Brighton and Hove, see: Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Migrants Directory: https://www.brighton-hove.gov.uk/sites/brighton-hove.gov.uk/files/Refugee%2C%20Asylum%20Seekers%20and%20Migrants%20Directory%20March%202016%20FINAL.pdf ↑
15. See: JCORE’s (Jewish Council for Racial Equality) campaign concerning unaccompanied minors: http://www.jcore.org.uk/campaigning ↑
16. Leviticus 19:18; 34. ↑
17. Martin Buber, The Way of Man According To The Teachings Of Hasidism. (Pendle Hill Publications, Wallingford, 2002, 35). ↑
18. Pirkey Avot, ‘Chapters of the Sages’ (Mishnah Tractate N’zikin): 1:14. The Mishnah, the first rabbinic code of law was redacted c. 200 CE. ↑

The word freedom seems to demand an exclamation mark. What is freedom? The rabbinic sages referred to Pesach as z’man cheiruteinu, ‘the season of our freedom ’ because the Festival celebrates the liberation of our ancestors from slavery. The Exodus is our foundational narrative and defines our existence as a people – which is why we remember the Exodus, not just once a year at Pesach, but in the prayer of liberation that is recited after the Sh’ma every day, including on Shabbat, during morning and evening services. The Exodus is also a famous tale that has inspired other peoples in their struggles for liberation over the centuries, and continues to inspire oppressed peoples in our own day. When I was involved in the Anti-Apartheid movement in the 1970s and 80s, I used to participate in the annual fourth night Freedom Seder outside the South African embassy, which used a Haggadah devised by Liberal Jews, Shalom and Rachel Charikar, zichronam livrachah – may their memory be for blessing.

But the liberation of the slaves is only half the story of the Exodus: ‘Let My people go that they may serve Me’ (Exodus 9:1). The Eternal One liberated the Israelites from slavery in in order to become the servants of God. In Hebrew, the word for ‘servant’ and ‘slave’ is the same: eved (plural: avadim) – based on the root, Ayin Beit Dalet. And the word for Divine service – Avodah – is based on the same root.

We read in Pirkey Avot (6:2), the Chapters of the Sages, the collection of the wise aphorisms of the early generations of rabbis that is appended to the Mishnah, the first code of rabbinic law, edited in 200 CE, this comment on Exodus 32:16: ‘”And the tablets were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, engraved [charut] upon the tablets.” Read not charut, [‘engraved’], but cheirut [‘freedom’], for no one is free unless they occupy themselves in the study of Torah.’ According to tradition, the mitzvot, commandments, provide the framework for the free person [ben chorin] to live out their freedom.

By contrast, the notion of freedom as a ‘right’ of the individual is a product of the new society that emerged after the French revolution of 1789 banished the feudal social order, with its clarion call of Liberté, égalité, fraternité: freedom, equality, fraternity. However, even in modern democratic societies there is no such thing as absolute freedom. Unless you prescribe to the philosophy of anarchy and live as a hermit, the freedom of the individual is limited by the requirement to obey the law – which includes laws that regulate society, and ensure the protection of the rights of individuals within it.

The Exodus story teaches that all the slaves must go free. It also teaches that after the heady moment of freedom has passed, the liberated face the challenge of creating a new social order. As ‘liberated’ Liberal Jews, the challenge is very similar: to create a framework for our Jewish lives that balances personal autonomy with our responsibility towards the community. Chag Pesach Samei’ach!

‘Summer nights’: Those very few occasions during a British summer, when it’s possible to stay outside after dark, enjoying the lingering warmth of the day. Interestingly, ‘summer nights’ is not an expression used in the Hebrew Bible. Indeed, there are very few references to ‘night’ altogether. The first creation narrative refers, simply, to the division between ‘day’ and ‘night’ (B’reishit, Genesis 1:5). And then in the Torah portion, Va-yeira (Gen. 19), we find the disturbing story of Lot and his two daughters that follows the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. All the men of the known world gone, and living in a cave, they devise a plan to make their father drunk in order to ‘lie with him’, and so produce children (19:30-32). In the three verses that describe what happened, ‘night’ – lailah – is mentioned four times.

