For the past few months, I have been living in a small town in Massachusetts. This past Shabbat, I was asked to give a Devar Torah after the service. I considered two ideas that arise from the parsha, Vayishlach. After much deliberation, I decided - perhaps mistakenly - to go with the idea that was easier to digest. This is the Devar Torah I didn’t deliver:
To be frank, I had written another Devar Torah for today, a more conservative one. However, given the current circumstances in Israel, Lebanon, Syria, and, above all, Gaza, I felt that a different Devar Torah was needed. Ever since I arrived here in Newton, I have been stunned to see the signs “We stand with Israel” everywhere. This Devar Torah reflects my own stance with Israel.
In the past year, it seems that new voices have emerged in Israel. While the voices themselves are not entirely new, what is new is their volume.
In the past year, it seems that new voices have emerged in Israel. While the voices themselves are not entirely new, what is new is their volume. No longer confined to whispers behind closed doors, they are now being spoken out loud and clearly. Here are some quotes from eulogies delivered at recent funerals for soldiers. Out of respect for the deceased, I will not mention names, but these eulogies were filmed and broadcast, some even on Israeli mainstream television, and are available on the internet.
A brother cries: “ריבונו של עולם, we want revenge! We want revenge! You [my brother,] went into Gaza to take revenge, as much as possible—women, children, everyone you saw, as much as possible—that’s what you wanted. And today, a year after Simchat Torah, when we thought we would slaughter the enemy, slaughter them all, drive them out of this land—we are here at your funeral, placing you in a grave.” Later in the eulogy, the brother said: “Blood vengeance—not vengeance by burning houses, not vengeance by burning trees, not vengeance by burning vehicles. The vengeance of the blood of Your servants that has been spilled!”. A friend from the military unit added: “You were the happiest and silliest person in the unit. We first encountered this in Gaza when you burned down a house without permission—just for the vibe.”
And here’s a eulogy from another funeral for another soldier: “You were so, so happy to enter Gaza and lead attacks. Truly, you wanted to kill, to avenge, and to destroy as much as possible, so that the whole world would understand what happens to those who mess with the people of Israel. You were so happy about it. You told me proudly that at some point, you stopped counting how many you had killed because it simply wasn’t worth counting anymore. And you were so happy about it—uplifting the honor of the people of Israel.”
As an Israeli patriot who served in a combat unit and, unfortunately, went to the cemetery under similar circumstances, these words fill me with shame. As someone who would like to consider himself an Orthodox Jew, seeing where these statements come from fills me with resentment and disgust. A few years ago, these kinds of comments might have been dismissed as “bad apples” or “עשבים שוטים”—as we say in Hebrew. However, I’m afraid that now, with representatives in the government and no fear of being detained, this is no longer the case.
As an Israeli patriot who served in a combat unit and, unfortunately, went to the cemetery under similar circumstances, these words fill me with shame. As someone who would like to consider himself an Orthodox Jew, seeing where these statements come from fills me with resentment and disgust.
In this week’s parasha, Vayishlach, Jacob meets Esau after many years of harboring deep resentment on both sides. The verse says: “ויירא יעקב מאוד וייצר לו,” “And Jacob was greatly afraid, and he was distressed.” Rashi asks: Why the repetition? Why both ויירא and וייצר, why both “and he was afraid” and “he was distressed”? And Rashi answers: “Jacob was afraid that he might be killed, and he was distressed that he might kill others.” This extremely thought-provoking and profound interpretation should be repeated: “Jacob was afraid that he might be killed, and he was distressed that he might kill others.”
The unbearable gap between this Rashi and the eulogies brought to my mind a letter that a friend of mine recently published on his Facebook page. Written in February 1948 during the Israeli War of Independence, this letter was penned by Netiva Ben Yehuda—a 20-year-old officer in the Palmach who later became an esteemed author, lexicographer, and radio broadcaster.
The letter was sent to her father right after she participated in an ambush on a bus belonging to the al-Najada organization, or “The Rescuers,” an Arab military group that fought against the Yeshuv. With obvious changes, the letter might be read as a reflection of Jacob’s concerns shared with Isaac.
Here is the letter with some omissions:
Hello, Father,
Tomorrow, early in the morning, as usual, you will open the newspaper, and while having breakfast, you will see a small headline: “An Arab bus was destroyed by our forces in the Upper Galilee.” As you continue reading, you will realize that the location of the event is the place where I, your daughter, was. Well, my request is: Do not rush to tell mother and do not proudly announce: “An Arab bus was destroyed! They killed 30 Arabs!” Because it is true, our operation was successful, the enemy bus was destroyed, 30 Arabs were killed, but you, Father, do not be proud of me. Do not rejoice in your heart. Accept the situation as it is: I had to do it, I was forced, and I carried out my duty. But there is nothing to be proud of in this. There is nothing here that should cause pride, because in the end: […] I killed people! With my own hands, I caused the death and injury of living people! Will you ever be able to understand this? […] I am no longer sure that the slogan “It is good to die for our country” “טוב למות בעד ארצנו” is correct. But one thing I am sure of, and that is: “It is not good to kill for our country.” I am sure there is something wrong here, something very wrong, a great injustice. Injustice for us and for them. For everyone. You – do not worry about me. I will not fall in spirit, and I will continue to do what is required of me, just like all of us here—the youth at the forefront of action. But there is one thing I want to say to you and to your generation: […] think about everything again. It is not too late. You must do this for us. Otherwise, we will all be lost […]. I am finishing here. Sorry if my words are confused. I hope you understand. I had to write this, and now I feel relieved. Now I feel that I have done my part.
Here, we cannot talk about these things.
Goodbye,
Your daughter, Netiva
"I am sure there is something wrong here, something very wrong, a great injustice. Injustice for us and for them. For everyone... Think about everything again. It is not too late." (Netiva Ben Yehuda)
I would have liked to wrap up my Devar Torah with a more optimistic message about the current situation in Israel. But, to be honest, I must admit I don’t have a solution for the situation, certainly not a magical one. However, one thing I am certain of: if there is a solution, it begins with letting the voices of Jacob, Rashi, and Netiva Ben Yehuda be heard.
Dr. Uriah Kfir is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Hebrew Literature at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev and a member of the Yachad community in Tel Aviv. He is currently a Visiting Scholar at Brandeis University.
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