Between Syria and the Super Bowl

After two weeks of waiting, it was finally here. Like millions of football fans, I couldn’t wait for the 6:29 P.M. on Sunday night, when the Patriots and the Giants finally took the field. And the game did not disappoint. It was a true classic, and my heart raced until the last play of the game. Ecstatic that the underdog Giants had won, I rushed to Twitter to tweet about the game. It was then that I discovered the following message from The Atlantic’s Jeffrey Goldberg: “My twitter feed is half Super Bowl, half Syrian slaughter. Seems obscene.”

This tweet punctured my good mood; I immediately felt guilty. After all, while civilians were being massacred in Syria, I was celebrating the triumph of a group of hulking millionaires in a child’s game. China and Russia had vetoed a resolution that might have stopped the carnage in Syria, but I sat comfortably in my den, watching 22 grown men chase after a pigskin. As the child of a Holocaust survivor, I am well aware of how American Jewish leaders had looked away while their brethren in Europe were massacred. When members of the Polish underground tried to pass on information about the Holocaust in an attempt to rouse Jewish leaders to action, they were often met with indifference. One of them described the experience of speaking to Jewish leaders this way: "Jewish leaders abroad won't be interested. At eleven in the morning, you will begin telling them about the anguish of the Jews in Poland, but at one o'clock they will ask you to halt the narrative so they can have lunch. This is a difference which cannot be bridged. They will go on lunching at the regular hour at their favorite restaurant, so they cannot understand what is happening in Poland." Yet amidst all the suffering in Syria, I sat down in front of a flat screen TV to watch football. Was I any different than those feckless, lunch-eating Jewish leaders?

My guilt feelings aside, it’s overwhelming to live a life of constant sensitivity. There have always been hot spots of oppression and brutality. If we’re obligated to be perpetually conscious of suffering around the world, we’d never drink a beer or laugh at a joke. Life would become an unremitting loop of earnest seriousness. Must we be forced to choose between laughter and compassion, between caring about Syria and caring about the Super Bowl?

Clearly, a happy medium must be found. The Talmud (Taanit 11a) makes it clear that there are times when joy must be put aside, because we need to participate in the pain of the community. It is simply distasteful to go on with life as usual when the rest of the community is grieving. And of course, if you can actually make a difference in the battle against genocide, don’t break for lunch.

But there also times when we must put sad news aside as well. As much as we might like to, we simply cannot feel the pain of every victim; otherwise we’d fall victim to “empathy fatigue”, and we’d burn out before we could be of help to anyone else. The Talmud (Ketubot 50a) wisely places limits on one’s generosity, saying that charitable donations cannot exceed a fifth of one’s income. Otherwise, people could potentially become victims of their own generosity. Compassion too must have its limits, otherwise we’ll end up traumatized and heartbroken.

Yes, it’s o.k. to watch the Super Bowl, even when there is so much tragedy in the world. Yet I’m glad that Goldberg’s harsh tweet made me feel guilty.

The custom at Jewish weddings is to break a glass during the ceremony. This purpose of this custom is to remind the young couple that the even as they celebrate, the world is still broken and in need of fixing. We want the couple to pause their personal joy for a moment and reflect on their obligation to make the world a better place. This lesson is necessary all the time, at every celebration. Even if we want to party, we need to pause for a moment and remember how broken this world is, from Syria to North Korea to the homeless on the streets of Montreal.

Even the Super Bowl needs a moment of “broken glass”, a reminder that what’s happening in Syria is obscene, and we have to do something about it.

What Freedom Sounds Like

Passover is all about talking. No, not just the argument about politics you will have with uncle Louie; actually, the Passover Seder, which is structured around the Haggadah, is meant to be a symposium of conversation, an evening of dialogue and discussion. Even telling the story of the Exodus isn’t quite enough; you’re supposed to speak about the slavery and freedom as much as possible, until you fall asleep at the table. Indeed, the great Kabbalist, the Arizal, says that the word Pesach should be broken into two words, “peh sach”, which means a speaking mouth, because Passover is a time for talking.

