alternatively titled: “Josephus, you’re wrong”

Seeing the Dead Sea Scrolls was one of the things that I was most looking forward to on this trip. On our first free day, a small group of us decided to revisit the Israel museum where I visited the Shrine of the Book exhibition for a second time.

Discovered at Qumran by accident in 1947 by a young shepherd, amongst 900 documents, the oldest known records of the Hebrew Bible are found in these scrolls, dating to the second century BCE.Ěý Apocryphal (such as the Epistle of Jeremiah) and pseudepigraphical (such as Enoch) texts as well as commentaries were found among these scrolls. This revisited the question of what was deemed canonical, particularly at the time these scrolls were written. These texts seem to have been produced by a community that was apocalyptic, expecting a heavenly and earthly battle of good and evil in the near future. For this reason, they were in a constant heightened state of purity.

The community greatly revered the Isaiah scroll, they may have been fulfilling the words of the prophet to go out into the wilderness to await God. This was probably related to a schism with mainstream Judaism and the priestly authority. Legislative documents detailing the practices and how the community should live as well as their War Scroll (detailing the battle between Good and Evil) are two unique scrolls that were found.

The Dead Sea Scrolls were associated with a group Josephus identified as the Essenes; a small all-male sectarian group with unique practices centered around many purification rituals and very strict rules. However, nowhere in the Dead Sea Scrolls does the community refer to itself by this name. Rather, they use the term Yachad meaning together—like an early monastery or kibbutz. ĚýBy a thorough study of the texts, scholars have found references to “female elders/mothers/sisters/daughters”, which again shows that this group were not the Essenes Josephus talked about. The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls revolutionized the study of second temple Judaism and the Hebrew Bible, and has had a major influence on new critical texts of it.

While touring the exhibition on my own, I took advantage of the audio guide that was provided at the museum. It had the traditional audio which described the artifacts or scrolls presented, but it also had a short play which I was very disappointed that I couldn’t find online later. If I got the name correctly, it was Journey into the Desert; I felt like it was a very fun way to make the tour feel more interactive.

The site of Qumran itself presents its exhibition as a recreation of what the caves would have looked like to the archaeologists before the texts were deciphered and put into scholarship. It presents the community that wrote these texts and how they lived. These communities were spread out like cities, not isolated as Josephus describes them. Our guide talked about the different theories of where the scrolls really came from, presenting different bizarre speculations.

The material at Qumran was presented as being related to John the Baptist, giving it a theological context. The introductory video that was presented to us proposed that John the Baptist could have been a part of this community, although he didn’t become a full initiate. This would have been plausible because of the purifying ritual baths, which were used by the community. It could have been linked to the practice of baptism John used. Our guide called this area the “cradle of Christianity”: this was the geography of where the Jesus movement started. This possible link draws tourism not only of people interested in the Dead Sea scrolls, but also religious pilgrimage; which is something I didn’t know prior to visiting the site.

I could only imagine the community of people going out into the barren wasteland of the desert to live together to pray and prepare for the arrival of the Messiah.

Natalia Pochtaruk.

(This is not a picture of us at Qumran, but it is the Dead Sea at sunset, which located near the Qumran caves.)

“The Dead Sea Scrolls: Retrospective and Prospective” by Sidnie White Crawford, in Near Eastern Archaeology

Upon our arrival at the Ein Gedi hostel and after we’d had dinner, our group promptly went to sleep as the alarms would sound at three in the morning so we could get on the bus to take us to the foot of Masada. We arrived at the site after four a.m. and climbed the fortress in order to be able to see the sunrise over the Dead Sea. I had already climbed the fortress before, however this time it seemed to take much longer and be much more difficult (definitely the most physically exhausting thing I had done in a very long time). I was later told that we had actually climbed up the “snake path” and not the ramp that the Romans had built to lay siege on the fortress. Trying to pace myself zig-zagging in the almost total darkness, I kept telling myself not to look up too frequently only to see how much further I had to climb, and tried to remind myself how the invading Romans must have done something very similar in heavy armour. Once I had finally made it up to the top, completely exhausted, I was excited to see the rest of the group there, waiting for the sun to rise. It was a really beautiful experience, and it was hilarious to take part in cheering on Helios/Apollo with the rest of the group as the sun steadily crept up over the horizon.We played charades and napped, waiting for two hours for the rest of our group who rode up in the cable car to join us.

Josephus writes about Masada in his account of the Jewish war. He is the ancient source available and is traditionally seen as giving the historic account. After the revolts in Jerusalem the zealots take over the fortress at Masada, which had been built as Herod’s palace on a mountain in the middle of the desert. There, the people have the heroic act of self-sacrifice. It is very poetically described how the men kissed their wives and children and how the people would rather “die free than live as slaves.” After his own capture at the siege of Jotapata, Josephus gives himself over to the Romans instead of participating in mass suicide himself (as he describes happened at Masada). He takes on the name Flavius as he is now part of that household and becomes the official historian of the Jewish war for the Flavian dynasty, writing for the Romans—to his own people he would have been flagged as a traitor.

There is hardly any archaeological evidence for the event as Josephus describes it; Shaye Cohen details how the human and structural remains are not to the scale as detailed by the ancient historian. Some archaeological finds point to clues that could be plausible, while others completely contradict it. However, the account itself has a lack of clarity in its unreliable narration. Josephus was not at the siege at Masada, his sources are survivors who apparently hid at the mass suicide—it was also traditional in the telling of contemporary history to exaggerate the drama of these types of accounts.

The story of Masada as told by Josephus becomes mythologized. The Jews are presented as noble people who wanted freedom so much that they died for it; this is something the Romans would have respected. This theme of dying for one’s freedom is what fueled uprisings such as the Warsaw ghetto and is quite the model for modern Israel and Zionism, shaping Jewish identity. This makes the site extremely popular for Zionist groups (like the one I went on myself four summers ago) and others. ĚýEven though there is little archaeological evidence for the event Masada is well known for, anyone can appreciate the fortress itself, and how King Herod’s builders made the desert habitable.

