What are the Jewish Responses to Hate?

​"Kansas City Rabbi Clocks Neo-Nazi In Airport"

By Daniel Sieradski, JewSchool.com, 4/19/05

Rabbi David Fine, the rabbi of an Orthodox congregation in Oberland Park, Kansas — who is not exactly known for being a “tough” man — found himself in an altercation with a neo-Nazi earlier today at the Kansas City International airport. After a brief shouting match, the rav tossed a cup of coffee in the f*cker’s face and gave him a decent tolchok before an all-out brawl ensued. Mad props from the Jewschool crew to the esteemed rav for having the bayztim to take a stand. It’s never okay to the throw the first punch…unless yer schoolin’ a Nazi scumf*ck. Amen.

"...Rabbi Chaim Soleveitchik of Brisk...was said to have declared that the commandment to destroy Amalek extends to all who embrace the ideology of Amalek and seek to annihilate the Jewish nation. Rabbi Bleich also notes that Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague remarked that all enemies of Israel throughout the generations of dispersion are in fact genealogical descendants of Amalek....Therefore, by viewing the commandment to destroy Amalek as one that requires the Jewish people to engage in warfare against all who seek to annihilate Israel, and because biblically commanded wars are obligatory, Israel would have Halachic sanction to engage in a war against Amalek or those who hold the same views as the people of Amalek."

("Does Ariel Sharon Consult His Rabbi? How Israeli Responses To Terrorism Are Justified Under Jewish Law" David Rosen, 2003)

8/15/17

Dear TBD Community,

I’m am writing to you in response to the horrific events of this past week. In this time of hurt, fear, and deep pain, I wish to share with you some of the wisdom offered to us by our tradition. Such a demonstration of hate against us, unfortunately, is not uncommon in our history, and many are the texts that deal with the appropriate and necessary responses. My own need to find some solace, some response to all this hate, drove me into these traditions, into our traditions.

As I have been preparing for our most holy of days which will begin in earnest a little more than a month from now, a phrase from our beautiful machzor (High Holiday prayer book) jumped out at me. It was a phrase I had seen before; it is the phrase that can be found inscribed on the wall as one exits from the main building at Yad VaShem, the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem. Both in our prayer book and on that wall it reads, “Forgetfulness leads to exile; while remembrance is the secret of redemption.” These are words spoken by the great rabbi, the holy Baal Shem Tov.

As our community reels from the shock of the events that have occurred in the last few days, both in our country and here in our home, we must take this message of the Baal Shem Tov to heart. We must remember and we must allow ourselves to open our eyes to an ugly pattern that is resurfacing.

How is it that memory can bring about a better world? There is a story of a rabbi, Rabbi Zvi Elimelech, who in the middle of the celebration of Purim suddenly ceased the festivities and turned to his students and said, “Prepare the carriages, it is time for us to fulfill the commandment that appears at the end of the megillah. It is time to blot out Amalek!” The students were scared. They did not understand, but, trusting their rabbi, they prepared the carriages, got in, and took off into the night. The rabbi had the carriages drive down to the nearest inn which was filled with cossacks who were well into their nightly drinking. The rabbi got out of the carriage and strode into the inn, his students cowering behind him. As he walked in, he looked around and picked out the biggest cossack, the one who was obviously in charge, and walked right over to him.

The rabbi stuck out his hand, palm up, and asked the Cossack to dance. There was a silence that swept the room before the Cossack slapped his hand down into the rabbi’s waiting palm and they began to dance wildly throughout the room. The students all went and found their own Cossack partners and soon everyone was tearing up the dance floor.

At the end of the song, the rabbi turns to his partner and says, “I heard that there is a pogrom planned for tomorrow.” The Cossack looked sheepishly at the floor and grumbled in affirmation. The rabbi said, “There will be no pogrom tomorrow.” The Cossacks face brightened and they began to dance again in agreement, hugging and kissing. Needless to say, many drinks were shared as they all danced into the night.

In a moment like this, we must look back at the far too common plague of anti-Semitism that has been written into far too many pages of our Jewish history. We must remember the likes of Amalek, of Haman, and of Hitler who tried to wipe us from the face of the Earth. And in remembering, we must remember what our rabbis have taught us: to destroy our enemies through dance, through coming together.

Perhaps Berurya, one of the wise women quoted in our Talmud says it best in Berachot 10a:

There were these hooligans in Rabbi Meir’s neighborhood who caused him a great deal of anguish. Rabbi Meir prayed for God to have mercy on them, that they should die. Rabbi Meir’s wife, Berurya, said to him: What is your thinking? On what basis do you pray for the death of these hooligans? Do you base yourself on the verse, as it is written: “Let sins cease from the land” (Psalms 104:35), which you interpret to mean that the world would be better if the wicked were destroyed? But is it written, let sinners cease?” Let sins cease, is written. One should pray for an end to their transgressions, not for the demise of the transgressors themselves.