Freedom is always noisy, always filled with a cacophony of voices. That’s why the Seder features conversation; we celebrate the evening by asserting our freedom of speech.

Slavery, on the other hand, is about silence. As Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik puts it: “Before Moses came there was not even a single sound…..The slaves were gloomy, voiceless and mute”. A slave keeps his mouth shut; he forever in perpetual fear of his master. And silence suits the slave, who sees no point in complaining and cannot imagine any possibility of change.

We can see a reflection of the slave mentality in today’s totalitarian governments. Citizens may speak, but only what’s approved by the regime; their own thoughts must be silenced. Nicholas Kristoff describes a visit to North Korea he took in 1989: “I stopped in a rural area to interview two high school girls at random. They were friendly, if startled. So was I when they started speaking simultaneously and repeating political lines in perfect unison. They could have been robots.”

These girl’s robotic responses are the words of slavery. In them you hear a soul too frightened to express itself or even dream of hope. The heart of the slave is silent, unable to express its’ own thoughts; only the Pharaoh, the master, the dictator, can express themselves.

The Zohar says that when Moshe arrived in Egypt, the voice of the Jewish people emerged. Moses, at first too frightened to talk himself, eventually finds his voice; and when he does, he begins the fight for freedom. And since Moses, Jews have never lost their voice. And as we sit around the Passover Seder, we should remember that a direct line connects Moses’ call of “let my people go” to the words of Isaiah, and on to the words of Theodore Herzl, David Ben Gurion and Menachem Begin.

Perhaps the most remarkable characteristic of Jewish history is how the Jews never lost a sense of self-determination in years of crushing exile. Unquestionably, the Passover Seder kept the minds of the Jews free, even when their bodies remained in chains. Even during the Holocaust, Jews could speak to each other of freedom, and remain free in their hearts. Yaffa Eliach recounts an improvised Seder in Bergen Belsen. Rabbi Israel Spira, the Bluzhover Rebbe, spoke to the children and said “We, who are witnessing the darkest night in history….. will also witness the great light of redemption”, and he quoted Isaiah's messianic vision: "The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned". Rabbi Spira told the children they too could hope for redemption, and dream of the day they would walk out of darkness into light.

Even in Bergen Belsen, Jews continued to speak of freedom. Even in the hell of the Holocaust, a few whispered words at the Seder could keep the dream of freedom alive.

At many Seders, the Haggadah is an impediment, something that gets between us and the brisket. But when you feel the urge to ask “how long will it take to finish the Haggadah?”, remember that it’s words, and in particular the words of the Haggadah, that have brought freedom to the world.

A Hard Heart = An Addiction to Being Right

What the Bible has to Say About Blaming the Victim:

Some Thoughts on the Origins of Slavery in Egypt

Thank you to Abigail Hirsch for her constant support, and Chris Zacchia for his exceptional camera work

Interest Free Loans: The Uncharity

Charity comes straight from the heart. Everybody can feel the pain of those in need, which is why compassionate people want to give the hungry food. When it comes to charity, the Jewish community can certainly take pride in the remarkable sums that we raise each year to take care of the poor. This philanthropic excellence highlights what is called “the Jewish heart”.

But charity at its best doesn’t only come from the heart; it comes from the mind as well. Charity should be given in a way that maximizes the impact on the recipient, and it should be given in a way that best preserves the dignity of those in need. The Bible tells us that we need to dream of a day when “there may be no more destitute among you”; to accomplish this, we must not only give from the heart, but also from the mind. When you give from the heart, you give the poor food; when you give from the mind, you give the poor a livelihood.

The Jewish tradition of giving from the mind is best expressed by the interest free loan. The Bible insists that we lend to our hand “to strengthen” those who are slipping by lending them some money. As the 11^th commentator Rashi explains, to strengthen a person when they slip will save a great deal of effort; a lot less help is required to help someone who is slipping than to help someone who has fallen. Lending to someone who is in a credit crunch is much easier for the community than supporting someone who has fallen bankrupt.