Natalia Pochtaruk.

It took less than ten minutes once we had left Jerusalem for the scenery to change from the rich foliage to the unplanted desert. We had crossed over to the West Bank to begin our day in the Judean desert and take the winding path down to the St. George Monastery. Once our group stepped off the bus, we were almost bombarded by the Bedouins who live around this area, trying to sell us trinkets and headscarves (as we left they also had delicious freshly squeezed juice).Ěý We were also pleaded with to buy a donkey ride, or “taxi” as they kept referring to it—I’ve never been around more persistent people in my life.

The Greek Orthodox monasteries thrived in the Byzantine period where monks were seeking the desert experiences of the prophets and isolated themselves in these caves. The St. George monastery is one of the few that is still in use, clinging almost precariously to the wall of the canyon. The monks are easily identifiable wearing all black, and the monastery was beautiful in itself, with its ancient mosaic floors and painted walls. This site was full of pilgrims, and what I found most interesting (and quite disturbing) was the tomb of a Romanian monk who has been dead for sixty years but his body is extremely well preserved, which you can see through the glass.

Later in the day, we visited the Inn of the Good Samaritan, which is a parable told by Jesus. It becomes a large hub for pilgrims to visit for this reason, though it predates the New Testament, providing protection for travellers. ĚýRecently, a museum has been built on this site containing numerous mosaic floors and walls from the ancient synagogues and other buildings in the surrounding area. The museum also shows the modern Samaritan community, which has very similar rituals than it did thousands of years previously.

Natalia Pochtaruk.

The National Geographic “Kings of Controversy” article shows the discussion of different archaeologists talking about their theories and their evidence to support it. On King David, Robert Draper states: “He has persisted for three millennia—an omnipresence in art, folklore, churches, and census rolls. To Muslims, he is Daoud, the venerated emperor and servant of Allah. To Christians, he is the natural and spiritual ancestor of Jesus, who thereby inherits David’s messianic mantle. To the Jews, he is the father of Israel—the shepherd king anointed by God—and they in turn are his descendants and God’s Chosen People. That he might be something lesser, or a myth altogether, is to many unthinkable.”

Our guide Danny, an archaeologist himself was saying how the Bible gives places like this context: and how without it, it would be nothing but walls and pottery shards. This secular Zionist perspective looks for proof that important events recorded in the Bible happened here. This makes David’s conquest and unification of Israel—fulfilling God’s promise to Abraham—therefore a way of legitimizing the state. Though I don’t expect the Bible to be precise in history by any means, a lot of knowledge can be taken from its traditions and stories. The site itself really felt like a very established tourism place, more than the other sites we had visited.

After going through the supposed ruins of King David’s palace, we made our way to Hezekiah’s Tunnel. The story goes that in preparation for the attack on Jerusalem from the Assyrian king Sennacharib, King Hezekiah ordered a tunnel to be excavated in order for the besieged city to have access to water. This story is recorded in the books of Chronicles and Kings. The result is a winding tunnel over 500 meters long that connected the spring to the Siloam pool underneath and across the city.

Two teams excavated the tunnel from each side—it winds around, the two sides trying to meet in the middle. We know they went in two directions because of the change in direction of the pickaxes. Halfway through, at the same level, there is an inscription describing the moment the two sides met:

And this was the account of the breakthrough. While the laborers were still working with their picks, each toward the other, and while there were still three cubits to be broken through, the voice of each was heard calling to the other, because there was aĚýzdhĚý[perhaps “split,” “crack” or “overlap”] in the rock to the south and to the north. And at the moment of the breakthrough, the laborers struck each toward the other, pick against pick. Then the water flowed from the spring to the pool for 1200 cubits. And the height of the rock above the heads of the laborers was 100 cubits.

I can only imagine the cheers of the teams having met in the middle. I’m so glad that I ended up going through the tunnel, as I was worried that I’d find it claustrophobic. As I was getting used to the shocking temperature of the water sometimes going up above my knees, I kept my hand near my head so as not to hit it against the top of the tunnel, which would rise and fall. Once our group had finally made it through, we posed on the rocks of the nearby pool victoriously, wet pants and all.

Natalia Pochtaruk

It was the afternoon before our first Shabbat in Jerusalem and we had gone through the Machane Yehuda market to experience the crowds and bargain with street vendors to prepare ourselves for the weekend ahead.Ěý This was prior to our visit to Mea Shearim (“One Hundred Gates). This neighborhood is located outside the walls of the Old City in West Jerusalem and was founded in 1848 by Haredi Jews in making their return to the sacred land. Though the community still very much isolates itself from the secular public, nowadays the neighborhood has become part of the expanding city centre as it has become more populated.

Before entering the neighborhood our professors were telling us how the residents of the neighborhood are uncomfortable with tourists. They would normally feel as if they are treated like animals in a zoo, and warned us against taking pictures as a way to respect them.

Once we were in the neighborhood, I immediately felt uncomfortable and even embarrassed. We passed the neighborhood as the residents were preparing for Shabbat, so the shops were closed and the streets were mostly empty—save for a few people who averted their eyes from us and families passing by with small children and baby strollers. It was obvious that we were a tour group as we were walking packed tightly together and taking up the sidewalk, forcing these people to walk on the street around us. We were constantly stopping as our guide pointed propaganda posters to us, which I will continue to talk about later on.

The community has very strict rules of modest dress code, especially for women: a large sign at the entrance to the neighborhood shows the community’s discomfort with people passing through it.

