So Moses

children of Israel there was light in their dwellings.

(Shemot 10:22-23)

thick darkness – …That is

why darkness came in response to their having worked that noble people harshly,

as if to say: You oppressed Israel, thinking that the Lord did not see, now you

shall be afflicted with darkness so that you may not see. You held My

people like prisoners, now the darkness will imprison you, for no one

will be able to get up from where he is.

They did not see each other – For a new thing was created before their

eyes, blocking the light from their eyes, so that one could not see the other

even when they were next to each other. That is why Midrash Rabbah says "and

the darkness will become darker – How dark was that darkness? Our rabbis

said: It was as thick as a dinar, for it says vayimash [will become

darker – literally: "will become substantial"], that it became

substantial."

No one could get up from

where he was – it is not the nature of darkness to so imprison someone that he cannot

get up from where he is. Even the blind can walk around, feeling their way in

the dark. From here we learn that they were terrified by strange visions until

fear made it impossible for them to move from place to place, as happens to a

person who is frightened by a sudden catastrophe.

(R. Yitzhak

Shmuel Reggio ad loc)

I remember to you the

lovingkindness of your youth –

In those days and in this

Season

Itay Marienberg-Milikovski

And the word of the Lord came to me, saying: Go and call out in the ears of Jerusalem, saying: so said the

nuptials, your following Me in the wilderness, in a land not sown (Jeremiah 2:1-2). These beautiful words of consolation which God placed in Jeremiah's

mouth are somewhat surprising. The story of Israel's wanderings in the

wilderness – at least as they are pictured in the Torah itself – have been

inscribed in our collective memory more as a story of continuous stress and

conflict between the People Israel and its God than as a charming tale of

youthful romance; the grumblings are unceasing, and mutual lack of trust is a

recurrent phenomenon. Israel sins with the Calf, in the incident of the Spies,

and on other occasions. God also punishes them: in this desert they

will end, and there they will die (Bamidbar

14:35). It appears that all of this makes it difficult to view that

formative period in a positive light. Nevertheless,

it is very exciting and encouraging to discover an alternative; God Himself is,

so to speak, suffused with warm and nostalgic feelings as He recalls the

wilderness years as a period of golden loyalty, a time graced with primal

adventurousness and optimism. In this case the nostalgia is not empty and

worthless, not merely because it is a nostalgia which has some relation to the

truth (Israel's acceptance of the Torah at Mount Sinai, for instance), but also

because it is thanks to this nostalgia that God can forgive the sins of His

people/spouse. Another story lies hidden beneath the central narrative, and it

is no less true a story.

The story of the Exodus from Egypt – an additional foundational story

for Jewish consciousness across the generations – also seems at first glance to

be about an aggressive conflict. This time it is not a conflict between Israel

and its Father in Heaven, but rather between Israel and Egypt. Pharaoh's

continued refusal to accept God's clear demand Let My people go that they

might worship Me (Shemot 7:25, et al) made it necessary for Israel's rescue from slavery and from Pharaoh's

decrees to take place in an aggressive fashion. It would seem sufficient to

recall each year how our ancestors were saved and how the Egyptians received

their due punishment. The Torah, however, goes beyond this and insists on

telling an additional story: Do not despise an Egyptian for you were a

stranger in his land (Devarim 23:8). The

memory of the conflict includes shades and half-shades which occasionally

include a kind of gratitude which does not undermine faith in the just

historical struggle for liberation from human domination.

This week's parasha offers a unique

opportunity for this kind of understanding of the period of enslavement in

Egypt. Before announcing the plague of the Killing of the First-born, God says

the following words to Moses:

"I

the eyes of Pharaoh's servants and in the eyes of the people. (Shemot 11:1-3)

There are a number of reasons why this passage is bewildering. God

promises Moses that He has one more plague in His bag of tricks, and that

afterwards Pharaoh will expel the Israelites from his land. This time it will

be an absolute and final expulsion – everyone will be sent out: he will completely drive you out of here. The Torah describes the coming

plague a bit later:

Moses

firstborn animal…" (verses 4-5)

However,

this description only appears after a break of several verses in which the

Torah once again commands the action known to the Sages as bizat Mitzrayim

– the plundering of Egypt (Sota 11b, etc.). In

contrast to the first mention of bizat Mitzrayim, which speaks in terms

of you shall empty out Egypt (Shemot 3:22), our present passage speaks in terms of brotherhood and friendship: the

man asks from his [male] friend, the woman asks from her [female] friend. God

grants the people favor in the eyes of the Egyptians, and as if that was not

enough, our Rabbi Moses, who should have been an object of hate and anger for

the Egyptians, is himself highly esteemed in the land of Egypt.