Moreover, go to the end of the verse, where it says: “And the wicked will be no more.” If, as you suggest, transgressions shall cease refers to the demise of the evildoers, how is it possible that the wicked will be no more, i.e., that they will no longer be evil? Rather, pray for God to have mercy on them, that they should repent, as if they repent, then the wicked will be no more, as they will have repented.

Rabbi Meir saw that Berurya was correct and he prayed for God to have mercy on them, and they repented.

Let us come together to pray that this wickedness that has shown its face once again to leave our world, and let us accomplish that goal by being in relationship with others, crying with others, comforting others, celebrating with others, and dancing together with all.

Sincerely,

Rabbi David Winship

10/27/2018

To my dear Temple Beth David family,

I am writing to you amidst tears as we hear the news of the mass murder of our siblings at the Tree of Life - Or L’Simcha Congregation in Pittsburgh. The thoughts and prayers of our entire community go out to those who lost their lives for simply worshipping as Jews. We pray for all of those who are still in the hospital and for all who suffered physical and mental trauma from today’s terrorist attack. We pray for the healing of their bodies, of their minds, their souls, and of our shared community. We call out, begging for change, praying that You will hear our cries.

The full details of today’s tragedy are not yet known. In the coming days we will learn more about the souls taken from us, of their loves and passions, the joy that they brought to and found in this world. In learning, more tears will be shed, our hearts will break again and again as we try to comprehend the incomprehensible, this manifestation of pure hatred against our family, our loved ones, our people.

What is clear now, in the moments immediately after this tragedy, is that this was an act of hatred. An attack on Jews throughout our country and the world. This was not an isolated incident, but comes at the crest of a wave of anti-Semitism that has been building as we approach the elections. We have an obligation as a community of Jews to stand as witnesses to this hate, to see it as a frightening pattern, and to demand its end.

Tikkun Olam, the idea that we must participate in the repairing of, in the perfecting of the world, is an idea that has its origins in issues of law, in matters of justice. When the idea of Tikkun Olam first appears, the rabbis teach us that to fix the world we must write the law in such a way to protect the disenfranchised, that we must preemptively take power away from those who would abuse it. We must think of how everything could go wrong, and what we need to do in order to make sure it doesn’t. In essence, that we must set the rules of society not with an eye towards what has been, but with both the hope for what could be, and the fear of what might be.

In the days and weeks after this tragedy, as we as a people, as a country, come together to ask “What can be done? Where can we go from here?” let us answer by looking toward our future, through the lens of Tikkun Olam, and think of what could be, what might be, if only we stand together to fix the world.

For those who have asked about our own security measures, please know that we are actively engaged with the Canton Police and other area houses of worship to ensure the security of all of our members. Tomorrow, during school and throughout the day there will be an officer on duty. During school hours the front doors will be locked and we will be asking those who wish to enter to buzz in.

May this world soon be healed,

Rabbi David G. Winship

5/1/2019

To my dear family,

I have no words.

And yet, I cannot remain silent…

We’ve spoken of hatred before, far too frequently nowadays.

I yearn to talk to you about love, about joining together, about finding a step forward from here that raises us from this low place, from this narrow place, to something higher, towards love and unity.

But, it is hard to be optimistic now. I feel called to be a realist, and I need you to know something. This is not new. This is the same story, still being written, word by word, page by page, chapter by chapter, with never a moment of writer’s block, the pen having never been lifted from the page.

Just over a week ago, we sat at the Passover seder and said the words:

וְהִיא שֶׁעָמְדָה לַאֲבוֹתֵינוּ וְלָנוּ

שֶׁלֹּא אֶחָד בִּלְבָד עָמַד עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ

אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר עוֹמְדִים עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ

וְהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא מַצִּילֵנוּ מִיָּדָם

This promise has stayed by our ancestors and us,

For it was not one alone that stood upon us to destroy us,

Rather, in every generation they stand upon us to destroy us,

And The Holy Blessed One saves us from their hand.

This is not new. This is a history we know all too well. A chapter in the story of the world we hoped had come to its end. A chapter that is still now being furiously written both in the shadows and right out in the broad daylight of our society. Whether from the left, the right, from the media, or from the dark recesses of the web, antisemitism is flourishing everywhere, hatred and division is found everywhere.

Please, make no mistake, this is not political. The deaths of worshippers around the world, in Poway, in Sri Lanka, in Christchurch, in Pittsburgh were not for political gain and were not in response to the words of politicians. It is also not religious. All religions condemn these attacks, this senseless loss of life, of love, of human potential. No one’s religion calls for this, rather we call out together for unity, for love, for peace.