I pair this picture with a painted sign in the city of Tzfat, where we were also expected to dress modestly, to compare the ways in which the people see secular or non-Jews. Fenster talks about how these signs in Mea Shearim are actually illegal in standards of municipality and are not approved or licensed. However, the city of Jerusalem does not enforce the law as the community will only put the signs back up if they are taken down. She also mentions how women who fail to follow these codes are subject to abuse. Though our group was dressed modestly according to the community’s request, I still witnessed women who were not “properly dressed” really treating these people like a public exhibition. Our own group comprised largely of women made it seem as if the boys we were passing by in this scenario were heckling us.

This made me think of our group going through the neighborhood as tourists versus as students—in talking to my classmates, many had voiced feelings of discomfort in going through the neighborhood. This could simply be because we were clearly outsiders walking together in a large group—I wonder what it would have been like if we had gone through the neighborhood on any other weekday, or even at a different time of day. I found the atmosphere of the neighborhood in general to be unfriendly to outsiders, and I kept asking myself why we visited on Shabbat on a day and time when the people clearly did not want us to be there.

The large part of what made me uncomfortable throughout our walk through the neighborhood was the fact that our group kept stopping while our guide pointed out propaganda signs; the ones pointed out to us had to do with the military draft, and loudly translated and explained them to us. The letter to Agunath, determining the secular/religious balance of the state says how “everything must be done to provide the “deep needs” of the religious in order to avoid…dividing the house of Israel in two”. What does that mean for the compulsory military service every Jewish Israeli must complete?

In the abstract of his article, Cohen asks the question of if national religious troops to carry out missions deemed contrary to Jewish traditions. The question is asked of how can one observe halakha while serving in the army, and how there is a conflict of loyalties between their military duties and religious obligations.Ěý However, anybody can volunteer to join the military—there are nationalistic, highly religious army groups—those who choose to participate in the socializing force of the military.

From our guide’s explanation, the Orthodox did not participate in the military draft because they needed to study, which he didn’t respect. The community receives welfare from the state, as there is such a huge community of men who go to study Torah and the women have to take care of the children. All these ways the community lives is them trying to protect their culture and community. Whether the way they are doing it is right or not isn’t for me to say. Although the experience was very interesting and sparked many thoughts of how religious extremism is lived and understood, it is an experience I would not like to relive.

Natalia Pochtaruk.

-Cohen, Stuart. Ěý“Tensions Between Military Service and Jewish Orthodoxy In Israel: Implications Imagined and Real.” ĚýIsrael StudiesĚý12. ĚýSpring 2007. ĚýPROJECT MUSE.

-Fenster, Tovi. Ěý“Bodies and Places in Jerusalem: Gendered feelings and urban policies.” ĚýHAGAR Studies in Culture, Policy and IdentitiesĚý11. Ěý2013. ĚýPRINT.

-“Status Quo” letter to Agudath Israel: Basis of 1948 agreement for secular/religious balance in new State of Israel:Ěý

According to the museum’s website, it serves “as the Jewish people’s living memorial to the Holocaust, [which] safeguards the memory of the past and imparts its meaning for future generations.” In this short description, Yad Vashem clearly expresses that it’s purpose is to impart meaning. So, does this immediately invalidate Rothstein’s observations? NotĚýnecessarily.

I went to Yad Vashem expecting to put a name to a face, to understand the story behind the lives lost, and to hear the testimonies of those who survived. Essentially, to understand this moment in history from the Jewish perspective. Through old photographs and drawings, we were told about individuals, European Jewry, and their lives before the war. As time wore on, the tensions in Germany escalated and the collective humiliation of the Jews was taken to the streets, into their businesses, and indicated by a yellow star of David attached to their clothes. Yad Vashem “a memorial and a name,” serves as a reminder of these events, how they developed, and how the Jews were treated, particularly by the architects of the final solution and the outcome of this bleak endeavour.

Despite this historically sound and informative narrative presented by each exhibit, the experience at Yad Vashem was uncomfortable. This was not because I had never been exposed to the reality and atrocities of the Holocaust, but because our guide forcefully imposed empathy and guilt—a confusing pair of emotions for any person to experience in one sitting. That said, the guide knew exactly which details to emphasize to make us cry, to put us in the shoes of the victims and survivors, and, if you didn’t cry, you couldn’t help but feel guilty, as if you were one of the “killers.” To clarify, this term was consistently used by our guide to describe the Germans and those who claimed they knew nothing about what was happening to the Jews. By criticizing this aspect of the guided tour, I do not wish to downplay the severity of these events and the emotions that play into telling this part of Jewish history, which has greatly affected Jewish identity. I do wish to highlight, however, that this play on our emotions as Jews and non-Jews made it difficult to analyze and be critical of Yad Vashem’s representation of the Holocaust. During my visit, I was expecting to engage in an intellectual and educational experience, which the museum itself does offer, but it was overshadowed by a guide who had the intention of evoking an emotional response from our group.

If we reconsider Rothstein’s argument that “temptations are strong to replace historical analysis with sentiment” (at Holocaust museums in Israel), it is hard not to say that this is also true of Yad Vashem, especially when it’s own promotional video, “Yad Vashem: Remembering the Past, Shaping the Future” (2009), states that the “goal is to infuse Holocaust memory with content and meaning.” This appeals to the museum’s mission to inspire the remaining survivors and their families to tell their stories and to donate information about their experiences and the names of those lost to the archive. It also imparts a general message that all people, whether or not they are Jewish, can identify with (i.e. the “promotion of peace, tolerance, [and] coexistence”). Lohamei Haghetaot, the “Ghetto Fighters’ House” Museum and Kibbutz, has a similar mission. Rothstein’s article discusses how when the museum was founded in 1949, “an element of shame was associated with the seeming passivity of Jews who were murdered in Europe. So the emphasis…was at first placed not on survival, but rather on rebellion.” It therefore valorizes the human spirit and its ability to resist destruction. The guide argued that the historical narrative of the Holocaust at Lohamei Haghetaot is much different than the typical “academic” and historical approach to this topic. It focuses on how Jews resisted in Europe and the desire to keep their community flourishing, even today. That said, it is not about victims, the public silencing of their stories, nor a focus on the perpetrator. Instead, the narrative of the museum is about spiritual resistance and about individuals, not just the Nazis vs. the Allies.