One

could easily read these verses cynically and play down the value of the

friendships in question. It must be admitted that Scripture uses the word re'ehu

– "his friend" – in more neutral contexts than we would tend to use

it in today, as is witnessed by the verse, But if a man plots

you shall take him to die (Shemot 21:14). One can even view the whole matter as

divine intervention; God strengthened Pharaoh's heart when He wanted, and He

could have the people and Moses find favor in the eyes of the Egyptians as He

pleased. The important thing was that Israel would leave with great riches. Nonetheless,

the thought that the Egyptians may have managed – even if only for a moment and

under duress – to peer through the darkness that separates nations to truly see

Israel may be a thought that brings its own blessing. It is tempting to suggest

in a midrashic vein that this is itself the penultimate "plague" upon

the Egyptians: that Pharaoh comes to understand that his own people demonstrates

empathy and even fondness for Israel; that even Moses, the leader opposing him,

has gained their support. Pharaoh finds himself alone in the battle. The Hebrew

"narrative," the story of hundreds of years of enslavement and

oppression, has perhaps managed to elicit compassion and appreciation in the

hearts of the Egyptians, as if it had penetrated the Egyptian

"narrative." This chapter in the joint fate of two peoples which had

intertwined – the Egyptians and the Israelites – could not end with a break

which ignored the social ties that had formed between human beings.

Perhaps

the commandment mentioned above, Do not despise an Egyptian, for you were a

stranger in his land (Devarim 23:8), can now

be read anew. Perhaps it is not speaking of nobility on the part of a people

which knows how to abstain from hatred and vengefulness; it may rather be a

natural, almost expected – if yet paradoxical – outcome of the years of

enslavement. It does not reflect the pious hypocrisy of those who said, We remember the fish that we ate in Egypt

garlic (Bamidbar 11:5). Rather,

it derives from the sober and balanced consideration of life in the past. The

great stories, the religious, national, and diplomatic conflicts, the political

and class tensions – none of these can stand before the warm and simple human

connections that can sometimes even arise between groups and individuals from

opposite sides of the divide. The memory of the Exodus from Egypt therefore

teaches us not only about the "big story," but also about the smaller

moments, the bits of everyday life that join together to form our consciousness

and identity. It casts our past in a new light, one more complicated than we

had assumed.

Jeremiah's prophecy which opened this article

points to God's way of treating the past period of Israel's wanderings in the

wilderness. A few verses later, Jeremiah castigates Israel for its inability to

remember that past: So says the

where no man had dwelt (Jeremiah 2:5-6). God's

hurt tone is unmistakable; if only Israel had remembered the pillars of fire

and cloud that protected them as they traveled through the terrible wilderness

it would not have grown so distant from Him. It is not for naught that the

prophet cites the act of speech – the telling of the tale – as a shield from

misfortune. Jeremiah teaches us that in certain situations the adherence to one

unbending and tangled narrative – a narrative lacking any point of light – can

bring disaster.

These

lines are written as a bloody war surges upon us from the south, challenging

the ability of both sides to seek out some small common ground, some consoling

memory of other days, some foundation upon which understanding (if not

brotherhood) can be built. It is so easy to think back to that dinosaur of a

distant enemy, the Egypt of our imaginations, and to avoid despising those

ancients. It is so easy to reverently join the angels in their silence after

having received the divine rebuke: "My handiwork drowns in the sea and you

sing?" (Meggilah

10b, etc.). Nevertheless, the

ability to speak of the past in different tones and to point out its hidden

hues may serve as a kind of exercise to help us reconsider the continuing

present and to find within it – with God's help – new aspects.

Itay Marienberg-Milikovski studied and

taught at Yeshivat HaKibbutz HaDati Ein Tzurim. Today he teaches at Kehillat

Yedidya's evening beit midrash in Jerusalem and organizes its activities. He is

pursuing an MA in Hebrew literature at the Ben Gurion University of the Negev,

and is a member of the editorial board of the Hazmana LePiyut website

Nor shall you

Redemption from Egypt

Nor shall you break

a bone of it – The real offering consists primarily of the blood and the

flesh (i.e., the muscles), excluding the bones which only form the passive

framework. An offering is essentially a giving up of oneself and of the

activities prompted by one's own will. In the Pesach offering one receives

oneself back. This symbolic enjoying of oneself again, represents the gift of

the return of one's personality, i.e., regained freedom of will. This refers

primarily only to the basar – the flesh, the active part of the

personality (the muscles). With this basar, this mevasser

(messenger) of the nefesh, the soul, there are the bones, the means

placed at the service of the will, to enable the activity of the muscles to

function, and to hold the whole together. They are not the creature itself but

they are placed at the disposal of the creature and in conjunction with it, 'a

bone with meat attached', they represent, not indeed activity, but the means by

which activity is achieved. As long as the basar is on them, they can

represent the dedication by one's own free will of one's activities to God.