But the interest free loan is more than a preventative measure. It is actually a form of charity that isn’t charity, the “uncharity”. Maimonides, the great medieval Jewish thinker and author, explains that there are different levels of charity; the highest form of charity is found when you give someone an interest free loan or a job. By giving someone an opportunity to flourish independently, we have given them the greatest gift of all, and by giving someone a loan rather than a gift, we have preserved their dignity. Ironically, the greatest form of charity is not a charity at all, it is the uncharity, where the recipient leaves without a handout, but with his head held high and with hope for a better future.

Today, the world has begun to understand the Jewish wisdom of the uncharity. Microlending, another form of what Jews have practiced for decades, is now making a powerful impact on the developing world. It is based on this simple wisdom that one must always give from the heart and the mind, and look to enable the poor to feed themselves. The practice of this “uncharity” can remove poverty from the world, by enabling the poor to support themselves in dignity and pride.

Steve Jobs, Noah, and Living Outside of the Box

Welcome Home Gilad

Tears are running down my face; I have just heard the news that a deal has been reached to bring Gilad Shalit home in a few days. I read articles about the deal, and I cry.

No, I have never met Gilad Shalit; yet I cry about his return anyway. I don’t know his family, yet I have spoken about Gilad every Shabbat for the last five years. In that time, I’ve lobbied the Canadian Parliament for Gilad, run publicity campaigns for Gilad, and written articles for Gilad.

And now I cry for joy. I cry for Gilad.

There is of course, a big question about Gilad’s release: is it worth it? There’s been a great debate about whether or not this deal is a good idea or not. In return for Gilad, 1,000 hardcore supporters of Hamas will be released. Hundreds of them have blood on their hands. Some argue that not only is Israel giving up too much, but that this deal will encourage Hamas to continue acts of terror. And of the 1,000 who are released, who knows what harm they will do?

The other point of view maintains that bringing Gilad home is important for the morale of every soldier. Hamas needs no encouragement to do acts of terror, but Israeli soldiers and their families need to know that the government of Israel will do anything for their release. Both points of view have real merit, and even though it sounds wishy washy, I find it hard not to nod in agreement with both sets of arguments.

But today I’m not thinking of debates; I’m just happy for Gilad and his family, and that’s what’s unusual. I’m left wondering why I’m crying for a total stranger. Is it normal to walk around with teary eyed about someone you’ve never met? And I know I’m not the only one to cry; I’ve seen the reactions of everyone around me to this news. Gilad is not a celebrity, he’s certainly no Steve Jobs; he’s just a nice young man who had the misfortune of being kidnapped. Yet for five years, millions of people have been thinking about Gilad every day, and today, they are crying tears of joy. But why are they crying?

Actually, there’s lesson about Jewish identity in our tears. To be Jewish is not just to be part of a religion or a nation, it’s to be part of a family. The Book of Genesis tells a story of a family, the family of Abraham and Sara, the family that ultimately gave birth to the Jewish people. One would think that Genesis would be a lot shorter, and would only dwell on the spiritual and political achievements of this family; after all, we just want to know a little bit of the early background of the nation, before jumping into the actual history of the Jews. But instead, Genesis goes on at length about this family’s dynamics, telling all about feuds and competition and love and forgiveness. It does so, because Genesis isn’t merely the prologue to Jewish history, it is the foundation of Jewish History. The lesson of Genesis is that even when the family evolves into a nation, the nation never stops being a family. We are, to use the Biblical phrase, “Israel’s children”, brothers and sisters in one large family of thirteen million people.

For better or for worse, this sense of family is very much a part of Jewish identity. Jews, even total strangers, will treat each other with all the familiarity, warmth and dysfunction of any family. Yes, we argue too much, often about petty things; but when the chips are down, we’re there for each other. One feels connected to a fellow Jew no matter where they are from, whether it be Montreal, Montivideo or Mumbai, because we’re all from the same the family.

And that’s why I had tears in my eyes upon hearing of Gilad’s release. Even though we don’t know each other, Gilad is still part of our family; and even though we haven’t met, Gilad is still my brother. Like millions of other Jews, I’m really happy Gilad’s coming home.

So, welcome home Gilad. Your thirteen million brothers and sisters have been waiting for you.