In a video posted by Lohamei Haghetaot, called “The Moral Imperative” (2009), it states that its purpose is to tell “the story of the Holocaust but [to focus] on the fight for life, the triumph of the human spirit, and the wonderful ability of Holocaust survivors and resistance fighters to rebuild their lives and educate for a just and moral society.” To further emphasize this vision, the Center for Humanistic Education was established by the Ghetto Fighters’ House in 1995, which focuses on the “universal lessons” of the Holocaust, rather than “national” ones. The idea is to promote tolerance in Israel today between Arabs and Jews by using the Holocaust as a moral and ethical lesson that validates a movement toward improving intercultural relations. According to Rothstein, this “search for broad relevance…leaves Holocaust museums intellectually orphaned.” Furthermore, “the impulse has been to generalize, to say that a Holocaust museum can’t be “just” about the murder of Jews during World War II.” So, if that is the case, then what “lessons” are we supposed to take away?

To elaborate on this, Rothstein asks these pointed questions: Why should Holocaust museums deal with notions of tolerance or racism in general, or even genocide in general? Why do we think that the proper lesson comes from generalizing rather than comprehending the particular?

In response, he argues that “the moment we generalize, we strip away details: we lose information and create equivalences that may be fallacious.” Although this is a valid criticism, Rothstein fails to note how Holocaust testimonies themselves are subject to generalizations, lost information, and conflations, which speaks to the frailty of human memory, especially in relation to trauma. As a result, does this then offer some credence to the emerging “moral imperative” of Israel’s Holocaust museums? In all of this, I think the better question to ask is addressed in Dalia Ofer’s review article on the memory and representation of the Holocaust in Israel: how does one shape both individual and collective memory regarding the Holocaust on a cultural and national level, when there are various accounts and representations that are often contradictory?

Auerbach, Rachel. “Yizkor 1943”. The Literature of Destruction: Jewish Responses to Catastrophe, edited by David G. Roskies, 459-464.ĚýPhiladelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989.

Levi, Primo. “Survival in Auschwitz.” In A Holocaust Reader: Responses to the Nazi Extermination, edited by Michael L. Morgan, 19-27.ĚýNew York: Oxford University Press, 2001.

Ofer, Dalia. “The Past That Does Not Pass: Israelis and Holocaust Memory.” Israel Studies 14 (2009): 1-35.

Beit Lohamei Haghetaot, Ghetto Fighters’ House Museum:

Holocaust Museums in Israel Evolve by Edward Rothstein

Yad Vashem, World Center for Holocaust Research, Education, Documentation and Commemoration:

/

Yizkor:

We visited on our first Friday in Israel. It was extremely uncomfortable as an outsider. Fenster explores some of the issues around the neighbourhood and why many people feel uncomfortable in it. “The residents of Mea Sherim seek to apply their religious dress codes to all women who enter their neighbourhood, whether they are orthodox or not. Women who fail to follow these codes are subject to verbal and physical abuse” (67-68). She interviewed some Israeli women and asked them why they were uncomfortable visiting the area, many women explained that they did not like to dress modestly and did not like the values of the community imposed onto them. One women said: “it’s hard for me to accept the authority of somebody who is extremist and rejects me from humanity” (quoted by Fenster, 68). These women explained that because of the discomfort, they simply did not visit. One of the things that the neighbourhood is known for are the signs. While Danny was very interested in the black and white plastered signs about military service (as far as Danny translated), the signs that asked women to be dressed modestly and not offend the community are best known. We came across one and it scared me. Fenster explains that “the signs are illegal, as they were not approved or licensed by the municipality, the city does not enforce the law” (69). Fenster seems to believe that the municipality does not enforce the law “because of the relative power that this group has in the municipality and the government as a whole” (69). I think the signs are unwelcoming to secular women, but the atmosphere of the neighbourhood was unfriendly to outsiders in general. The community likes to be as isolated as possible and like Fenster explains, they were established far from the city centre, but as the city expanded they found themselves within the city and they are trying to protect their culture and community- whether that is a good idea is not for me to say.

Part of the reason tourists are interested in their neighbourhood is they are a spectacle. Another reason people are interested in visiting the neighbourhood is because Orthodox Judaism is considered by some as the authentic Judaism. I struggle with what we were doing there, what were we hoping to learn? We were being respectful observers but why? Just to experience the discomfort? We certainly did that. Our perspective, no matter what each individual in the group’s was, was different than Danny’s. Danny was upset with the Orthodox avoiding military service. From Danny’s explanation the Orthodox stayed clear of military service because the men needed to study, a position he did not respect. In reading Cohen’s article however, it seems that the IDF does not align with the values of the Orthodox community and service can be difficult for them. Not only is the idea of war a conflict with their values, once in the military they have difficulty practising, even when the IDF tries to make accommodations.

Orthodox men and women serving in the IDF have the option to work in segregated groups. Young Orthodox Jews in the IDF often consult rabbis and read responsas for guidance during their time serving. “Most contemporary responsa on military matters are written by rabbis who have personally served in the IDF, often in field formations and sometimes fairly senior ranks” (Cohen, 115). While Cohen is concerned with the Orthodox and religious response to orders to battle, many enquiries are simply about how to practice while serving “–religious troops in the IDF lies an existential tension between “the scroll” (i.e. religious obligations) and “the sword” (military service)” (Cohen, 117). Some of the concerns are outlined by Cohen: “how can they avoid unnecessarily desecrating the sabbath? How can they harmonize military life with the observance of traditional laws of “modesty”? And– perhaps most encompassing of all– how can they best preserve their distinctive identities in a military environment?” (Cohen, 120). The soldier’s concerns are not overwhelmingly about the morality of war.