i.e., as long as the basar is pure, the bones, as the means used by this

free will for activities, themselves become important, and must be treated with

respect, must be protected from fracture. Apart from their use in conjunction

with the basar and holy uses, the means themselves are worthless. In

conjunction with it, they take on the importance and meaning of our morally

free personality. Hence the dictum: "If there is no kazayit [size

of an olive] of meat, then there is no prohibition against fracturing bones; if

it is impure, there is no prohibition against fracturing bones". Taken

together with the two preceding precepts the verse would express: No person is

to be withdrawn from the home, no basar from the person, and no bone

from the flesh; the consecrated idea of the home is to hold all and

everything fast to itself.

(Rabbi Samson Rafael Hirsch, Shemot 12:43-49.)

[Editor's note: In

continuation of Rabbi Hirsch's words about the consecrated home, one can

read the passage which continues the laws regarding the Pesach sacrifice: There

shall be one teaching for the citizen and the stranger as a moral

statement which expresses the deep meaning of the redemption for Egypt; The

freedom of a people cannot base itself on the negation of the freedom or

equality of another people).

Readers respond

I saw the article by Pinchas Leiser, editor of Shabbat Shalom: "A Little Light can Dispel Much Darkness

– The Miracle (Nes) or Test (Nisayon) of the Oil Flask circa

5769" from the Hanukah issue. It would have been good if the article had

begun as follows:

They removed the dead from their graves and forcefully expelled men,

women, and children to somewhere or another – even today they have yet to

rehabilitate them. They burned magnificent synagogues. The brutality at Amona,

the deeds against young girls – how many heads were split open – and only

recently the destruction of Federman's farm in Hebron, when they came in the

dark of night to beat and destroy, taking young children and babies in their

pajamas and throwing them like mere things – how lucky that they did not hang

them in the town square! What do you think all of this does to the religious

youth? Can one remain silent? Is it surprising that there was a little

wildness? I oppose violence, but we must do all we can to prevent it. B'Tzelem

always shows us the second half of the movie; that is to say – they do not show

the violence inflicted upon our people and youths, they only show the latter's

reaction to brutal acts. Such are the methods of B'Tzelem, Shalom Achshav, and

the Association for Civil Rights.

Let us return to Leiser's article. It gives witness to violence, hatred,

and racism by Jews against Palestinians and Israel's Arab citizens, but what of

those who murder us? Have we already forgotten the two thousand Jews murdered

since the idiotic Oslo agreement? How many murders did our youths perpetrate? Someone

filmed youths desecrating graves, burning homes, uprooting trees, etc. Why

doesn't the Minister of Defense destroy the thousands of illegally built Arab

homes? Why does one little house trouble him?

As for the march that did not take place in Um El Fahem: Why did the

Supreme Court allow it and give permission to march? It was simply the clear

and correct answer to the Gay Pride march which was allowed to take place in

Jerusalem.

Shemaryahu Beckerman, 052-8679110

Pinchas

Leiser, editor of Shabbat Shalom, comments

I thank Mr. Shemaryahu Beckerman for his letter to the editor, although

it is difficult for me to understand what his response has to do with the

article I wrote and published in Shabbat Shalom's Hanukah issue.

Even if the police were occasionally unnecessarily violent – and if that

is the case, the events must be investigated and conclusions drawn – does that

justify what Mr. Beckerman refers to as "a little wildness" on the

part of Jewish youths? I am perplexed: after all, everyone with eyes in his

head saw and understood what took place in Hebron and aroused Rabbi

Lichtenstein to react strongly. It was not "a little wildness" but

rather a genuine pogrom, coming on top of the continuing abuse of the city's

residents. Furthermore: we are not talking about two ethnic groups living under

foreign rule. We have had a sovereign state for 60 years, and if there are

people – regardless of their religion, race, or nationality (that is taken from

the Declaration of Independence, for those who have forgotten) – who break the

law and act violently, those entrusted with enforcing the law are obligated to

deal with them.

Israeli governments which have been democratically elected may sometimes

make controversial decisions. Some of those decisions are not to Mr.

Beckerman's liking; others are not to my liking or not to the liking of other

people. However, governments are elected to execute policy. Such is the nature

of democracy.

As for the comparison between the march planned by a group of Kahanists

to take place in Um El Fahem and the Gay Pride march in Jerusalem, one may

certainly ask: "What does Shemittah have to do with Har Sinai?"

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