Another Genesis night-time story: Jacob, the night before his reunion with his brother Esau: Having brought his two wives, his two concubines and his 11 children across the ford of the Yabbok, with all his possessions, “Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn” (Va-yishlach, Gen. 32:25). The identity of the ‘man’ a mystery, Jacob emerged with limp and a new name, YiSRa’eL, “…. ‘for you have struggled [SaRita] with God [‘eLoHim] and with men and have prevailed’…” (32:30).

Jacob/Yisrael: the father of the people Israel. And then: the Exodus narrative, which led to the formation of the people in the wilderness at Mount Sinai, speaks of a ‘night of vigil’ [leil shimurim] in preparation for the moment of liberation (Bo, Exodus 12:42); a night marked by a final, deadly night-time plague: “In the middle of the night [ba-chatzi ha-lailah] the Eternal One struck down all the firstborn in the land of Egypt…” (Bo, Ex. 12:29).

The Book of Exodus closes with the completion of the Mishkan [Tabernacle], and a powerful image: “For over the Mishkan, a cloud of the Eternal One rested by day, and a fire would appear in it [i.e. in the cloud] by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys” (Ex. 40:38). Fire at night: anyone who has gone camping can testify to the importance of the camp-fire; providing a circle of light and warmth in the darkness. All in all, the Torah makes it clear that night is a challenging time.

References to ‘summer’ [kayitz] in the Bible are even more rare – perhaps because in the Middle East the sun dominates much of the year. Nevertheless, Jewish history is scoured by summertime tragedies that took place on and around Tishah B’Av [9^th Av], beginning with the devastation of Jerusalem by the Babylonians in 586 BCE (See: Book of Lamentations). And since the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6 and 9th 1945, respectively, world history, too, is marked forever by summertime destruction. Of course, summer is not defined by these terrible events anymore than by summer nights and holidays. The summer, like all the seasons of the year, is for living Life in all its complexity.

JANUARY AND SH’VAT – Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

It’s January. As soon as we say the word, images of deep winter fill our minds: grey skies, short, dull days, the cold and the damp, frost and ice, sleet and snow; naked trees and a barren landscape. Of course, sometimes the sun shines and the bare branches make beautiful patterns against the sky at sunset.

There is no escape from January. We just have to get through it. But, actually, that’s not quite true. A parallel universe beckons: the domain of the Hebrew month of Sh’vat – which begins this year on January 2^nd. Sh’vat conjures up images of a very different kind. The first paragraph of Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah, which is devoted to the various ‘new years’ of the Jewish calendar, relates (1:1):

On the 1^st of Sh’vat is a New Year the trees, according to the words of the School of Shammai; the School of Hillel say, on the 15^th [day] of it.

As was often the case, the view of the School of Hillel became the halachah, the law. And so, if we step out from January and into Sh’vat, we can look forward to a mini festival, dedicated to the planting of trees and the eating fruits associated with the land of Israel. Of course, while January almost coincides completely with Sh’vat this year, there is no correspondence between chilly Britain and the warmer climate of the Eastern seaboard of the Mediterranean. Sh’vat in Israel is a time when the almond trees blossom. I remember planting trees on Tu Bishvat in 1979 on a kibbutz in the Western Galilee, wearing a T-shirt. I also recall many a frozen Tu Bishvat in England, and boiling several kettles of water in order to unfreeze the ground before planting.

Nevertheless, despite these obvious contrasts in climate, the month of Sh’vat reminds us that January is not quite what it seems. Within the bare trees all around us, the sap is rising. Soon, snowdrops will appear and winter crocuses, and before too long, even February will be over…

There is, after all, something transitional about January, situated in the middle of the three winter months. Once the first two weeks have passed, we begin to notice the days lengthening, and by the end of the month, spring is just four weeks away…

Of course, since the inauguration of National Holocaust Memorial Day, on the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by the Red Army, on January 27^th 1945, it is impossible to get through the month without reflecting on the horrors of the Sho’ah. But we are summoned to do more than this. As we remember the murder of 6,000,000 of our people, and the destruction of thousands of Jewish communities, we are challenged to commit ourselves to the renewal of Jewish life.