While Danny’s loud explanations of posters perhaps made our visit to Mea Sherim more uncomfortable, but the issue of the Orthodox serving in the IDF is much more complicated than he made it out to be. Of course, I am not willing to make a judgement, I admit I do not understand all of the complications.

Cohen, Stuart. Ěý“Tensions Between Military Service and Jewish Orthodoxy In Israel: Implications Imagined and Real.” ĚýIsrael Studies 12. ĚýSpring 2007. ĚýPROJECT MUSE.

Fenster, Tovi. Ěý“Bodies and Places in Jerusalem: Gendered feelings and urban policies.” ĚýHAGAR Studies in Culture, Policy and Identities 11. Ěý2013. ĚýPRINT.

The person who lights the candle, which is typically a woman, is the one who initiates the sabbath. Once the candle is lit, it is the beginning of sacred time—men go to the synagogue, whereas women are not obligated to go and often remain at home instead. There are, however, many aspects of Jewish tradition and ritual practice where women play a central role: lighting the candles to initiate the sabbath, beautifying the sabbath with her best clothes, jewelry and food, and being on the receiving end of Shabbat blessings, particularly the poetry of Proverbs 31, which praises the Jewish woman in appreciation for all that she does. This clear distinction between men and women highlights that although they each have their own religious obligations, there is a gendered history of tradition and ritual practice that creates a dissonance between how and when they worship. This is problematic in terms of feminism because a certain honour is given for prayer that women are excluded from.

This exclusion occurs primarily in the synagogue, a private space where any attempt to change the traditional role of women is difficult to achieve—especially in Israel, where the Orthodox tradition remains a dominant influence. That said, women are typically seated in a separate area where they cannot be seen and, to avoid further distraction, they are also forbidden to sing. According to the Talmud, a woman’s voice is distracting and, like her hair, it is considered to be “sexually enticing.” Norma Baumel Joseph argues that “the laws prohibiting a man from listening to the voice of a woman singing are consequential only in the Orthodox community today.” It is therefore a “fear of sexual indiscretions and men’s inability to control themselves” that renders Jewish women silent and religiously invisible, as a result of their exclusion from prayer. Joseph describes how in the earlier biblical period, women’s “voices and their prayers were readily accepted by God and the community of Israel.” How have things changed so drastically? First, we must consider that Joseph is providing a “feminist-friendly” interpretation of the Torah, the halakha, and the rabbinic debates within the Talmud, however, the reality is that many of the practices that men are obligated to observe are not strictly forbidden to women. That said, if a woman wants to sing from the Torah or wear tallit and teffilin as she prays, there is no halakhic law prohibiting her to do so.

Despite this loophole in the tradition, it is important to note that some women are content with and willing to keep the role they have been designated by their community. Others, however, are more eager to fight legal battles in order to make room for women in the Jewish tradition, particularly in terms of ritual performance in public spaces—where the intimate worlds of men and women often converge. That said, women’s movements in Israel, such as , are attempting to make their voices heard by god, the state, and the Jewish community at large, in order to make women’s equality in the Jewish tradition a reality. Of course, this is no easy feat. However, it is believed that women’s prayers are heard by god, nonetheless. The explanation for this is that women are capable of hesed, “loving-kindness.” This implies that women have a unique relationship with god (a belief that is echoed in the narratives of biblical figures, such as Sarah and Rebecca) because they care for their families as god cares for creation. The Women of the Wall draw on this notion by highlighting the sacredness of the Kotel (the Western wall), which—according to the Midrash—is where the feminine aspect of god resides. Batya Kallus, the vice director of the movement who spoke to our class about Women of the Wall (specifically, the political and legal struggles faced by Jewish women of all denominations who wish to pray is public wearing ritual garments), elaborated on this belief by explaining how the living and imminent presence of god remained at the Western wall after the destruction of the temple. Undoubtedly, this has become one of the holiest and most significant sites in Judaism.

Kallus explains that the vision of this movement is to enable women to worship according to their tradition (i.e. wearing tallit, teffilin, and reading from the sefer Torah) in a public and sacred space, primarily the Western Wall in Jerusalem. Furthermore, the central mission is “to achieve the social and legal recognition of our right, as women…[to pray] collectively and out loud.” Through social advocacy, the goal is “to change the status-quo that is currently preventing women from being able to pray freely at the Western Wall” and “to educate Jewish women and the public about the social, political and personal ramifications of limiting and eliminating women’s right to pray as a group at a holy site.” This means highlighting injustices and violations of civil rights, human rights and religious freedoms. The purpose of such a movement is also “to empowerĚýand encourage Jewish women to embrace religion freely, in their own way” and to celebrate religious pluralism in Israel—a contentious and ongoing issue that I have addressed in various blogs, yet there is seemingly no “right” approach for resolving it.