This is about hate and fear. A fear of the world changing, a hatred of the other. Hate and fear being broadcast daily in a world where history is forgotten. Whether that is the history of six months ago in Pittsburgh, when we suffered the greatest loss of our families’ lives in this country, or eighty one years ago, when the most horrific and all-consuming endeavor to end the existence of Jews and all those who were different, who were not part of the master race, began in Europe. The history, the constant persistence of this hate is being forgotten, being denied. Our neighbors are not struck with fear and pain at the mention of the infamous Auschwitz, for nearly half of Americans have never heard of it. If you turn to your fellow US citizens and mention the number six million, nearly a third will assure you that the number was much much lower. The wheel of history has shown us that our loss on the way has been forgotten, that the world has continued to move forward, not bothered with us or with our death, a mere bump passed on the road. Not once again, but rather still, still we are dehumanized, still left to the slaughter.

We live in a world where too many see the other as not human, in a world where the other, the one filled with hate, is a world away, so different from us, from those we know. We ask the question, “How could anyone do this?” and don’t see the answer written in every page of our history books: We are not the same. With difference comes pain and necessary strength. This pain, this slit of the knife against our bodies, has never ended, but we have always mended, we, out of necessity, continue to heal.

I stood this week in Scolanova (The New Synagogue) in Trani, Italy. This is the oldest synagogue in Europe that is still in use as a place of prayer. It was built in the 13th century as one of four synagogues in the Jewish quarter in Trani. A little over a hundred years after it had been built, at the end of the 14th century, it was seized, converted into a church, and all the Jews forcibly expelled or converted. In 2006, Scolanova was given back to the Jewish community, a community in Trani that now totals seven people (four until recently when a family moved there from Canada.) It felt so good to stand in that space. These people had been driven out, had their religion snatched from them, and yet, here I stood, a tikkun, a repair to all that pain. It felt so good.

Yet, it hurt so much to be there too. To listen to a Catholic guide tell the stories of our people, to have this Catholic woman, with a heart of gold, be the one to help raise up the soul of this synagogue in a place with almost no Jews. When they hold celebrations, observe our holidays, the Jews must be imported, the rabbi coming down from Naples . For though a certain repair has been made here, something tremendous has also been lost, lives and communities that can never return.

So, in response to this feeling, to this pain and joy surrounding me like a tallit, a prayer shawl, I sang. I stood on the bimah, and sang the words of Psalm 118:5, words found in the Haggadah, and filled that space with the reverberations of Jewish breath and song again. I sang:

מִן הַמֵּצַר קָרָאתִי יָּהּ עָנָנִי בַמֶּרְחָב יָהּ.

From the narrowness I called out to God,

God answered me from the wideness.

From this place of distress, this place of pain and tragedy, a place where our families had been driven out, I called out to God. And God’s answer, my relief, is in the wide space, arms flung open wide.

I know what we need to do. And, I know that it is not fair that we are the ones who must do it. We the victims, we the perpetual other, we whose blood has been used as ink for every page of history written. But, we cannot count on others to tell our stories, to bring a soul back to our ruins. If we are not for ourselves, as Hillel would say, “Who will be?” We must stand in the face of this hate, in this narrow place, and answer by widening our communities, by letting the Holy One save us. The most powerful teaching in Judaism as far as I am concerned, is that all is One. We are different, unique, each stamped from the same press yet blessedly different. But, we are united, all pressed from that same divine stamp, all a mirror of, and a part of one thing and one thing only: The One, The Good, The Divine, הקדוש ברוך הוא.

I need you to help the Holy One to save us. I need you to call out from the narrowness of this moment to a wider community. I need you to show them and to show yourself that where we see difference we should not see separation. That the cuts and scars we bear from our history should be known to our brothers and sisters and that their healing is the healing of humanity and not just of countless victims’ souls. That the mending of any one torn soul is the repair of us all. I need you to not be surprised when hate still exists tomorrow for you will not have stopped hearing its echo nor its loud siren still sounding now. I need us to not just offer words and prayers; I need us to do something.

I want you to invite all of your friends, neighbors, co-workers, peers, and colleagues to join us at synagogue. I don’t want strangers offering to come show their support, emailing me, the rabbi, asking when and where they can help. I want you to bring the people you know, the people you love, the people you work with, and I want you to show them what it is to be a Jew, to introduce them to your family. I want you to show them our uniqueness and our partnership in the human pursuit of unity and love. I want you to offer them opportunities to learn, to ask questions, to feel uncomfortable, and to find comfort. I want those who know you, to really know you, to see you fully, and to understand that here, where there is difference, there is not separation. We stand against hate, but more than that, we stand here to be a part of this world, not separate. To fill spaces with our Jewish breath and our Jewish voices, to welcome all in, to widen from the narrow place.

May this reaching out spread knowledge and widen our community of love until there is no more space for hate. Provide space where we see difference and bless our Oneness. Where we no longer live in narrowness and fear, but run free in the wide breadth of the land. May our work save lives and sprout love and friendship. May we find words to offer when we draw near to each other, and may we hold each other up in strength during the moments of silence. May we see our world repaired and the promise of the Holy One fulfilled, as it was for our ancestors, as it is for us, to save us from their hand.

Rabbi David Singing Min HaMetzar in Scolanova (The New Syngaouge) in Trani, Italy

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