Over recent days, the conflict between the Palestinians and Israel has once again dominated international news. The deaths of over 100 people in the Gaza strip, a significant number of whom were women and children, and the firing of 1,000 rockets into Israel has prompted massive international campaigns from both sides. “Am Yisrael Chai” is the chant from the ardent pro-Israel activists. “Free, Free Palestine” is the unwavering response. Facebook, Twitter, the media; they have been littered with excuse upon excuse. The same old accusation that has been each side’s justification for 64 years of war remains the same: “You started it”. Well, after watching pro and anti-Israel protestors squaring up to each other in Leeds this week, I feel I need to throw my penny’s worth into the debate.

I am a Jew, a Zionist and an undergraduate at Leeds Uni. Before arriving in Leeds I spent a year in Israel, living in Jerusalem, volunteering in Arab-Jewish schools and learning about the history of the holy land. That year changed my life, and I hope it will add weight to the views I’m about to share.

I am sick and tired of war. I am sick and tired of ‘pro-Israel’ or ‘pro-Palestinian’ activists being more adversaries to their opposites than defenders of their actions. But the reason for this state of affairs is obvious. The continuation of this conflict, the continued assault on Gaza, the continued rocket and terror attacks on Israel, the continuation of the Occupation, the continued refusal to recognise Israel: they are indefensible. They have no future. Their raison d’etre is war and after 64 years of hate, the appetite for it is no longer alive; or at least, it shouldn’t be.

In 1948, after 60 years of campaigns and 2,000 years of longing, the Jewish people were once again given the chance to be free in their own country. Assimilation, something which had cost the lives of millions even before the holocaust, was no longer a requirement. And yet, the creation of that state has done only two things for the Jewish people since its establishment: divided international opinion and put 6million Jews once again in the line of fire. Why? The creation of the state of Israel, the fulfilment of the Jewish dream, came at the expense of the creation of Palestine and the dreams of Palestinians. It didn’t have to, it could have been avoided, both could and indeed should have been created side by side, but they weren’t. The Israeli will argue that the Palestinians turned down their chance, lost a war they started and should deal with the consequences. The Palestinian would argue that they had their land stolen, that any acceptance of that would justify a catastrophe for their people, the ‘Naqba’, and so it begins. The endless circle of ‘you hit me first’, and now here we are, 64 years on, and the conflict remains.

As a Zionist, I see, as I believe we all should, Palestinian Nationalism as an equal. Both want the same thing: a state in which their own people can be free, free from fear, and free to live and let live. Therein lies the biggest tragedy; rarely have two people, so similar in experience and aspiration, so steeped in a shared history and a shared ambition, been so determined to continue fighting. The tragedy is that both people are right in their vision; there is no right in the content of this conflict; there is every right for both people to achieve their dream.

Benjamin Netanyahu stood in front of the UN General Assembly two years ago and said that Israel should not withdraw from the West Bank because it did not work in Gaza. “Plan B”, he said, “is not plan A repeated”. So why then, Bibi, after failed attempts to destroy the military capabilities of Hezbollah in 2006 and Hamas in 2009, are we re-enacting failed plans time and time again? There is nothing Zionist about that; indeed, there is nothing intelligent about that either. And there is nothing to be proud of when the leader of Hamas stands in Cairo this afternoon and says that Hamas will not end the war first since, “Israel started it”.

The time has come when we should stop lying to ourselves and each other. Israel is not perfect, the occupation is brutal, the war-hungriness and empty words of its current government is astonishing and the war on Gaza will fail; you cannot bomb an ideology out of a people. Palestine is not perfect; the anti-Semitism of Hamas and even the PA charter is grotesque, rockets are senseless and self-defeating, terrorism has scarred Israelis for life and the refusal to accept Jewish statehood is no less harmful, and indeed only serves to justify, Israeli discrimination.

It’s high time that we put our futures before our past. Both are shared and both depend on each other. It’s high time that the curse on both our houses is lifted, and for that to happen, someone needs to be the bigger person, stand up and be counted, put their people before their war, and extend the hand of peace. Not rhetorically, not passively, not because some-one else wants it, but because it is the right thing to do. Let that be the next Operation we embark on in Gaza. And from one Zionist to every Pro-Palestinian and pro-Israeli activist out there, let me say, stop fighting for yourselves and start fighting for justice for everyone; for peace not war; for Israel and Palestine as equals and for the end of the most tragic conflict this world has seen for generations.

Aaron Cohen-Gold

November 2012