Due to their progressive politics, Women of the Wall have received much criticism regarding their intentions. Are they truly engaged in this movement in order to pray freely at the Kotel, or only to make a political statement against “the ultra-Orthodox monopoly over religion” in Israel? The movement itself is composed of a diverse group of women, including Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist, and self-defined Jews, who remain, as a whole, unaffiliated with other social and political groups. As a scholar of religion, it is not my place to determine the sincerity of the movement, but for people like Miriam Woelke, an Orthodox Jew and inside blogger from Mea Shearim, it is easy to dismiss the movement as having “nothing to do with religion.” She states that “the Kotel women are only there when it comes to make a point but many of them don’t even live in Israel but only fly in for the demonstrations. And, to me, many of them don’t even look Jewish.” Her statement speaks to the ongoing tension between Jews in Israel (i.e. the strictly observant and those who wish to change certain aspects of the Jewish tradition in order to be more inclusive of Israel’s diversity on a social and democratic level). More specifically, this speaks to an underlying sense of discrimination toward Jews who do not live in Israel, those who do not abide by the Orthodox tradition, and a feeling of unease toward diversity—despite the multifaceted nature of “Jewishness” in Israel and world Jewry, alike. To make matters worse, there have been accusations against various leaders of Women of the Wall, suggesting that they are part of an anti-Israel agenda, or that the movement, in general, is disruptive to the public peace—particularly, the traditionally held practices of Orthodox and haredi Jews, which are to be protected under the °­˛Ô±đ˛ő˛ő±đłŮ’s “Protection of Holy Places Law” (1967).

Although the tension continues to escalate as an intra-religious conflict, the state is also strongly involved in the matter. According to Joseph, “the state has effectively silenced” these women by responding to the complaints and protests held by the “ultra-religious” who do not wish to have their holy space desecrated by women’s voices. A great example of this rhetoric is seen in a 1988 interview with Rabbi Meir Getz, the chief Rabbi of holy sites and the Western Wall at the time, who stated (in response to the first women’s prayer service at the Kotel) that, “what the Women of the Wall did was purely provocative, and it’s the same as bringing a pig to the Western Wall plaza. Women at the Wall are like a pig at the Wall.” This clearly demonstrates an aversion to the presence of women in sacred space and the desire to exclude them as if their presence and will to pray is halakhically forbidden. At this time, many Orthodox and haredi men violently protested the Women of the Wall and by 1990, the Ministry of Religious Affairs released a statement in congruence with this attitude: any practices in a holy space that fall outside of tradition or “hurt the feelings of the praying public” are strictly forbidden. If transgressed, the punishment is 5-12 months of imprisonment and a 500 NIS fine. By 2013, many state judges have declare that “the Women of the Wall were well within their rights to pray out loud, with tallitot and tefillin, and were neither going against the custom of the place nor disturbing the peace.” Others state that there is no cause for arrest because the wall is meant to be “inclusive and pluralist.”

When visiting the wall itself, it was hard to imagine this “inclusiveness” when a large wall divides the men and women’s section of the Kotel. But, as I peered over the divider and observed the men and looked back at the women who were equally moved by the presence of the “holy of holies,” I realized the importance of this site as a public space for all Jews to have access to without fear of violence or mistreatment, let alone feeling restricted by the conditions of private spaces, such as the synagogue, in what should be a shared and public space. To quote Norma Baumel Joseph, “praying at the Kotel has become a way of publicly proclaiming [women’s] inclusion in Jewish history and religious practice,” and I, as an outsider to Judaism, began to get a sense of how women are making progress towards equality by merely being present and accepted in a space that was not my own.

Bibliography:

Baumel Joseph, Norma. “Shema B’kolah: On Listening to Women’s Voices in Prayer.” In Women of the Wall: Claiming Sacred Ground at Judaism’s Holy Site, edited by Phyllis Chester and Rivka Haut, 288-309. Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2003.

Acts of Loving-Kindness:

Women of the Wall:

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Protection of Holy Places Law:

Shabbat:

After a busy week in Israel, we were finally able to take a break from our early wake-up calls to rest, reflect, and prepare for Shabbat. Undoubtedly, these preparations would be different for a non-Jew. On a practical level, this meant buying enough groceries and snacks to last me until stores and restaurants reopened on Sunday. On an emotional level, this meant preparing myself for what may have been the toughest and most fascinating experience of the whole course—exploring Mea Shearim.

In the hours leading up to our first Shabbat in Jerusalem, the Machane Yehuda market was bustling with people, both Israelis and tourists waiting in line at popular restaurants, indulging in pastries, and selecting various ingredients and spices for Shabbat dinner. Although some of my classmates felt overwhelmed by the crowds, I personally loved living and experiencing the daily activities of the locals, especially in a market where all sorts of social interactions are provoked and exchanged. I particularly enjoy hearing what locals have to say about the food, the sounds, and the cities I am exploring. The only real chance I had to do this was the night before the market tour in Jerusalem, where I met some Israelis at the campus bar. We talked about their experiences in the Israeli Defense Forces, their area of study, and their various encounters with friendly Canadians. What struck me most was their response when I told them I would be visiting Mea ShearimĚý(a łó˛ą°ů±đ»ĺľ±ĚýneighbourhoodĚýfounded in 1874 as part of theirĚýreturn to the sacred land of Israel). Yael, one of the girls I had met, said: “Mea Shearim!? Why would you go there? No one goes there!” In that moment, all apprehensions I told myself that I would not have about this experience immediately surfaced. Why was I going there? Was it really such a good idea, especially when there are clear rules “to maintain its religious identity and homogeneity” that do not include my presence? Needless to say, I had my qualms about visiting this neighbourhood, as did the secular Jews I encountered. Even driving through Mea Shearim on our tour bus made me uncomfortable. I knew that I did not belong there and I felt unwelcome by a seemingly hostile people who frowned as we passed on our bright orange bus. This encounter with secular Israelis provided me with some insight on how those who are not part of Mea Shearim feel about its presence in Jerusalem and how it affects their experience of the city. Despite these preconceptions, walking through the neighbourhood definitely opened my eyes to a way of life and a form of religious extremism that I have never been exposed to on such an intimate level.

Before I continue discussing this experience, I first want to qualify what I mean by extremism in the context of Mea Shearim. This is mainly the expression of religious or political views that fall out of the so-called mainstream attitudes of Jews in Israel. It therefore represents the strict observance of religious principles and the rejection of the modern world outside of the haredi community—particularly the state of Israel. These views are openly expressed throughout the neighbourhood and, with blogs like Miriam Woelke’s , it is certainly no secret.

I fing it particularly interesting that the community maintains a strong sense of communication through the written word. Rather than distributing newspapers, matters of politics, religious ideology, and community news are printed onto posters that are then plastered all over neighbourhood walls for the residents to read as they pass. Based on the few posters that Danny translated for us, many of them address the tensions between haredi Jews and the “impure” secular Jews who wish to corrupt and disrupt their community by forcing their youth to join the army or to celebrate the state’s independence.

The most severe example of this rhetoric was a poster of illustrated cartoons that graphically depicted these tensions. One of the panels is of a young haredi boy crying as two older “secular Jews” hold him down, while one cuts off his peyos. To the right of this is an image of soldiers herding young haredi boys onto trains, which is reminiscent of the powerful images from the Holocaust. I am drawn to these cartoons for various reasons, but I especially wish to emphasize the power of the medium and its ability to evoke a strong reaction from the viewer. Through the juxtaposition of text and image, particularly those that are easily recognized by the viewer, one participates in the narrative, placing oneself in the panels and identifying with the images because there is some element of familiarity. That said, there is a participatory aspect of reading comics that is very effective when the medium is used for political propaganda. Theorists, such as Douglas Rushkoff, argue that this is what attracts writers and artists to comics. It is the ideal medium through which to express their narratives because of its ability to generate cultural iconography, or “modern mythology.” In a religious context, this mythology is authoritative, it participates in the construction of society, and it is the common denominator within religious systems, such as those that are held among the haredim of Mea Shearim.

That said, the mythology of the neighbourhood is depicted in one simple cartoon. It is of a haredi father in tears, distressed by the fact that his son received a letter of conscription. According to Danny’s translation, the son tells his father that he is willing to give his life to fight against his call to service. Stuart Cohen argues that the source of this tension between the secular and religious Jews in the IDF lies in ritual and behaviour, rather than a concern over who possesses the “Holy Land” and controls military strategy. It is a question of how one may continue to observe halakha and participate in the army? Or, how the state can ensure loyalty when some of its members are closely tied to religious institutions and the leadership of their rabbis who strongly oppose the IDF? Although these questions are not easily answered, Cohen highlights that the IDF continues to make accommodations in order to better integrate the “highly religious/strictly observant” members of Israeli society and to ease the fear of disobedience. It is important to note that the military is a major force of socialization in Israel, particularly among the youth, and it has therefore become necessary to find a way to integrate the “ultra-religious” and the “religious-nationalistic” communities into this process without forcing them to dishonour their precepts. This issue is definitely intensified, however, by the culture and attitudes that are absorbed by the youth of the haredi community. As seen in our walk through Mea Shearim, loathing the state and its army is common culture. These sentiments are plastered on the walls and presumably taught in the synagogues, with little to no encounter with alternative positions.

With that in mind, where do we begin to look for specific evidence of the Bible in Israeli culture? When we were asked to come up with our own examples based on what we have seen in our day to day explorations of Jerusalem and the surrounding areas, it was difficult to state anything but the obvious. We were able to identify the predominance of kosher restaurants, the use of the Hebrew language, and that Shabbat was a weekly government holiday, but our understanding of the breadth of biblical references was limited by the fact that we could not speak or understand Hebrew ourselves. According to Banai’s 2004 hit, Hebrew “is the language of the prophets,” “it is old and sacred” and, quite remarkably, it can “open up your soul.” This implies that there is a history to the language that is rooted in Bible and continually informs one’s spiritual and cultural consciousness, which is highlighted in the following lyrics:

You know, Abraham spoke the language of the Hebrew Man
And also Jesus from Nazareth and Maria Magdalene,
Einstein, Jeremiah, the Dylan and the Cohen
They knew something about the language of the Hebrew Man

In these verses, Banai manages to connect key biblical characters from the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament with modern Jews who have made an impact in the contemporary world through science, music, and poetry. He creates a sense of commonality between them through the Hebrew language, which represents more than idiom. It is an allusion to a shared history, identity, and set of beliefs. In the world of Israeli music, Idan Raichel (who has collaborated with various artists to create a “blend of traditional Ethiopian folk music, Arabic poetry, Yemenite chants, Biblical psalms and Caribbean rhythms”) is doing something much different. He uses music as a means for “looking beyond intercultural differences and celebrating the value of diversity” among Jews and non-Jews. Like Banai, however, Raichel does use biblical themes in his music. “Hinach Yafah” (Thou Art Beautiful), for example, is a play on the poetry of Song of Songs—a sensual collection of words exchanged between lovers that have been widely interpreted as both theology and pure literature. Brettler notes that Raichel is re-interpreting rather than directly quoting Song of Songs, as is the secular tradition. Raichel is therefore adding and changing words and imagery around, essentially taking full artistic liberty over the biblical passage, rather than aiming to preserve its “sacred form.” That said, he is drawing on the Bible as a source of literature, or poetry, that is of cultural and aesthetic value rather than purely theological. This is reminiscent of Sarah Vered’s experience as a young girl in Palestine, before the foundation of the state, when she (along with other Jews) would travel the country with the Bible as their guide. They would open the book and read it as a source of history, poetry, and culture that taught them about the Jewish people and their land. The focus, in this case, is much more secular and educational, rather than theological. Does this suggest that the Hebrew Bible can stand apart from its theologically oriented reception history? As a tool of both the secular Jew and the strictly observant?

Despite these different approaches, Judaism remains a religion and culture of the book. Brettler emphasizes, however, that when Jews do theology there is no real “center” of the Hebrew Bible. This is because not all parts are of equal importance to all people of Jewish communities over time, but they are typically “Torah-centric.” The exception to this is the haredi community, which draws its influence from the Talmud and other rabbinic interpretations. One would think that Israel’s Knesset, and secular politics in general, would also keep a distance from anything Bible related, but that is far from the case. One of many examples of the Bible’s influence in Israel’s parliament is the International Bible Contest, where young Jews from around the world are quizzed on their Bible knowledge. What is most interesting about this event is the fact that the 2014 winner received his prize from the Prime Minister of Israel, the Minister of Education, and the Speaker of the Knesset. They are each quoted for saying things along the lines of how the Bible is “part of the compass and conscience of Israelis” or that it is the “flame of Zionism” and part of “everything we do in the state of Israel.” This demonstrates the magnitude of the Bible’s influence in Israeli life and culture, particularly in defining a common sense of secular “Jewishness.”

The Knesset itself is decorated with Biblical imagery, specifically in the Chagall State Hall, where Marc Chagall’s three tapestries that depict biblical themes and characters are on display for visitors to admire. Although I only had a short time to observe the art, Chagall’s tapestries are visually and emotionally stunning, to say the least. I could not help but sit and stare at the colours and details of what I initially thought was a painting. In a hurry, I took as many photos as possible and listened to what our guide had to say about the themes addressed in each panel. The overarching motif of the work is biblical, but it also portrays Jewish memory and identity from the perspective of modern Jewish history, which pieces together the past, present, and future. Although there is a certain ambiguity to the meaning of work as a whole, each part of the triptych has a narrative of its own.

The left tapestry is called the “Entrance to Jerusalem,” or “Return to Zion.” That said, it brings together two different time periods: the era of King David and the modern state of Israel. The King David narrative is drawn from 2 Samuel 6, where the ark is moved to Jerusalem, uniting the house of god with the house of David. In the tapestry, David is greeted by a crowd of “Hassidim alongside pioneers, symbolizing the return to Zion in modern times.” Other scenes in the tapestry include allusions to the holidays of Israel and the symbols of the State. This suggests that although the Bible is used as a point of reference, there are other aspects of Israel’s history that are incorporated, which are not necessarily religious, but tie in well with Biblical themes. As a result, the tapestry presents a mingling of sacred text with non-religious history, which speaks to the Bible’s overarching influence in all aspects of Jewish-Israeli life and culture.

The center depicts “The Exodus” from Egypt, as well as the Diaspora. The two central characters of this tapestry are Moses and King David. The many images that represent these two narratives are the burning of a Jewish village in Eastern Europe, the wandering Jew, and the worship of the golden calf. There is also an image of a dead body surrounded by six candles, which symbolizes the six million Jews who died in the Holocaust. This tapestry ultimately expresses the tumultuous relationship between the land of Israel, the people of Israel, and their god. The right tapestry, however, represents the future of this dynamic. It is an image called the “End of Days” whose central figure is the prophet Isaiah having a dream. It is a dream of peace, which is drawn from the book of Isaiah 11:6-8. That said, the animals depicted in the tapestry symbolize this passage:

“a wolf will reside with a lamb, and a leopard will lie down with a young goat; an ox and a young lion will graze together, as a small child leads them along. A cow and a bear will graze together, their young will lie down together. A lion, like an ox, will eat straw. A baby will play over the hole of a snake; over the nest of a serpent, an infant will put his hand.”

This passage prophecies the coming together of various animals who could not be more different than each other—the carnivorous wolf and the innocent lamb, or the curious baby and the wily snake—but it imagines them living, eating, and playing together in peace. This reflects the vision of the Idan Raichel Project, to build a sense of commonality among diversity. My speculation is that this imagery appears in Chagall’s tapestry as a hope for what he imagines the future of Israel to be, which is a place of peace and unity between the world’s Jews, their diverse beliefs and practices, and even potentially Israel’s neighbours.

This idea becomes complicated, however, when we consider how Biblical archeology has played a key role in justifying the foundation and expansion of the state of Israel. Undoubtedly, this has created tension between Israeli Jews and the various non-Jewish communities who see Palestine as their home. A great example of this is the City of David—an archeological site uncovered by Eilat Mazar in 2005 in Silwan (a Muslim neighbourhood in Jerusalem) that some believe is the actual palace of David dating back to the tenth century B.C. According to Brettler, the site is an amalgamation of “archeology, nationalism, and theme-park tourism”. It therefore represents the epitome of the Bible’s overarching influence in Israeli popular culture and in Israel’s statecraft. That said, the City of David holds significant political and religious implications for Israelis, especially those who wish to use it for political ends. The trouble with this is that some Jews and scholars believe that David and Solomon never existed, while others suggest that they may have been real historical figures, but since there is no archeological evidence, one should avoid jumping the gun.

Despite the lack of definitive evidence, the site has an enormous impact in shaping these debates. This is particularly evident in Robert Draper’s article “Kings of Controversy,” which discusses how Mazar’s discovery “carries particular resonance in Israel, where the story of David and Solomon is interwoven with the Jews’ historical claims to biblical Zion.” Brettler notes that this is not the first time that the Bible has been used to justify the conquest of various territories (e.g. Judea and Samaria in 1967). As a result, the Bible has become a historical, geographical, and political book, rather than a strictly theological text used for moral, ethical, and ritual guidance. It is through these examples that we truly get a sense of the Bible’s overwhelming presence in Israel’s public life. The malleability of the text in its cultural and political manifestations therefore validates the “Bibliocentricity” of the modern state of Israel, particularly in defining what “Israeliness” means for contemporary Jews and the ongoing expression of their unique and diverse history through art, music, and the language of the “Hebrew man.”

Bibliography:

Draper, Robert. “Kings of Controversy.” National Geographic Magazine (2010).

Ehud Banai, “Hebrew Man”:

The Idan Raichel Project:

Artwork in the Knesset: