Jewry Between Tradition And Secularism: Europe And Israel Compared (Jewish Identities in a Changing World)

Jewry between Tradition and Secularism

Jewish Identities in a

Changing World General Editors

Eliezer Ben-Rafael and Yosef Gorny

VOLUME 6

Jewry between Tradition and Secularism Europe and Israel Compared

Edited by

Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Thomas Gergely, and Yosef Gorny

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2006

This publication was made possible by the support of the Institut d’Etudes du Judaïsme à l’Université Libre de Bruxelles, The Weinberg Chair of Political Sociology at Tel Aviv University. This Series brings together contributions to the question of the unity versus conflict entrenched in the infinite variety of collective identities illustrated by Jews in this era. The books of this series investigate the principles, narratives, visions and commands which constitute in different places the essentials of Jewishness. They ask whether or not one is still allowed to speak, at the beginning of this new century, of one—single and singular—Jewish People. These investigations should yield an understanding of how far Judaism is still one while Jewishness is multifarious. The perspectives offered may draw from Sociology and the social sciences as well as from history and the humanities, in general. This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on http://catalog.loc.gov

ISSN 1570-7997 ISBN 90 04 15140 0 ISBN 978 90 04 15140 6 © Copyright 2006 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS preface Judaism and the Culture of Memory THOMAS GERGELY ........................................................................

ix

introduction European Jewry and Klal Yisrael ELIEZER BEN-RAFAEL, THOMAS GERGELY, AND YOSEF GORNY ......................................................................

1

part i CONTEMPORARY PRACTICES chapter one Is the French Model in Decline? PIERRE BIRNBAUM ........................................................................

13

chapter two The Case of Belgium JEAN-PHILIPPE SCHREIBER ..............................................................

27

chapter three The Identity of Dutch Jews LUDO ABICHT ..............................................................................

31

chapter four Russian-Jewish Immigration to Germany JULIUS H. SCHOEPS, WILLI JASPER, AND OLAF GLÖCKNER ....................................................................

36

chapter five Religiosity, Praxis and Tradition in Contemporary Hungarian Jewry ANDRÁS KOVÁCS ............................................................................

43

vi

contents

chapter six Being Jewish in Romania after the Second World War CAROL IANCU ..............................................................................

50

chapter seven Jewish Identity, Memory and Anti-Semitism MAURICE KONOPNICIKI ..................................................................

60

part ii JEWRY BEYOND EUROPE chapter eight The Siamese Twins—Religion and Secularism in Jewish National Thought YOSEF GORNY ..............................................................................

75

chapter nine Israeli Identity and Mission in Buber’s Thought SHALOM RATZABI ..........................................................................

85

chapter ten Sovereignty, Voluntarism and Jewish Identity—Nathan Rotenstreich AVI BARELI ................................................................................

93

chapter eleven On Religious-Secular Tensions AVI SAGI .................................................................................... 105 chapter twelve The Religious-Secular Cleavage in Contemporary Israel YOCHANAN PERES .......................................................................... 121 chapter thirteen On European Jewish Orthodoxy, Sephardic Tradition and the Shas Movement ZVI ZOHAR .................................................................................. 133

contents

vii

chapter fourteen Ultra-Orthodox, Orthodox, and Secular Women in College LIOR BEN-CHAIM RAFAEL .............................................................. 151 chapter fifteen The Challenge of Secularism to Jewish Survival in Abba Hillel Silver’s Thinking OFER SHIFF ................................................................................ 173 chapter sixteen The Identities of Jewish American Women SUZANNE VROMEN ........................................................................ 186

part iii IDENTITY, SINGULARITY, CONFLICT, AND COOPERATION chapter seventeen Jews and Secularization: A Challenge or a Prospect? GUY HAARSCHER .......................................................................... 203 chapter eighteen Submission and Subversion before the Law RIVON KRYGIER ............................................................................ 223 chapter nineteen Tradition of Diaspora and Political Reality of the State of Israel DAVID MEYER .............................................................................. 230 chapter twenty The Diaspora Museum and Israeli-Jewish Identity DINA PORAT ................................................................................ 233 chapter twenty-one The Jewish Transnational Community and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem URI COHEN ................................................................................ 248

viii

contents EPILOGUE

chapter twenty-two Contemporary Dilemmas of Identity: Israel and the Diaspora ELIEZER BEN-RAFAEL .................................................................... 279 chapter twenty-three Was the Shoah the “Sanctification of God”? THOMAS GERGELY ........................................................................ 289 Bibliography ................................................................................ 301 Index of Subjects ........................................................................ 313 Index of Names .......................................................................... 319

PREFACE

JUDAISM AND THE CULTURE OF MEMORY Thomas Gergely For a number of non-European Jews of the third post-war generation, the old continent, which many of them have never visited, seems nothing less than Jewish history’s largest burial ground. This because the Shoah was not perpetrated by descendants of the Jivaro head-hunters, nor of the Sioux, who were said to scalp their enemies, nor by the sons of the ancient Mayas, who were more or less cannibals—but by people from the gentle western culture of Europe, the culture that gave us Goethe, Bach and Mozart, and which developed Christianity. Even though Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels, Eichmann and their like did not act as Christians at the time of the brown plague, most of these men had, after all, been baptised and brought up in that faith. A fact that stupefied those they persecuted. Jews from outside the arena of death thus have a tolerably different view of the Shoah than those it affected first hand. And hence they also perceive their own identities differently. It is beyond question that after the Second World War, the definition of what it means to be Jewish can never be separated from the existential sense, or non-sense, of this wave of Jew-killing. In truth, alongside the typically European shock to religious certainties, which are such an intrinsic component of identity, we must take note of the feeling of guilt that developed in Jews who, having experienced these events from a distance and as spectators, whether or not they were aware of the scale of the drama, had had the good fortune not to experience its physical suffering. It is characteristic of this that the relatively mild demands that American Jews of the time made of their government to bomb the gas chambers are followed today by a veritable cult of the memory of the Shoah, something that has almost reached the status of a religion, though not deeply questioning God and His existence. While it is true that America is a religious continent, American Jews are ill-equipped to understand the identities of many Europeans who henceforth saw themselves as secular or atheist, though still Jewish.

x

preface

There is also a significant fringe of modern-day Israelis, people whom the forces of history have made capable of resisting through arms, who are suffocating through incomprehension of the idea that millions of European Jews allowed themselves to be tipped into the jaws of hell without fighting or even putting up much resistance. But Israeli Jewish identity is not at all the same as that which once gave European Jews their sense of self. Whereas for many Israelis the criterion of nationality is today enough to cover their need for a definition of Jewish identity, in the diaspora Jews are living and have lived in a situation of ambiguity that combines various degrees of attachment to or rejection of religion, culture, history and politics, including politics vis-à-vis the state of Israel. And what physical, let alone armed resistance, could be offered against such barbarity by a religious central European Jew whose days and nights were taken up with Halacha—the rules of Talmudic law—and who was already living on this earth with his head in the heavens? The very purpose he gave to his existence here on earth was to “walk in the ways of the Lord” (this is the sense behind the notion of Halacha), and this was made concrete by his behaviour, both ordinary and extraordinary; behaviour that constituted his identity, and which made him the perfect prey. It is clear that Jewishness takes many forms and can scarcely be locked down in a single definition. Labels such as religion, history, identity, culture, belonging, and community of destiny may be very precise, but they do not allow us to pinpoint the essence of Jewish identity to the exclusion of all others. Nor does any combination of them. There will always be a number of Jews who will object, for example, to the criterion of religion, to the criterion of culture, or to the criterion of history. This is because it is possible to be a nonpractising Jew, or to have escaped the fate imposed by history on one’s neighbour. This we know. Additionally, many thinkers prefer definitions of Jewishness that transcend the individual approach. Amongst these attempts is one that considers Jewish identity to be achieved through belonging to a “culture of memory,” in other words a system of thought that derives its moral values from an appraisal of history, whether this history is real or imaginary. The most flagrant example of this remains the institution of the Sabbath, the cornerstone of Judaism. The prescription for rest on the seventh day is written in both versions of the Decalogue, and that it appears, with differing justifications, in Exodus and Deuteronomy.

preface

xi

In fact, although in the second book of Moses the Sabbath appears as a kind of imitation of God and memorial of creation, in the fifth book the reason cited harks back to the memory of slavery in Egypt and the freedom that followed, events relived from generation to generation and handed down as an inheritance, as if all Jews of all ages had, in fact, themselves suffered under Pharaoh. With this was a clear lesson addressed to Jews and to all nations that they should not subject their fellow men to slavery, or subjugate them through perpetual labour: “Do not unto others as you would not have them do unto you,” “Love thy neighbour as thyself.” Under these conditions, Jewish memory, so often evoked in this new century, appears for what it is: It is an active memory, despite appearances, and one that is much more active than doloristic, even if the specific events that populate it have very often been experienced with pain. In this respect, the Shoah makes it possible, through the changes to Jews’ sense of self that it imposed on them, to measure the effects that the culture of memory still has today. And they are sometimes startling. It was in the name of this culture that, after the war, a number of Jews asked themselves how to respond to the religious duty of procreation, chronologically the first of the biblical commandments. Did the fact that one and a half million children had been exterminated in thirty-six months call for urgent action to fill the demographic gap, or was it better to avoid bringing beings into the world whose very existence might eventually condemn them to the gas chambers? Since Judaism has no regulator in charge of doctrine, the decision remained the prerogative of those concerned. And whilst many of them made a categorical imperative of beginning without delay to re-establish the fabric of Jewish society that had been so badly torn, others drew the most acute of moral conclusions from the genocide, a conclusion that confronts parents with the responsibility they assume when bringing children into this world, a world that they too have contributed to shaping or to disfiguring as the case may be. And others decided that the only moral response was abstention. It was to them, inter alia, that Emil Fackenheim directed his affirmation in God’s Presence in History that Jews were “forbidden to give Hitler posthumous victories. Jews are commanded to survive as Jews, lest the Jewish people perish. They are commanded to remember the victims of Auschwitz, lest their memory perish. They are forbidden to despair of Man, lest they cooperate in delivering

xii

preface

the world to the forces of Auschwitz. Finally, they are forbidden to despair of the God of Israel, lest Judaism perish.1” A set of new commandments whose origin is in modern times, and which are imposed by the culture of Jewish memory, an addition to the six hundred and thirteen injunctions and prescriptions of the Law. This self-imposed refusal to despair of mankind also provided a fulcrum for the paradoxical reasoning of the American rabbi Richard L. Rubenstein, the author of After Auschwitz.2 This book which was the first Jewish theological examination of the Shoah and came after twenty years of stupor resulting from the fear of confronting the problem of the existence or non-existence of God in the grey light of the experience of genocide, arrived at radical conclusions. Considering that the possibility of Auschwitz rendered the hypothesis of God impossible, Rubenstein concluded that heaven was empty. But then, he said, if there is nothing up there, men are necessarily alone. They can count only on themselves. And of all the things that can unite them, religious behaviour is the most effective. In true logical style, Rubenstein therefore proposed that henceforth all rituals be preserved, but that they be stripped of their transcendental references. In short, religious practice in atheist Judaism. This is a strange position, but it is coherent in that it tries to accommodate both the legacy of ancient memory affirming the existence of God and the legacy of recent memory that for some invalidates this same existence.3 This hope placed by Judaism in the capacity for moral renewal of men who were nonetheless capable of the worst was to be seen in the overall reasoning of the survivors of the Shoah immediately after the genocide ended. Where they might have succumbed to the temptation of bloody revenge against their very executioners, who had been identified throughout Germany and Austria, without anyone daring to reproach them for it, almost all Jews contented themselves with demanding trials and criminal proceedings. And to refute forever the assertion that the loss of Jewish national sovereignty, due in history to Titus and Hadrian, was in reality the expression of some kind of divine curse linked to the death of the prophet from Nazareth, 1 Emil Fackenheim, La présence de Dieu dans l’Histoire, Paris, Verdier, 1980, p. 146. The author adds here that “a secular Jew cannot make himself believe by a mere act of the will, nor can he be commanded to do so.” 2 Richard Rubenstein, After Auschwitz, Radical Theology and Contemporary Judaism, The Bobbs-Merril Company, Inc., Indianapolis-New York, 1966. 3 Cf. my contribution to this volume.

preface

xiii

the justification for all the bimillenial pogroms, they demanded a state. Here the ancient memory of slavery in Egypt, the origin of the Sabbath, had been given new relevance by the misdeeds of Nazi Germany and again forbade the victims to imitate their persecutors.4 The certainty that men will finally return to the “path of the just,” even if their conversion is late in coming—like the arrival of the Messiah of Judaism or the Parousia of Christianity—for survivors of the Shoah this assurance finds its most brilliant illustration in the luminous ranks of the Righteous Among the Nations. Risking their lives and, worse, sometimes the lives of their children, they saved the dignity of mankind by demonstrating through their salvatory action that, in the words of the Talmud, the tiniest flame of a candle was enough to dispel the thickest shadows. So much so that the memory of such people, even if they were rare and isolated, forbids us from ever doubting humanity. It is an obligation for the author of these lines to bear witness to this, since along with many others he owes his survival to the actions of Raoul Wallenberg in Budapest, who was then, in 1944, just thirty-two years old. That an individual acting out of a deep-rooted sense of human duty can succeed where churches and states had almost failed, has a resonance in the Jewish conscience with the rabbinic aphorism that teaches that although nobody is obliged to do the deed, it is all the more true that nobody may refrain from it. And that despite its limits, participating in saving the lives of people threatened by inhumanity is enough. The memory of the Righteous, then, gives moral imperatives for everyone, which cannot today be ignored. As does the broader context that caused these exceptional people to act. A context whose memory bequeaths us a duty of vigilance, since it teaches that men have never been ashamed of their misdeeds, and consequently that the impossible can always happen, especially where the unthinkable has already come to pass. This realisation—above all others—is a constituent of Jewish identity, especially in Europe.

4 The ideological, political and verbal analogies drawn between the Shoah and the serious difficulties faced by the Palestinian population must here be refuted. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is the expression of the often brutal and bloody confrontation, always to be deplored, of two historical legitimacies that are condemned to coexist. But to make comparisons, as some have found expedient, between the sealing off of the Autonomous Territories, which is a blockade technique, and the imprisonment in Auschwitz, which served to fill the gas chambers, is quite simply unworthy and so excessive as to be counterproductive to the cause it attempts to defend.

INTRODUCTION

EUROPEAN JEWRY AND KLAL YISRAEL Eliezer Ben-Rafael, Thomas Gergely, and Yosef Gorny In his preface, Thomas Gergely comes up with a thesis. Judaism, he states, is a culture of memory, and this feature is illustrated primary through the case of European Jewry—both in its legacy and prospects. From within this framework, it may be that European Jewry hopes to regain a prominent presence both on the world scene of Jewries as well as within Europe, its direct geopolitical and cultural context. At a given point, this outlook intersects with Diana Pinto’s (2000) thesis that European Jewry today has an opportunity to build itself anew as a full-fledge participant of the Jewish world, resulting in a triangular relationship where European Jewry forms a foundational partnership with American Jewry and Israel at the other poles. This, she argues, is a possibility in an epoch when borders have opened and Jewries once silenced for decades behind the iron curtain have rejoined the Jewish world; when migration movements— such as North African Jews to France, Russian Jews to Germany as well as other cases—have created new frames of references; and when, last but not least, a large part of Europe is in the process of creating a new European Union in which all Jewries of the continent play a role. In actuality, however, Pinto’s assessment is more of a program than an analysis of the existing reality. Yet, this program tends to ignore the alarming renewed anti-Semitism growing in contemporary Europe ever since the last decades of the twentieth century. The rising form of this anti-Semitism (Taguieff, 2004; Finkielkraut 2003) has been conjured by the encounter between old nationalisms, on the one hand, and the interests of political elites in the Arab world, enhanced by the media’s empathy for it, on the other hand. This situation is also most definitely exacerbated by the dramatic growth of Europe’s Muslim population that adheres, for the most part, to anti-Israel slogans and varying degrees of hostility towards the Jewish communities within their present-day society. This new reality as well as the inherent division of European Jewry by

2

introduction

country, language, and culture can by no means be left out of a sketch of what European Jewry looks like today and what it is evolving towards. These aspects shed light on essential perspectives of what the current situation is and how difficult it may be to create a new European pole of world Jewry. Above all, these “hard facts” serve to increase interest in the question: Can European Jewry play an influential role not only vis-à-vis the Jewish world but also vis-àvis Europe itself in this era? This book is about the space of issues embedded in this question which gain clarity when set in a comparative perspective with other Jewish experiences, especially Israel’s. The Jewish people is known for being one of the earliest examples of a multinational diaspora. As such, Jews are actors evolving in particular cultural and linguistic contexts and, at the same time, convey values, norms, and narratives that elaborate forms of particularism which, to varying degrees, set them “apart.” Their acting as citizens of given societies is marked by their legacies as members of the society as a whole. At the same time, they also express, in supra-national Jewish frameworks, attitudes and convictions that reflect their experiences in specific settings, cultures, and languages. This dual experience is not unique to Jews; it is common to all transnational diasporas, the multiplication of which has become a widespread feature of the contemporary era. This assessment ties directly to the ambition of the Klal Yisrael project which initiated a string of international seminars and a series of books all dedicated to “Jewish Identities in a Changing World.” The intention of this project has been to analyze critically the divergent and convergent forces that pass through world Jewries in this era of globalization and drastic sociocultural transformations. It is in the context of these issues that Thomas Gergley refers to “the culture of memory” as deeply embedded in understanding the state of European Jewry. This dimension is, on the one hand, shared with all other Jewries and, on the other hand, takes on its own particular acuity in the European context. It is assessing the development of European Jewry as both an integrative and distinct part of world Jewry, and as both an integrative and distinct part of the new Europe that constitutes a central theme in this book. The papers presented here were part of the Second International Seminar of the Klal Yisrael Project held in Brussels in September 2003, under the auspices of the Institut Martin Buber pour l’Etude du Judaïsme.

introduction

3

The contributions to this book are grouped under three headings. The first focuses on the “Practices of European Jewry” and assesses the diversity of the models as well as the common denominators of Jewries in the new Europe. Pierre Birnbaum begins this section with an analysis of the French Model. He recalls the long special relationship that the Jews of France have had with the state. Well integrated into French society and benefiting from upward mobility, these Jews always remained loyal to the Republic. Though, this model is also ambivalent as it provides for a top-down communitarism under the heading of “consistoire.” In recent decades, a sort of bottom-up communitarization has taken shape with the massive arrival of North African Jews who “regenerated,” so-to-speak, French Judaism. In this sense, Jews are moving away from the state and challenging their traditional alliance with the authorities. By the same token, they tend to find themselves much more alone. Moreover, they are now also facing hostilities with Moslem citizens of North African origin and a growing expression of a new kind of anti-Semitism. These factors have had a serious impact on the now fragile model of Judaism in France. Turning to the case of Belgian Jews, Jean-Philippe Schreiber shows that this community has widely perpetuated a duality of perspectives— commitment to integration and the practice of social particularism. This duality is accounted for by features of the political and legal construction of Belgium society that contrasts with the French regime. Moreover, the Jewish condition in Belgium today is strongly marked by the memory of the Shoah and by the community’s relations to Israel. Ludo Abicht who discusses the case of Dutch Jews also emphasizes that their Jewishness is closely linked to the traumatic wartime experience. Yet, compared to other Jewish communities in Europe, the overall historical picture is clearly positive for Dutch Jews. Though, for the survivors of the Shoah and their children there is no way to reconstruct the past. The majority are no longer religiously affiliated, although many have become active in pro-Israel organizations. Julius H. Schoeps, Willi Jasper and Olaf Glöckner discuss the very special case of Russian-Jewish immigration to Germany in recent years which is officially encouraged by Reunified Germany. Nearly 185,000 Russian Jews have entered the country since the early 1990s and the number of members in the Jewish community has augmented threefold. Signs indicate that Russian Jews already play a key role in the building of a new Jewry. This is visible in the growing number

4

introduction

of new synagogues and community centers. Yet, unsolved integration problems exist which make it difficult for these immigrants to feel “resettled”—above all these problems relate to unemployment, language and cultural barriers as well as frictions within the Jewish communities. András Kovács turns our attention to Hungarian Jews. On the basis of an empirical study, he shows that secularization has taken place during the lifetimes of the older generation who observe fewer Jewish practices now than during their childhood years. On the other hand, the younger generation illustrates an inclination to return to tradition, to oppose assimilation and to identify with Israel. This reflects a strengthening of the demand for ethnic and religious identities after the collapse of Communism. Similar developments may be observed among the Jewish populations of the other former Communist countries of Eastern Central Europe. Carol Iancu focuses, more specifically, on Romania and evinces that while half of the Romanian Jewish community perished in the Shoah, the Communist regime also had a role in the systematical persecution of the Jewish organizations. Throughout this period, many Romanian Jews applied for immigration to Israel despite the attacks on Zionism by the Communist regime. And, indeed, Jewish immigration to Israel from Romania took place steadily. On Yom Kippur of 1958 Romanian authorities allowed for Jewish emigration to Israel. Resultantly, a large number of Jews took advantage of the opportunity and emigrated. After the fall of Communism, immigration to Israel continued to intensify though the conditions for Jews in Romania did improve as Jewish institutions were given the freedom to exist and grow. In a wider scope, Maurice Konopnicki expands on the fragility of the Jewish condition in Europe half a century after the Shoah. He firstly evokes his own youth and the humiliations which he suffered in the past from school peers and later in the university and his professional career. Secondly, the author describes the current hardships encountered by Jewish individuals and institutions in the very heart of Western Europe. His apprehensions find confirmations in the analyses of contemporary intellectuals also discussed in the chapter. These chapters that make up the first section of the book provide a descriptive view of Jews in Europe and their societal and political situations. All in all, however, the various cases of European Jewry do not reflect a level of dynamism comparable to the present-day dominant poles of Jewish life in Israel and America—neither on a theoretical level nor in social reality. Thus, under the heading of

introduction

5

“Non European Jewries,” contributions are grouped together that focus on Israel and the US. Among these contributions, some deal with major elaborations of secular forms of Jewish identity and others with the social dynamics of identity issues. Yosef Gorny begins this section with a focus on the relationship between nation and religion in the thought of two outstanding writers-philosophers of Zionism, Berdichevsky and Brenner. Both were radical Hebrew nationalists, each in his own way. Yet what they agreed upon was that the survival of the Jews as a people was dependent on a complete separation between ‘Jewishness’ and Judaism. Berdichevsky coined the famous provocative statement that the revival of the Jews as a normal people “depends on the choice between Jews and Judaism.” For Brenner, “There is no Messiah for Israel” and Jews should be strong enough to survive without him. These attitudes sharply contrast with those of Martin Buber. Shalom Ratzabi shows according to Buber, the singularity of the Jewish people is rooted in their original essence which unites the principle of nation with that of religion, where religion is understood as “carrying a covenant with God.” This particular unity is the secret force that enabled Jews to survive in an exile which lasted much longer than their independence. The allegiance to the land of Israel conditions the fulfillment of their mission. Buber also posses that in light of the Bible’s invalidation of any dichotomy between the sacred and the profane, Zionism is not a regular national movement but Salvation. In this context, the Jewish State is but the instrument for the Jewish people to fulfill their duty in accordance with the covenant and the exigencies of the prophets, which implies that Israel has to become an exemplary nation based on justice and truth. Avi Bareli discusses the perspective of Nathan Rotenstreich, a follower of Buber, on the encounter between Jewish thought and modernity, and the unavoidable tension existing between the centrality of the state and civil voluntarism. Jewish sovereignty consists of an effort to re-activate the Jewish collective will as impacted by Jewish traditions. But, at the same time, political sovereignty also demands discipline and policies that may oppose the value of voluntarism. Avi Sagi insists, however, that such secular efforts which minimize the role of the religious principle can represent only partially the work of re-thinking Jewishness. In his chapter, he speaks of a lack of openness of the secular and the religious toward each other. At best, the discourse with each other revolves around the question of respective rights, meaning essentialist rejection, which expresses that these two

6

introduction

perspectives actually compete with each other as alternatives views of Judaism. Sagi sees no other way to reconcile the sides than a profound transformation that would bring them to endorse the necessity of multiculturalism. Though, with the help of a sociological investigation of Israeli reality, Yochanan Peres shows that religiosity among Israeli Jews is a matter of degree, rather than a polarized dichotomy. Belonging to the Jewish religion means also belonging to the Jewish people. Hence, religious symbols, myth, and traditions are embedded in the various versions of Jewishness, including Zionism. The findings reveal that while the ultra-orthodox and the secular are at conflictual poles, their antagonism is buffered by intermediary categories like the non ultra-orthodox religious and the traditionalists. Among the latter, moreover, one denotes in recent years a new phenomenon that concerns the Oriental-Sephardic Jews in Israel, i.e. the Shas party. Zvi Zohar discusses this phenomenon and reminds that influences of modern Europe were already apparent among Oriental-Sephardic Jews in the mid-nineteenth century when the rabbis’ words were generally marked by moderation. However, it happened that in Israel this changed in part because Jewish youth from Muslim countries who sought to pursue Torah studies attended—in the absence of alternatives—Lithuanian ultra-Orthodox yeshivot. In those yeshivot, Jews from Muslim countries were never accepted on equal footing with their Ashkenazi peers. This is the context of the creation of Shas. In time, Shas gained political power, under the leadership of Torah sage Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, creating a new phenomenon in the Israeli religious scene. An additional new religious phenomenon in Israel also worth remembering relates to the place of women in the religious sphere. Lior Ben-Chaim Rafael examines aspects of this in a comparison of Israeli female students of different religious allegiances. She shows that ultra-orthodox women are agents of change with respect to themselves as well as to their communities. These women are in the process of redrawing the boundaries of modernity, religion, and tradition. Above all, this study confirms the contention that Jewish ultra-orthodoxy can by no means be described as a stagnant and non-modern niche of contemporary Judaism. This series of works about the Israeli Jewish reality is revealing of the predominant role that Jewishness plays in the thought of intellectuals as well as in the dynamics of the social life. One may say that Jewishness is deeply anchored in the very gestalt of the society at all levels. This is less true of the Jewish experience elsewhere but still,

introduction

7

in America, one also finds a Judaism marked by vitality. We bring here two different contributions to elaborate on this assessment. Ofer Shiff discusses the example of Abba Hillel Silver, a second-generation Jewish American intellectual who in the beginning of the twentieth century joined the Reform movement. Silver viewed this movement as loyal to the old Jewish ways of life, made into a reality in American culture. He saw his own choice to become a Reform rabbi as the continuation of his father’s and grandfather’s careers as orthodox rabbis. Silver regarded adherence to universalistic values as an “envelope” that might protect the traditional Jewish heritage while allowing it to become a part of the American culture. At the same time, the building of a Jewish state also seemed to him a “great, urgent and historically inescapable task of Jewry.” On more of a sociological level, Suzanne Vromen points to the dynamics of America’s Jewish scene, and in particular, the scene of Jewish American women. She follows Jewish women in their work in charity organizations that they themselves have created, and beyond. She shows the impact of feminism and how it influences those who wish to maintain their Jewish identity in a new context founded on greater gender equity. The constant thread of activism and tikun olam, she says, is remarkable. Those, moreover, who aspire to retain a Jewish identity are passionately involved in reshaping it. In comparison, European Jewry seems to carry different preoccupations and acts on them both in the Jewish world and in its own geopolitical and cultural environment. Under the headline “identity, singularity, conflict and cooperation” are brought forth contributions that elaborate on central issues regarding European Jewry. The first issue considers the question of how Jewish identity may be understood by European Jews; the second issue focuses on their contribution to Judaism; the third issue revolves around how European Jews view themselves vis-à-vis other Jews—especially in Israel; the fourth issue relays cases of cooperation between European Jewry and Israeli Jewry. With respect to how the question of collective Jewish identity may be understood by European Jews, we may see in Guy Haarscher’s chapter an example of how a European intellectual Jew confronts this issue. Haarscher’s approach insists on the necessity for a nonreligious Jew to find a way of coping with his or her Jewishness by remaining within the space of “laïcité” and to remain alert to the danger of “communautarisme.” In other words, it is the author’s conviction that emphasizing too strongly Jewish particularism may

8

introduction

lead to antagonism with the “other”—the non-Jew. Rivon Krygier proposes an alternative view. He attacks the premise that religious Judaism and secularism are incompatible. Through an investigation of biblical and talmudic narratives, his perspective is that it is legitimately possible for Jewish worship to incorporate the autonomous judgement of conscience that lies at the heart of secularism. This worship cannot be understood as requiring only obedient observance of given practices. Moreover, it is his contention that many authorized sources contain a subversive dimension and that it is possible for man to question the explicit authority of a divine law on behalf of implicit higher imperatives. In this perspective, the ultimate value of Judaism is the aspiration to justice through the voice of conscience. From these chapters, one is presented with the confrontation of European Jewry with essentialist dilemmas and understandings regarding what a Jewish identity means. Additionally, unlike their counterparts elsewhere, European Jewry, in part, willingly voices criticisms and critical judgments on other Jewries. David Meyer discusses an aspect of this in his chapter about the expectations that Jews living in the diaspora have about Israel to be exemplary and discusses the Jewish state as a test that the practice of power is not incompatible with the ethical teachings featured out by diaspora Judaism. If this “test for Judaism” fails, he contends, it is a failure for Judaism as a whole. Despite the conflictual mood that may lie behind the relations between European Jewry and other parts of the Jewish world, strong patterns of cooperation exist that make world Jewry a genuine transnational diaspora. Dina Porat describes a significant example of this cooperation against the background of diverging opinions, namely, the creation of the Nahum Goldmann Diaspora Museum in TelAviv. She discusses how Ben-Gurion and Goldmann debated in the 1950s the importance of the diaspora in regards to the Israeli-Jewish identity; Ben-Gurion argued on behalf of Israeliness and Goldmann on behalf of the diaspora’s contribution to civilization. When the Diaspora museum was finally created by joint efforts of the Israeli Government and the World Jewish Agencey, it was shaped by Goldmann’s vision. Subsequently, new controversies arose about ethnic representation, the lack of reference to modernity and to non-Zionist forces, and the weight given to the suffering experienced in Diaspora history. In the next chapter, Uri Cohen discusses another example of cooperation which is also marked by convergent as well as divergent interests. This is the case of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

introduction

9

Cohen suggests that, all in all, the cooperative process in creating and sustaining the university has been successful ever since its founding in the mid-1920s. Symbolic definitions of Diaspora held by various bodies involved set the ground for shared networks, a cultural platform, and solidarity. Together, all of the texts discussed in this book provide a general view of the practices of Europe’s Jewish communities in a comparative perspective and their interaction with other parts of the Jewish world. Considering divergent and convergent aspects of Jewries examined, Eliezer Ben-Rafael concludes the book by confronting the question: Are Jews today still the carriers of a single and identical collective identity and do they still constitute a single people? This two-folded question arises when one considers the range of Jewish lifestyles from a Hassidic Habad in Brooklyn, to a Jewish professor at a secular university in Brussels, to a traditional Yemenite Jew, to a Galilee kibbutznik, to a Russian Jew in Novossibirsk. Is there still today a significant relationship between Jews with very different lifestyles, beliefs, and norms? The analysis shows that there are multiple manifestations of Jewish identity. This can be explained by considering all variants as “surface structures” of the three universal “deep structures” of the notion of collective identity—namely, collective commitment, perceptions of the collective’s singularity, and self-positioning vis-à-vis “others.” The same analysis also leads to the conclusion that despite the variation, the Jewish people are, for the time being at least, still one. In the last chapter of this book, Thomas Gergely recalls and elaborates on the experience of the Shoah and its lasting imprint on Jewish memory as possibly the central aspect of the historical and spiritual course of the Jews—primarily in Europe but also throughout the Jewish world. Though, for European Jewry, it is especially clear, obvious and definitive that this tragedy which belongs to all Jews, unrelated to geography or to religiosity, will constitute a most central challenge to the understanding and self-perception of Jews for generations to come.

PART I

CONTEMPORARY PRACTICES

CHAPTER ONE

IS THE FRENCH MODEL IN DECLINE?1 Pierre Birnbaum In today’s world, Jews are basically grouped around two poles, each of which claims to be the ideal place for fulfillment of Jewish life: the United States and Israel. In the U.S., Jews have found a haven of peace and tolerance, a “home” or a modern Babylon where democracy and all forms of liberalism flourish. This situation is exemplary of a rare period in the Diaspora era. Naturally, in this climate of multiculturalism and individualism, a wide range of types of assimilation threaten the preservation of a particularistic identity. In Israel, the issue of multiculturalism is also undermining a culture that defines itself as solely Jewish. Relations between religion and state and between citizens and cultures with distinct identities need to be re-thought to make them more egalitarian, on the one hand, without abandoning ties to Judaism and shifting toward a mere community of citizens on the other hand. In both cases, the obstacles can be overcome, even though they challenge many preconceived notions and certitudes. These communities lead to futures that seem to defy the imagination to varying degrees, and occasion a distribution of space that reconciles cultures and other differences.2 What is the fate of other Jewries outside of the US and Israel? It is apparent that in the former Soviet countries, Judaism is shrinking at an incredible pace, slowly ending a thousand-year history where, for many, Jewish culture was forged. The same may be said about two Muslim countries, Morocco and Yemen. The remaining countries are Great Britain, Hungary, Argentina, but above all France. France in particular holds a symbolic place in modern Jewish history because it was there that the tradition of the Enlightenment and the French Revolution, the model for Jewish emancipation, was born. Thus, in 1

A version of this chapter appears in E. Ben-Rafael, Y. Gorny, and Y. Ro"i, eds., (2003). 2 For a comparison along these lines between the situation of Jews in the U.S. and in Israel, see Ben-Rafael (2001).

14

pierre birnbaum

modern Europe, the fate of French Jewry is critical with respect to both centers mentioned: Israel, a nation-state predicated on a dominant Jewish culture, and the U.S., a basically multicultural society endowed with a strong communal fabric. In its lengthy history, French Jews have taken a unique tack by creating a special relationship with the state—the great liberator of minorities. They preserved a vertical alliance with a state that restricted individualism and any form of collective alliance in the public sphere but fully legitimized individual beliefs. Jew became full citizens at the end of the French Revolution and almost entirely and enthusiastically accepted the Republican contract that limited the expression of religious belief and cultural difference to the private sphere. Fanatics of the emancipating Republic, the Jews of France vanished as a nation and did not oppose the broadening of the principle dina de malkhuta dina— “the law of the state is the law,” a Talmudic precept that instructs exiled Jews to accept and obey the laws of their host countries. Like their fellow citizens, particularly Catholic fellow citizens, who were directly targeted by the secularization of the public sphere, French Jews were forced to yield to state control over marriage and adapt to a state power that, since Napoleon, has been based on the consistorial system. During the nineteenth century, Jews were well integrated into French society. They benefited from upward mobility (thanks to the Republican meritocracy), played a major symbolic political role, and attained such high-ranking offices as minister, deputy, general, prefect, state counsellor, and judge in the highest court of appeals. The prosperity of the Jews seemed to overshadow the severe crises of the times such as the Dreyfus Affair. Yet, the integration of the Jews did not obliterate their cultural identity, even though it was confined to the private sphere. Throughout the nineteenth century, they maintained their ‘Jewishness’ and strongly rejected mass out-conversion, self-hatred, and intermarriage. Though, it is nevertheless true that the state power over society, connected with the expansion of a centralized state, has accentuated the decline of Jewish life. Additionally, the benefits of integration in the public sphere have diminished collective awareness and creativity within Jewish life. In this respect, a German-type “science of Judaism” exists in France but has had much less of an impact there than in Germany (Birnbaum, 1996; 2000; 2002). One may say that in many ways the Jews of France invented a model of Diaspora Jewish life that coincided with the French model

is the french model in decline?

15

of a strong, universalistic state. Criticized by certain Zionist thinkers and accused of serving a nation-state that diminished their identity, French Jews, like their non-Jewish fellow citizens, in fact succeeded in preserving—though mostly in their inner reaches—their culture, memory, values, and specific social modes. Although deprived of a territorial niche, they were able to maintain an environment of their own and remain faithful to a specific history while fully assuming their duties as citizens and participating in the nation. This pattern laid the foundations, for Jews and non-Jews alike, of a coexistence between a nation-state political ideal and the generalized preservation of specific forms of belief and cultures in a way that is much less conflictual than might be presumed. Today, however, this model is being denigrated by a general political theory that has rediscovered the force of collective cultures. This theory rejects the integrative model in the name of the survival of the collective identity of every national group that is purportedly threatened by the reinforcement of a nation-state which answers solely to the cult of Reason. This argument is often brandished by the nationalist Right that rejects the integrative model in favor of a national identity whose true origins they unearth from the distant past. However, today this viewpoint is championed more often by a segment of the Left that seems to have recovered from the form of Marxism that ignored “tribes,” nations, and cultures and has now found legitimacy in them. The French model has also become the scapegoat of culturalists of the Charles Taylor or Will Kymlicka school who criticize the rationalist pretensions of the nation-state while disregarding its genuine capacity to allow individual cultures to survive. The theoreticians of multiculturalism are unaware of the real flexibility of the French model which turns out to be less reductive than it seems and can more-or-less efficiently reconcile rationalism and respect for different cultures (Taylor, 1994; Kymlicka, 2000: 121–122). In contrast to this view, theoreticians of the public sphere, such as followers of Jurgen Habermas, view the French model as the ideal type of post-nationalism and find that it facilitates discursivity between reasonable citizens who have distanced themselves from their own cultural backgrounds. Apologetic toward the rationalizing French model, this school of thought draws on the French model of Reasonoriented citizenship to produce a broad concept of the European public sphere; one which is unanchored in individual histories and cultures that run the risk of creating irreconcilabilities. Thus, when

16

pierre birnbaum

considering the general positions regarding the French model, one could claim that theoreticians of multiculturalism do not notice the strong tolerance of cultural identities that the French model supports, while post-national theorists of the public sphere do not realize that they are over-ballasting the republican nature of French culture (Birnbaum, 2002). The history of French Jewry itself attests to the ambivalence of the French model. As citizens who are positively oriented toward their country and who possess no territorial niche, French Jews have been able to preserve a specific collective awareness without constituting a “nation within a nation,” as they were before the French Revolution. They also did not “Judaicize” their exile as did Jews in the American model. Once the Jewish quarters of Alsace and Lorraine disappeared and the specificities of exile such as the Marais quarters vanished, their “home” blended purely and simply into the nation itself—or, at least this was the case until the most recent times. However, like their fellow citizens, but this time with specific consequences, French Jews became involved in the rediscovery of regional “lands” and cultures. This phenomenon resulted from the decentralization laws of 1981 which gave legitimacy to varieties of observance through the reconstruction of collective beliefs in the public sphere. The outcome has been a sort of “bottom-up communitarization” that draws on the visibility of political and consistorial institutions that intervene in public debate and marks a relative “Judaizing” of the public sphere. This process has been further enhanced by the sociability of Jewish immigration that originated in the decolonization of Northern Africa. These immigrants brought a mode of collective sociability and modes of religious observance that led to a paradoxical and unexpected “regeneration” of French Judaism. This can be seen in the Hebrew letters on storefronts and private schools, which, like private Catholic schools, are experiencing a period of growth. Additionally visible is the American-style presence of identifiable Jewish attire and skullcaps. In some neighbourhoods and suburbs of Paris and in several large cities, such as Strasbourg, this public show of particularism has even led to the symbolic demarcation of public areas devoted to religious observance. Part of this new found public identity is apparent on festival days such as “Torah Day,” which can attract 30,000 people, and large demonstrations, e.g., in support of Israel. There has also been an undeniable return to an immediately identifiable Jewish presence in the national space, a sort of

is the french model in decline?

17

nation-within-the-nation. This phenomenon seems compatible with the wishes of a Mirabeau but not with those of an abbé Grégoire. A surprising but deliberate “top-down communitarianism,” implemented by the state, is also taking place. One cannot deny that France is steadily acknowledging the existence of one community after another even in the public sphere, e.g., unhesitantly granting Corsica dispensatory privileges in respect to public law. This tendency, indicative of the “Girondinization” of French society, is clearly a source of mutual cultural enrichment but also a difficult path to navigate for a nation-state that rests on highly universalistic foundations. This top-down forging of communities affects Jewish circles in particular because the highest authorities of the state and the mass media have been urging these circles to view themselves as an organized community. This behaviour reinforces the aforementioned “bottom-up” communitarization which in the wane of the state is gaining legitimacy and visibility with each passing day. The bottom-up community formation is affecting the entire range of collective cultural identities. However, it further destabilizes the Jewish destiny by asking it to distance itself from its militant citizenship in order to accept collective structures that many reject. Many French Jews have worked hard to recreate an “imagined community” within society which is recognized by the public authorities and legitimized by making amends. A “home” for French Jews has thus been created within the nation. In this sense, they are moving away from the state and challenging their traditional vertical alliance with the authorities. Moreover, like their fellow citizens, they seem increasingly inclined to espouse associative ideals or a market individualism that attracts the elites who were formerly so devoted to the state. France in general seem to be slipping gradually into the mode of a weak American-type state in which the market is dominant. Citizens seem to be adopting an associative and cultural lifestyle that legitimizes a wide range of multiculturalism and affirmative action. In this sense, the Republican model has been shaken for all. Yet, the situation has critical effects on the integration of French Jews in particular who have been thrust into negotiations or horizontal clashes to the detriment of their traditional vertical relations with the state. Even though Jews still appeal for the intervention and the protection of the state, they suddenly find themselves much more alone if not isolated, and are viewed as a specific group that actually has little impact on national political life. These feelings of isolation,

18

pierre birnbaum

one can assume, are directly tied to the fact that they account for less than one percent of the French population. Their electoral clout in this type of American mode of political cooptation, based on the quest for specific collective advantages designed to ensure voter fidelity, is suddenly even more reduced as political parties are quick to emphasize their candidates’ ethnic backgrounds to attract multiple-identity voters. In the previous scenario of a strong state and an active citizenry, Jews were often symbolically at the heart of French politics and their presence in Republican politics attracted nationalistic hatred of those who wished to pick a fight with the Republic. Today, amidst the receding of the state and the general retreat vis-à-vis society, the hard-won consensus about the Republican armour of the nation has caused Jews to lose some of their centrality. That is, after generations of being “State Jews,” French Jews today hardly participate in the state service anymore; those who do have become more discreet. In their place, the Jewish “community” has become more visible. It seems to be as though Vichy’s betrayal of high-ranking Jewish civil servants still weighs heavily on the minds of French Jews and encourages them to retire from history to the less exposed niches within the social system. Nevertheless, French Jews cannot escape history, let alone the direct blow that it is dealing them today. Suddenly, they have been plunged into a situation beyond their control in that their options are dictated by new considerations. The adverse effects of lessened state intervention may have a long-lasting influence, making the status of Jews in the nation, now finally pluralistic, more fragile. The state has become less protective and somewhat unifying and reductive of specific cultures. The advantages and disadvantages of the former Republican contract will no longer be the same. The now-legitimized, although limited, Americanization of French cultural pluralism is leading to unpredictable outcomes. The rivalry or potential clashes that the consolidation of the nation-state attenuated considerably are now free to resurface. These risks are even more probable in the imaginary French political landscape shaped by the nation-state that has always shied away from multiple allegiances, or the diverse loyalties that are commonplace in the U.S. In American culture, based on so many waves of immigration from so many backgrounds, the coexistence between adherence to fundamental constitutional values and lasting and strong ties with distant mother countries is taken for granted. The multiple allegiances

is the french model in decline?

19

do not come into deep conflict even though in some cases a national policy that is considered unjust with respect to a country to which some Americans maintain natural loyalties may cause rancour and discontent. These frustrations have never led to internal clashes, except perhaps in the nineteenth century regarding Catholics. The occasionally violent conflicts between African-Americans and AsianAmericans, Latin Americans, or Jews remain above all at the level of competition for control of scarce economic resources; they are not translations of purely political attitudes resulting from affinities that lie outside American society and viewed as antagonistic. These tensions in no way mirror conflicts that, in other countries, create opposition between cultures. Everyone finds a “home” in American society, more or less, and preserves external allegiances and memories. The same cannot necessarily be said for French society, which today, like American society, is composed of waves of immigration. In modern times, France and the U.S. are the two best examples of societies with high immigration rates. The former, however, has long been striving to integrate its immigrants. The latter has opted so strongly to respect multiple identities that it accepts each individual’s right to define his or her identity to various degrees in a hyphenated style. In this hyphenation, it is the left-hand side of the equation (e.g., Italian-American) that dominates the right-hand side, thereby reducing the platform of shared values to a minimum. No one in the U.S. finds it disturbing that American cultural groups assert close relations with their countries of origin. In France, across the entire spectrum, the hypothesis of multiple allegiances is not considered credible, and the idea that French Jews could remain loyal to their French citizenship while proclaiming their ties with Israel has never ceased to astonish and be troublesome. As a result, in France, the sudden withdrawal of the state and the rise of individualisms in the public sphere have brusquely left imaginary communities with no real face-to-face empirical reality. These communities are profoundly heterogeneous, unequipped with any collective capacity, inconsistent, and composed of myriad individuals with conflicting values. Thus, it is uncertain that as France slowly grows more multicultural and multiethnic, the history of French Jewry will shift from the margins to the center. Indeed, the Jews, who have now become just one minority among others, may abandon their traditional classic vertical alliance with the state, which has protected them from the hostile masses and made them key players in the Franco-French wars. Thus, instead

20

pierre birnbaum

of moving toward the “center,” they may marginalize themselves and leave history behind, abandoning a prime historical function within the French model, the one that has given them a royal road to emancipation since the nineteenth century. One of the immediate outcomes of the growing ethnicity of the French public sphere has been an upturn in communitarization, suddenly placing Jews side-by-side with citizens from North African who now outnumber them by five to six million versus 600,000–700,000. The conflict between Israel and the Palestinians is becoming increasingly visible in metropolitan France, where a certain proportion of North African immigrant youth has adopted the Palestinian struggle by turning it against French Jews, whom they accuse of pledging their loyalty to the Jewish state. Young people from the suburbs who used to be close to the Jews of France, including leaders of very active organizations such as SOS-racism, are very clearly behind a large number of hostile acts against French Jewry, using violently anti-Semitic slogans disseminated in Arab countries. Some of them have committed acts of violence unheralded in French history. Numerous synagogues have been torched or attacked with firebombs, shots have been fired or stones thrown (at several synagogues in various arrondissements of Paris, but also in Trappes, Les Ulis, Bondy, Aulnay-sous-Bois, Versailles, Bagnolet, Villepinte, Lilas, Noisy-le-Sec, Vincennes, Saint Denis, Sarcelles, Creteil, Aubervilliers, Meaux, Garges-les-Gonesses, Colombes, Clichy-sous-Bois, Stains, Noisiel, Bagneux, Lyons, Villeurbanne, Strasbourg, Lille, Nice, Rouen, Avignon, etc.). Mezuzas are systematically ripped off walls, several schools have been attacked or have been targets of firebombs (from Paris and Sarcelles to Marseilles), rabbis have been assaulted, children physically harassed in the street, school buses attacked, and insults hurled at passersby. Anti-Semitic graffiti such as “Death to the Jews” has been written on synagogues or Jewish-owned shops, as well as swastikas or messages such as “All the Jews into the sea,” “Exterminate the Jews,” “Long Live Bin Laden,” “Long Live Palestine,” “Allah is great,” and “Dirty Jew go back to Israel.” Some Jews have received personal death threats in their own homes. The list of violent acts throughout France, from Paris and its suburbs to Toulon, Strasbourg, and Bayonne, grows with each passing day (Hyman, 1998: 218). Aside from the Vichy era and the Nazi occupation, the country has not experienced this type of situation since the French Revolution, i.e., since the rise of the nation-state.

is the french model in decline?

21

A comparison of anti-Semitic incidents in 1898 with those in 2001 reveals many differences (Birnbaum, 1998). In 2001, the streets of the capital and most large and medium-sized peripheral cities did not teem with crowds of thousands or, at times, tens of thousands of people screaming vicious slogans and continually calling out the old standby “Death to the Jews.” Though, this slogan was heard several months ago in the streets of Paris at the end of an anti-Israel demonstration and, also, may reoccur here and there, voiced furtively against rabbis or passersby. However, this would not be comparable to the whirlwind of 1898 when this cry was echoed shamelessly by angry crowds, taken up by the national press, and shouted in political meetings that nationally known public figures attended. Back then, this uncompromising rejection of a Jewish presence in French society was part of the political landscape; the goal was to exclude Jews from citizenship and the public sphere by expelling or destroying them. The public dimension of the anti-Semitic mobilization a century ago cannot be likened to what is happening today. Though, it can be noted that acts of anti-Semitism today are low-profile in the populist press. In most cases, the press reports these attacks on the back pages, disposing of them in a few lines among reports about paedophiles, run-over dogs, and traffic accidents. Today, as compared to the past waves of anti-Semitism, there are fewer people physically wounded but more attacks on synagogues and schools. Communitarization has made the Jewish presence more visible; instead of small shops, synagogues and schools in suburbs or provincial cities are the targeted Jewish institutions. Anti-Semitism is no longer accompanied, as it was at the end of the nineteenth century, by an unleashing of propaganda through libel, songs, caricatures, and toys. It is reduced to these frontal attacks against property, individuals, schoolchildren, and Jewish professors, who are assaulted, insulted, and harassed. Despite the visibility of anti-Semitism, France is not in a state of internal siege as it was in the past. Police and the army maintain order by conducting tireless patrols, charging demonstrators, and standing guard in front of Jewish buildings. France remains peaceful and seemingly untroubled; even arson of synagogues, which is spreading like a lit fuse, and the aforementioned attacks on individuals, which are not the outcome of mere rumour, pose no threat to public security. Populist nationalism has lost the vitality that characterized it in the Dreyfus Affair period. The alliance among Drumont, Blanqui, and Barres disintegrated long ago, primarily because of a radical

22

pierre birnbaum

change in the positions of the Catholic Church. Whereas in the late nineteenth century the Church supported anti-Semitic mobilization, at least through the mediation of priests or political groups with which it was connected, it now firmly condemns the activities of Le Pen’s National Front. The Church of France today acknowledges the fundamental multiculturalism of French society, accepts its own status as only one of the many cultural constituents of the nation, and considers Jews an integral part of French society. Consequently, the outlets of anti-Semitism have changed considerably, finding today only weak support among social forces that were influenced in the past by Catholicism. The influence of the Catholic Church in general has also declined significantly due to the decline in observance and to a deliberate retreat on the part of the Church, which has permanently sided with the Republic and no longer lends its support to fractional groups that may wish to oppose it. Leftist anti-Semitism, too, which was once extremely virulent in French society, has also lost most of its impact. The influence of Proudhon, Fourier, and the Communist Party, which made anti-Semitic accusations as recently as the 1950s, has also waned. This has further attenuated the traditional anti-Semitism which drew its inspiration from both the Catholic camp and its adversary, the anti-capitalist Left, which easily paired its denunciations of capitalism with accusations against Jews. Today, the situation is far different. The source of contemporary anti-Semitism is found mainly in the societal changes that are affected by the conflictual processes of communitarization. In other words, contemporary France as a nation, unlike France during the “Dreyfus era,” seems only marginally involved in the new resurgence of anti-Semitism, which this time challenges neither the country’s national institutions nor the Republican nature of its regime. Yet, the state does not make itself heard today as clearly and firmly as it did in late 1898 when the elites finally realized that the Republic itself was being threatened. Even today, apart from a few lip-service condemnations at the highest ranks of the state apparatus, there have been no official statements making explicit that the perpetrators of anti-Semitic acts will be brought to justice. The police have done little if anything to arrest those who have attacked Jews or their property. The legal system as well has been slow to condemn them severely (a few individuals, mostly of North African decent, have been arrested and given extremely light sentences). Accused of being alarmist if not provocative, the few people who have firmly denounced

is the french model in decline?

23

these activities are frequently Jews themselves. The Jews of France feel threatened in regards to their status, their future, and the civil rights that they have exercised since they enthusiastically “signed” the Republican contract. Now that they have become a tiny minority, they seemingly find themselves less under the protective umbrella of a state that itself is retreating and seems to have given social forces free rein. It is as though the much-touted Americanization has also animated overall political strategies designed less as a function of broad political platforms or global visions than as a search for key votes at election time. In this situation in which relativist strategies of all types vie against each other, another form of relativism with explicitly antiSemitic consequences that reinforce prejudices is also on the rise. According to a poll in February 2002, 51 percent of French youth feel that it is wrong to condemn people who hold Holocaust-denying opinions. Given that 34 percent of those polled feel that “Jew-bashing jokes” are nothing serious, it may be seen that even though the vast majority of these youths severely condemn attacks on synagogues (although disturbingly enough, only 75 percent), the mindset of the times can hardly be described as staunchly philo-semitic. As for acceptance of Jews in the public sphere, disastrous impacts were felt after the release of the Boniface report, which was commissioned by the Socialist Party and signed by Pascal Boniface, who is the director of the Institute of International and Strategic Relations and an expert with Socialist leanings. Written as an internal memo for the Socialist Party and addressed to the party leaders, the document, titled The Near East, the Socialists, International Equity, [and] Electoral Efficiency, was revealed publicly by the monthly L’Arche in November 2001. The text contains the following shocking passage: The connection between the fight against anti-Semitism and the defence of Israel at all costs [will have the outcome of ] increasing irritation against the Jewish community [and] isolating it on the national level. . . . By counting on its electoral clout to ensure the impunity of the Israeli government, the Jewish community is also the loser on this score in the medium term. The Arab/Moslem community is also organized, at least in France, and will soon weigh more heavily if it is already not the case. . . . An attitude judged to be unbalanced as regards the Middle East will confirm that the Arab-Moslem community is not being taken into account or is even being rejected by the Socialist family. The situation in the Middle East and the hesitancy of the Socialists to condemn Israeli repression reinforces a turning inward of Moslem identities in France, which nobody—Jews, Moslems, Christians, or the

24

pierre birnbaum nonreligious—can be happy about. It is certainly better to lose an election than one’s soul. But by putting the Israeli government and the Palestinians on the same level, we are simply risking to lose both. Is support for Sharon worth losing in 2002? It is high time that the Socialist Party depart from a position that it hoped to be balanced between the Israeli government and the Palestinians—which does not serve but in fact undermines the medium-term interests of the Israeli people and the French Jewish community (L’Arche, 10–11/2001: 14–15).

There are probably other documents like the Boniface report, written by spin-doctors of the rightist parties who are intent on winning over and consolidating the votes of French Muslim citizens, as though these citizens were a homogenous bloc that a well-designed policy of distance from Israel could attract on this basis alone. Today it is known that special interests guided by ethnic or cultural ties in the public sphere are gaining ground in France. In the Third Arrondissement of Paris and in Sarcelles, for example, the list of candidates reflects the local presence of a Jewish population. In the Eighteenth Arrondissement, it responds to the large number of French-Asian residents. This tendency is accentuated in every election campaign from Paris to Lyons, Marseilles or Roubaix, in the selection of candidates whose names suggest a background related to North African immigration. The ethnicization of politics (Geisser, 1997) is making inroads, to various degrees, in all political parties as they try to attract the votes of this important minority, which stands at 4–6 million and represented (by conservative estimates) a million voters. The 600,000–700,000 Jews of France, in contrast, are practically nonexistent in terms of political leverage. Apart from their common rejection of Le Pen, Jews vote across the political spectrum and generally reject the ethnic strategy by objecting to the idea of a presumed Jewish vote (Strudel, 1996). Their voting accurately mirrors the voting patterns of non-Jewish citizens. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that some French of Muslim decent would respond to this ethnicization of politics, which may prove repulsive to many individuals who are eager to follow the path to Republican emancipation by rejecting calls for communal voting of this type.3

3

Until recently, most authoritative works showed that French people of North African background were concerned above all with integration and restriction of religious observance to the private sphere—see Leveau, Rémy, and Kepel, Gilles, eds., 1988; Cesari, 1977; Vieillard-Baron, 1994. Tribalat, 1996.

is the french model in decline?

25

Be this as it may, the Boniface report represents a turning point by its legitimization of a policy based on ethnic utility. It is unprecedented because it sets forth a community policy that favors one “community” over another, with both communities evaluated solely on the basis of their potential votes in the upcoming national elections. It profoundly devalues the political undertakings of parties on behalf of moral or even ideological imperatives alone and severely challenges the universal nature of the public sphere, in which citizens are presumed to act on the basis of personal values and not according to their attachment to a nation-within-the-nation. It attempts to build collective identities that are in fact unstable, contradictory, and increasingly imaginary in the minds of the individuals involved. The Boniface document virtually appears to justify the current outbreak of antiSemitism by holding the Jews culpable due to their allegedly overly strong ties with Israel. It also condemns the very principle of full but plural citizenship in the public sphere where citizenship asserts its right to preserve other extra-national ties that are perceived as legitimate when anchored in memory or history. As a result, some Jews are belittling the current wave of anti-Semitic acts, considering them the work of “idiots” and deeming themselves obliged to proclaim, loud and clear, that they are “French only.” This proclamation expresses the fear among Jews that any other attitude would lead to a sense of “dual allegiance” and dual membership which is a status contrary to the interests of the Jews of France and the national community (Israel, 2002). The communitarization of different groups or a splintering of the public sphere into rival clans that would negate the idea of the public sphere all together is a threat to the French model. On the other hand, the acknowledgment of the multiplicity of imaginary collectives and solidarities, both internal and external, and not predictive collective behaviours that verge on treason, can enrich French society. Otherwise, we are dealing with a recurrence of the Dreyfus Affair, with the Jews collectively accused once again of serving a foreign power— no longer Germany, as in the past, but the State of Israel. The Jewish citizens of France do not react as a community or as a nationwithin-the-nation and are careful not to do so since they are acutely aware that this act would distance them from the Republican contract. It is high time that if we wish to abate the current intolerable outbreak of anti-Semitism, we stop being afraid of expressing these multiple solidarities but nevertheless to oppose, now more than ever, a state

26

pierre birnbaum

that remains exasperatingly silent, thereby allowing various groups to transpose foreign conflicts into the national space. Precisely because dina de malkhuta dina—“the law of the Republic is the law”—it behoves that the law protect all citizens who abide by it without forcing them to abandon their personal loyalty to their own memories and cultures. Citizenship is in no way incompatible with identity. In this vein, identity can in no way be used to make the numerous anti-Semitic acts towards French Jews acceptable. At the same time, it is clear that although the Jews have not questioned their integration into the Republic despite the anti-Semitism they faced during the Dreyfus era; although they have tried to forget the treason committed against them by the state during the Vichy years by taking into account the German presence and the assistance rendered by the French population; although they have continually viewed France as a natural “home” that enables them to exercise full rights as citizens, the situation today threatens to place them on the razor’s edge in an unstable context that arouses from the multiple loyalties experienced more intensely than ever.

CHAPTER TWO

THE CASE OF BELGIUM Jean-Philippe Schreiber Jewish individual identity lies between memory, sentimental or intellectual adhesion, socio-religious membership, and ortho-praxy. Within the web of relationships that makes up an individual’s Jewish identity, a Jewish collective identity exists which itself is composed of various relationships. Evidence of this collective identity is found, in part, in the shaping of a community, sometimes more imagined then real. The different identity and behaviour patterns among Jews are largely due to internal and external factors. Internal factors are the community organization type, local traditions, and sociological face of the community, while external factors of particular importance are the type of citizenship offered to Jews, their status in society, and relationship to the state. In this chapter, the case of Belgium Jews is presented as one community model highly influenced, like other communities, by external factors relating to the state and society.1 From a comparative perspective, we see very different models of community within the Jewish world influenced by external factors. In the United States, for example, the centrality of ethnic identity is constitutive of social construction that has shaped the perceptions of self among Jews. In Greece, the structure of the Jewish community can only be understood in the context of the Jews as a minority in the margins of the Greek Orthodox nation. In France, where the state is guided by social assimilation, the Jews have been great supporters of the Republic. The case of Belgium is somewhat comparable to that of France, though, as will be discussed, there are several differences as well. Since the nineteenth century, Belgian Jews have been confronted with a number of issues that contributed to the shaping of their collective identity: most important among them being a complex connection

1 See Jean-Philippe Schreiber, 1994a (pp. 415–440); 1994b (pp. 87–96); 1995; 1997 (pp. 91–97).

28

jean-philippe schreiber

with the tradition, a particular relationship to modernity, and a paradoxical interaction of integration with the local culture and particularism. An example that illustrates the interplay of interaction with the larger society combined with acute particularism is symbolically apparent in the architecture of the Great Synagogue on Regency street in Brussels established in 1878. In its roman-byzantine style one can see the two faces of the historical interaction of Jews with their environment. The Jewish roots of the architecture are shown in the Byzantine Orient style. This style, however, combines with Roman Occident style which can be understood as a representation of Christian civilization. Thus, the synagogue architecture can be seen as an intersection between its own Jewish tradition, on the one hand, and outside influence, on the other hand. Though, as will be demonstrated, there is here also an assertion of Jewish particularism over integration. A Segmented Society Since the second half of the nineteenth century, the social and political scene in Belgian society has become more and more polarized. There is a clear partition on the basis of philosophical and religious identification that has slowed down the process of integration of immigrants. In this situation, the Jews constituted their own “pillar” affirming their particularism within the Belgian framework. Separation between Jews and non Jews was both a measure of respect for the religious tradition and acknowledgement of cultural and social differences within society. Belgian society thereby perpetuated a vision of the Jews which went beyond religious otherness. The Consistory itself, the official roof organization of Belgian Jewry, professed an ideology of integration, but persisted in contributing to maintaining Jews as a minority which it hoped to see recognized in the legal framework of the Belgian society. Thus, the context of Belgian society led to the development of a Jewish community as a constitutive pillar of the national coexistence. In general, Belgian society was less inclined towards standardization than French society. Hence, contrary to the situation in France, in Belgium, the will of integration of the Jews had not to be justified by their capability to adapt to the Nation. Cleavages between Catholics and Liberals, which were increasingly accentuated since the second

the case of belgium

29

part of the nineteenth century, left room for assertion of differences in the religious sphere. Indeed, this division contributed to slow down the complete assimilation of the Jewish population. Because of the political and religious context of Belgium, along with the will of the Jewish population to preserve its traditions, Jewish leaders were determined to mark the presence of Judaism in the public sphere. They did this in spite of their clear policy of integration into Belgium society. In their eyes, the acquisition of equality did not mean only abrogation of civil discriminations but also the right for the Jews to affirm their identity like other groups in the Nation. Church and State Belgium has not instituted an unambiguous separation of religion and state. Six denominations are officially recognized and are supported financially by the state on behalf of their assumed social utility. Moreover, for a variety of reasons, Belgium Authorities also favor orthodox forces within religious communities, which is nothing but impactful on the game of religious denominations within the Jewish community. Hence, while observers might see the Consistory as rather secular and pluralistic, it is actually dominated by orthodoxy notwithstanding the genuine sociological texture of the Belgian Jewish population. This tendency is widely accounted for by the policy of the Belgian state vis-à-vis the religious communities which encourages homogeneity. In doing so, it contributes to create a facade of a monolithic religious organization where diversity can be manifested only within the recognized and legitimate framework. This fictional representation of religious life rests on a system inherited from the nineteenth century when the vertical model of the Roman Catholic Church was still in vigor. This univocal top down structure of religious life implies many consequences; one of the most important of which concerns the educational system. As a result of the religion-state compromise in Belgium, private denominational schools, known as free schools, are common. Subsequently, there is not a single integrating educational melting pot, but rather a coexistence of systems which convey divergent values. Like elsewhere, in the schools the social practices are marked by the role of religious organizations and their influence on the individuals in their orbit. In this system there are also Jewish schools

30

jean-philippe schreiber

which are motivated both by external factors, complying with the norm, and by internal factors, preserving the tradition. Today, for instance, in the Jewish community of Antwerp, approximately 90% of the children attend a Jewish school. This, however, by no way means that the majority of the Jewish population of Antwerp is religious. Part of an explanation for the ties to religious schools lies in the fact that religion is here, vis-à-vis outsiders, a marker of the Jewish community. This means that the community is invested first and foremost in religious references. As a consequence, religion, as a symbolic system, constitutes the cultural reference and the framework for socialization. Religion, moreover, appears as a singular unit, despite the diversity in forms which it may take on throughout the Jewish population, and receives as such objectively exaggerated social weight within the community. Conclusion What can be concluded from this short analysis is that despite the significant transformations that the Jewish community has undergone for a century, it has perpetuated, sometimes effectively and sometimes symbolically, a basic duality. On the one hand Belgian Jews are extremely ideologically tinted by the concept of integration, and on the other hand, they have perpetuated a variety of practices of social particularism. This duality stems both from internal factors, its specific social and cultural practices, and from external ones, such as Belgium’s political and legal establishment. However, this singularity of Belgian Jewry is in no way static. In the nineteenth century Jewry was marked mostly by its affirmed presence in the public space. Today, what marks the self-assertion of the Jewish community is most often memory and the interest in Israel. In Belgium, a de facto multicultural society in search for a definition for its modes of citizenship, Jewish identity is suspended between two worlds, without definite borders. In a society which has not made clear choices regarding the type of citizenship it wishes to promote, the collective identity of Jews oscillates between ethnicity (or particularism) and cultural fusion, between the mental ghetto and the plurality of identification.

CHAPTER THREE

THE IDENTITY OF DUTCH JEWS Ludo Abicht When it comes to the case of Dutch Jews, an interesting fact worth noting is the case of the Dutch Jewish Social Welfare Organization, the “Joods Maatschappelijk Werk” ( JMW). This organization, established in 1947 to coordinate social welfare programs for the postwar Jewish community and which devoted its activities to the implementation of the Law for Payments to the War Victims, is today, among its other projects, organizing seminars on the question of “Jewish Identity.” At the same time, it is also heavily invested in psychological services at the intention of the post-war generation, the children and grandchildren of survivors of the Shoah. One learns from this development of the JMW that the question of Jewish identity in the Netherlands is closely linked to traumatic wartime experiences, to the relations between the Jewish minority and the non-Jewish Dutch majority, as well as to the Jews relationship with Israel. And though some basic features of the Jewish presence in the Netherlands— such as the division between Sephardic and Ashkenazi communities or the Liberal versus orthodox congregations—are rooted in centuries of history, it is impossible to deny that the systematic destruction of Dutch Jewry in World War II has deeply affected Jewish life in Holland. Pre-World War II Era: A Success Story Until 1939, the history of Jewish immigration and expansion of the Jewish community in the Netherlands may be described as a success story. After the expulsion of the Jews from Spain and Portugal at the end of the fifteenth century, and their flight from Antwerp and the occupied Southern Netherlands after 1585, the new Dutch Republic became one of the havens for the persecuted Sephardic Jews who, either as Marranos or Orthodox Jews, gradually but steadily conquered the right to fully participate in the building of the new

32

ludo abicht

State and its rapidly expanding merchant empire. The Dutch Calvinists, who considered themselves to be the new Hebrews, rediscovered the central importance of the Bible and were as critical of idolatry and images as were the Jews. They often felt closer to Judaism than to their Roman Catholic ancestors. This new respect for Judaism, however, did not translate into open and full acceptance and emancipation of Sephardic immigrants. Sephardic Jews faced numerous setbacks, professional restrictions, settlement prohibitions and even persecutions during the sixteenth and seventeenth century. However, compared to the situation of the Jews in other European countries, the overall picture was positive. Sephardic Jews played a significant part in the development of the Golden Age of the Netherlands; they were shareholders in the powerful East India Company, became prominent in new industries, especially in sugar refineries and the diamond industry, and in book printing and editing. They were at the forefront of cultural activities and felt safe enough to openly practice their Judaism. These Sephardic Jews played a remarkable role in the Shabbatean movement, although the ultimate demise of that messianic movement led also to an estrangement from the Orthodox congregations and marked the beginning of a new trend toward assimilation into the non-Jewish Dutch society that gained impact until the beginning of World War II and the Nazi occupation. Starting in 1620, many Ashkenazi Jews moved to the Netherlands, first from Germany and later increasingly from Poland and Lithuania. They rapidly outnumbered the Sephardic community, although it would take them until the end of the eighteenth century before they could assume a leading role in the Jewish community. Unlike the Sephardic merchants and diamond traders, they were mainly peddlers, butchers and cattle dealers who spoke Yiddish mixed with Dutch words. Under their influence, it is to note, the Dutch language spoken in the Netherlands came to adopt a large number of Yiddish words and expressions. This can be interpreted as a sign of a growing symbiosis and interactivity between Jewish and non-Jewish Dutch people. When on September 2, 1796 the Batavian Republic, under French occupation, granted full emancipation to the Jews, the majority of the Sephardic Jews did not share in the enthusiasm of the mainly Ashkenazi republican “patriots,” for the price of this new freedom was an increasing pressure upon the Jews to enter the mainstream of Dutch society. The Jews were now forced to adopt a Dutch surname and encouraged to give up Yiddish in favor of Dutch. Just as

the identity of dutch jews

33

Napoleon before him, King William I (1815–1840) wanted to organize the Jewish population as a national institution, representing the Ashkenazi “Dutch-Israelite” and the Sephardic “Dutch-Portuguese” communities. The expectation of total integration in this respect was, however, to be successful mainly among the Jewish upper classes, several members of which became prominent as scholars, writers and politicians. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the Jewish working class in the large cities, especially Amsterdam, played a prominent role in the trade unions and the socialist movement under the leadership of people like A. C. Wertheim and Henry Polak, a founder of the diamond industry trade union. Paradoxically but in hindsight not surprisingly, this ongoing political, cultural and social emancipation resulted in a slow decline of the Jewish community during the first half of the twentieth century. The Jewish leadership had become more and more secular and emphasized charitable institutions ( Jewish hospitals, old age homes etc.) over religious and cultural Jewish education. Concomittantly, the number of mixed marriages rose from 13% in 1901 to 41% in 1930. Today, that number is estimated at more than 50%. Before World War II, Jews played an important, but not typically “Jewish,” role in Dutch society. They were successful in the textile industry, in chain department stores, in the food industry, in the liberal professions, in science, politics and the arts. One cannot study twentieth century Dutch literature without mentioning names such as Herman Heijermans, Jacob Israel de Haan, Carry van Bruggen or Israel Querido, to name just a few. Others became famous as musicians, composers, theatre actors, painters, sculptors and architects. In 1939, it seemed that the integration and emancipation of the Jews in Dutch society had been a resounding success, although it had also resulted in the decline of religious and even cultural Jewish life. The Disaster and its Aftermath In 1940, there were 140,000 Jews in Holland: 121,400 Ashkenazim, 4,301 Sephardim and 12,400 not religiously affiliated. The overwhelming majority of these Jews were murdered in the Shoah. Although only a small number of Dutch national-socialists took an active part in the deportations and although many Christians and communists risked their lives trying to rescue their Jewish fellow citizens,

34

ludo abicht

these figures speak for themselves. What was once a flourishing, influential, largely prosperous, culturally creative and highly respected segment of the Dutch population had been wiped out by the Nazis and their local collaborators. The steady development of the Jewish community in the Netherlands had been brutally interrupted. After the German defeat, the Shoah survivors and their children could not possibly reconstruct the glorious past nor regain the confidence they had felt in the mid-thirties. After the war, some 4,500 of these survivors left for the United States, Israel, Canada and Australia. Others decided to stay and, in a sense, give the diaspora in the Netherlands a second chance. At the end of 1992, the Jewish population amounted to 25,000 out of a total population of 15,250,000. This figure of “persons of Jewish origin” has to be compared with the figures of those Jews who are members of a religious congregation: The Netherlands Ashkenazi Congregation (Nederlands Israëlitisch Kerkgenootschap) had 5,600 members, the Sephardic Community about 500, partly due to recent immigrations of Moroccan and Iraqi Jews, and the Liberal Jewish Congregation had about 2,250. Which means that the majority of the Dutch Jews were no longer religiously affiliated, although became active in Zionist or pro-Israel organizations. This large secularisation contributed and still contributes to the growing number of mixed marriages and, hence, the renewed interest in the question of Jewish identity. Dutch Jewish Identity In Holland, we are not talking about “Jews in the Netherlands” but about “Dutch Jews,” i.e. Jews who rightfully consider themselves Dutch citizens or, vice versa, Dutch citizens who explicitly assume their Jewishness. One can add to this the conscious or semi-conscious ties to their previous countries of origin as expressed by their Portuguese, Polish or German surnames, in some cases by their knowledge of Yiddish or, more generally, their interest in cultural and historic roots and by their loyalty to the State of Israel. Indeed, all this points in the direction of “multiple or layered identities.” For many, Jewishness is grounded in a broad range of sources: national, historic, linguistic, cultural, philosophical, or ethical. For those who

the identity of dutch jews

35

survived the Shoah, identity is of course deeply tied to the Shoah and its memory. Unlike their relatives in Eastern Europe, Dutch Jews share a memory of a past characterized by freedom and cooperation with their non-Jewish fellow citizens. Unlike their relatives and friends who lived in the USA before World War II, they also share the memory of the Shoah that destroyed their families. Of course, in all cases of Jewry, the Shoah plays a major part in their search for Jewish identity. Though, for Dutch Jews, the existential particularism of this memory resides in their walking on the same streets from where parents and siblings were deported to the death camps. This experience is quite different from that of individuals visiting an impressive Holocaust Museum like in Washington D.C. that has been erected thousands of kilometers from the scene where the Holocaust took place. Arthur Hertzberg, the former president of the American Jewish Committee, spoke of this memory of the Shoah, and emphasized that together with the loyalty to the State of Israel, these are the two essentials of American Jewish consciousness. It is in this context that, later on, he commented that the messianic hope of a future of peace and justice remains the most important task of Jews today. It is this sense of Tikkun Olam that I find so attractive. Dutch Jews in the seventeenth century eagerly awaited the coming of the Messiah who would rescue them. Some of their descendants of the twentieth century, vaguely remembering the disaster of that old messianic movement and very sharply remembering the catastrophe of World War II, realize that this Tikkun Olam will not happen unless they begin to make it happen.

CHAPTER FOUR

RUSSIAN- JEWISH IMMIGRATION TO GERMANY Julius H. Schoeps, Willi Jasper, and Olaf Glöckner At the turn of the twenty-first century, the World Jewish Congress (WJC) made an amazing discovery: Berlin—the city where the Holocaust had been master-minded by German Nazi rule 60 years prior—has become the place with the most dynamic Jewish community outside Israel. Ten years before, such a development would have been unimaginable as the European continent was still divided by the “Iron Curtain” and the Jewish communities especially in East Germany were on the verge of demographic vanishing. But since the first government of the reunified Germany, encouraged by the “Central Council for Jews in Germany,” passed the so called Contingency refugee act in 1991 which welcomed Jewish inhabitants of the crumbling Soviet Union, nearly 185,000 Russian Jews found a new home in Germany. Moreover, the constant RussianJewish influx with an annual number of 15,000–20,000 has warranted demographic stability to Germany’s Jewish communities and gave a new chance to their cultural and religious revival. Most newcomers settle in any of the large cities—Berlin, Munich, Frankfurt, Cologne or Stuttgart—often resulting in tripling the size of the local Jewish communities—like in Cologne and Stuttgart—or doubling it—like in Berlin and Munich. Smaller communities—for instance in Chemnitz and Halle—could reactivate their religious and cultural life while a considerable number of new communities— Emmendingen, Lörrach, Schwerin, Potsdam and others—were to be founded by Russian Jews exclusively. Berlin actually enjoys most of this unplanned Russian Jewish influx. The established Jewish community (“Einheitsgemeinde”) has more than 12,000 members today, compared to 6,400 in 1989. Seven synagogues are now open for service and community events. Social, cultural, and educational institutions were built up around Berlin Jewish Communities. “German” and “Russian” Jews can now join Jewish kindergardens and secondary schools. Cultural centers, Jewish theatres, and

russian-jewish immigration to germany

37

libraries have drawn an interested audience. In brief, Jewish life has become an essential aspect of the city. Similar tendencies are visible in Munich and Frankfurt. Among the immigrants, all age groups are represented, but for the first time since 1945, there is a significant rise of the number of younger people. All in all, Germany has now the third largest Jewish community in Europe—after France and England. Interestingly enough, in 2002 even more Russian Jewish immigrants came to Germany (19,262) than to Israel (18,878). Because of the ongoing Middle East Conflict and a drastic decline of the immigration rates allowed in the United States of America, Germany’s importance as a country of destination has be strenghtened. An additional 80,000 Russian Jews are waiting for their entry permit to Germany. Some intellectuals are already talking of a “Jewish renaissance in Central Europe.” In actual fact, the integration process is far from being a success story. In a survey of the Moses Mendelssohn Center, Potsdam, in 1999 more than 50 per cent of the respondents expressed the feeling that their integration problems are unsolved. It was learned that because of the influx of newcomers, Jewish communities were suffering from financial weakness as they had to support more and more members badly in need of social and cultural services. Moreover, many Russian immigrants stay unemployed, find it hard to learn the German language, and tend to concentrate among themselves—what Judit Kessler calls—“Russian colonies.”1 Furthermore, the veteran Jews are rarely able to understand Russian cultural codes, and thus remain quite aloof from Russian Jews, a fact which constitutes weak grounds for solidifying common Jewish community life. Cultural Tensions between Veterans and Newcomers in the Jewish Communities It remains that the Russian-Jewish influx to Germany has been seen as a “historical chance” by Jewish leaders in Germany who expressed their hope for a revival of Jewish life. Though, one difficulty in this program resided in the fact that the immigrants, who came from all parts of the former Soviet Union, were not a culturally homogeneous group. A large number, moreover, arrived with very vague notions of Jewishness.

1

J. Kessler (1998), p. 98.

38

julius h. schoeps, willi jasper, and olaf glöckner

This context occasioned many misunderstandings between the “old” German community and Russian “newcomers” from the very beginning. German Jews—although mostly non-orthodox—show a greater interest in religious service and in observing religious command than Russian Jews. A part of these veterans speak Hebrew, and share a sense of responsibility for administrative and community voluntary work. In contrast, Russian Jews tend to use community institutions as meeting points and places of communication. They show more interest in aspects of Jewish history and culture than in religion, and they primarily see in their Jewishness a matter of ethnicity. Both sides see these differences as problematic, but the sharpest tensions arise around central religious questions. Russian Jews often consider Halachic rules of Jewishness—matrilineal descent or conversion—, as “upsetting.” These rules, indeed, mean that non-Jewish relatives of Jews have to undergo religious conversion, before they are entitled to all rights and privileges as members of a Jewish community. They tend to claim that their Jewish nationality was actually noted in their former Soviet identity cards, even when it was not in line with halachic Judaism. In any case, the prospect for their relatives of undergoing religious conversion sounds unreasonable them. This drives a number of them to leave the Jewish community and join the “Jewish Cultural Associations” or the “Liberal Jewish Communities” which are more accommodating. Hence, in East Berlin there is a very active “Jewish Cultural Association” with about 300 members. Its founders see themselves as liberal and secular Jews very interested in acquiring and preserving Jewish knowledge, tradition, and culture. It sustained an artist club (“Meschulasch”), professional groups, a choir, and a group of discussion about Middle Eastern problems. Religious issues were here of secondary importance. Such institutions compete with regular community bodies and therefore often awake protest on the side of representatives of the “Central Council for Jews in Germany” and of the “Central Welfare Institute of German Jews.” While some Russian Jews prefer their own circles, others are ready to join the established Jewish communities and to make use of their growing majority to gain leading positions in executive bodies, thereby also serving their own specific interests. So, it can also happen that German-Jewish veterans will become a minority and feel neglected. The worst scenario would be that the German minorities within the Jewish community break away from it. But it is also possible to

russian-jewish immigration to germany

39

imagine that different religious and traditional movements will cause a structural split, which would probably mean the end of the “Einheitsgemeinde.” A brighter alternative could be a cultural and traditional symbiosis which would require openness and concessions from both sides. Despite the tensions and misunderstanding, there are still common fields of interest between German Jews and Russian Jews, such as Jewish education or cultural activities. As a religious alternative to the more conservative Jewish Communities and in the context of the influx of Russian Jews, the liberal “Union of Progressive Jews in Germany” was created in the mid1990’s and developed rapidly, numbering thirteen communities in 2005. This movement is part of Reform Judaism which was once strong in Germany in the early 1930s. Today, it is supported by the “World Union for Progressive Judaism” based in the US and numbers several thousands of members in Germany, the majority of whom are immigrants from the former Soviet Union. In contrast to the orthodox synagogues affiliated with the Central Council of Jews in Germany, these communities practice less rigorous rites and, more importantly, accept as full members individuals whose fathers are Jewish but not their mothers. And indeed, a survey by the Moses Mendelssohn Center in 1997/1998 shows that a high percentage of Russian Jews in Germany prefer “liberal/reform oriented” Judaism to orthodox Judaism.2 Russian Enclaves It is also important to bear in mind that Russian Jews in Germany represent only one group of a wider Russian-speaking category. Ethnic Germans from the former Soviet Union—“Aussiedlers” are much more numerous. Moreover, there are also former political émigrés and dissidents, members of the former Soviet Russian administration in East Berlin, or Russian spouses of Germans who represent a large percentage of Russian speaking population.3

2 The overwhelming majority (67.1%) however claimed not to be able to identify with any branch of Judaism or gave no answer. But among those immigrants with a religious interest we received the following percentages: 22.1% called themselves “liberal/reform oriented,” 5.4% “orthodox,” 1.9% “conservative.” 3.5% used the term “other.” 3 J. Kessler in: Schoeps/Jasper/Vogt (1999), p. 159.

40

julius h. schoeps, willi jasper, and olaf glöckner

Surveys have shown that a considerable number of Russian Jews tend to join other Russian speaking groups in clubs, cultural centers, and schools. This kind of informal network and cultural cohesion can even lead to densely populated “Russian” neighbourhoods like in the West Berlin quarter Charlottenburg, popularly called “Charlottengrad.” In some large cities, one may even speak of Russian cultural enclaves. Russian-language media serves as the mouthpiece of such enclaves, both in Germany and elsewhere. Since the midnineties, Russian Jewish publishers have been active in creating Russian language newspapers. The first such newspaper on the scene was the monthly edition of “Kpy„” (“The circle”). In autumn of last year (2002), the monthly journal “ EbpeÈcÍafl ÉaÁeÚa” (“Jewish Paper”) was established in Berlin with a Jewish readership all over Germany. Not surprisingly, the “EbpeÈcÍafl ÉaÁeÚa” focuses on integration problems within the Jewish community more so than the non-Jewish German media. In general, this development eases the immigrants experience at early stages of resettlement. On the other hand, Russian speaking “enclaves,” distant from the German language and society, can hardly contribute to the successful integration of immigrants. Economic Difficulties and Alienation Shortly after their arrival, immigrants normally have to solve elementary problems and to care for basic needs before they feel ready to join associations or communities. This may explain why a significant number of Russian Jewish newcomers in Germany are still passive vis-à-vis the Jewish communities. One of the central problems is the constant unemployment of many Russian Jewish immigrants. It is a fact that nearly 70 per cent of the Russian-Jewish newcomers hold academic degrees and normally show great flexibility in coping with challenges in their new surrounding. On the other hand, most of them are very determined to retain their original occupation, which explains part of the drive to settle in the bigger towns and cities from the beginning. Yet, finding lodgings in large cities by no means guarantees better perspectives in the job market. Berlin, for example, has an overcrowded labor market in professions like medicine, law, engineering, and art. As a result, we find that no less than 60 per cent of Russian Jews

russian-jewish immigration to germany

41

in Berlin today are either unemployed or have low paying jobs.4 At the same time, the Jewish communities have been trying to help unemployed immigrants directly. For example, Berlin’s Jewish community has established its own “job agency.” The generally high unemployment rate among Russian Jews— combined with the immigrants’ exceptionally high professional degrees— can at times lead to an increasing number of psychosomatic disorders, family conflicts, drug abuses and violence. While there are no reliable statistics, integration centers and social services report a rising number of immigrants with psychological problems. Moreover, a large number of Russian speaking Jews report that they lack contacts with the native population. 55.9 per cent of the immigrants surveyed in 1995/96 said that they had “unsatisfactory” social relationships with inhabitants of the country. The reason for this, according to most respondents, is an insufficient command of the language for adequate communication, as well as cultural differences. 19.3 per cent of those surveyed in 1999 stated that they felt rebuffed by the German population.5 Especially older, unemployed and widowed immigrants with little knowledge of German have great difficulty in creating contacts outside their immigrant group. They also refer to cultural barriers and different expectations about public life. Despite all those difficulties, immigrants who have settled in the big cities are still in a better position than those who undergo their first accommodation in rural areas. The latter are away from modern infrastructures, far away from strong Jewish communities and relatively far away from existing cultural centers. Conclusion All in all, the Russian Jewish influx into Germany, initiated by the collapse of the Soviet State has already led to a surprising stabilization of Jewish community life. The number of Jewish community members has multiplied three-fold which has made the Jewish population in Germany the third biggest in Europe. Some observers

4 5

J. Kessler (1998), p. 94. J. H. Schoeps/W. Jasper/B. Vogt (1999), p. 82.

42

julius h. schoeps, willi jasper, and olaf glöckner

even see Germany as the “core” for a “Jewish renaissance” in Middle Europe now. Indeed, there are some signs that the Russian Jews already play the “key role” for German Jewry in future. Step by step we can observe Jewish life returning to the public sector. New synagogues are being built, new community centers are being founded;6 more Jews are entering media, arts, and science. In general, Russian speaking Jews, who have arrived to Germany from different geographical regions with different world views and social attitudes, are creating their own structures to serve their needs, while at the same time integrating into the different Jewish communities. Their sheer mass, which now makes up approximately 90 per cent of the Jewish population, will undoubtably have a role in shaping the future of German Jewry. However, as for now, the immigrants are still at an early stage of resettlement insofar as the majority is unemployed and in need of greater financial and social stability.

6 There are 104 Jewish communities in Germany now, mainly from the “Einheitsgemeinde,” but also a dozen of Liberal communities.

CHAPTER FIVE

RELIGIOSITY, PRAXIS, AND TRADITION IN CONTEMPORARY HUNGARIAN JEWRY András Kovács Between March and November 1999, I carried out a questionnairebased sociological survey on contemporary Hungarian Jewry. The study investigated demographic data, social and cultural characteristics, religion and Jewish ancestry as well as the ideological, social and economic attitudes of the interviewees. A total of 2,015 individuals age 18 and over were interviewed.1 In the following, survey data are analyzed with an emphasis on religious praxis and tradition. Historical Background The Hungarian Jewish community, nowadays one of the largest on the European continent, has always followed the historical model of Western urbanized and secularized Jewry (Mendelsohn, 1983). Partisans of reform (Neolog) Judaism appeared in the country as early as in the first decades of the nineteenth century, and their fast growing influence led to a dramatic split in Hungarian Jewry in the mid nineteenth century. This resulted in the establishment of two separate, autonomous, Jewish communities, Orthodox and Neolog (Katz, 1998). The policy of the liberal Hungarian political class created an extremely favorable atmosphere in the late nineteenth century for the emancipation of Jews (1867). Civil marriage was introduced rapidly and the Jewish religion was recognized as one of the country’s “historical denominations” (1895). Jews’ condition was further favored by fast urbanization and economic modernization, which gave a push to their quick upward mobility and cultural assimilation in the Hungarian society.

1 The general results and an analysis of some special aspects of the survey have been published in Kovács, 2003 and Kovács, 2004.

44

andrás kovács

These conditions decisively accelerated the secularization of Hungarian Jewry, and already in the first decade of the twentieth century, nearly half of the Jewish communities in Hungary were members of Neolog Judaism. As a consequence of post World War I treaties, however, Hungary lost two-third of its former territories, among them the regions of Upper Hungary, Carpatho-Ruthenia, Northern Transylvania where the majority of the orthodox Jewry lived, leaving Neology the leading trend of Judaism on the territory of post-WWI, Hungary. The Holocaust changed again the religious profile of Hungarian Jewry. Jewry in peripheral areas happened to be the more religious and traditional Jews, and it is this Jewry that was nearly completely annihilated by the Holocaust. The majority of the survivors who belonged mostly to the more urbanized, assimilated, middle-class strata were concentrated in Budapest. Furthermore, in the following decades, the militant antireligious policies of the Communist regime made Jewish religious life practically impossible. Following the final formal suppression of the orthodox community (1950) and the persecution and forced emigration of Orthodox leaders and community members in 1956, orthodox Judaism practically ceased to exist in the country. The Neolog community lost a great bulk of its members as well and the rare available statistics indicate that of the 190 pupils enrolled into the Budapest Jewish School in 1956, just 47 were still there in 1957 (Felkai, 1992; 153, 168). In 1959–1960, 75 pupils received certificates from the school; this number rose in the following years to over 100 but then from 1967 it declined steadily to a 1977 low when just 7 pupils were still studying at the school. It was not until 1986 that the number of pupils rose once again to more than 30 (Felkai, 1992; 152–153).2 In early 1956 the Budapest Jewish Congregation had 15,000 tax-paying members. After 1956, however, this number fell considerably, although according to estimates (Stark, 2001) in 1960 at least 115,000

2

The fact that demographic factors were not the primary cause of the decline in pupil numbers is proved by the developments of the period after 1990: by the academic year of 1990–1991 the school had 119 pupils. Since 1990 the number of pupils attending Jewish schools in Budapest (four primary schools and three grammar schools) has been approx. 1200. The Congregation’s school has had about 300 pupils.

religiosity, praxis, and tradition

45

Jews were still living in the country.3 In 1960 the Budapest Jewish Congregation registered just 12 births, and this number fell even further over the following ten years—the congregation’s records show 3 births in 1965 and 9 births in 1970. Post-Communist Hungary Our recent survey focuses on Hungarian Judaism as it evolves today, after the fall of communism and the liberation from Russian tutelage. It attempts to map the present-day level of religious observance and the presence of various elements of Jewish religious-cultural tradition across generations. The questionnaire contained a series of questions about religious practices and cultural traditions, asking the extent to which they were observed or preserved in the respondents’ parental families and in their current households. Table 5.1 shows the distribution of answers to the question of religious observance. Table 5.1. Religious observance in the parental generation and among the respondents, by age (%) Behaviors and Father Moth. sample 18–25 26–35 36–45 46–55 56–65 66–75 75+ beliefs (N) (1936) (1971) (1995) (251) (169) (241) (373) (260) (358) (343) Observant 15 Observing Holy Days 30 Non-practicing believer 12 Not religious 28 Atheist 15 Total 100

16

6

5

5

4

4

2

5

12

34

25

34

28

26

26

21

23

20

13 27 10 100

17 37 15 100

11 39 10 100

17 42 8 100

13 38 19 100

13 41 16 100

21 38 18 100

18 34 20 100

27 29 12 100

The picture yielded by our data corresponds to our expectations. Only a small minority (6%) of our respondents belongs to the observant

3 The social background of Jews that emigrated in 1956 may be reconstructed on the basis of secondary sources alone. In late 1953 the political police compiled a report for Communist Party General Secretary Mátyás Rákosi concerning Jews who intended to emigrate. The report (Múltunk, 1993, pp. 291–292) indicates approx. 10,000 potential Jewish emigrants, of whom 80% were Orthodox. This represented approx. 80% of the Orthodox Jewish population. About half of those who intended to emigrate were aged 35–55. The primary reasons for emigration included religious or Zionist convictions, as well as relatives living in Israel.

andrás kovács

46

Jews. Though, interestingly enough, the lowest proportion of observant Jews is found in the 56–65 age bracket, i.e. among those who grew up in the decade following the war. Religious Jews are more numerous both among the elder and the younger. As table 5.2 shows, nearly three-quarter of the members of this group have never entered a synagogue. About one quarter of the sample visits the synagogues on high holidays, what can be interpreted as symbolic expression of attachment to the Jewish community. Religiosity and observance is much less present in the group of our respondents, than among their parents. However, among the youngest sector of the sample, especially in the area of symbolic attachment, there has been an apparent reversal of the pattern of secularization, which suggests that there has been a revival of interest in Judaism and Jewish tradition among the youth. Table 5.2. Synagogue attendance in the parental generation and among respondents, by age (%) Synagogue Attendance Daily Several times a week Weekly Monthly At the big Holidays Rarer/never Total

Father Moth. sample 18–25 26–35 36–45 46–55 56–65 66–75 75+ (1900) (1947) (2006) (253) (173) (241) (376) (260) (359) (342) 3

1

1

1

2

1

1

0

0

1

4 10 3

3 9 3

1 5 4

4 6 7

1 8 6

1 6 4

1 5 4

1 2 3

0 4 2

2 5 2

36 44 100

42 42 100

26 63 100

34 48 100

25 58 100

29 59 100

31 58 100

22 72 100

26 68 100

18 72 100

Table 5.2 shows that this pattern also applies to synagogue attendance. The rate of those who never go to the synagogue, even during important religious holidays, is very high, amounting to nearly two thirds of the whole sample. However, among the youngest sector in the sample, one can again observe an apparent reversal of the pattern of secularization, suggesting a revival of interest in Judaism and Jewish tradition. Concerning the presence and transmission of Jewish religiouscultural tradition, the questionnaire listed nine religious-cultural practices, asking the extent to which they were observed or preserved in the respondents’ families of origin and in their current families—see Table 5.3.

religiosity, praxis, and tradition

47

Table 5.3. Religious observance and tradition in the childhood and present households by age (%) Total* (2013)

Sabbath Fast Kippur Seder kosher Mezuzah Han-a candles Bar-mitzvah Jewish burial Circumcision

18–25 (254)

26–35 (174)

36–45 (241)

46–55 (376)

56–65 (262)

66–75 (360)

75+ (346)

ch

ph

ch ph

ch ph

ch ph ch ph

ch ph

ch ph

ch ph

30 52 41 20 37 43 36 64 41

14 34 29 8 21 32 15 44 17

8 33 24 5 25 27 20 58 21

6 14 13 6 13 13 10 46 13

11 23 20 10 17 22 16 58 19

38 60 46 19 37 47 37 68 47

49 80 61 32 59 67 59 79 65

58 84 49 42 66 69 69 80 72

11 44 37 13 31 39 25 51 23

18 34 35 14 26 41 12 41 18

14 33 34 9 25 38 17 44 17

20 41 33 13 24 33 21 59 29

14 38 35 8 26 36 16 50 12

10 26 24 5 11 26 11 34 13

14 27 21 3 13 23 13 40 15

19 40 24 10 22 28 16 45 22

*ch = childhood household; ph = present household

Hence, in 26% of original families and 45% of current families, none of the nine traditions was present. At the other end of the scale, in 17% of original families and 4% of current families, eight or nine elements of religious and cultural tradition were retained. Between the two extremes, we find families with only very weak ties to tradition as well as families that ignore day-to-day rules (observance of Sabbath, kosher food) but which still endorse some elements of tradition (such as the celebration of major holidays) as symbols of Jewish identity. The data in table 5.3 are revealing and clearly demonstrate that for the sample as a whole the observance of Jewish religious and cultural traditions has greatly diminished in Hungary over the past 50 years. At the same time, however, comparing the patterns for different age groups enables us to draw a more detailed picture. It appears that secularization has manifested itself most strongly during the lifetimes of the older generations. The older groups observe less Jewish practices now than during their childhood years. Today’s middle-aged group, age 45–65, observe very few elements of tradition, and their original families were already quite secularized. This means that our middle generation interviewees underwent only limited behavioural changes during their own lifetime. This middle generation also appears to have been little touched by the religious and cultural revival that has taken place since the fall of communism and which is manifest among the younger generations where elements of religious-cultural tradition come out more frequently than original families and in the practice of the older generations.

48

andrás kovács

The younger group which reverts to tradition makes up approximately 10% of the whole sample. This group grew up during the era of the disintegration and collapse of Communism (see Kovács, 2003). Though, while its Jewish identity appears relatively strong, it remains that Jewishness constitutes for it but an acquired identity. It grew up without tradition and we also know that 15% of them were already adults when they discovered that they were Jews. In the families of a significant majority of the group, Jews “were almost never mentioned.” Still, “reverting to tradition” does not mean the revival of all religious tradition. Just 10% of members of the group strictly observe religious tradition and 41% observe only the major holidays. Other members of the group interpret their Jewish identity in different ways. In general, members of the group oppose assimilation and strongly sympathize with Israel. A significant proportion of the group opposes intermarriage with non-Jews, and although many members of the group (69%) have mainly or exclusively Jewish friends, they would still prefer to live in an environment where there are more Jews. This group can be called the group of “voluntary Jews” (Pinto, 2000, 188–189): they could have gone further down on the road of total assimilation, but they took the option of return. The increase of traditional Jewish practice amongst younger age cohorts is representative of what appears to be a resurgence or renewal of Jewish identity. As far as we can judge, the reasons for this assumed revival are highly complex. One reason seemingly lies in the general strengthening in Hungary of the demand for ethnic and religious identities after the collapse of the Communist system. This is a natural phenomenon at a time of great social change which generally plunges acquired social identities into a crisis. This search for identity was probably enhanced by the concomitant growing acceptance of multiculturalist orientations. Finally, identity renaissance was obviously facilitated by the opening of borders and the rapidly developing relations with Israel and Jews in the United States. However, the main motive behind the new identity strategy is, in our opinion, the desire to cast off the stigmatized identity of the older generation. After decades of secularization and assimilation, many Jews in Hungary had reached the point that being Jewish meant for them only one thing: to be a target of anti-Semitism. The younger Jewish generation, however, in the last twelve years has experienced Jewishness without any of the political restrictions placed upon their parents by

religiosity, praxis, and tradition

49

Communism, and their quest for a positive Jewish identity is the direct outcome of their refusal of any stigmatization of Jewishness. Similar developments may be observed among the Jewish populations of the other former Communist countries of East Central Europe. In any case, as far as Hungary is concerned,and where according to estimates Jews number between 80,000 and 140,000, this numerical importance warrants that the new turn in Jews’ attitudes toward Jewishness is not just episodic but strong enough to counterbalance the process of attrition that takes place at the margins of the Jewish population.

CHAPTER SIX

BEING JEWISH IN ROMANIA AFTER THE SECOND WORLD WAR Carol Iancu Historical Remarks Like in the case of other European Jewries, Romanian Jewry has been strongly affected by World War II. This chapter considers a historical account of the events which most closely shaped the limits of ‘Jewishness’ in Romania during the postwar period and their impact on present day Jewry. On August 23, 1944, King Michael ordered the arrest of the dictator Antonescu and announced on the radio the end of the alliance with Germany, thereby ending the war against the Allies. His voice trembled with enthusiasm when he stated: “With full confidence in the future of the Romanian people, we are determined to make the Romania of tomorrow, a Romania that is free, powerful and happy.” Unfortunately, these fateful words would remained no more than a distant dream as the country soon came under the yoke of the Soviets, who had become the new allies and brothers in arms. More than 265,000 Romanian soldiers would fight alongside the Red Army to liberate Hungary. With the agreement of the USSR, Romania recovered Northern Transylvania, which had been occupied by Hungary since 1940, while Bessarabia and Northern Bucovina remained part of the Soviet Union. The Communists gained control in various successive stages. The Act of August 23, 1944 was the work of a veritable coalition that involved the King, the communists as well as the traditional parties. However, the signing of the Armistice with the USRR on September 12, 1944, only caused tightening of the communist grip. The ‘coalition’ governments at the time comprised of several leading members of the Communist party such as Lucretiu Patrascanu ( Justice), Gheorghiu Dej (Communication), Emil Bodnaras (Information Service and later on Armed Forces), alongside whom there were representatives of Iuliu Maniu’s National Farmers’ Party, Bratianu’s National Liberal Party, and Titel Petrescu’s small Socialist Party.

being jewish in romania after the second world war

51

The governments formed by General Sanatescu and later by General Radescu gave way to a government led by Petru Groza, the head of the Workers’ Front, who had been appointed by none other than Stalin himself. This government ushered in a new period in the country’s history that would last for 45 years. The establishment of the ‘popular democratic’ regime (1945–1947) preceded the forced abdication of King Michael on December 30, 1947 and the promulgation on the same day of a ‘Popular Republic’. The forced amalgamation of the Socialist Party and the Communist Party (whose membership had grown spectacularly, from a thousand-odd prior to the war to nearly a million in 1949) resulted in the setting up of the Romanian Workers’ Party in February 1948, led by First Secretary Gheorghe Gheorghiu Dej. In 1952 Dej became Chairman of the Council and remained master of the country until his death in 1965 when the reins of power were taken over by another dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu who remained in power until his arrest and execution in December 1999. After collectivizing agriculture, the totalitarian Communist regime had, indeed, embarked upon a merciless repression of all opposition at home, retaining a degree of independence from the outside world, particularly after the 20th Congress of the USSR Communist Party in 1956 and Kruchev’s famous ‘secret’ report of the same year. All of these changes had a profound effect on the Romanian Jewish community, half of whom had escaped the Holocaust. In 1943, Antonescu outlawed Jewish communities and their national leaderships, the Federation of Communities, and, analogous to the Nazis’ collaborationist Judenrat, replaced it with the so-called Jewish Center (Centrala evreilor). After the fall of Antonescu, this Jewish Center was dissolved and the communities reorganized, while the Federation was restored through a Decree in October 1944. In fact, as of August of that same year, various Jewish organizations and associations were reassembled. The first were the Jewish Party and the Bucharest section of the Union of Romanian Jews (September 18). Shortly thereafter on October 13th, the Zionist Organization Committee was established. By the end of 1944 the Romanian section of the World Jewish Congress, the Joint Distribution Committee for Romania, and other Romanian sections within international Jewish organizations like the ORT (which promoted vocational training), the OSE (medical assistance to children) and the Bnai Brith were all operational again.

52

carol iancu

The Communists tried to control the communities by positioning their representatives in key positions, and finally by imposing their will. The Jewish Democratic Committee (Comitetul Democrat Evreesc, CDE) was to put this policy into practice by both weakening (and later on suppressing) the two large pre-war Jewish organizations, the Jewish Party and the Union of Romanian Jews. Moreover, there was a merciless war waged against the Zionists. Set up as a mere government instrument within the Jewish community and led by a fanatical communist (Bercu Feldman), the CDE, like its mouthpiece Unirea, was dissolved in 1953 only after having fulfilled the roles it had been assigned. From 1948 onwards, the Union of Romanian Jews, the Jewish Party and Zionist Organization had gradually been forced to cease their activities. Hakhcharot (farms where young Jews took care of agricultural work in view of their immigration to Israel) were suppressed on March 8, 1949, a few days after the Joint, ORT and OSE were outlawed. One of the thorniest issues at the time was the reintegration of Jews into the Romanian armed forces from which they had been expelled at the start of the war. At that time the Romanian army had not yet been subject to purges and still numbered many officers and soldiers who had fought the USSR. Thousands of them had participated in the massacre of Jewish populations in Bessarabia, Bucovine and Transnistria. This was also the epoch that the civil rights that had been stripped from the Jews under anti-Semitic legislation had still to be returned. Romania’s Grand Rabbi Safran, together with other central Jewish figures, used the feeling of guilt of some Romanian politicians over the Holocaust to achieve concessions and obtain support from the new authorities (notably the minister Patrascanu), with the help of foreign delegations in Bucharest (particularly those of the United States, Great Britain and the Soviet Union). The first Act addressing the return of property to the Jews was published only on December 19, 1944. Known as the ‘Patrascanu Act’, it was, however, bedevilled by a whole raft of administrative restrictions and consequentially became a lame duck. In fact, properties lost under the racial laws were never returned to their rightful owners and the state never did offer them any financial compensation. Moreover, new regulations prohibited Jews from returning to their villages, thus in effect depriving them of the possibility of entering their houses and recovering their property.

being jewish in romania after the second world war

53

Furthermore, tens of thousands of Jews who had lost their employment as a result of the same racial legislation never did get their jobs back, despite official decrees being issued in support of this. In early 1945, Filderman’s newspaper, Curierul Israelit, in which there was a constant stream of petitions and letters particularly with regard to the question of spoiled Jewish property, was suspended by the authorities for a period of twenty days. Filderman’s personal archives were confiscated. This attitude caused the president of the National Liberal Party, Constantin I. C. Bratianu, to protest vehemently—but unsuccessfully—to the Inter-Allied Control Commission denouncing ‘this new and grave attack on personal liberty’. Filderman who was jailed for a while was later released but the Communists continued their campaign against him, through the government’s official newspaper Scânteia (“The Star”). Though, in 1945, the leadership of Romanian Jewry succeeded to convene a large rabbinical congress—the first in postwar Europe— in which survivors from Hungary, Czechoslavakia and Poland took part. Later on, on July 17, 1946, a meeting of representatives of the Union of Romanian Jews, the Zionist Organization, the Jewish National Party, and even the pro-Communist Jewish Democratic Committee was convened, unfortunately with no genuine results. In 1947, Grand Rabbi Safran was ousted from his post and expelled from the country and on March 12, 1948, Filderman was forced to flee Romania to escape imminent arrest by the Communist police. Jews and Communists Anti-Semitic propaganda often contended “all Jews are Communists.” This assertion has no basis in reality whatsoever. In August 1944, the number of Jewish Communists was minuscule. It involved approximately 300 of the 1,000 members of the Communist Party. The number of Jewish members had increased to 1,000 by the end of 1944, ca. 5,000 in 1945–45, and 10,000 in 1949 when the Communist Party had a total membership of some 1,000,000. Between 1944 and 1950 there were very few people of Jewish origin at the highest levels of the Communist Party. The most famous was Ana Pauker, who, following her return from the Soviet Union, became Foreign Minister before being ousted in 1952. There were only a few hundred throughout the Party’s bureaucracy. In fact, it is difficult

54

carol iancu

to talk of Jews massively rallying for the Communist cause. Quite the opposite was true. A major gap had soon emerged between the Jewish community and the Communist Party. Many of the Jewish members of the Romanian Communist Party (and about whom Filderman had said that they had ceased to be Jews the moment they joined the party) became docile instruments in the government’s Jewish repression policy. Among those who promoted a particularly virulent brand of anti-Judaism, one may cite Iosif Chisinevschi, Ghizela Vass, Alice Benari, Ofelia Manole, Chrita Abramovici and Bercu Feldman. Some took it even further and were involved in the torture of their coreligionists; this was the case for the infamous Colonel Dulgheru (in charge of investigating Zionist cases) or Lieutenant-Major Teodor Micle (charged with investigating the Zionist leader A. L. Zissu), both of whom were decorated later as heroes by Gheorghiu Dej. While anti-Jewish actions by Communist Parties all over Eastern Europe started in 1947 (consider the trial of Laszlo Rayk in Hungary, Slansky in Czechoslavakia and that of the Jewish doctor in the Soviet Union), anti-Jewish demonstrations had already started in Romania as early as 1945. The recently published minutes of the plenary session of the Romanian Communist Party Congress of October 5, 1945, reveal a blunt anti-Semitic platform supported by all delegates. In a brazen distortion of history it attacked the Jews as fascists taking support from past anti-Semitic sources (such as Porunca Vremii, “The Command of the Hour”). As one delegate put it: “We cannot tolerate that the Jews, on the basis of their suffering, attempt to carve out privileges in order to ransack and exploit the Romanian people.” Ion Vinte, of the Secret Service and future head of the Securitate, stated that “anti-Semitism was elicited by the Zionists who sing from Saturday to Monday.” On May 4, 1946, the General Security Service of the State (at the time it was not yet called the Securitate) ordered the regional security services to draw up dossiers of the leaders of Zionist organizations, the Union of Romanian Jews, the local leaders of the Joint Committee, the ORT, OSE, and Bnai Brith. It was on the basis of minutely maintained files and close surveillance tactics that hundreds, and later on, thousands of people were imprisoned and sentenced as enemies of the state. On June 14, 1946 the Communist police did not even hesitate to open fire on Zionist demonstrators in the town of Iasi and to arrest a dozen people. In the course of the same year other clashes took place between the Communist authorities and Jews

being jewish in romania after the second world war

55

protesting the action of the CDE and various anti-Jewish measures. On December 12, 1948 and March 4, 1949, the Central Committee of the Romanian Workers’ Party and the Romanian government, respectively, decided to prohibit all activities by the international Jewish organizations—Joint, ORT and OSE—on Romanian territory. This marked the start of a systematic repression of the Jewish population and of Zionist organizations and their leaders, who were arrested and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment for fictitious crimes. The long investigations that included inhuman torture generally resulted in “confessions” by the accused. An account that deserves mentioning here is that of the Assir Zion (“Zionist prisoner”) Theodor Lavi-Löwenstein who spent five years (1950–1955) in Communist jails. In his memoirs, Nu a fost pisica neagra (“It Wasn’t the Black Cat”), he paints an accurate picture of the vast machinery behind the dehumanizing repression: It was not just us, the Zionists, who got caught up in the wheels of the huge political police machinery; meetings with other categories of prisoners, the inevitable discussions with them on the Jewish and Zionist question made clear to us the extent to which the stereotypical image of the Jew as a Communist was firmly embedded in people’s minds. On the other side of the barricade, the investigators, who were necessarily anti-Zionists, rediscovered anti-Semitic penchants.

The trials that took place and especially the appeals by the convicted (184) reveal the dignity and personality of many Zionists who were tried and convicted. These secret trials took place after sessions of the Political Bureau of the Romanian Workers’ Party (especially the session of January 14, 1953), with sentences being decided beforehand. The members of the Central Committee of the Romanian Workers’ Party engaged in a sort of one-upmanship in the punishment that was meted out against Jews. For example, Gheorgiu Dej demanded two to three death sentences in each anti-Jewish trial and hard labor or life imprisonment for the other accused. Iosif Chisinevschi as for him, requested to set fire to synagogues and Talmudic schools. All these instituted lawsuits took place before military tribunals, generally without any kind of legal representation for the accused. The first anti-Zionist trials involved the leaders of the right-wing Zionist youth movement Betar ( July 7, 1953; October the same year), with sentences ranging between 10 and 18 years in prison). Next in line were the leaders of the Transylvanian Zionists (November 24,

56

carol iancu

1953 in Timisoara) and those of the Hachomer Hatzair organization (March 18, 1954—between three and eight years). On March 28, 1954 there was “the trial of the thirteen leaders of the Romanian Zionist movement.” Three were sentenced to life imprisonment, A. L. Zissu, Jean Cohen and Misu Benveniste (whose wife, Suzi Benvenisti, was already serving a ten-year sentence since her trial on November 5 1953 while her codefendant, Iacov Littman-Litani, had received a fifteen-year sentence). The remaining accused faced terms of imprisonment ranging between eight and twenty years: Carol Reitter, Zeev Beniamin, Simon Has, Haber Karin Fichte, Zoltan Hirsch, Moshe Weiss-Talmon, Bubi Beer, Moti Moscovici, Gir Hasvetari, Simon David. Barely a few days later, on April 4, 1954, there was the start of the “trial of forty-one Zionist leaders,” followed by yet more arrests and trials. In May 1954, at the instigation of Itzhac Artzi, a group of 48 former leading representatives of the Romanian Zionists started a hunger strike in the Great Synagogue of Tel Aviv in order to demand the liberation of five hundred Zionists who were languishing in Communist prisons in Romania. However, it required many more efforts by the Israeli Government,1 by Western Jewish leaders,2 and by Jewish organizations before the Zionists were released. In early June 1954, a Paris meeting of the Zionist Federation ended with a vote on a motion condemning the imprisonment and sentences for people “whose only crime was to belong to a Zionist movement,” and a call “to free the Jewish and Zionist leaders imprisoned by the Communist authorities and to allow them to emigrate to Israel.” In New York on June 11, 1954, President Eisenhower made a statement expressing his support at a protest rally organized by the American Jewish Congress. Because of the harsh treatment to which they had been subjected, many Romanian Zionists never left prison alive, or died soon after their release. This fate befell people like, to name but a few, Kiva Ornstein, Avram Iampolschi, Elias Schein, Hugo Nacht, Abir Mark, and A. L. Zissu. Despite this violent repression, Romanian Jews continued to push for their right to alyah. Zionism, which had strong

1 For example, Foreign Minister Moshe Sharett made a seminal statement on the subject in the Knesset on May 24, 1954. 2 For example, Nahum Goldmann, the president of the World Jewish Congress, promised Gheorghiu Dej that there would be economic benefits for Romania.

being jewish in romania after the second world war

57

roots in Romania, had made spectacular progress in the post-war period; by late 1947 the Zionist Youth movements counted over 20,000 members, all of whom were preparing for their future lives in Palestine at the Cultura agricultural school, near Bucharest, and in the many summer camps and various farming colleges. Fully supportive of the struggle for a Jewish state and filled with enthusiasm at the resurrection of Israel, most Romanian Jews embraced the Zionist cause. This was due in no small measure to the persecution they suffered at the hands of the Communist state and the persistence of strong anti-Zionist sentiments. On January 31, 1949, the representative of the French government in Bucharest, Pierre Charpentier, observed in a letter addressed to the French Foreign Minister Robert Schuman: “It is a well-known fact that most of the Romanian Jews, estimated at 360,000 people, have Zionist tendencies.” This was an accurate statement since, despite the fluctuations due to the policies of the various Romanian governments, there was a powerful alyah movement which continued until the fall of Communism, and beyond. The 1956 census however put the number of Jews at 146,264 (0.84% of the total population), though it must be said this figure was seemingly underestimated. In the course of a single decade, the Jewish community had lost more than half its members. The main cause is to be found in emigration. Despite the attacks on Zionism which were stepped up after December 1948, most people headed for Israel—17,668 in 1948, 13,595 in 1949, 46,430 in 1950, 40,206 in 1951. In 1952, the number suddenly dropped to a mere 3,627. This was due to the fact that the government decided to stop the flow of emigration. It was not until the withdrawal of Soviet forces from Romania (summer of 1958) and the Romanian government’s new Foreign policy that the ‘reunification of families’ once again got underway. On Yom Kippur of 1958 the authorities released a communiqué which stated that all those who wish to immigrate to Israel have to submit a request at the police station. This marked the beginning of a new wave of alyah, with 106,200 olim between 1958 and 1966 (during the first wave between 1948 and 1951, when Ana Pauker was in power, there were almost 117,000 Romanian immigrants to Israel). Immigration to Israel from Romania continued uninterrupted, albeit with ups and downs: 1,000 in 1967–1968, 17,800 between 1969 and 1974, 21,800 from 1975 to 1989, and 3,400 between 1990 and 1995. Throughout the Communist period, the harassment of Jews by officialdom continued unabated.

58

carol iancu

Years of waiting to get an exit visa, loss of employment, expulsion from school, and separation of families characterized this period. In 1966, there were about 100,000 Jews in Romania. A decade later, this number was cut in half, with the Jewish population numbering approximately 45,000 (the official census recorded only 25,686 individuals, i.e. 0.11% of the total population). After the Yom Kippur war, the emigration flow slowed down considerably, and the number of exit visas for Israel fell consistently: 1,134 in 1978, 1,184 in 1979 and 1,076 in 1980. In 1981 the Jewish community was estimated at around 34,000 people: 16,000 in Bucharest, the rest spread over 68 communities in the country (about 3,000 in Iasi, 2,000 in Timisoara, and 800 in Cluj). The Federation of Mosaic Communities— the official name of the Romanian Jewry’s umbrella organization during the Communist period—was presided over by the Grand Rabbi Moses Rosen; he was appointed by the Communist authorities after the forced departure of Grand Rabbi Alexandre Safran. Rabbi Rosen maintained fifteen ritual baths and sent the remaining 12 chohatim to the most remote corners of the country in order to ensure the provisioning of kosher food. In the same year more than 600 adolescents and many more adults received religious instruction through the Talmudey Torah. The Federation also owned three retirement homes (two in the mountains and one on the shores of the Black Sea) and, together with the Joint Committee, it operated a medical assistance service, while providing clothes, food and money. Worship took place in 120 temples and synagogues. Rabbi Rosen remained in this post until his death in 1994. After the fall of Communism, emigration intensified and today there are fewer than 12,000 Jews in Romania, the majority of them over the age of sixty, equally divided between the capital and the provinces. This is a decimated community, yet one that shows exemplary solidarity with its community structure which includes here hospitals, asylums, kosher restaurants, etc. from which nearly two-thirds of the members benefit. It is a structured, highly vibrant community which is unique in that it has its own publishing house (Editura Hasefer), which published dozens of books. A Museum of the History of Romanian Jews, moroever, was set up in 1978 in an old synagogue where a special room presents an exhibition dedicated to the Holocaust. Furthermore, a Center for the Study of the History of Romanian Jewry publishes documents, as well as a Newsletter. Last but not least, a Jewish State Theatre perform Yiddish plays—

being jewish in romania after the second world war

59

often with non-Jewish artists; a Jewish primary school in Bucharest diffuse Hebrew teaching; a bimonthly magazine Realitatea Evreiasca, is published in Romanian, Hebrew and English. An offshoot Revista Cultului Mozaic (est. 1956) is the official publication of the Federation of Jewish Communities. Worth mentioning is also the fact that a representative of Romanian Jewry, Dorel Dorian, has for several years been a member of Parliament. The symbol of his party is the ritual Menora (Candelstick) and it is probable that many non-Jews regularly vote for him and his party. Though, this was unable to prevent a leader of the farright, Corneliu Vadim, to be elected in 2000, which at the time, brought the Executive Committee of the Federation of Jewish Communities to react. On December 7, 2000, three days before the second round of voting, they published a press release in which they castigated the far-right political rhetoric as “an enemy of Judaism.” It is during these polemics that the new concept, “real-Semitism,” was invented, which highlights the role of Jews in the development of all areas of the country’s economic, social and artistic life. This concept and this perspective sustains Romania’s remaining Jews to combat any demonstrations of anti-Semitism.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JEWISH IDENTITY, MEMORY, AND ANTI-SEMITISM Maurice Konopnicki How does one go about defining his or her own Jewish identity? What criteria determine the foundations of this identity? We know that for many, religion, history, culture, and daily life experiences play a role. Yet, the question remains if one is truly the master of the choices one makes or the criteria one chooses. In this respect, the memory of the Holocaust raises important issues in Jewish identity. Today, the memory of the Holocaust is only ‘acceptable’ if reference to it is discreet. Jews are asked to abandon the concept of the ‘singularity’ of the Holocaust. In this framework, Jews are brought back to their traditional role of the silent and consenting victim; there is, what seems to be, a repetition of this kind of dispossession that has marred Jewish history. Before, considering the significance of this in the context of Belgium and also in Europe in general, I would like to present to the reader some background about myself that might help me make my point. I was born in Charleroi, 1938, in a small but dynamic Jewish community where Zionism and Communism existed side by side, as they did in so many other European communities. At a very young age I was confronted with the harsh fate of being a Jew at that time. I was four years old when, in July 1942, my fourteen-year-old brother Victor was deported to Auschwitz. He never returned. For two years, until September 1944, my parents, sister and myself were able to survive thanks to the courage of some ‘Righteous among the Nations’ who gave us shelter. I vividly remember that on the rare occasions when I was allowed to go out on the street, my parents would try and stop me from speaking in Yiddish. I never accepted this prohibition and after the liberation it became an absolute necessity for me to express myself freely on any subject dear to my heart, especially concerning Judaism and Israel. As I mentioned, my brother never returned from the concentration

jewish identity, memory, and anti-semitism

61

camp. Neither did my uncles or my cousin who had also been deported from Belgium. The entire Polish side of my mother’s and father’s families were deported. Then, in 1948, I lost my uncle Ze"ev during the Israeli war of Independence. It was a childhood marked by tragic events. As a child, I often heard people around me, in the street, saying things like “there are still a lot of those Jews left here,” or “Jews, why are you staying in Belgium? Go back to your country! Go back to Palestine.” Along the same lines, my primary school teacher one day shouted at me, pointing a finger in my direction and accusing me of being part of a Jewish terrorist underground movement. I must admit though, I do not remember if I was supposed to take her words truly as an accusation of being a terrorist or feel honoured for being part of the Jewish resistance in Palestine. Later on, but still during primary school, I remember the chance I had of being elected the best student in class by my fellow pupils. I was always first in my class and, I thought, much be loved and respected by all. The winner of the vote would receive a dictionary as a prize. My thirst for knowledge was such that I really did want to be the winner. However, I lost the much coveted title by one vote. On the way back from school, the boy with whom I always walked to and from school noticed my disappointment and admitted that he had not voted for me. He told me, “it was you who deserved the prize, but you have to understand that with everything they say about the Jews, I just couldn’t vote for you.” These same words were repeated to me twenty years later when I applied for the directorship of an international center at the University of Liège. My best friend warned me: “Don’t kid yourself, it is unthinkable that a Jew will be elected to run this center.” My Jewish identity has been strongly tied to my profound attachment to Israel. Even during my childhood years I was a true patriot, rejoicing with Israel’s every military success. This enthusiasm for Israel clearly played a significant role in shaping the focus of my career on Israel and the memory of the Holocaust. In the very early years of my research I studied cooperation in the rural areas of Israel. I investigated issues related to the kibbutz, Jerusalem and the peace process. Later, I was given the opportunity to help create a ‘House of the Righteous among Nations’ and return to the roots of the Jewish community in Charleroi. I also held a position at Haifa

62

maurice konopnicki

University for a number of years. Part of my decision to take this position was due to the political and social climate in Belgium after the Six Day War, when it became gradually “politically incorrect” to talk about Israel in positive terms. All these have constructed my Jewish identity as a Jew raised in Europe during the aftermath of World War II, and it is from this startpoint that, in the following, I discuss a number of viewpoints on the memory of the Holocaust, anti-Semitism, and Israel as formative elements of Jewish identity. The Memory of the Holocaust My son Pinhas taught me that teaching horror is not educational. How then can we understand the memory of the Holocaust and the building of a Jewish identity thereafter? More than everyone else, Emmanuel Kattan offers a most pertinent interpretation of how the Holocaust is to be remembered and passed down to the next generation as part of Jewish identity. This requires, he says, a contemplation of the place of the Holocaust in the past concomitantly with its present significance: The reference to a memory and the “never-again” rhetoric have an incantational, almost magic character. Before the exhaustion of the memory, an attempt is made to reproduce the traumatism, the feeling of horror and disgust one experiences when one encounters the reality of the holocaust for the first time. In so doing, one hopes to instil in the next generations a determination to prevent an event of this kind from ever happing again. The duty of the memory seems to be, therefore, to act as a kind of talisman: it is our insurance policy against the threats that the future has in store for us. Surreptitiously, what is handed down is the affirmation that the knowledge and transmission of the past can be useful for new crimes in the knowledge that it is enough to remember in order to prevent the return of the horror. Instead of being a source of anxiety, the duty of memory becomes one of reassurance: as long as we continue to remember, we are protected from the return of evil. However, if one is first and foremost guided by a desire for prudence, if one wants to expose the dangers of totalitarianism, the excesses of racism and hatred, there are other events than the holocaust that should be mentioned. To be sure, not to give credit to the view that crimes are equivalent to another other, but to provide a more encompassing representation of the diversity of guises in which violence may manifest itself.

jewish identity, memory, and anti-semitism

63

If we want to be able to detect injustice in its many dimensions, prudence demands that we develop a more profound sense of history, that we recognize the manifold manifestations of evil that have marked our history. Moreover, the transmission of democratic values and the development of a ‘practical wisdom’ do not only come about by the reference to crimes in the past that embody the negation of these values. It is equally important to have a positive representation of justice, of respect for others. Indeed, if we believe that knowledge of crimes of the past better arms us to prevent them from recurring, it is because the past seems to remain pertinent today. The events that we commemorate are part of our history, stages in a process of continuity from which we interpret our future. This is why the memory of the holocaust has no educational value unless it refers to a historical logic with which we identify ourselves. It can only serve as a warning for a possible recurrence of the barbary if we recognize this barbary as being part of our past. Hence, we have to recognize that memory is a duty, even if we seek to confer upon it a general educational value, independent of a precise historical context, and that at its basis lies a dimension of identity. An awareness of our past, the commemoration of consecutive moments in our history does not make us better people, but it does enrich us; it makes our lives more of a whole and gives them meaning. (Kattan; 2004)

Anti-Semitism and Israel To speak of anti-Semitism as such, Michel Wieviorka considers its present-day sources as follows: The rise, all over the world, of anti-Semitism, which is rooted in specific political, social and cultural features of the countries involved, while identifying itself, everywhere, with the same mix of Palestinian, Arab and Islamic causes. The epicenter of the problem seems to be located in the Near East, but outside this region it is sustained by three sources. The first is related to the breakthrough, especially in Europe, of powerful nationalist-populist movements feeding both on the hatred of Jews and on an old anti-Jewish streak in Christianity, whether it be Catholic, Protestant or Orthodox. The second stems from the planetary decomposition of regimes, parties and Marxist, Communist or leftist ideologies. Depending on the individual cases, it gathers three main dimensions. First, there is that of an anticapitalism, which, in a tradition inaugurated by the young Karl Marx of the Franco-German Annals (1843), assimilates Jews with commerce and money. Second, an anti-Zionism by which a hatred of Israel is extended to hatred of Jews all over the world.

64

maurice konopnicki Finally, across the world, anti-Semitism is growing against a backdrop of social problems and a sense of exclusion and contempt experienced by populations who are, themselves, victims of racism. In the Arab-Muslim world, anti-Semitism expresses the widely held conviction of being rejected by Western modernity to which many aspire, social and economic exclusion, and, to cap it all, the fact of being subjected to a racist-like contempt. From this point of view, the existence of Israel, which is seen as an intrusion of this very same modernity in the heart of a region which is entirely rejected, is considered an unbearable provocation. The peculiar nature of this anti-Semitism is that it can be legitimized by religious and political authorities, and that it can grow without any objections from the world of politics, and multiply unchecked across the planet thanks to audiocassettes and the worldwide web. (Wieviorka; April 28, 2003)

According to Eric Marty: (. . .) The cross between the movement supporting the Third World, Islamic fundamentalism and the extreme right partly came about, depending on the opportunities, through the example of hard-core negationism, but also through a general climate in which the imprescriptible nature of the holocaust is called into question. Yet, it was in Durban in September 2001 that the premonition of a more dramatic rapprochement between the Third World movement and anti-Semitism was confirmed. It is truly unbelievable that a conference on racism, held under the aegis of the UN, should have been transformed, between two speeches by Fidel Castro, into a huge meeting of hatred and accusation aimed at Israel and the Jews. The various reports published in the French newspaper ‘Le Monde’ mentioned a climate of intimidation, harassment, threats and violence, with slogans like ‘Death to the Jews’ or ‘One Jew, one bullet.’ The most striking feature was the ‘ThirdWorldization’ of the concept of racism. For instance, it has been proven that the Muslim world was the most important actor in the trade in Black people, that the abolition of slavery—which was also an African phenomenon practised first and foremost for the profit of the Africans themselves—was a purely Western initiative, that American Jews were the first to fight for the civil rights of black people in the United States. Yet, in spite of all of this, the enemy that was singled out, in some huge Afro-Arab synthesis, was the American Jew and his counter part, the Israeli. (Marty, 2002)

Michel Wieviorka has this to say about the rise in anti-Semitism: The current context is not so much marked by the acts, themselves, as by the rise in general hostility towards Jews among various groups. This situation has created an anti-Semitic climate at school, where student relations are ethnicized, at university, where the Left remains conspicuously quiet on the issue of anti-Semitism because of its sympathy

jewish identity, memory, and anti-semitism

65

for the Palestinian cause, but also in more traditionally anti-Semitic milieux such as the Far Right. In France, there is one less taboo: it seems perfectly acceptable now to express one’s hatred of Jews, even in public. (Wieviorka; September 3, 2004)

For Bernard-Henri Lévy, talking to Alain Finkielkraut and Benny Lévy: The craftiest tactic of anti-Semitism is its ability to change its appearance over time, to slough its guilty skin in order to don the vestments of innocence; it is clear that in the past fifteen or twenty years, antiZionist rhetoric has been the new cloak of anti-Semitism. Nothing would be more harmful than to make this duty of remembering something that only affects the Jews. Nothing would be more tragic than to give the feeling that this memory is a property, a treasure that we should jealously guard. To be sure, we have the duty to guard the event of the century that is the holocaust. However, the children of the executioners or those of the indifferent have the same duty. As for the singularity of the holocaust, its exemplary nature, which makes it a unique crime and its unconscionable horror is the unparalleled conjunction of the radical and the banal—Hanna Arendt’s banality of evil and Kant’s radical evil. This singularity makes the holocaust a kind of yardstick of horror, a measure of the inhumane. Auschwitz, the Warsaw ghetto, the holocaust all act as a referent, as the ultimate horror, against which the horrors of the moment are measured. One should also depart from the bogus debate on the exploitation of the holocaust. There are two conceptions of memory. First of all, there is the dead memory, a melancholic memory, a sterile memory, a memory which is a pure fixation on the past, where the past governs the present. And then, there is another memory, a live memory, a memory which works instead of ruminating, a memory that acts on the present, a memory in which the past feeds the present and where the present, in a way, governs the past; this memory is the right approach to remembrance. The example in politics is that of a great European statesman, the German Minister for Foreign Affairs, Jochka Fischer, who in the course of the debate on the future constitution of Europe, stated that the only thinkable constitution, the only viable constitution in the eyes of the survivors of the holocaust, the only possible constitution for Europe would be the ‘never again’ of the extermination camps. This use of the holocaust takes place in the live memory, the memory that vitalizes and works in the present. As a result, the real debate is not about the exploitation of the holocaust. It is about knowing whether the memory that we are working on is a dead memory, a melancholic memory or an active memory, one that is turned towards the present day. Why do we need all those monuments? They come in the place of ruins.

66

maurice konopnicki

Finally, according to Viviane Forrester (2004) the responsibility for the Holocaust does not lie solely with the Nazis, but with the ‘West’ as a whole, due to the complacency and passiveness of the great democracies, imbued with the ‘contempt’ to which Jews were subjected in the Western world. Anti-Semitism Today: Facts and Figures According to an Israeli association campaigning against anti-Semitism, in 2003 the attacks on Jews and the acts of vandalism against Jewish sites increased by 15 per cent across the world. According to the annual report of the ‘Stephen Roth Institute of Contemporary AntiSemitism and Racism,’ this increase in anti-Semitic acts is due primarily to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. “It would seem that the events in the Near East serve as a catalyst for incidents in Europe,” said Roni Stauber of the Roth Institute. The Institute, which is based in Tel Aviv University, has recorded a total of 360 serous incidents of an anti-Semitic nature worldwide in 2003, as opposed to 311 in 2002. It lists the four countries with the highest rate of anti-Semitic acts: France, the United Kingdom, Germany and Canada. According to Roni Stauber the increase in attacks against Jews in Europe is largely due to young Muslim immigrants frustrated by the situation in the Near East. Extreme rightwing anti-semites, as for them, are more likely to attack synagogues or cemeteries. In France, actually, blunt anti-Zionism is the “politically correct” manifestation of a latent anti-Semitism.1 The rhetoric may have changed, but not the hatred. Today we even witness an amplification of this hatred. The reprobation of Israel has become a must, especially among the political left. Eric Marty (2002) is very much concerned by this phenomenon and offers his interpretation in the following terms: The most dangerous aspect of the silence on the part of the media and the institutions when it comes to anti-Semitic attacks is that it is a silence with a great deal of subtext. It is a silence regarding at once the Jews and the Muslim community. On the one hand, the Jews are told to be quiet, or at least not to kick up too much of a stink; they 1

Patrick Gaubert et Philippe Benassayn, Le Figaro, 20.03.03.

jewish identity, memory, and anti-semitism

67

are given to understand that Israel is sometimes responsible for what is happening to it and that at times Jewish support of Israel is too outspoken. In fact, this is a repetition of the dark years, albeit with a slight twist adapted to the new circumstances resulting from the creation of the state of Israel. Any attempt at self-defence by the Jewish community is seen as a provocation for renewed persecution.

According to the “Rapport de la Commission nationale consultative des droits de l’homme:”2 “the statistics, particularly those from 2000 onwards, clearly show that the violence against the Jewish community has taken root and has increased.” Since 2000, the CNCDH is particularly concerned about the spread of racial and anti-Semitic violence in educational in schools. According to the European Jewish Congress, there was also a cover-up of the report3 on anti-Semitism that was presented to the European Parliament in Strassbourg by the European Observatory of Racist and Xenophobic Phenomena which confirmed the content of the Observatory’s 2003 report. In its press summary, the Observatory stated that most of the anti-Semitic incidents in Europe involved young white right-wing anti-Semitic extremists. This statement was in direct contradiction with its own report which recognized that most of the anti-Semitic attacks in European countries were committed by ‘Muslims of North African origin,’ which urged Serge Cwajgenbaum, Secretary-General of the CJE, to react: “How can one combat anti-Semitism if the courage to clearly identify the perpetrators is lacking?” In his book entitled “The anti-Semitic Enigma,” Daniel Sibony (2004), a psychoanalyst, did not hesitate to state: The problem is simple enough: every establishment vehemently condemns anti-Semitic acts but cannot prevent them as this would mean prosecute the perpetrators, essentially Muslims, which would leave them open to accusations of ‘Arab bashing,’ i.e. of being ‘racist’. So, in order not to appear to be ‘racist,’ anti-Semitism is allowed—surely, this is the very root of any kind of “racism” in the sense of a hatred of an identity. The only way out for the authorities is to be honest, to apply 2 Rapport de la Commission nationale consultative des droits de l’homme, Associated Press, 01.04.04. 3 The European Observatory of Racist and Xenophobic Phenomena published two reports on anti-Semitism in the European Union. The main report is entitled “Manifestations of Anti-Semitism in the EU 2002–2003.” The second, “Perceptions of Antisemitism in the European Union” (48 pp.) is a collection of interviews with members of the jewish community, 31.03.04. See http://www.eumc.eu.int.

maurice konopnicki

68

the law, rather than applying a bandage of goodwill on the wounds of one or other group. If the people who are, themselves, victims of “racism” practise it in its anti-Semitic version, then they must be punished. (. . .) In fact, today, the fight against “racism” and the fight against anti-Semitism have become two different things.

The association ‘Jewish Children in Danger’ has raised alarm over the multiplication of anti-Semitic incidents in French secondary schools.4 Over a period of many months, a student at a prestigious Parisian secondary school was insulted, humiliated and bullied by two classmates simply because he was Jewish. He had been terrorized into silence, and for a long time his ordeal was not known to anybody. Neither his teachers nor the headmaster of the school were able to protect him from the hatred of his attackers because they did not fully comprehend or recognize the nature of the violence. At another Paris secondary school, a Jewish student was physically threatened ‘in the name of the Palestinian children killed by his family,’ as a result of which he hastily had to leave the school, at the request of the person in charge, who felt the boy’s safety could no longer be guaranteed. Another incident took place in a different secondary school in Paris, where a young girl was thrown to the ground and beaten by some twenty fellow-students shouting ‘filthy Jew.’ The moral implications of such events are not symbolical and must not be played down: after the Vichy regime nobody imagined that in France Jewish children could be harassed in this way, in effect barred from going to school, and at risk in public places. Michel Winock has shown that, between 1789 and the present day, the hostility towards Jews has always reflected national crises, rather than being a doctrine rooted in the French psyche: Anti-Semitism is not a bad memory reserved for commemorations or university conferences. Its recent explosion has caused considerable disquiet among the French Jewish community. Much worse, however, is the indifference they encounter. The only response to this crisis of confidence by the political world and the media has been, after a period of silence, a series of curses, whose grandiloquence was only matched by their lack of effect; anti-Semitism has spread to the extent that it feeds the frenzy of madmen—to which the paranoia of some Jews contributes—and serves as a plausible pretext for various swindles and petty vengeance. This explains the twisted developments, with

4

Libération, 10.03.04.

jewish identity, memory, and anti-semitism

69

some using bogus affairs in order to minimize a growth in anti-Semitism on which they thrive. (Winock 2004)

In Belgium we could not imagine either that we would ever arrive at a situation like today when it is dangerous for children of the Jewish Ecole Maïmonide to wear a kippah outside the school. One could not imagine either that synagogues could be attacked, as was the case in Charleroi or Brussels, for instance, which were the targets of attacks; that the police was to be on constant alert during commemorations of the Holocaust in cemeteries and public places; or that the ‘House of the Righteous among Nations’ was to be closed down in Charleroi, because it is currently considered “politically incorrect” to have a place linked so closely to the memory of the Holocaust and Yad Vashem, in Jersusalem. In general, expressing ones Jewish faith, bond with Israel and Zionism, the memory of the Holocaust and Jewish identity is now bound, in many cases, to the arousal of sarcasm, criticism, hostility, aggression, violence and . . . accusations of racism. Alain Finkielkraut recognizes that it took him some time “to see that contemporary anti-Semitism expresses itself almost exclusively in the language of anti-racism. One may even wonder whether racism was not a period—apocalyptic and brief—in the long history of antiSemitism. Today, Jews are not hated because they are a separate race but because they are intractable racists, with their new ‘unaccusable’ detractors using the duty of memory.” (Finkielkraut; October 31, 2003) In an interview with Dominique Simonnet on August 30, 2004, Alain Finkielkraut explained that: Anti-racism, the “religion of man,” in turn, incites crime. This ideology, which does not reveal its name, reduces reality to a conflict between the aggressors and the victims by subverting the facts in a perverted way ( Jews are nazis, America is a totalitarian country), and cultivates an anti-Semitism cloaked in humanism (. . .) The hatred of anti-racists is just as dangerous as that of the racists . . . These are disturbing developments, which must be addressed urgently, without worrying about conforming with what may be fashionable at present. (. . .) The animosity towards Jews has become part of the landscape: its presence is clearly felt as those who express it and disseminate it do not correspond to the typical picture of the anti-semite that people have in their minds. (. . .) The anti-semite’s portrait painted by Sartre was someone imbued with a profound sense of hostility towards democracy. In order to feel as if he were a member of an elite, he revived the idea of a natural hierarchy of beings. Contemporary anti-Semitism, in

70

maurice konopnicki contrast, is wholly democratic. It professes the religion of humanitarianism, which has no sacrilege other than the questioning of equal dignity among all human beings. This religion has protected Jews for a long time. Today, it turns against them. Indeed, here they are, accused, vicariously through Israel, of treating Arabs as inferior beings. The conflict in the Near East is no longer placed in the category of war, but in that of crime; rather than involving two adversaries, it opposes martyred innocence with the Zionist enemy of mankind. (. . .) [Interviewer] So, Jews are currently accused, not of being a race but of being racist. And it is this reversal which is the new shape of anti-Semitism? Indeed, it is not an incitement to racial hatred, but to anti-racial hatred that characterizes contemporary Judaeophobia. The anti-racist hatred of the Fence, for instance. It is worth remembering that the Israelis did not set up this fence as a separation barrier symbolizing that Palestinians are inferior beings. They did so in order to stop the suicide attacks. Perhaps they have bought relative security at the expense of aggravating the living conditions of a large number of Palestinians. No doubt, one should question the itinerary of the barrier as it penetrates the West Bank in order to protect certain setttlements. However, to use the term apartheid is a remarkable feat in that it both denies and legitimizes terrorism. Against those who deny the fact that anyone else is a human being, everything is allowed since, by exclusion, they are excluding themselves from humanity at large. (. . .) [Interviewer] How do you explain the fact that so many people believe in the simplifications that you are debunking? This is related to the effort it takes in order to penetrate the tragic nature of existence. Wherever there is tragedy, i.e. the ‘inextricable,’ the irreparable and several legitimacies, melodrama is spontaneously added. As a result, the conflict between two rights—that of the Israelis and that of the Palestinians—has been transformed into a fight against Zionist crime. The irony of memory is that Hitler did not simply destroy Europe, he also numbed its wit, for some time to come. As this was the terrible simplicity of absolute evil and as this evil is unforgettable, Nazism has cut us off from a great tragic heritage, which, from Sophocles to Hegel, had shaped the European soul. (. . .).

Pierre-André Taguieff pursues in this line: The new teaching of respect that I am hoping for with all my heart must take place through interaction between, on the one hand, the teaching about the holocaust by combining history and reflection on the meaning of the Nazi genocide of Jews, and, on the other, an objective presentation of the underlying reasons of the Israeli-Arab conflict, involving the teaching of both Zionist history and that of Arab nationalism, with its contemporary extension in radical Islam, the new worldwide carrier of anti-Jewish hatred. The aim is to provide stu-

jewish identity, memory, and anti-semitism

71

dents with the means of distinguishing between Islam (in all its forms) and the various ways in which it has been politicized through various fundamentalist . . . guises. The recent wave of anti-Jewish sentiment in France, irrespective of national specificities, can only be understood if one includes the specific international context of a new war against the Jews declared by radical Islamic fundamentalists. ( July 6, 2004)

Anti-Semitism, whether it be in France, Belgium or the rest of Europe and the world, must be identified for what it is: a stain on mankind. Without this recognition and action to fight it, the abomination of the “final solution” of the Holocaust remains, in the words of André Neher “the unthinkable and the incompensatable.”

PART II

JEWRY BEYOND EUROPE

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SIAMESE TWINS—RELIGION AND SECULARISM IN JEWISH NATIONAL THOUGHT Yosef Gorny Past and Present This chapter examines the attitudes towards Judaism as conveyed by some leading secular nationalist intellectuals from Eastern Europe before World War I, and their impact for our present and future. By and large, on the rational level, religion and nationalism are different phenomena: for the one—God is the center, for the other— the nation. One is a transcendental anti-historical belief, for the other—history has major ideological meaning. But beyond the rational dimension, in historical reality, these two beliefs have a certain common denominator of differential ties between religion and nationalism. Examples are multiple: Pravoslavism and Russian nationalism; Catholicism and Polish or Irish nationalism; an American national feeling and its ties with religious tradition; and in recent times we see Arab nationalism inflamed with Islam. These examples are meant to indicate that while each case is particular, they have a general common component. The subject of this chapter, Judaism and nationalism, is included in this universal framework. Yet, by the same token, it should be noted that the Jewish case is also unique. In a metaphoric way, I would say that the connection between religion and nationalism is sometimes like between cousins and brothers and sometimes like between twins; in the case of Judaism and nationalism, their relationship in Jewish history is like the biological tie between “Siamese twins.” This phenomenon has been discussed for more than two hundred years, since the French Revolution, and continues to be central in the present time as well. The reasons for this are well known, but I will allow myself to mention some of them which relate directly to the subject at hand. Looking at the Jewish people from a historical perspective, as a

76

yosef gorny

primordial ethnic community,1 we have to accept the notion that religion, most of the time, was the most significant component which shaped the character and fate of this people. In other words, religion was for the Jews who were dispersed in many countries and living in different cultures a substitute for the other components that shaped most of the nations in the world: shared territory, economy, political power and a common popular language. Paradoxically, this abnormal situation of the Jewish people united modern nationalistic intellectuals, especially in Eastern Europe in a striving to change this historical reality. In other words, to normalize the Jewish existence as ‘a people among peoples’ and ‘a nation among nations’. This would mean, as the historian Ben-Zion Dinur defined it, the rebellion against the Galut (exile). From this perspective, ideological foes and political rivals like the Zionists, Bundists and Dubnowists were partners in this vision, which of course had various formulations. Indeed, all of the ideologies were evidently contradictory to the religious orthodox perception of the Jews as a people of God—Am Yisrael. But paradoxically, in this concept some of the principal ingredients of nationalism existed in an embryonic form long before modern national ideologies. Specifically, I mean the idea of a chosen people with a mission to mankind; the emotional feeling that a homeland is not only a place to live but also a land with a spiritual meaning for the people and for the individual. It is the symbolic mystic city—the “Zion” of every religion and of every national movement—like Paris for the French revolution, Rome for the Italian liberation movement, Gettysburg for the American new nation, London during the “Blitz” and Stalingrad as a turning point in the struggle against evil. Above all, this mystic city is, of course, Jerusalem of the Temple, which more than any other symbol, indicates the “Siamese twins” alliance of religion and nationalism in Jewish history. However, this nationalism implied a feeling of primordial identity, and in many respects came as a substitute to the orthodox concept of Judaism. This was understood by the secular nationalistic political intellectuals in Eastern Europe in the formative period of the Jewish national movement—i.e. before World War I. These “political intellectuals”

1 This view is accepted not only by Jewish historians like Dubnow, Baron and Dinur, but by modern social scientists as well; See: Anthony D. Smith, 2003, pp. 63–64.

religion and secularism in jewish thought

77

responded quite closely to Jonathan Frankel’s “Polo Intelligentsia,”2 by which he identified the founders and leaders of the Bund party. A kind of “Intelligentsia” which consisted primarily of Russian political and revolutionary figures.3 “Political intellectual” stands beyond the “Russian Intelligentsia” and is more universal historical; it points to intellectuals who are “insider” of political movements. It represents the opposite of the usual definition of an intellectual as an “outsider” of established structures. While both of them are social critics, for the “outsider,” criticism is a cultural principle and for the “insider” it is a political instrument. In a different way it may be said that the “outsider”4 sees the destruction of the “evils” of the establishment as his anarchic assignment; the “insider” sees his historical mission in his attachement to the construction of a new society. All of the intellectuals dealt with in these pages are “insiders” at different levels, involvement in political ideology, and political activity. All of them were fully committed to the making of a new Jewish reality; they participated in the all-encompassing development that transformed Eastern Europe Jewry. More specifically, the “inside intellectuals” discussed here represent three major trends of secular nationalism and approaches towards religion: the negative, the separatist, and the integrative. The negative approach belonged to the “inside intellectuals” of the Bund—the social democratic Jewish party that combined, in its own very special manner, Marxism and nationalism. The Bund shared, indeed, a radical approach toward religion; it saw in it a hypocritical belief and a dangerous political opponent with whom any compromise was inconceivable. The separatist approach advocated complete ideological and cultural distinction between Jewishness as a living national society and Judaism as a religion, which, in its view, is contradictory to the national goal. Two writers and national thinkers represented this attitude: Micha Yosef Berdichevsky (1865– 1921) and Hayyim Brenner (1881–1921). The integrative approach was a combination but not a synthesis of three substantially different yet not hostile opinions. These intellectuals were critical but pragmatic insiders. The nationalist non-Zionist historian, Simon Dubnow; 2 Jonathan Frankel, Prophecy and Politics: Socialism, Nationalism and the Russian Jews 1862–1917 (Hebrew), Jerusalem 1989, p. 13. 3 See: Michael Confino, 1972. 4 See: Edward W. Said, 1994.

78

yosef gorny

the Zionist thinker, Ahad Ha"am; and the senior leader of the Jewish Labor movement in Eretz Israel (Palestine), Berl Katznelson. Since the subject of this book is strongly oriented to present-day Jewish society, I will deal only with two approaches, which, in my view, are still very valuable in our time and have a special importance for the existence of “Klal Yisrael” in the future—the “separatists” and the “integrationists.” Berdichevsky and Brenner were radical Hebrew nationalist and critical Zionists, each of them in his particular way. Brenner made Aliyah (immigrated) to Eretz Israel and was killed there. Berdichevsky lived and died in Berlin. For them, as radical humanistic nationalists, the survival of the Jews as a people was dependent on a complete separation between Jewishness and Judaism. Berdichevsky coined the famous provocative statement that the revival of the Jews as a normal people “depends on the choice between the Jews and Judaism.” Therefore, “The priority should be given to the Jews rather than to their ancestors.”5 For Brenner, as for Berdichevsky, Jewish life was not identified with the Jewish religion. From his point of view any synthesis should be uprooted because it impedes the project of “freeing Jews.” Instead, the Jewish people should, in this perspective, accept that “there is no Messiah for Israel” and that the key of success lies in the strenght to live without Messiah.”6 Hence, while the Bund, the negativistic approach, negated religion totally from its Marxist proletarian point of view, Berdichevsky and especially Brenner advocated a separatism based on the national principle. Brenner did not negate religion as “folkish” or as noble individual belief, but as a major component of Jewish nationalism. For him, as a “free man,” a Jew may be an atheist or a believer but only within the circle of his or her private life. In contrast, at the collective level, not religion but only nationalism warrant the future of the Jewish people. This was the very difference that separated the negation of “Klal Yisrael” by the Bund and its acceptance by Berdichevsky and Brenner. As nationalists, these two were “insideintellectuals”—even though, because of their radicalism they often were rejected as “outside intellectuals.”

5 6

Micha Yosef Bin-Gorion (Berdichevsky), 1966. Yosef Chaim Brenner, 1985.

religion and secularism in jewish thought

79

The third approach of the pragmatic and critical “insiders” is the central issue in this context. The pragmatic feature of this approach derived from its political nature, and its critical approach was rooted in its intellectualism. But above politics, there was the a-priori Klal Yisrael ideology. The logic of the conceptual unification brought up an unavoidable compromising pragmatic approach justified by its goal. For Dubnow, the goal was the Jewish-World People; Ahad Ha"am added the “spiritual center” in Eretz Israel, and Katznelson the working new society label. However there was a difference in the degree and nature of compromise with religion that each of these trends was ready to accept. Additionally, implementing their goals was very much dependent on their involvement in political activities. Dubnow, the historian, was the initiator of the People’s Party and other political enterprises, but he was not a political leader. Ahad Ha"am was first a thinker but also an initiator and head of a cultural and political association, “Bnei Moshe.”7 Katznelson was the senior ideological and political leader of the leading party Mapai in the Labor movement in Eretz Israel.8 Dubnow was one of the fathers of modern Jewish nationalism and the promoter of the idea of Klal Yisrael as a general Jewish united front to establish security and fight for Jews’ national rights in Russia at the beginning of the twentieth century (he never forgave the Bund and the orthodox Agudat Yisrael which refused to take part in this front). His basic outlook viewed Jews as firstly a national entity and not a religious belief or ideological worldview. Insofar as religion is concerned, a Jew although being an atheist continues to belong to the Jewish nation as long as he does not convert to another religion. 7 Bnei Moshe, an organization founded in 1889 by Ahad Ha"am and a group of Hebrew intellectuals as a part of the Lovers of Zion movement (Hibbat Zion). 8 A more pragmatic political approach towards religion can be seen, as well, in the Bund in Poland between the two wars. Since the party was legitimate in the democratic Polish Republic, they also had to decide about their participation in the democratic Jewish communities together with political and ideological foes: the Zionists and the Religious Orthodox. After not an easy dispute among themselves, the Bund decided to take part in the elections in the communities (Kehilot). The pragmatic leaders of the Bund, like Victor Alter, were ready to accept into the trade unions under their leadership Jewish religious workers and even Zionists. It is as well interesting to notice, that during WWII, when the Jewish section in the Communist party in the US advocated a united Jewish front against Fascism, they softened their attitude toward religion. See: “Idn mit religie un on religie” (“Jews with religion and without religion”), Morning Freiheit, April 2, 1944.

yosef gorny

80

The reason that religion played such a role among Jews, according to Dubnow, consists of the unique existential condition of the Jewish people as a nation in exile where religion was a substitute for the lack of national territory and other components assiociated with nationhood. Hence, Dubnow rejected complete separation between religion and nation. But as a non-Zionist, he saw in the Jewish condition an eternal Exile Nation (Galut Nation), which means that religion is here built in nationalism forever.9 Ahad Ha"am was in total agreement with Dubnow’s historiosophy. But in spite of this, and in spite of the warm friendship between them, he fundamentally disagreed with him about the way to keep the Jewish people in the modern time from disintegration and assimilation. Dubnow believed that popular Yiddish cultural and social autonomy would suffice to establish a national stronghold. Ahad Ha"am did not oppose the autonomy principle but believed in a “magnetic” spiritual and social elite which would establish a Hebrew national center in Eretz Israel able to monitor culturally the dispersed and disintegrated Jewish people. On the political level, these different outlooks implied very different conclusions. Dubnow was convinced that national autonomies as world phenomena would be established, in the future, as a result of a progressive social and political process. In contrast, Ahad Ha"am’s political agenda required building a spiritual center for the Jewish people. This could not be done at the time without agreement between secular nationalists and parts of the religious Jewry in Eastern and even in Western Europe interested in the construction of a Jewish modern culture in Eretz Israel. Ahad Ha"am’s main preoccupation was spiritual renaissance grounded in modern Hebrew education. This national-mission perspective went through two different formulations regarding his relation to religious Jewry. The first formulation was elaborated in the late nineteenth century; it emphasized some basic principles but left room to pragmatic considerations; the second started from pragmatic considerations but also referred to basic principles. The former is reflected in two open letters to Rabbi Mordechai Elyashberg (1890) and his son Yehonathan (1895)10—who were in favor of constructive work in Eretz Israel. Ahad Ha"am underlined two basic principles: one which was expressed

9 10

Dubnow, 1937. Ahad Ha"am, 1949.

religion and secularism in jewish thought

81

already by Mordechai Elyashberg, that the two ways of building the Jewish society in Eretz Israel—the religious and the secular—are legitimate; the second principle was the non-intervention of secular nationalism in the domain of religion. He assured them that it never crossed his mind to use the Zionist movement (Hibbat Zion) as an instrument for religious reforms. But he was decent enough to admit that he believed in a historical self-corrective inner process in the Jewish religion. In other words, Ahad Ha"am believed then in two ways of national upbuilding—the secular and the religious. About ten years later, however, in the first decade of the twentieth century, Ahad Ha"am was to change his mind in the context of the dispute that took place between secular Zionists in Eretz Israel and the modern-orthodox heads of “Ezra,” a cultural foundation that set up a there a new high-school. The dispute was about the nature of the teaching orientation of the new institution—whether the secular or religious. A letter to his friends clearly expresses his dilemma at the time. Ahad Ha"am emphasizes here his secular nationalism but also admits that religion is a basic component in Jewish national history. This brought him to a pragmatic point of view. Since the main national goal is Hebrew education, and if there is no other choice, it is better to have a modern education in a religious spirit, but in the Hebrew language, than not to have it at all. For the future, he hoped that the political balance in the Jewish Yishuv would change in favor of the secular nationalists. He hoped to be able then to take part in the struggle against the radical and even modern orthodox. This kind of pragmatic compromise was an outcome of his national ideology and how he sees that it may be fulfillled; it is this conviction that he shared until his last days in Eretz Israel.11 With Berl Katznelson (1887–1944), the integrative principle and pragmatic politics reached their peak. He was one of the spiritual guides of the Second Aliyah (1904–1914)—a group of founding fathers who laid down the basic principles of social and political action of the Labor movement: “Hebrew Labor;” cooperative settlements; military self-defence organization “HaShomer;” and the ideology of “constructive socialism” as a way of building the new nation. The attitude toward religion in this group was not one-sided. Actually, they were divided into two approaches: the separatist illustrated by Brenner, and the more traditionalist illustrated by A. D. Gordon (1856–1922). 11

Ahad Ha"am, letters concerning Eretz-Israel (1891–1926).

82

yosef gorny

For most of the group the attitude toward religion was critical and connected to the “Negation of Galut.” For them the religious society in Eastern Europe and in Eretz Israel was the embodiment of “Galut” and therefore an anti-national phenomenon. For instance, praying and mourning by orthodox Jews at the Wailing Wall symbolized, in their eyes, the Galut phenomenon. But at the same time, the Wall itself was a national shrine which inspires rebellion against this mourning. Their criticism against the settlers of the First Aliyah12 as well was not against their religious tradition, but rather because of their social behaviour—especially their employement of Arab workers and opposition to the principle of “Hebrew Labor,” which in their eyes contradicted the predominant national interest. Katznelson was very close to both A. D. Gordon and Brenner. But when it came to religion, he swayed more on the side of Gordon. Katznelson himself was a traditionalist. In the 1920s and 1930s as a leader of the powerful Histadrut (the labor trade union), his attitude was also very pragmatic. He supported vigorously the affiliation of the religious workers movement with the Histadrut on the ground of socialist interests. When confronted with the question of the Kashrut in Histadrut’s restaurants, he did not hesitate to declare that it is better to have a “Kosher” Histadrut with religious workers than a non-Kosher Histadrut without them. Actually, this kind of pragmatic attitude became the political credo of Mapai, the dominant Labor party. Though, behind this political pragmatism lied a historical view that can be linked to Dubnow and Ahad Ha"am about the unbreakable tie between religion and nationalism. This explains why for him the fast of the “Ninth of Av” carries primarily a national meaning. In his words: “This very night when the Jewish people laments its destruction, enslavement and the bitterness of its exile . . .” This remembrance of the destruction, the sense of exile, and the ardour to create a new society were one and the same, not only as a heritage but also as a spiritual and cultural reality that symbolizes the unity of dispersed Klal Yisrael.13 12

The First Aliyah, 1882–1903: the founders of the modern Zionist society in Eretz Israel and the builders of the first agriculture settlements (Moshavot). 13 See: Berl Katznelson “Hurban u’Telishut” (Destruction and Uprooting), and “Mekorot Lo Achzav” (Inexhaustible sources) Writings vol. 6, Tel-Aviv 1947, pp. 365–367; 385–393. It was significant that most of Berl’s critics, in this case, indicated not their anti-religious principles, but the hostile and even vicious attitude of the majority of the orthodox Jewry towards Zionism and the Labor movement.

religion and secularism in jewish thought

83

To sum up, the Bund and Berdichevsky—Brenner represented a separatist non-historical approach. Fort this approach, even though in the past religion expressed Jewish nationalism, in the present modern time there is no further tie between them. The second approach illustrated by Dubnow, Ahad Ha"am and Katznelson was explicitly based on historical continuity. Our question at this point is whether or not the problem that was at the heart of the elaboration of Jewish national thought decades ago is still relevant to our present-day preoccupations? My answer is yes, in spite of all the fundamental and dramatic changes that have taken place in the history of the Jewish people, and perhaps even because of them. It seems that today we are facing a phenomenon of neo-“Brennerism,” neo-“Dubnowism” and neo-“Ahad Ha"amism.” The first, which is mainly Israeli, demands the separation between the state and religion; the second is Diasporic and believes in a revival of Jewish centers; the third holds the idea of the centrality of Israel in the Jewish world. For the latter two the historical connection between nationalism and religion is essential. But even a part of the new separatists who do not deny the existence of a world Jewish people must accept the historical hyphenation of Judaism and Jewishness because in present-day Jewish Diaspora, the public expression of Jewishness or Jewish ethnicity is often fulfilled through religious institutions—Orthodox, Conservative or Reform. This means that only an ultra-radical secular and anti-nationalistic view can break the historical ‘Siamese tie’ between religion and nationalism as an exceptional Jewish phenomenon. On the other hand, the religious Jew cannot deny the existential link between secularism and religion in Judaism imposed by the Halacha itself. Here specifically, reference is made to the categorical imperative of “born a Jew always a Jew”—even the one who converted. Paradoxically, in this respect, the Halacha is more “liberal” than the historical approach. From this point of view, the religious and the secular are in the same “trap” of dual recognition. The secular recognizes historical Jewishness as a synthesis of religion and nationalism, and the religious accepts the secular Jews as an integral part of Judaism. So far, the integrative approach of Dubnow, Ahad Ha"am and Katznelson are even more needed in the present and for the future than they were in the past. But at the political level, reality negates ideology. The bond between religion and politics has an anti Klal Yisrael meaning in three aspects. It is anti-Zionist because of the

84

yosef gorny

religious discrimination that it institutes between the different parts of Jewish people; it is anti-democratic because of the unequal status in Israel of the three main religious denominations—Orthodox, Reform, Conservative; and it is anti-liberal because it does not allow the individual to choose his way to join the Jewish people and to build his life among them by marriage or conversion to Judaism. Because this is an academic book, and not a political one, pragmatic suggestions or solutions are out of our competence and experience. But our critical intellectual duty is to uncover the fundamental diversions in our society and the dangerous consequences they may imply. The Jewish people in Israel and in the Diaspora are inside a “Canaanite Syndrome”14 which means that the territory and its culture are more and more the fundamental factors in shaping Jews’ collective national identity. And that means a dynamic process of more and more identification with the peoples and cultures where Jews evolve. This is an objectively unavoidable process for a substantial part of the Jewish people in free societies and even in Israel. But the other part, which strives to keep the unity of “Klal Yisrael,” faces a historical paradox. The state of Israel, which is ideologically a Zionist state and is attached to the unity of the Jewish people, is causing a deep schism between them in the context of religions politics. In this situation, an intellectual constant debate is needed at the very least, especially by “inside—intellectuals,” in order to consider a new concept of Klal Yisrael appropriate to today’s Jewish civilization.

14 A group of intellectuals in the State of Israel in the 1950s, who preached for the founding of a Hebrew nation disconnected with the Diaspora Jewry.

CHAPTER NINE

ISRAELI IDENTITY AND MISSION IN BUBER’S THOUGHT Shalom Ratzabi The goal of this chapter is to show the contribution of Buber’s theopolitical thought, which identifies the Jewish people both as nation and as a religious community, to recent efforts to find solutions to this acute problem facing Israel for decades, namely, the Jewish-Arab conflict. It is well known that the main stream dominating Zionist thought before and after the establishment of the state of Israel sees Jewish nationality in terms of a modern national framework. This view correspondingly perceives the uniqueness of the Jewish people as only the result of their exilic situation which made them prey to their neighbours. The claim set forth from this perspective has been, and remains, that the aim of Zionist activity must be the normalization of the Jewish people. This is embodied in the Zionist popular slogan “a nation like all nations,” and, indeed, the essential difference, before the founding of the Jewish state, was that the Jews were deprived of the principle attribution of a nation—a sovereign state. Achieving an independent state would thus normalize their situation and secure their existence as a “nation like other nations.” The dominant current of Jewish nationalism also believed that only citizenship in the Jewish State should determine the Jewish national identity, as only French citizenship determines a Frenchman’s national identity. This mainstream view sees Israel as an “end” and not an instrument. That is, the efforts of the Jews should be completely invested into the security and the existence of the state of Israel serving as the basis for a Jewish national identity. Buber’s theo-political thought stands in sharp contrast with this nationalistic outlook. He articulates his understanding of the existence of the Jewish people from a religiously inward perspective— that is to say, from the Jewish experience across generations. From this it follows that the concept of Jewish people and Jewish national identity are built upon the grounds of Jewish religiosity.

86

shalom ratzabi

The core of Buber’s theo-political thought or as he labelled it ‘Hebrew Humanism’ is, as he saw it, opposed to ‘a nationalism which is nothing but empty self-assertion;’ in other words, his claim is that the Jewish people is not like other nations, no matter how much its representatives have wished it. The singularity of the Jewish people is a by-product of the way by which the tribes of Israel became a people. That is to say, the uniqueness of the Jewish people—as a nation—is inherent in its structure as people, a structure which has determined Jewish history ever since ancient times. In Buber’s view, the root of this uniqueness goes back to the first appearance of the people of Israel as a nation and which constituted of both a nation and a religious community (1963: 248). Buber articulated these ideas in his research on the Bible and Jewish thought throughout Jewish history, especially regarding Jewish Hasidism. He sees in the early formative events of Jewish history the importance of the covenant with God as a basis for the nation. A principle that is recurrent and which, for example, is illustrated both in the scene of the Israelites standing at the foot of Mount Sinai amd in the war of Baraq and Deborah when the 12 tribes united. In either case, one sees Revelation taking the form of a covenant with God. The significance of this is that the nation is directly tied to a relationship with God. In this context, Jews’ identity as a nation must be based on God’s commandments. Thus, according to Buber, alread in these Biblical times, Israel was not a nation in the comprehensible sense, but rather a people and a religious community in one. It is this element that builds the Jewish identity and it is this element that embodies the uniqueness of the Jewish people. Moreover, this unity of a people and a religious community, Buber argues, was the secret force that “enable it [the Jewish people] to survive in an exile no other nation had to suffer, an exile which lasted much longer than the period of its independence.” That is to say, he who serves this bond serves the life of Israel (1963: 248). Along the same lines, Buber observes that to the biblical concept of the election of Israel—which begins in the election of Adam and goes on through Abraham to the Jewish people at Mount Sinai— carries out the divine plan of justice and responsibility in all realms of life. Only a nation whose responsibility extends to nearly all realms of life can actually model the modes of relationship required by such a covenant. Thus, for the people of Israel, the land of Israel serves

israeli identity and mission in buber’s thought

87

as a necessary precondition to fulfill their task in the world as a nation. Moreover the land of Israel and the Jewish people are the only two parts to the partnership in the covenant of which God is in the center. This means that to actualize true and just relations fully in everyday life, the nation requires a land of its own where it can establish a community that lives in full accordance with the covenant. Though, it should be reminded that, according to the Bible, the real owner of land is God alone. Indeed, in the article entitled ‘The Land and its Possessors,’ Buber writes: It seems to me that God does not give any portion of the earth away, so that the owner may say as God says in the Bible: “For all the earth is mine (Exod. 19:5).” The conquered land is, in my opinion, only lent even to the conqueror who has settled on it—and God waits to see what he will make of it. (1963: 233)

Undoubtedly, we may conclude from this theo-political standpoint that the identity of the Jew and so too the identity of the Jewish people as a nation is not a regular national identity. It is conditioned chiefly on the obligations that Jewish people took upon themselves within the framework of their covenant with God. Therefore neither the state nor any other national attributes are the source of the Jewish national identity. Israel’s accepting the covenant implies two basic ideas: the kingship of God and consecration of every day life. The laws of the Torah in the teachings of the prophets seek to realize the rule of God in all spheres of life. In the Bible, any dichotomy between the realm of sacred and that of profane is invalid. In the following, Buber explains this idea: He calls “truth” and “righteousness,” and he does not demand these for certain isolated spheres of life, but for the whole life of man, for the whole life of the people. He wants the individual and the people to be “whole-hearted” with him. (1963: 251)

To live as a nation of God or in the words of the Bible “to be a kingdom of priests and a holy people (Exodus 19:6),” the community has to maintain all of its life spheres so that all relationships between its members and with its neighbour’s communities will reign by justice and be sacred. With this theo-political concept of the uniqueness of the Jewish people in mind, we can now delve into the significance of the Land of Israel in Buber’s Jewish nationalist thought. Unlike other nations, the Jewish people did not develop on its own

88

shalom ratzabi

land in the regular progression from tribes to nation. Rather, as mentioned, they became a nation only through their covenant with God. It follows that in the framework of this covenant we have to define the rule of Eretz Israel. The land of Israel is the land that God elected and promised to Israel as a part of the covenant. It then follows that the land of Israel has no meaning to the history of the Jewish people except as one ingredient in the covenant. Given these considerations we can understand why Buber did not regard Zionism as a regular national movement. The ordinary national movement thrives to a national state, which is their motherland. It is not so in the Jewish case. The land of Israel is not the motherland of the Jewish people; it is the land which was designed to be the place for the Jewish people to fulfill their duties of the covenant. From this argument follows that Eretz Yisrael (land of Israel) is not the native country of the Jewish people, but rather part of the covenant, or as Buber puts it, ‘a task.’ That is, because living in Eretz Yisrael is tied to accepting to be ‘a Nation of priests and holy people’ in that land, Zionism is not a national movement in the ordinary sense, but a Jewish renewal movement which aims to have the Jews return to their history and renew their ‘task.’ In this form of nationalism, the Jews return their responsibility towards God in the land of Israel in establishing a just community. On this basis, Buber defines what he sees as the goals of Zionism and his political attitude towards the Jewish-Arab conflict. In Buber’s thought, the recovery of the Bible constitutes one of the major tasks for the Jewish people in their quest for renewal. As Silberstein mentions in his writings on Buber, this recovery means a constant dialogue between the realities of the present and the teachings of the prophets in the remote past about the moral of the nation, its justice and truth (Silberstein, 1989). Thus, in every period and situation, the Jewish people must shape their task in accordance with the teachings of the prophets. Only then will they be able to make clear what is needed in order to create a community based on justice and truth. On this basis, Buber articulates the aim of the people of Israel today as Salvation: “Our only salvation is to become Israel again, to become a whole, the unique whole of a people and a religious community: a renewed religion and the renewed unity of both.” (Buber 1963; 252)

israeli identity and mission in buber’s thought

89

With the establishment of the State of Israel, Buber formulated the aim of Zionism as an instrument of and a framework for the struggle of the Jewish people to fulfill their duty in accordance with the covenant. In this new design of Zionism’s goal, the meaning of the renewal of the nation of Israel as both a religious community and a nation received a new political form. One of the best presentations of this new aim can be found in Buber’s speech entitled ‘Israel’s Mission and Zion,’ which was delivered in Jerusalem, 1957. Indeed this speech was an answer to the Zionist view expounded by then Prime Minister Ben-Gurion who saw in the state of Israel not merely an instrument, but the beginning of redemption and of the fulfillment of the messianic idea of the prophets. In contrast to this view Buber states: Ben-Gurion is right in saying that youth in Israel is very much interested in certain parts of the Bible, especially in the stories about the conquest of the land, in the narratives and also in some words of the prophets. But on no account are the prophets to be regarded apart from their historic mission that sent them to those men who seized the reins of power in order to summon them to stand in judgment before their God who had made them king provisionally (1963: 249).

In other words, the destiny of Israel depends upon the fulfillment of the demands of the prophets, which imply that the people of Israel have to act in accordance with the covenant. While the prophetic demands apply to all generations, they apply especially to our own generation as for the first time in two millennia exists the prerequisite for fulfilling this task, i.e. a Jewish state in the Land of Israel. Our generation has the power to determine for itself—in no small measure— its institutions, its modes of life, and its relations to other nations. In this context, Buber continues, the intensity of the political principle which characterizes the modern world in general and political Zionism in particular has drawn the Jewish-Arab conflict to the realm of politics and its consequent falling victim to politicization. In this perspective, Buber argues in his book “Land of Two People:” We must fight against the excessive growth of politics, must fight it from within, from a position within politics’ own domain. Our objective is to eliminate the political surplus conflict, the imaginary conflict, to bare the real interests, to make known the true bonds of the conflict between interests. (Buber, 1983: 188)

90

shalom ratzabi

That is to say the task of the people of Israel, in Buber’s thought, is to depoliticize this conflict and restore it to the realm of everyday relations between persons and communities. With this in mind, Buber concludes: The only hope is to establish institutions which accord supremacy to the demands of life over the “demands” of politics and which thereby provide us with a real and substantial base from which to explain the truth (Buber 1983: 188).

If the Jewish-Arab conflict is to be resolved, it must shift from the sphere of ‘political principle’ that is to say from the framework of power politics to the sphere of ‘social principle’ that is to say to human relationship, responsibility and dialogue. And indeed in the Zionist outlook of Ben-Gurion which I have mentioned above, Buber saw “the will to make the political factor supreme” (Buber, 1963: 261). In an interview with Ben Ezer, he argues that there can be no peace between Jews and Arabs, merely a cessation of war. And in accordance with his stance about the political principle he adds: “there can be only a peace of genuine cooperation. Today, under circumstances so manifoldly aggravated, the command of the spirit is to pave the way for cooperation of people” (Ben Ezer, 1974: 120). The Jewish-Arab conflict is according to this outlook the test of Zionism. That is, in this historical hour to fulfill their covenant, the Jews must solve the inherent problem in the relationship between two peoples according to the moral principle and not according the political principle. In summary, Buber rejected the conventional view that saw the Jewish-Arab conflict and Israel’s survival solely in military terms. To him, the true test of the Jewish people was moral and religious, resolved around the Jews’ ability to achieve a genuine peace with the Arabs. He agreed that the Jewish people need the land and freedom to organize their own life in order to realize the goal of community, as claimed by political Zionism. But we must remember, contends Buber, that the state as such is at best only a means to the goal of Zionism, and it may even be an obstacle to it if the true nature of Zion as task and mission is not held to be most important. It follows that because the Jewish people is both nation and religious community, Buber claims: We do, of course, need the conditions of normal national life, but these are not enough—not enough for us, at any rate. We cannot

israeli identity and mission in buber’s thought

91

enthrone “normalcy” in place of the eternal premise of our survival. If we want to be nothing but normal, we shall soon cease to be at all. (Buber 1963: 252)

Buber was not a naive political thinker as his opponents labelled him. He acknowledged that “it is indeed true that here can be no life without injustice. The fact that there is no living creature which can live and thrive without destroying another existing organism has a symbolic significance as regards our human life” (Buber 1983: 86). But Buber argues that the inevitability of injustice does not give the right to abdicate the responsibility to strive for justice. In Buber’s words: A person commences to be truly human when he pictures to himself the results of his actions and attempts to encroach upon other creatures as little as necessary. We cannot refrain from doing injustice altogether, but we are given the grace of not having to do more injustice than absolutely necessary. And this is none other than the grace, which is accorded to us as humanity. (Buber 1983: 170)

This is Buber’s first moral imperative. The Jewish people, he argues, has to confront the responsibility of drawing the line of demarcation between ‘just’ and ‘unjust’ acts. In the face of this ongoing responsibility, political slogans are totally inadequate; likewise, abstract principles would not suffice. At this historical hour, the leaders and citizens of Israel alike as people and as a religious community which stand before God, claims Buber, must accept their human and religious duty. They must demark the line between evil and least evil, which is inherent and inevitable in the concrete situation, and make a decision. On this basis, Buber forms his attitude regarding the major issues which have stood between the Palestinians and Israel since the founding of the state of Israel—particularly, the issues of the refugee problem, the status of Jerusalem, the armed conflict with terror and the restriction of nuclear weapons. So, for example, Buber demanded the repatriation of the Arab refugees who had fled from Israel in 1948 (Maurice Friedman 1983: 346–347). In one of his statement, he not only urged to relive the situation of the refugees within the country, but also to take the initiative in calling an international conference to deal with the problem of refugees in Arab lands. This meant asking the Israeli government to abandon its position that the refugees could be dealt with only within the framework of a general political peace settlement. Moreover, Buber spoke out publicly in several instances when Israeli forces killed Arab civilians and particularly

92

shalom ratzabi

in Kafr Kassem. In a public speech delivered in 1958 he expressed his feelings: Often, in earlier times, Arabs hordes had committed outrages of this kind, and my soul bled with the sacrifice; but here it was a matter of our own, or my own crime, of the Jews against the spirit. Even today I cannot yet think about this without feeling myself guilty. Our active faith in the spirit was too weak to prevent the outbreak and spread of the demonic false teaching.

We can conceive his sorrow only if we remember that Buber saw Zionism in its prophetic dimensions and in accordance with ‘Hebrew Humanism’ as fulfillment of Israel’s mission as a people with responsibility before God. On the one hand, he could not agree with BenGurion that the state of Israel is the beginning of the messianic redemption. Indeed, Buber could not imagine the messianic idea “without the yearning for the redemption of mankind and without the desire to take part in its realization” (Buber 1963: 263). On the other hand, he believed that the values of Israel are the fruits of their covenant with God which figures their unique existence as a religious community and nation. So “the values of Israel,” he said, “cannot be reborn outside the sphere of this union and its uniqueness” (Buber 1963: 252). That is to say the task and the goal of Zionism is to realize Hebrew Humanism that consists of the principle of responsibility and justice, grounded in an understanding of the Bible regarding Jewish national identity as a religious community and a nation.

CHAPTER TEN

SOVEREIGNTY, VOLUNTARISM, AND JEWISH IDENTITY—NATHAN ROTENSTREICH Avi Bareli* During the early years of the state of Israel, Nathan Rotenstreich was a prominent figure in public life. He was one of the main thinkers in the leading political party Mapai1 and a gifted and well-known academic philosopher. His many works include, among other topics, profound and original interpretations of Kant, Hegel, and Marx. Rotenstreich’s sociocultural commitment to Judaism manifested itself through his continual research into Jewish philosophy and the encounter of Jewish thought—secular and religious—with the crisis of modernity. By exploring philosophical questions about the status of Judaism in the modern era, Rotenstreich sought to tackle the spiritual agonies of modern Jewry. It was this commitment that prompted Rotenstreich to publish his thoughts in various journals and newspapers affiliated with Mapai and the Zionist Labor Movement. Rotenstreich was Socialist and Zionist and his thinking aspired to a synthesis of national and social outlooks. As we shall see, one of the most important concepts that made his synthesis possible is the concept of rational will. He was committed to the values and interests of the Jewish national and secular society of the pre-state Yishuv. A man of theoretical thought, he expressed this commitment in

* Some of the ideas that are elaborated here are the products of intensive discussions I have had with Prof. Y. Gorny while writing together an introduction to a book of articles by Nathan Rotenstreich (Zionism Past and Present, Suny Press, New York, forthcoming). I also used here some of his discussion on Rotenstreich in his book (1994) The State of Israel in Jewish Public Thought: the Quest for Collective Identity. I would like to thank him for his help and support. 1 Mapai, the leading party in the Zionist Labor Movement in Palestine, was founded in 1930 and embraced most members of the Movement except for Ha-Shomer haTsa"ir and other small groups. In 1933, Mapai became the leading party in the Zionist Movement and the Yishuv (the Jewish community of pre-independence Israel), led them in the process of establishing the State of Israel, and served as the ruling party until 1977 (During its tenure at the helm, it underwent metamorphoses, splittings, and mergers, and was renamed the Israel Labor Party).

94

avi bareli

elaborating on the significance of rational will and his discussing the inter-dependence and conflict between sovereignty and voluntarism. At the core of Rotenstreich’s thought on these subjects, we find the tension between the centrality of the state, on the one hand, and voluntarism, on the other. Rotenstreich’s Zionist and socialist worldview was explicitly voluntaristic. His thought aspired to a life shaped by rational volition, even though he was completely aware of the deep disparity existing between human reality and aspirations. But he was not content with this realistic evaluation. In his eyes, realism should be used for finding a feasible way to mould human society, not to abandon altogether the very idea of a society shaped by collective and individual rational will. Rotenstreich was thus an overt left-winger Zionist, in the original sense of the term ‘left’—in demanding that individuals and collectives do not take social or national reality for granted. This voluntaristic approach stemmed from two major sources: 1) Kantian ethics and its focus on human will guided by the imperatives of reason, and 2) Socialist-Zionism which in the pre-state period was grounded in the spirit of pioneers devoted to the establishment of Jewish sovereignty. Rotenstreich’s commitment stood for a voluntarism that posits the centrality of volition guided by reason. This commitment was at the foundation of his bond with Kantian ethics and the values, interests, and hopes of Labor Zionism. It was also at the core of what he saw as Jewish secular identity at the time. Voluntaristic Socialism For Rotenstreich, the convergence of Kantianism, Zionism, and Socialism is evident. A prominent example is his article “Socialism and the Problem of Responsibility” published in 1952. In this article, he discusses the concept “Responsibility” as stemming from the Kantian concepts of “obligation” and “autonomy” so central to the German philosopher’s rationalist ethics and philosophy of liberation. The arguments presented in this article demonstrate that concepts of Kantian ethics, with clear secular connotations, can be seen as the link between Rotenstreich’s socialist ideology, on the one hand, and his voluntarism and denial of determinism, on the other. From Rotenstreich’s standpoint, the responsibility of the individual who makes a moral decision and does not slide passively into a state of

sovereignty, voluntarism, and jewish identity

95

action pertains directly to the historical enterprise of the humanistic Left. It directly affects the fate of the socioeconomic enterprise of the Left, which may be defined as a quest for “authentic” social existence arising from the negation of the supremacy of economic considerations. As Rotenstreich states at the outset of his argument (1952), “Socialism finds itself in a situation where it sees no other way of attaining the desired level of production than to behave as though it were not Socialism, and to nurture in the individual the urge of possession and of economic and social progress.” The socioeconomic arrangements that Socialism has ordained, however, restrain these urges. Thus, the individual tumbles into a difficult zone that lies between encouraging these urges and restraining them: he “sees himself functioning as a capitalist and is judged as a Socialist. The beginning of his behaviour should be capitalistic and its denouncement . . . Socialistic.” This untenable and severely pernicious confusion occurs because Socialism separates its means from its ends. By so doing, Rotenstreich believes, Socialism does itself a disservice. Socialism should not reduce itself to the anonymous regulatory frameworks of the welfare state in order to alleviate the inherent injustice of rationalism or economic efficiency, while individuals’ actual behaviour continues to be guided by the profit motive even under Socialist dominion and regulation. Socialism then merely concedes its own defeat insofar as its main object, since the time it was devised, is the praxis in individual lifes. Rotenstreich’s solution to the problem resides in the Kantian idea of responsibility which, in his view, should amend the accepted version of Socialist theory. Without this amendment, man’s demand for rights in Socialism, and a fortiori in Liberalism, will inevitably lead to hedonism and a stance made up solely by demands from society. Rotenstreich preached instead for recognition of the individual’s responsibility to the community and commonality. No longer would individual’s action be perceived as a means but as “an objective and overt quasi-extension of his psycho-physical personality.” Hence, Rotenstreich was very sorry that the kernels of authenticity implanted in the Zionist Labor Movement, were now in the first years of the State “awash in the whirlpool of all-sweeping economic considerations.” Rotenstreich was critical of Socialism when understood in terms of nationalization and expressing a macroscopic view of society where ownership is anonymous and “appears as an organization and not

96

avi bareli

as a concrete unit of life.” Such a society encourages a culture of entitlement and leaves no room for the relationship of responsibility that intimacy presumes. Such intimacy is possible only where there is “an identity of economy and society.” This principle, he contended, is best illustrated by the kibbutz, the Zionist commune, where “a economic activity is but one manifestation of social action.” This identity of economy and society that exists in the kibbutz grants its identity to the whole Zionist Labor Movement and it is in this sense that Rotenstreich could write “[t]he fate of the Labor Movement depends on reinvigorating the kibbutz movement (1952).” He hoped that the kibbutz movement would continue to be a pioneering and society-serving elite as it had been in the pre-independence period. Above all, he hoped that it would now function as a paragon for society at large and would inspire society to emulate it. Rotenstreich’s discussion of the concept of responsibility contained the exigency that politics, economy and society, as they were given shape by the Zionist Left during the period of the formative period of the state, leave room to individual autonomy. He thought that the ‘collective will’ embodied in the new sovereignty—that is, the State of Israel—should not foster bureaucratic obedience, but rather activate the citizen in the frame of appropriate social and economic systems. Rotenstreich related the demand for individual autonomy and personal responsibility to intimate social bonds, though these kinds of bonds are difficult to envisage in the context of wider political systems. Similar difficulties recur in Rotenstreich’s extensive polemical writing: while his conclusions often rest on in-depth critical analysis, he no less often confronts the political reality from a point of view that sounds like inapplicable moralism. Society-building in Israel, in his view, should not wait until the economic and global basis for a Socialist society takes shape. The very act of waiting is tantamount to succumbing. Socialism, and especially Zionist-Socialism, must not postpone “the creation of a social cell of human significance at the present time,” since in the absence of such a cell, “Socialism would create with its own hands a social organization that would render it void.” Rotenstreich even claimed that rejecting the primacy of purely economic considerations is essential for Israeli society specifically. Israeli society, he said, is struggling to establish the physical basis of its very existence, and the struggle may lead to a confusion of standards and the development of a unilateral “functionalistic consciousness.” To forestall such

sovereignty, voluntarism, and jewish identity

97

a possibility, a renewal of the “consciousness of responsibility” and “the social cells that carry its imprint” is imperative.2 Essential in this criticism is the author’s rejection of social passivity. This insistence on activism, the voluntaristic source of his secularism, was also the source of his socialist criticism of Israeli society in its early years. Rotenstreich was one of the most prominent critics in Mapai’s internal debate about political institutionalization at the outset of Israeli independence. His criticism centerd on the weakening of society’s voluntaristic nature as well as its special socialist orientation. Rotenstreich’s first criticism of the political institutionalization of the State already appeared an article entitled “Israeli Society in Crisis,” published in October 1950, about two years after the creation of the State. The article expressed harsh feelings vis-à-vis the current internal ideological debate in Mapai. Rotenstreich urged the party to adopt realistic critical thinking, free of cynical scepticism and self-satisfaction. The heads of state should laud kibbutz society; the kibbutz movement should withdraw from “the frenzy of financial corruption that has gripped Israeli society” in its outward behaviour and not only in the management of its internal affairs; Mapai should stanch “the frenzy of selfishness” and should demand that its members lead a modest lifestyle; the leaders of government should become paragons of “return to a simple life, i.e., the dominion of the idea.” It is hard to resist the conclusion that Rotenstreich’s critical power in this article surpassed his ability to propose a way to solve the crisis of norms that was involved in the process of institutionalization during the early years of independence. Nevertheless, one cannot but respect the voluntaristic moral ethos that guided him.3 The atmosphere of crisis and alarm also stands out in another article “About the Horizon of Time in Our Lives,” which Rotenstreich published about half a year later, in June 1951. Here, among all aspects of the social crisis that he identified at the time, Rotenstreich focused on “bourgeoisization.” In contrast to the allegations, accusations, and preachings that filled his earlier article, “Israeli Society in Crisis,” Rotenstreich now took a more sober approach. He appreciated the intensity of the objective processes that had engendered 2

N. Rotenstreich, 1952, pp. 18–25 (Hebrew). N. Rotenstreich, October 1950, quoted from Rotenstreich, Al ha-Temura, pp. 152–161 (Hebrew). 3

98

avi bareli

the contemporaneous crises and realized that preaching would not be too useful. He admitted that the Israelis, immigrants and nonimmigrants alike, would not be able to escape the crises of “the day after”—after twelve years (1936–1948) of Holocaust, of conflict with the Palestinians and the British government and then the war of independence against the Palestinians and the Arab states. The reactions and the fatigue after these years, he now admitted, were unavoidable and more powerful than the countering force that Ben-Gurion and his colleagues in the government could call in.4 It is interesting to see how an anti-determinist5 such as Rotenstreich, who attributed much importance to social engineering was now forced to acknowledge the predetermination of social processes. But at the same time, he warned that the “bourgeoisization” of the Jewish workers, along with the rest of society, would endanger the existence of Israeli society, lower its morale, and ultimately impair its security. To revive Israeli society, he wrote, Mapai and its leadership should banish considerations of popularity from their thinking and revert to the wellsprings of the Labor Movement, to prefer the value of labor over the value of standard of living, to serve society instead of exploiting it, and to prefer voluntary bottom-up awakening over top-down guidance by means of rules and regulations. About a year later, in late 1951, Rotenstreich published another article, “The First Pincer,” in which he expressed different attitudes toward the role of the state in view of the erosion of the voluntaristic norms and the crisis of halutsiyut (pioneering). In his October 1950 article, “Israeli Society in Crisis,” Rotenstreich attributed most of the blame for the crisis to the state and its leaders. Now, he set his trust in these very actors and urged them to renew the pioneering movement. Here we can see more clearly how Rotensteich’s thought reflects on the complexity of the relationship between sovereignty and voluntarism. One of the main functions of the state, from his republican and Kantian perspective, is to activate its citizens. But, there is always the danger that the state would rather foster obedience 4 In October 1950, Pinchas Lavon, leader of the Gordonia group in Mapai, the branch with which Rotenstreich was affiliated, had joined the Government. 5 This stance was the dominant one among the Mapai ideologues, nearly all of whom were rather extreme voluntarists and anti-determinists. Rotenstreich was a most profound representative of the dominant approach in the world of Mapai. Leaders such as Ben-Gurion and Lavon may also be considered pronounced voluntarists, in contradiction to their being no less people of authority.

sovereignty, voluntarism, and jewish identity

99

and passivity. Now, Rotenstreich likened the country’s populace to “a mass of individuals at each other’s throats. People are behaving “. . . like a society that no longer believes in its future and, accordingly, is indulging in a feeding frenzy.” The immigrants, in Rotenstreich’s judgment, have given the non-immigrants a human and social alibi. The gist of this alibi, he wrote, is the assumption that since the country’s human quality is about to decline in any case, it is best to live for the moment and maximize one’s pleasure. However, he continued, it is the non-immigrants, not the immigrants, who are the source of the immigrant-absorption problems. Successful immigrant absorption integrates newcomers into institutions that teach them patterns that they would perceive as “parts of the natural landscape that should be taken for granted.” Instead of this, Israel’s nonimmigrants have become a “collection of individuals [that] lacks the strength to absorb [immigrants].” A faceless community that confronts another faceless community. Momentarily abandoning his typical voluntarism, he admitted, “There is no hope for a moral turnaround without the assurance of a known minimum supply. . . . [Otherwise, people] will regard themselves as fighting for life itself and will consider all means fit. . . .” He hurriedly added, however, that the main need was “to put together core groups of people who will maintain the cohesion of the veteran Yishuv and, by so doing, sustain its institutions, without which the masses of immigrants will not be absorbed.” In other words, a pioneering elite should be established and the government should be responsible for establishing it. Thus, while overlooking his disapproval of the state that typified his article “Israeli Society in Crisis” (and that would typify his writings in subsequent articles, especially those in the 1960s), Rotenstreich assigned here the government a normative role.6 In this article and others of similar intent that he published during those years, Rotenstreich sustained a fundamental aspect of the mamlakhtiyut (Zionist and Israeli republicanism) outlook, that is, that the state is a major, nay even primordial, object of emotional identification for its citizens and is to be recognized as a dominant actor in society. In “The First Pincer,” as we have seen, Rotenstreich even designated the state as a source of norms. 6 N. Rotenstreich, 1951. Quoted from N. Rotenstreich, Al ha-Temura, pp. 162–169. The year 1951 is noted at the end of the article in the latter publication; this may denote the year the article was written.

100

avi bareli

In three articles published in the spring and summer of 1952 and in early 1953, Rotenstreich attempted to devise a general way out of the impasse that he had identified between late 1950 and late 1951 and early 1952. This attempt, however, amounted to adherence to an orieintation that may have diverted his political thinking from practical conclusions. Thus, again he called for a renewal of the relationship between the members of the Socialist pioneering settlements and the political system. Once more, Rotenstreich resorted to a rather idyllic portrayal of the formative past. Again, he said, an effort is to be made to blend, if not to fully integrate, the pioneering settler elite and the political elite and to recruit leaders from the ranks of those who consider their personal fate and the collective’s as one and the same. Hence, Rotenstreich’s analysis remained within the domain of hope for the restoration of the political role of pioneerism and voluntarism; it contained no proposals about society-building. Moreover, there was no proposal for adaptation and implementation of the voluntaristic values in the new political structure of the state.7 As a matter of fact, the complexity of Rotenstreich’s public writing is amply evinced in his discussions of the concept of mamlakhtiyut.8 He refused simplistic distinctions and either-or conceptual dichotomies that ostensibly set matters straight but render discussion superficial. This explains the typical tension in his writing between a demand to bring Israeli society back to the voluntaristic values that he cherished and a static outlook that assigns the state and its leadership a central and normative role in the revival of pioneering voluntarism and the reinvigoration of its values. The tension in his writing mirrors the dialectic tension that existed in the historical reality of the time. In this sense, Rotenstreich’s public writing, at its best, ushers us into the secret recesses of the basic contradictions that typified the “Israeli condition” during the country’s founding years. This specific condition makes Rotenstreich’s criticism of early Israeli society a valuable presentation of the problematic relation between sovereignty and voluntarism in his secular thought. The new sovereign state is an embodiment of the Jewish collective will, but it came 7

N. Rotenstreich, May 1952, pp. 77–85 (Hebrew), quoted from Rotenstreich, Al ha-Temura, pp. 170–177; ibid., August 1952, pp. 183–191 (Hebrew); ibid., Feb. 20, 1953, pp. 285–286 (Hebrew). 8 See above for the definition of its main fundamental.

sovereignty, voluntarism, and jewish identity

101

into being and cannot be sustained but by the force of individual volition which would be true to itself only insofar as it fosters social activism. The deep root of this exigency is the secular idea of man shaping his own world according to his rational will. Voluntaristic Zionism The same thoroughly voluntaristic approach that we saw in Rotenstreich’s discussions of social problems also characterized his perception of Zionism. In his opinion, the active individual is responsible for the fate of his nation just as he is responsible for shaping his society. Rotenstreich saw Zionism as a reemergence of ‘collective Jewish will’ in history. In his opinion, the fulfillment of the political project of Zionism rests on the strength of the individual’s desire to devote himself to the interests of “Klal Yisrael.” He called Zionism an auto-emancipatory movement—following Leon Pinsker, the renown zionist ideologue—in order to emphasize that it was a voluntary self-liberation movement and that its objective was the creation of a sovereign political society. This movement contrasts with the Emancipation movement in Europe, which, according to Rotenstreich, was not the result of voluntary personal action of Jews but rather of independent circumstances.9 Rotenstreich’s Zionism was definitely secular, though not in the sense that it was anti-religious or aimed at the secularization of the Jewish people. Rather, Rotenstreich’s Zionism was secular in the sense that it was based not on a collective covenant with God, but on an earthly and political ‘collective will’ and on the demand that it would stem from human rationality— and not from an irrational or super-natural source. Rotenstreich based what he called “the pre-eminence of the state of Israel” in Jewish national affairs on the state being a manifestation of ‘collective Jewish will’ in history.10 Nevertheless, the pre-eminence of the state of Israel over the emancipated Diaspora does not negate the co-existence of the two.11 Here, too, we can discern the originality of Rotenstreich’s voluntaristic approach. He focuses on the question: Will the Jewish nation be politically free, and will it obtain state sovereignty?

9 10 11

See, for example, N. Rotenstreich, 1977, pp. 33–44. Op. cit., p. 38. See A. Bareli and Y. Gorny, (forthcoming).

102

avi bareli

These are two crucial factors for its continued existence without which it will, “heaven forbid, be swallowed up in the universal culture of the modern world.”12 The nation’s desire to perpetuate its existence and formulate it creatively is at the center of his Zionist voluntaristic vision: We are struggling . . . [with the question] whether the Jewish nation as a historical unit, will continue to act from the source of its existence, or whether it will exist by the wayside of the world, with only symbols of Jewish existence surviving in the best possible scenario. Do we want symbolic remnants of existence [traditional-religious and others], or do we want the fabric of activity [of the nation], Rotenstreich’s including its creative fabric, to continue to exist?13

This quote shows that in Rotenstreich’s eyes, collective and individual Jewish creativity in a sovereign state, is central to Zionism. He is by no means hostile to tradition and religion, but believes that Jewish viability lies somewhere else. We are now able to discern the basic approach which we show in these pages. To be sure, Zionism is not a comprehensive worldview, neither ethically nor philosophically. It is an attempt by Jews to maintain a Jewish collective reality within the world as it is. Rotenstreich thinks that this focus directs Zionism’s attention to the fate of Jewish individuals as part of the Jewish collective and therefore “leads . . . towards a principle of solidarity with all creatures.” Rotenstreich holds that if this principle does not guide Israeli society, Israel will be torn from its Zionist roots as well as its socialist roots.14 The voluntaristic link that facilitates the Zionist-Socialist synthesis in Rotenstreich’s public thought was the source for his pungent criticism of early Israeli society. And this very voluntaristic principle led him to dash American Jews’ hopes of establishing a “new Babylon” in their own country. Sorrowfully, without gloating, but without pulling punches, he contended that America had not evolved into a creative Jewish center and that all the immense intellectual forces of American Jewry were being pledged to retain, but not to enhance, the Jewish framework.15

12

See A. Bareli and Y. Gorny, (forthcoming). Ibid., pp. 48–49. 14 Ibid, pp. 64–66. 15 See, for example, N. Rotenstreich, 1972a, p. 19. See also N. Rotenstreich, 1972b, pp. 139–162. 13

sovereignty, voluntarism, and jewish identity

103

Hence, he adopted here a clearly non-religious perspective about the future of the emancipated Diaspora, and especially American Jewry. In Rotenstreich’s opinion, Klal Yisrael was threatened by disintegration in the absence of Jewish coalescence around a collective national will. He asked for the national auto-emancipation of postemancipation Jews in the liberal Western democracies whose personal civil emancipation was firmly grounded. He wanted them to have a free collective will. This was not an anti-religious position; it was a secular, i.e. non-religious position focused on nationalism and collective independence. Rotenstreich knew that American Jewry, although having fervently supported the establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine since the Biltmore conference in 1942, distinguished between Jewish sovereignty in Palestine and the ingathering of all Jews there. But, he did not consider immigration to Israel or the support for the establishment of a Jewish state as the only ways opened for American Jews to foster their collective independence. Rather, he called for a collective effort of the Jews in the Diasporas in order to free themselves from the threat of cultural assimilation and from the hazards of fragmentation and dispersion, by means a national awakening in emancipated Diasporas.16 We see then that his voluntaristic Zionism also favored active Jewish Diasporas. Rotenstreich hoped that in present circumstances, the Jewish people will still remain one people. In other words, that the Diasporas would foster active collective life, be closer in spirit to the state of Israel, and be connected with the state as equal partners. These hopes rested mainly on the power of Jewish collective and individual will, and not on religion.17 All in all, the essence of the secular Jewish identity that Rotenstreich advocates for the Jews and for the Jewish people is an identity of self-made men, women, and people, sovereign and guided by their reason. Voluntaristic Zionism focused on a Jewish sovereign state and on auto-emancipated Diasporas, both of which were seen by him as the two main roads for cultivating active Jewish identity. Negation of Jewish passivity was a crucial condition, according to Rotenstreich, for the survival of any Jewish identity, be it religious or secular. But he does not cling excessively to this voluntaristic and

16 17

N. Rotenstreich, 1953 (Hebrew). N. Rotenstreich, “Parallel Tracks,” op. cit., pp. 91–94.

104

avi bareli

secular principle of self-made men, women, and people. He fully acknowledges the natural and traditional limits of the human capacity to shape society and to mould culture. This puts a boundary on Rotenstreich’s secular Jewish identity. He deeply acknowledged that in order to be Jewish, individuals cannot cut themselves off from Jewish tradition and religion. They must, in one way or another, represent some form of cultural continuity through creative re-shaping. The same applies, of course, to the natural limits on women and men’s ability to dominate and to determine the characteristics of their social relations. A good way to further understand Rotenstreich’s thought on this matter is by examining his criticism of Marx’s exhaustive historicization of the concept “human nature.” In Rotenstreich’s opinion Marx’s extremist historicist tendency went so far as to equate everything existing in human reality with changing historical times. His basic claim is that Marx exaggerated the application of the category of history to the point of assuming that the dialectical course of history will settle even those contradictions that are not fundamentally historical. For example, the contradiction between man as an independent creature and the world that surrounds him, to which he belongs yet from which he differs. And the same, of cource apply to a less acute contradiction, such as that between the individual and the group, or between the individual’s ability and his will. Delving further into this particular discussion would, however, take us beyond the scope of this chapter. In conclusion, the secular identity that Rotenstreich advocates for Jews and for the Jewish people is that of a sovereign identity, of people who shape their own fate. It is a voluntaristic identity, insofar as it is shaped by rational collective and individual will. But this voluntaristic and rational conception of national and secular identity does not renounce the natural necessary limits on the way societies shape themselves. Moreover, it does not renounce the essential function of tradition nor does it cut itself off from tradition.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ON RELIGIOUS-SECULAR TENSIONS1 Avi Sagi The concern with religious-secular tensions involves an analysis of both the real and ideal circumstances of this relationship. In this article, I attempt an analysis of religious-secular relationships in Israeli society in light of a new conceptual framework. First, however, a methodological caveat: terms such as “religious” and “secular” are often cast in an essentialist mould, as if they represented actual discernible entities. Israeli reality, however, shows these terms are part of a sequence, points against which to locate specific groups rather than distinguishable and contradictory essences. My analysis will focus on three main conceptual frameworks used to describe relationships between cultural and social groups—toleration, pluralism, and multiculturalism—and on the meaning of the rights discourse within each of them. A discourse of rights describes a situation involving one party demanding its rights and another to whom this demand is addressed, on which corresponding obligations are imposed. For the purpose of this discussion, I have adopted the definition endorsed by Joseph Raz (1984; 194): claiming that an individual or a group has a right usually implies that the interest of the individual or the group is a sufficient reason for claiming that others are under an obligation. Obviously, not every individual or group interest automatically turns into a right; only an interest that is sufficiently valuable and important imposes a matching obligation on the other. In this definition, however, the concept of right assumes an additional dimension which conditions the very possibility of a “rights discourse.” If a right is a demand from the other, this implies the existence of some legal system—judicial, moral, or other—agreed upon by the parties to the discourse. In the absence of a shared legal system, to speak of a right as a demand from the other is meaningless. 1

Thanks to Batya Stein, who translated this article from the Hebrew.

106

avi sagi

A rights discourse does involve human interaction, but this interaction differs from a dialogue. First, interaction in a rights discourse hinges on certain interests, so that the meeting takes place only in the perspective of this interest. In a dialogue, to use the terminology of Emmanuel Levinas, human beings meet each other’s “face,” whereas parties to a rights discourse do not see each other’s “face” but rather their own needs and interests, namely, themselves. Secondly, constitutive relationships in a rights discourse are hierarchical rather than symmetrical, whereas the parties to a dialogue face each other in their full concreteness as equal creatures, conveying a difference in their basic situation. While a dialogue involves direct address, a rights discourse is confined to the language of law and cannot exhaust the complexity of human reality. A dialogue, then, is the antithesis of a rights discourse. In a rights discourse, the parties entrench themselves in their own territory. They address each other obliquely, through the law, only to protect themselves from potential injury by the other, whereas in a dialogue, this territory is precisely what is encroached upon. A discourse of rights protects what Isaiah Berlin called the individual’s negative liberty, the domain where individuals will not be disturbed and will be autonomous to do as they please (Berlin, 1969). In a dialogue, however, borders are breached, walls are cracked open, and the protected territory becomes the main topic of the dialogical “struggle.” Dialogue, by definition, is a struggle over the very meaning of identity. A rights discourse is meant to preserve the personal, biographical, cultural, and economic identity of individuals and of society, whereas a dialogical relationship tears this identity down. The status of the rights discourse in any given culture is thus the litmus test of the relationship between self and other. The greater the dominance of a rights discourse mode in the public, intra-social discourse, the less vital the interpersonal cultural dialogue. The rise of the rights discourse results in borders between various elements of society and in relationships marked by mutual alienation and selfsegregation. How does the discourse of rights fit into each of the three conceptual frameworks—toleration, pluralism, and multiculturalism— defining the relationships between various social and cultural groups? Toleration is a paradoxical concept, implying we are willing to bear what we actually reject. The tolerant person rejects the tolerated stance as false, but refrains from adopting steps toward its elimination.

on religious-secular tensions

107

Toleration, then, is a second choice, since the first choice would be the disappearance of the tolerated stance. Since this stance still exists, however, toleration is a response to the dilemma faced by monists, who believe there is one truth and they have it, but do not coerce the other to accept it. This restraint may rest on utilitarian reasons, on respect for the other as an autonomous creature, or on other grounds (on historical and philosophical aspects of toleration see Kamen, 1967; King, 1976; Mendus, 1988; Horton and Mendus, 1985; Mendus and Edwards, 1987; Horton and Mendus 1991; Heyd, 1996). The rights discourse fits in well with tolerance and derives directly from it. Identifying the tolerated party as tolerated creates a sense of distance and negation that precludes dialogue and marks off the other as separate. Beyond the rights of the tolerated party and the concern that their implementation should not bother the tolerating one, the inner world of the other evokes no interest. Pluralism, unlike toleration, is not predicated on a hierarchical relationship between truth and falsehood. “Weak pluralism,” a minimalistic stance, assumes that all participants in the discourse might posses the truth, hence the importance of freedom of thought and of expression in helping to discover it (see Mill, 1984, ch. 2). By contrast, “strong pluralism” assumes “the good” has various forms, but we lack a criterion for comparing values which are incommensurable (see Kekes, 1993). All forms of “the good” are intrinsically valuable, and more than one of them is possible (Mill, 1984, ch. 3; Berlin, 1969; Berlin 1990). The rights discourse in a pluralistic society, then, is not hierarchical. It is merely a legal-political expression—one of many and not even the most important one—of a culture of dialogue predicated on difference. Pluralists seek to preserve the other’s uniqueness and confront the other’s fullness. Rather than a claim of one party on another, the rights discourse in a pluralistic context represents the claim of one part of society (usually the stronger and more dominant one) on itself, to make room for the rights of other, usually less dominant cultures (Tamir 1988, 87–88). The third conceptual framework is multiculturalism. This term refers here to the identity concept developed by Taylor (1992a; 1992b), whereby the identity of the individual and of society are shaped through dialogue. The new dimension introduced by this approach emerges in contrast with the essentialism of the classic view. In his later writings, Taylor asserts that the dialogue with “significant

108

avi sagi

others” is the most important dimension of identity: people shape their world and their being in the course of a dialogue with others. Dialogue need not express agreement with the other, and often involves confrontation and rejection. The gist of this approach, however, is that identity is not a given, or a finished product. Rather than finding an identity, people shape it and establish it through the course of a dynamic relationship. The “other” is not only the one who is different from me, since everyone is different from everyone else. The “other” is singularly important because he offers a significant alternative for the organization of my own existence. The other is the one questioning the traditional perceptions of my consciousness, by the very presentation of an alternative that is meaningful and coherent and yet so different from my own. The encounter with the other, then, requires an act of interpretation concerning the old foundations of identity. It could lead to a transformation of the most basic meanings of old practices and myths, a response many traditional societies have endorsed in their encounter with modernity (see, for instance, Eisenstadt 1983, ch. 14). It could also lead to complete rejection of the other and entrenchment in the old identity that, in extreme situations, leads to the branding of the other as demonic. Human identity, then, emerges in the course of a relationship with the other that wavers between, on the one hand, a perception of the other as a full, concrete self, Taylor’s “significant other” and, on the other hand, a view of the other as a demon; whereas the former will lead to a dialogical relationship, and hence to a dynamic, changing identity, the latter will result in negation and segregation. The rights discourse is not the natural channel for conducting a dialogue about identity. Excessive emphasis on demands addressed to the “other” denotes a failure to acknowledge dialogue and a multicultural identity as constitutive elements of identity. A discourse of rights as the exclusive mode of the relationship thus implies a return to static, closed, and alienated models of identity that exclude a perception of the other as “significant.” This might even lead to a view of the other as a demon, from whom a rights discourse will ensure protection. This conceptual framework enables us to map the tense relationships between religious and secular Jews in Israel. Neither secular nor religious Jews accept the multicultural approach to identity in Taylor’s sense, and neither approaches the other as the “significant other” to

on religious-secular tensions

109

be engaged in a dialogue that will build their own identity. For religious Jews, their worldview and their identity are shaped “from the inside,” through the norms, memories, and yearnings called Judaism. The religious public tends to perceive the Jewish identity of secular Jews as contracted. Even if they do not view secularism as an “empty cart,” as R. Abraham Karelitz (Hazon Ish) had held, they certainly do not consider it a full “Jewish cart.” The links established throughout history between religious and secular Jews in the community, in the Zionist movement, and in the State of Israel rest, from a religious perspective, on an assumption of asymmetry between secular and religious Judaism. Only religious Judaism continues the Jewish legacy, and secular Judaism is an unfortunate historical mishap. For many religious Jews, Jewish historical existence without religion is senseless. The practices, the ethos, and the myths of secular Jews are therefore meaningless. The secular other is not the “significant” other in an identity-shaping dialogue. The attitude of the religious towards the secular other thus ranges from paternalism up to a perception of him as the demonic other. Zionist circles drawing on the ideas of Rabbi Abraham Kook insist on explaining secular Judaism as an expression, indeed dialectic, of hidden religiosity, whereby secular Jews are unaware of their own motivation but will eventually discover it. This interpretation assumes that if secular Jews want to remain attached to Judaism, they thereby convey their basic desire to link up with “authentic” religious Judaism (for further analysis, see Sagi, 1995a). The attitude toward secular Jews prevalent in ultra-Orthodox circles is different. Rather than approaching secular Judaism as a concealed expression of religious yearnings, they recognize its threat to traditional Jewish existence. It is no wonder that the ultra-Orthodox public discourse, literature, and press include references to secular Jews as demonic, since they represent the threatening other. Although Jewish religious identity in the modern era is largely determined by its contest with secularism, most members of the religious public have not reversed their conscious course to identify the secular other as constitutive of their identity. The picture is not radically different in the secular public. Historically, Jewish secularism was built on the negation of traditional religious Judaism. The choice of the proof-texts through which secular Jewish identity was moulded, as well as its choice of myths and national heroes, clearly point to the negation processes that

110

avi sagi

constituted this identity. Favoring the Bible over the Talmud was not a random preference. Rather, it reflects a value priority that points to crucial elements in the creation of a secular Jewish identity. Secular mythical heroes included biblical figures, the Maccabeans, and paladins such as Bar Kokhba. These heroes replaced the ideal figures of Halachic Judaism: talmudic sages, Halachic scholars, and religious paragons. Both cultures occasionally shared paradigmatic models, since both drew inspiration from the Bible as a common source, but the meanings they attached to these figures differed since they derived from the fundamental perceptions prevalent in each of them. The secular outlook outlined biblical heroes in strong lines, taking clues from the biblical narrative and from the romantic background that played a significant role in the consolidation of a secular Jewish identity. The Halachic tradition was far removed from this context. In sum: secular Jewish identity shaped a new myth and a new ethos that consciously rejected the myth and ethos of traditional Judaism. Even deeply inspired individuals touched by the “sorrow of Judaism,” such as Ahad Ha"am, acted in this fashion. Ahad Ha"am, whose contribution to the moulding of a secular Jewish identity is unparalleled, was, relative to his contemporaries, surprisingly sensitive to the decisive role of culture and tradition in the constitution of personal and collective identity. And yet, he too leaped over tradition and culture: from his times to the beginning, to the biblical era. This leap over tradition exacerbated the negation of, and the alienation from, Jewish religion. What was identified as post-biblical Jewish religion was perceived as exilic, meaningless, and often as mistaken. Instead of reinterpreting Jewish tradition as a whole through cultural and historical conceptual terms, secular Judaism chose the romantic path of a leap to a “pristine” beginning. One of the most powerful expressions of this trend is the story “Ha-Drashah” [“The Sermon”] by Hayim Hazaz. Yudke, the protagonist, utterly rejects Jewish history and claims: “We have no history at all” (Hazaz, 1968, 222), since “What’s in it? . . . (elision in original) edicts, libels, persecutions, and kiddush ha-Shem” (ibid., 223). Exile, as well as the messiah and religious redemption, are merely an evasion of real history for Yudke. He therefore concludes: Zionism and Judaism are not the same thing, but two different things, perhaps even mutually contradictory. Surely two mutually contradictory things! . . . When a person can’t be Jewish, he becomes a Zionist (ibid., 233).

on religious-secular tensions

111

Even if this is an extreme view among the spectrum of trends prevalent in the Zionist movement and in the revival of the Jewish people in the Land of Israel, we cannot deny that this typical element of negating traditional religion as inferior and inadequate to modern life, the remnant of a world no longer significant, is undeniably present in this generation. The beginning of a return process to Jewish history and culture as a whole have recently become evident in a renewed openness to “the Jewish canon.” This process sometimes conveys a genuine willingness to understand the concepts of the traditional Jewish world, out of a desire to engage it in a multicultural dialogue. The negation, however, still echoes strongly. The dominant tone is still one of enlightenment. In the spirit of an enlightenment project, secularism may suggest a more correct Judaism, more scientific and historical, and perceives religious Judaism as an archaic remnant. Large groups of secular Jews, aware of the tension and the conflict with the religious public, have not renounced the enlightenment project that views the relationship between religion and secularism as hierarchical, and religion as inferior to secularism on such aspects as rationality, liberalism, and so forth. When these values determine the universal criterion for judging the religious other, the other is usually perceived as inferior. This approach is embodied in the fact that this segment of the secular public is ready for a discourse of rights with the religious, but less ready for an encounter of horizons that endangers its own identity and opens it up to a dynamic perception of identity. As noted, when the discourse of rights epitomizes the relationship, it becomes one of self-segregation and isolation of the various parties: “secularism” or “religiosity.” The tendency of the secular public toward a discourse of rights reflects not only self-segregation, but also the denial of the other and the willingness to remain within the boundaries of the familiar cultural territory. In sum, even if identity is indeed shaped through the contest with the other, neither the secular nor the religious public show any signs of having turned this fundamental fact into a constitutive element of their identity. Nor is pluralism a common currency in Israeli society. The religious reject weak pluralism because it makes the certainty of their world temporary, and a pluralistic discourse might lead to the rejection

112

avi sagi

of the religious world as mistaken. Yet, they do not accept strong pluralism either. Generally, the religious public does not accept the view that the other’s Jewish world is a self-contained reality rather than a reduction of the religious realm of meaning. More precisely, considerable segments of the religious public are ready to acknowledge that secularism is not a world devoid of meaning but, despite their readiness to recognize the fullness of secular values, they are unwilling to acknowledge their Jewish resonance. Ever since the “culture” controversy in the Zionist movement, the religious public has consistently perceived itself as the custodian of Judaism, and expected secularists to take their Jewish value from within a religious Weltanschauung. The basic attitude of most religious Jews is a rejection of strong pluralism. As for secular Jews, although they appear to support both weak and strong pluralism, this is not really the case. Only a minority within the secular public considers Jewish religion an option that might emerge as the truth. Most of the secular public is entrenched in a secular stance and does not view it, at least in principle, as temporary. Strong pluralism is also generally rejected, since secularists tend not to recognize the intrinsic value of the religious world. This fact is reflected in the epistemic mechanism that many secularists apply to the understanding of the religious world. From a pluralistic perspective, the only legitimate epistemology is to understand the other through his own practice and inner conceptual system. This epistemology replaces the reductionist version that judges the other in terms of the observer’s world. A pluralistic epistemology is predicated on the notion of value incommensurability which assumes the lack of a general common yardstick for ranking different cultural worlds (Kekes, 1993, ch. 4), and therefore seeks to understand the other in his otherness. This epistemology would not appear to be widespread among the secular public. As noted, this public often tends to understand the religious other by setting up a more “correct” Jewish model. In reality, then, the secular public returns to a rights discourse, but this discourse can only express one of two options—either indifference to, or toleration of, the other. This analysis, then, points to a symmetry of isolationism and rejection of the other between the secular and religious public. The other is not a true option, and his world is a rejected world. These circumstances do not altogether dismiss the possibility of a relationship of toleration. Toleration, besides indifference and detachment, appears to be the more typical relationship in Israeli

on religious-secular tensions

113

reality. Secularists tolerate the religious, and vice-versa. But toleration is by nature limited. Ultimately, its real (rather than philosophical) borders are determined by the extent to which the tolerated party wrongs the tolerant one. In Israeli society, tensions indeed erupt precisely at the point one party feels that the other has violated an essential foundation of its world. In a tolerant society, as noted, a discourse of rights is possible. The parameters of the discourse are determined by the democratic character of the state on the one hand, and by political practice on the other hand. In the Israeli context, then, the discourse of rights is not a sign of openness toward the other but a formal normative summary of its constitutive elements. In other words, secular-religious relationships are characterized by a mutual “hiding of the face,” a silent denial of the other’s concrete fullness. This mapping provides a key to the sources of the tension between religious and secular Jews in Israel. The lack of openness toward the other, and certainly the absence of a multicultural or even a pluralistic consciousness of identity are the basic features of the intra-Jewish dialogue. At best, the discourse with the other, religious or secular, takes place at the level of a discourse of rights on the one hand, and in the course of developing an attitude of toleration on the other hand. There are several reasons for such a clear rejection of the other. A prominent, if not the main, cause of the rejection, however, is that the other represents an alternative of the very same thing. Both the religious and secular parties offer an option of Jewish existence and of Judaism. The various segments of Israeli society are thus contending for the same cause: Judaism. Hence, each one is required to deny and reject the alternative Judaism represented by the other. In truth, the various Jewish groups approach Judaism in essentialist terms, namely, as if it were possible to identify and find in reality a specific entity called “Judaism.” The religious claim “I have it all,” and the secularists argue “whatever is yours is only a part of ours”—a particular pattern of Jewish culture. Pluralistic and multicultural cultures do not function within an essentialist discourse of this type, and the uniqueness of one culture does not pretend to play the same role in another. Israeli society, however, is still bound by this essentialist discourse and every segment within it speaks in the name of “Judaism.” Why does Israeli society cling to this essentialist discourse of identity? The reasons are many. First, the essentialist discourse often reflects

114

avi sagi

our primary perceptions as human beings. We identify our discourse with metaphysics. Our “natural” view is that our human discourse is only a mirror of what truly happens “there,” in reality (see Rorty, 1979 and Rorty, 1991, ch. 1). In this sense, the essentialist discourse of identity is not specific to Israeli society but expresses a dominant trend in human life: a “metaphysical yearning” and the identification between the language and the entity. The second and decisive point is that modern Jewish identity was built on the rejection of the other. Orthodox Jewish identity, was built in a process of negating the alternative, new or old. The ultraOrthodox built Jewish identity as a “confession”—a perception of Judaism as a community of the faithful precisely because many Jews continued to live within the Jewish community and ceased, in one way or another, to abide by the Torah. Branding these Jews as the other that must be rejected compelled the ultra-Orthodox community into a conceptual reformulation of Jewish identity in terms of actual religious practice and even of faith. But secular Jewish identity was also shaped out of a negation of the traditional world. Although secular Jews who had chosen their Judaism wanted it sanctioned and affirmed, they were unwilling to do so in the religious terms that the preceding tradition had offered. Hence, they were required to reinterpret Jewish tradition itself. The negative burden of the Jewish identity discourse implies that, if a particular stance emerges as true when analyzing the “essence” of Jewish identity, the other is false and does not reflect Judaism. This negative burden and the urgency of contending with the question of Jewish identity have turned the Jewish identity discourse into one of constant negation. The other is no longer a real entity, and has come to symbolize the opposite of genuine Jewish identity. In these circumstances, it is not surprising that the identity discourse failed to develop along pluralistic or multicultural lines. Political and social aspects also enter into the equation. Jewish society, at least since the early days of Zionism, views the problem of identity as a matter bearing implications for public life. Since the aim was, and for many still is, the building of a Jewish society and the development of a suitable mode of public life, the question of the meaning and the essence of Judaism is one of crucial practical significance: what is “the Judaism” that will constitute the public space? What is the Judaism that will chart the myths, the ethos,

on religious-secular tensions

115

and the public practice? Since the shared starting point of the participants in the identity discourse is the existence of one Jewish identity, the struggle over Judaism obviously turns into a “life and death” contest: the other’s death is a condition for my life. Israeli society will not become pluralistic, and certainly not multicultural, as long as it does not renounce the essentialist discourse, as long as it speaks of Judaism rather than of various Jewish cultures. In a world where pluralism is obvious and where the multicultural aspects of identity receive increasing recognition, the aim of tolerant relationships is too limited an expectation. The greatest cultural and educational efforts must be directed to a multicultural model. For many, the price of establishing a pluralistic or multicultural Judaism is too high since, in their view, a multiplicity of self-contained Jewish identities threatens Jewish continuity and the solidarity of the Jewish collective. A serious discussion of this complex question is indeed necessary but beyond the present scope, and I will confine myself to a preliminary outline of a solution to the problem of continuity and solidarity in the context of a non-essentialist identity discourse. The starting point in the claim assuming this price is that variety and multiplicity imply a total absence of links and similarities, hence the breach in continuity. In other words, if Judaism is A, nothing links it to another Judaism, whose content is B; in fact, if type A Judaism is correct, then type B Judaism is false, and vice-versa. The term Judaism is thus a common denominator for entirely different phenomena. But this starting point is merely another version of the essentialist outlook, and of the link that this outlook assumes between cultural patterns and a particular essence. Once we renounce essentialist assumptions, a highly plausible concession in a discussion about cultural historical phenomena, we are compelled to acknowledge the existence of several, highly similar Judaisms. The similarities and affinities among these Judaisms come to the fore in various dimensions: texts, language, memories, ethos, and so forth. The term “Judaism” thus denotes an entire family of cultural phenomena that resemble each other. Some family members resemble each other more and some less. In sum, the term “Judaism” denotes a family rather than a single specific entity. According to this approach, historical continuity is ensured through the similarity between different versions of Judaism, a similarity that also preserves and catalyzes the development of solidarity. Acknowledgement of the family resemblance expands the “we” that is the

116

avi sagi

object of primary solidarity bonds to include everyone in the family of Jewish identity. Jewish solidarity need not rest on an exo-historical “essentialist” element, and from a sociological, psychological, and even from a historical perspective, solidarity cannot be explained on grounds that it is shared by all Jews. Solidarity develops precisely through the similar common elements noted above. In Rorty’s terms, essentialist approaches lead to objectivism rather than to solidarity. Solidarity is constituted by the actual relationship with a real human community and with its prevalent practices. Solidarity reflects the sense of attachment to a given human community and a recognition of the similarity and cooperation between its members (Rorty, 1991, Part 3; Rorty, 1994, 21–34. For a modern Jewish version, see Soloveitchik, 1993, 89–92). In sum, replacing the essentialist discourse of identity with a non-essentialist discourse of cultural identity does not require the high costs of renouncing continuity and solidarity. Instead, the attempt to preserve the essentialist discourse seems to harm the delicate web of continuity, enhances alienation, and furthers the split between members of the Jewish collective. This approach to Jewish multiculturalism and Jewish pluralism requires a profound transformation in the organization of both the secular and the religious Jewish world. From religious persons, it demands a radical revolution in their ways of thought and in the practical organization of their lives (see Sagi 1995a, Sagi 1997). As for the attitude towards the other, the gist of the revolution is the acknowledgement that religious commitment, like other forms of value commitment, is not contingent on negating the world of the other. People can be absolutely committed to the Torah without assuming this means denying any value to the other’s world. Value commitments mean that people are ready to organize their lives in light of their faith and their values, namely, commitment has ethical meaning and it is no longer an epistemic claim whose reliability and certainty depend on ascribing negative value to other “competing” statements (see Winch, 1972, 193–209; Sagi, 1999). Despite the analytical distinction between normative commitment and epistemic claims, a stance such as the one described above will probably be adopted by a believer who has endorsed a dual undertaking: religious commitment on the one hand, and commitment to a pluralistic or multicultural world view on the other, drawing norms and values both from Jewish religion and from other sources. Even if the varied commitments lead to contradictions, the very

on religious-secular tensions

117

acknowledgement of the contradiction implies that conflicting values are ascribed equal merit. The recognition of possible contradictions between the sources of commitment can lead to many ways of life. Contradiction itself can become an ideal of religious life, when believers are forced to stand within this contradiction because, as individuals, they acknowledge certain values, and as believers, they acknowledge others. Since values are incompatible and incommensurable, the believers’ existence is one of ceaseless contradiction. This outlook on the ethos of religious life is one of Søren Kierkegaard’s most crucial contributions to religious thought (see Sagi, 1992), and a particular version of this approach is advocated by Leibowitz (see Sagi 1995b). This life ethos, however, is not the only one available to believers. One of the more common paths adopted by Jewish tradition to contend with genuine value contradictions was the interpretation of compelling sources of authority in ways enabling their reconciliation with changing values. The uniqueness of this interpretation is that it expresses a commitment to tradition together with a commitment to non-Halachic moral, cultural, and value systems. Interpretation is thus a mechanism of coordination. Interpretation may not be capable of resolving all the contradictions between a religious-Halachic commitment and the acceptance of the other’s world as intrinsically valuable. The recognition of the contradictions, however, as well as of the need to realize one’s religious commitment through a reinterpretation process of authority sources, might gradually tone down and perhaps resolve some of them. Some of the solutions will provide only practical answers to various questions concerning the attitude to the other, since satisfactory solutions at the theoretical level are not always available. Halachic interpretation will probably be able to provide solutions in the spirit of toleration theories. In other words, it will suggest practices that deny value to the tolerated party while refraining from direct or indirect coercion of religious practices. The assumption that Halachic interpretation might be able to suggest solutions in the spirit of pluralistic theories, recognizing the intrinsic value of a practice opposed to the Halachic norm, seems less probable. From a pluralistic perspective, a solution that does not acknowledge the intrinsic value of the other’s practice may seem insufficient. It leaves us with an uneasy feeling, since Halacha is ultimately denying the value of the opposing practice. Halacha, however,

118

avi sagi

is chiefly a normative system that organizes practice, and solving a problem at the practical level is indeed a solution, even if unsatisfactory from an intellectual perspective. Believers committed to several value systems strive to foster religious pluralism and to recognize the facts and the values of a multicultural identity, even when aware that in many areas of their everyday lives they will only reach compromises of toleration. An individual or a society living in this fashion probably benefit from the fruitful contradiction between a consciousness of pluralism or multiculturalism and a practice that is at best tolerant. This contradiction is fruitful because a pluralistic and multicultural consciousness that is accompanied by a value commitment propels the wheels of Halachic interpretation, which reduces the gap between Halachic commitment and the acceptance of the other’s world as intrinsically valuable. This is but an initial draft of the kind of religious revolution that is required to establish a pluralistic or multicultural way of life. Even if the task is hard, the history of Jewish thought may provide the deepest anchor for shaping a multicultural consciousness, since a basic dimension of classic Jewish thought is the attempt to reinterpret Jewish tradition itself in light of the encounter with the other. Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed is not a Jewish work created “from within.” Rather, it is the mature fruit of an encounter between the Jewish “inside” and the Aristotelian philosophical “outside.” This encounter generated a revolutionary view of Judaism itself, not only at the theoretical but at the actual normative level. The borders between “inside” and “outside” are thus blurred, since the dynamic of the encounter shapes a new consciousness and a new perception of Judaism itself. Although this outstanding philosophical endeavour was highly successful at the theoretical level, this was not always true for the practical one. Its value is nevertheless enormous, as a paradigm for the integration of religious commitment and intellectual daring. New daring is now required from religious individuals, in order to meet the challenge of the encounter with the secular other. Secularists also need to undergo a revolution of consciousness and of practice. They must internalize the understanding that affirming their Jewish identity does not depend on a denial of religious Judaism as inferior. This approach derives from an unnecessary interpretation of the meaning of secularism. The basic equation in this approach is that secularism implies the absolute rejection of religiosity.

on religious-secular tensions

119

Secularism in general, and Jewish secularism in particular, is interpreted only in negative terms. Such a view assumes that secularism, rather than creating an intrinsically full and significant world, is merely the opposite of the religious world. Since secularism is interpreted in negative terms, it cannot be affirmed except through the negation of the religious stance. It is then concluded that the affirmation of secularism is contingent on the negation of religion. Many religious individuals do indeed endorse the view that secularism is merely the negation of religiosity. They therefore view it as a temporary station that can only be understood against the background of the religious realm, which is the one possessing genuine meaning. But why should a secular person support this view, which is analytically unnecessary and projects an incorrect image of the phenomenon of secularism? Why should secular individuals interpret themselves in religious terms? Secularism, both in its Jewish and non-Jewish versions, involves the setting up of a metaphysical alternative to the elements that organize reality. Secularism is the recognition of human sovereignty, of human primacy, and chiefly the recognition that certain realms of life are not dictated by religion or by a religious establishment. Secularism is the recognition of history and culture as the only elements constitutive of meaning (see, for instance, Arieli, 1992, 135–200). Hence, Jewish secularism does not rest simply on the negation of Jewish religiosity; it offers a meaningful alternative of Jewish existence, interpreting Judaism in terms of tradition and culture. The relationship between religious and secular Judaism is as the relationship between two different and incommensurable cultures of value. Secular Jews, then, can affirm their Judaism without denying the intrinsic fullness of the religious world. Furthermore, the secular individual or the secular society moulding a Jewish secular self-identity must reverse their conscious disposition toward texts and other traditional sources. If Jewish identity is a renewed kind of linkage with tradition, the warranted conclusion is a willingness to listen to the voice of the tradition as it emerges from tradition itself. Secularists must renounce the pretension to be the exclusive yardstick for the meaning of religious practices, traditions, and texts. They must interpret them from the inside, in terms appropriate to it as an active, living culture at a particular time and place. Indeed, they must learn to differentiate between meaning, and significance or relevance. In other words, they must differentiate

120

avi sagi

between what is “there,” in the traditional texts, ethos, and norms, and what is relevant “here,” namely, what can be taken from the tradition for present life. This distinction does not detract from the importance of relevance and of a renewed interpretation of tradition. But only the distinction between meaning and relevance ensures a link to tradition that ensures both continuity and creativity. The element of “meaning” ensures the link with the past, with the world of tradition. The element of relevance ensures the link between past and present. The test of relevance ensures the ability to identify with, and relate to, the past. The combination of both elements, acknowledging the difference between them, ensures a dimension of historical depth in secular Jewish identity. So far, Israeli society has confined itself to solving tensions in what Ariel Rosen-Zvi calls “an encounter at the level of results” (Rosen Zvi, 1996), namely, litigation at the level of a rights discourse that renounces the “inside” of the other, the living dialogue between intrinsically full worlds. Now, once symbolic elements have become increasingly important (see Schiffman, 1995), as part of the maturation of peripheral sub-cultures that demand recognition for the fullness of their own world, the politics of results has collapsed. It is precisely now that a deeper revolution is required. Together with the rise of particularistic consciousness, honour for the other’s world and a readiness to interpret it without taking over its “meaning” are in place, beside recognition of the dialogical character of Jewish identity as part of the dialogical character of identity in general. Historical political processes exposing each party to the power as well as the world of the other might contribute to the development of this dialogue. These processes, however, will probably intensify tension and isolationism. What will remain after them will be the rights discourse, covering up for estrangement from and denial of the other. Are we doomed to live in this symmetry of negation and obliviousness or can we perhaps shape a life of multicultural dialogue? I have no answer to this question, but I do hold that awareness of the elements shaping the Jewish multicultural discourse of identity can contribute, even in small measure, to the development of a renewed dialogue about Jewish identity.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE RELIGIOUS-SECULAR CLEAVAGE IN CONTEMPORARY ISRAEL Yochanan Peres Religiosity as a Continuum The cleavage between religious and secular is perhaps the most central split among Israeli Jews. The religious and the secular populations differ in their lifestyles, study in different educational institutions (from kindergarten though high school and often college and university as well), often reside in different neighbourhoods, socialize mostly inside their religious categories and in many cases vote for different political parties. In addition to all these practical divides, the different categories of religiosity develop also divergent perspectives on Judaism as well as on the “proper” direction Israeli society should take (Ben-Rafael, 2002). The main issues this paper will address are: 1) The interaction between religiosity and Jewish-Israeli nationality and the extent to which these value orientations are both in conflict and in cooperation. 2) Social distance between religiosity categories: To what extent different lifestyles impact the personal relationships between people of different degrees of religiosity? 3) What are the major controversies between religiosity categories concerning the nature of Israeli culture and society and their significance for the dynamics of the religious-secular relationship? In the above context, research was conducted through a survey study in 1999 that sought to present a picture of Israel’s religioussecular cleavage. The sample was a random sample of the Jewish Israeli population—not including Russian-speaking new immigrants who have not resided in the country for long enough to participate in a study investigating the religious-secular cleavage. The survey questionnaire was comprised of five general groups of questions: The first group of questions dealt, as usual in sociological questionnaires, with context issues—age, religion and religiosity, origin, and

122

yochanan peres

socioeconomic status. The second group of questions asked about group commitments, and the importance of allegiances in the respondents’ life. The third group of questions delved into perceptions of, and attitudes toward, the “uniqueness” of subjects’ allegiances. The fourth group of questions focused on feelings of closeness to, and distance from, a variety of social categories. The fifth group of questions concerned respondents’ political behaviour. Table 12.1. Survey Sample (May 1999) Categories of religiosity

Ethnic categories

Total within category

Ashkenazim Mizrakhim

100 100

Ashkenazim Mizrakhim

100 100

Ashkenazim Mizrakhim

100 100

Ashkenazim Mizrakhim

100 100

Secular

Total of 200

Traditional

200

Religious

200

Ultra-Orthodox

200

The sample of the research is shown in Table 12.1. As can be seen above, attention was paid to the division of Israeli society into ethnic categories—Ashkenazim ( Jews with Eastern or Central Europe origin) and Mizrakhim ( Jews with North African or Middle-Eastern origin). We considered this ethnic distinction because we know that processes of secularization preceded the immigration to Israel for the large majority of Ashkenazi Jews while it often came after immigration to Israel, for Mizrakhi Jews. Seeing the religious character of the Jews’ legacies, one can easily understand that ethnicity in Israel strongly relates to different degrees of religiosity. Our data underwent a linear transformation to a scale that runs from 0 to 100. Hence, if a question had five options of answer—1 = completely agree; 2 = agree; 3 = I have no idea; 4 = don’t agree; 5 = don’t agree at all—, one subtracts 1 from each answer thus obtaining a scale running from 0 to 4; one then divides the number obtained from the answer by 4 and multiplies by 100. In this manner, all possible data are presented on a simple scale running from 0 to 100.

the religious-secular cleavage in contemporary israel

123

In this study regarding religiosity, it should be emphasized that the Jewish Israeli public does not experience polarization with respect to religion, neither in practical behaviour nor in the realm of belief: when Israeli Jews define their attitudes toward to religion, the religious-secular dichotomy is by no means satisfactory (Herman, 1988). Many individuals in Israel, and this probably the case for Jews in some other countries, find it difficult to answer questions with “yes or no” possible answers to religiosity, rather they tend to set themselves in at least in four categories: secular,1 traditional, orthodox and ultra-orthodox (Liebman and Katz, eds, 1997; Liebman, 1997a, b). We may define seculars as those who do not observe any tradition in a religious spirit, meaning that if they do observe some traditions, it is more in a national spirit or as a tribute to community norms. Beyond this category, we also have in Israel a wide group of individuals who are reluctant to call themselves either “secular” or “religious,” and tend to view themselves as “keeping to some traditions” such as lighting Hanukkah candles, having a family festive dinner on Friday, attending synagogue service on major feasts (especially Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur) etc. At the next stage of religiosity we find the religious (dati"im) who often also refer to themselves as national religious or “modern Orthodox.” They aspire to be observant in the context of modern Israeli society, participating in all political and civil frameworks and portraying themselves as devoted Zionists. The next stage of religiosity is that of the ultraorthodox (Haredim, which means “anxious”). Historically, the ultraorthodox were the very first to oppose Zionism. For many years, they viewed Zionism as a form of collective assimilation to the ways of the gentiles, and tended to isolate themselves institutionally and individually from the main stream of Israeli society (Farago, 1989). By and large, Jewish Israeli society seems to be best described as a continuum where the largest group are the seculars, then traditionalists, followed by religious, and ultra-orthodox being the smallest. This order is confirmed by our data: 51% of the Jewish respondents define themselves as secular, 32% as traditional, 11% as religious

1 The secular might also be termed not-religious. However, we preferred to call them secular as this is a positive definition rather than defining this category by what it is not. Though, it should be mentioned that in dictionaries the terms appear interchangeably.

yochanan peres

124

and 6% as Haredim.2 Beyond the predominance of the seculars (half of the population) and the traditional (another third), we learn from Table 12.2 about the complex ethno-cultural contours of the distribution of religiosity in Israeli society. Table 12.2. Religiosity by Ethnic Division (%) Origin Religiosity

Miz 1st Miz 2nd Miz Ash. 1st Ash. 2nd Ash. 3rd Total Gener. Gener Total Gener. Gener. Total Gener. + Sample

Ult.-Orth. (N = 49) Religious (N = 87) Traditional (N = 255) Secular (N = 408) Total (%) Total (N = 799)

4

5

5

5

8

6

8

6

17

11

13

9

10

10

10

11

51

45

47

26

15

21

29

32

28

39

35

60

67

63

53

51

100 90

100 183

100 273

100 171

100 152

100 323

100 203

100 799

Cramer’s V = .17**

Table 12.2 distinguishes Ashkenazim and Mizrakhim. It also distinguishes first-generation (a respondent born abroad), secondgeneration (a respondent born in Israel, father born abroad), and third-generation (or more). The table shows that Haredim are mainly Ashkenazim, the religious are a multi-origin category, the traditional are overwhelmingly Mizrakhim and the seculars are primarily Ashkenazim. All in all, religiosity is associated with one’s origin but does not have a polarization effect. That is, one finds a majority Ashkenazi population at the two ends of the continuum and a majority of Mizrakhim in the two in-between categories. This means that religious and ethnic categories do not overlap. Interestingly enough, third-generation Israelis, a minority of less than a quarter,

2 This finding is consistent with many other surveys but one may presume that in actual fact, the percentage of Haredim is a bit higher seeing that this public is naturally reticent to exposure and to answer the questions of investigators. Hence, we would think that Haredim are a bit more numerous than shown by our survey, that is around 8% rather than 6%.

the religious-secular cleavage in contemporary israel

125

resemble the distribution of the whole sample, which contributes to a mitigation of the religious-secular cleavage. This continuum perspective is strengthened further when we relate religiosity with aspects of collective identity, such as feeling an integral part of the society and the desire to remain living in Israel. Table 12.3 shows that the vast majority of respondents (about 80%) feel an integral part of Israeli society, but religiosity does have an impact on this sense of belongingness. The ultra-orthodox have the largest minority (21%) who do not feel integrated at all in society while the religious have the strongest feeling of integration. Among the secular we observe a sizeable minority (24%) who feel somewhat alienated. All in all, those in the center of the religiosity continuum feel more integrated. Moreover, the preference of living in Israel over other countries is more generally agreed upon than the feeling of integration—almost 90% show this preference. Table 12.3. Do You Feel Like an Integral Part of the Israeli Society?

Ult.-orth (N = 48) Religious (N = 87) Tradition (N= 255) Secular (N = 408) Total (N = 798) N

Not at all To a some extent

I do/Much so

21 1 3 4 4 36

62 92 86 76 80 632

17 7 11 20 16 125

Total 100 100 100 100 100 793

Cramer’s V = .18** Kendall’s tau c = –.11**

Table 12.4. The Desire to Live in Israel If you could choose, what country would you live in? Respondents Ult.-orth (N = 48) Religious (N = 87) Traditional (N = 255) Secular (N = 408) Total (N = 798) Cramer’s V = .13**

Israel 96 97 83 86 87

Other countries 4 3 17 14 13

Total 100 100 100 100 100

yochanan peres

126

Religiosity and Collective Identity Collective identity was measured by asking the respondents which group do they firstly belong to. The options provided were: Jewish, Israeli, Mizrakhi, and Ashkenzi. Table 12.5 yields an interesting picture in this respect: Haredim feel Jewish above all else, though, a segment among them tends also to emphasize ethnic identities. Among the religious, one also finds a strong (even stronger) commitment to Jewishness; but in second place “Israeliness” trumps ethnicity. Among the traditionals, Jewishness is also first, though Israeliness comes in a very close second. For seculars, the leading response is “Israeliness.” In some groups, religiosity categories differ significantly in their patterns of collective identity. We see for example: Table 12.5. Collective Identity—National or Ethnic? Col. Identity/ Religiosity

Ashk. Miz. Total ethnic Jewish Israeli Total national Total identity identity

Ult.-orth (N = 48) Religious (N = 88) Tradition (N = 256) Secular (N = 408) Total (N = 800)

21 5 6 18 13

8 5 9 4 6

29 10 15 22 19

65 73 45 12 32

6 17 40 65 48

71 90 85 77 80

100 100 100 100 100

Cramer’s V = .33**

(1) Jewishness conjunctively with ethnicity among the Haredim (2) National Jewishness among the religious and the traditional (3) Israeliness emphasized among seculars. The question that arises from these variations among forms of religiosity is whether or not these differences fuel religious conflicts. The rest of this chapter is devoted to considering this question from different aspects. The Dynamics of Religiosity over Generations Does religiosity increase or decrease from generation to generation? To tackle this issue we asked the respondents of they are more or less religious than their parents were. Table 12.6 compares the responses to this question according to degree of religiosity.

the religious-secular cleavage in contemporary israel

127

Table 12.6. Religiosity Over Generations Are you more or less religious than your parents? Ult.-orth. (N = 49) Religious (N = 87) Traditional (N = 255) Secular (N = 411) Total (N = 802)

More 47 26 22 7 16

Same 47 60 30 51 45

Less 6 15 48 42 39

Total 100 100 100 100 100

Cramer’s V = .24**; Kendeall’s tau c = .17**

The table as a whole indicates an inter-generational difference: 55% of the respondents report that there is a gap between their parents religiosity and their own, compared to 45% who are as religious as their parents. The direction of the dynamics is rather clear: 39% are less religious than their parents as against 16% who are more religious. A more detailed examination of the data indicates a tendency towards a non-symmetric polarization. The religious categories (ultra-orthodox and religious) tend to become even more zealous and observant, while the non religious categories (traditional and secular) tend to secularize over time. At the same time, both camps— the religious and the secular—intensify their positions, but since the secular and traditional are an overwhelming majority (about 80%) the trend of secularization is stronger. Social Distance between Religious Categories We were also interested to learn to what extent degrees of religioisty relate to socialization and friendship networks, and readiness to accept members into one’s family or neighbourhood. It is in this line of thought that Table 12.7 compares friendship patterns of different religious categories. Table 12.7 shows that in all categories, except the religious, respondents prefer friends who share their level of religiosity. 73% of the entire sample have only friends who belong to their own category. The most secluded group is the traditionals, and the least secluded the religious. Explaining these differences is not easy seeing that they seem to contradict deep rooted conceptions. One explanation that comes to mind, however, is that seeing the small size of the Haredi group,

yochanan peres

128

Table 12.7. Social Distances How many of your close friends belong to your own category of religiosity? All or Half Nearly Index of Total nearly all none/none closure* Ultra-orthodox (N = 49) Religious (N = 87) Traditional (N = 255) Secular (N = 411) Respondents (N = 802)

58 22 89 63 73

37 61 11 30 25

5 17 0 6 2

5.4 0.7 1.7 13.0

100 100 100 100 100

*calculated as the ratio of expected on observed; Cramer’s V = .38**; Kendall’s tau c = .35**

Table 12.8. Readiness for Inter-marriages (%) Would you agree that your daughter marries . . . Haredim Religious Tradit. Secular Haredim (N = 48) Religious (N = 87) Traditional (N = 255) Secular (N = 411)

Certainly/yes No/by no means Certainly/yes No/by no means Certainly/yes No/by no means Certainly/yes No/by no means

n.a. 39 18 23 52 13 72

29 47 n.a. 79 4 37 20

0 0 47 16 n.a. 62 4

0 0 19 33 81 2 n.a.

n.a. = not asked; Cramer’s V = .23**

they naturalley tend to have networks that crosscut their community while the large size of the secular group permits socialization lines to remain within the category. When, however, one compares readiness for intermarriage, a very different picture emerges. Table 12.8 shows that the ultra-orthodox seem to be the most endogamous group. About half of them do not consent to marry even a religious partner. None of them will consider a traditional, let alone, a secular spouse. The religious are quite open in both directions. Many of them will consider an ultra-orthodox and/or a traditional marriage partner. Even the secular is not entirely excluded. The traditionals are also open to both the secular and the religious options, but resists the ultra-orthodox. The secular is also relatively open to everyone but the ultra-orthodox.

the religious-secular cleavage in contemporary israel

129

Tensions between Religiosity Categories Against this background, one would expect growing tensions between the various categories of religiosity. Table 12.9. Perceived Tensions in the Context of Religiosity To what extent are there tensions between:

Respondents Grave tension

Some tension

No tension

Total

Traditional and religious people Seculars and ult.-orth

traditional religious secular ult.-orth

31 18 19 22

46 80 12 31

100 100 100 100

23 2 69 47

Table 12.9, as a whole, reveals a high potential for conflict with respect to a particular set of relations. We took two cases of intercategory relationship which illustrate the smallest (traditional-religious) and the largest (secular and ultra-orthodox) schisms. The Haredim and the secular, as a rule, tend to oppose each other on numerous issues. Seculars, as well as Haredim, feel involved in a situation of genuine conflict. Though, the Haredim’s visions of their conflictual relation with the secular are less acute than the latter’s feelings vis-à-vis them. The secular appear to feel more threatened by the Haredim than the other way round—even though the conflict is by no means one-sided. On the other hand, the traditionals and the religious do not appear to be opposed to each other by severe tensions. Major Controversies between Religious Categories Religious categories also differ in their perspectives on the collective, society and the world. Table 12.10 firstly shows a genuine tendency towards polarization when it comes to the question of the Jewish-religious character of Israeli culture: the Haredim heavily support a strong emphasis on this aspect in the present-day situation, and the secular, on the contrary—but more mildly—aspire to a weakening of this emphasis. The religious are much less militant in this respect than the Haredim but still closer to them than to the seculars, while the traditionals are more attracted by the secular pole.

yochanan peres

130

Table 12.10. Attitudes towards the Jewish-Religious Character of the Israeli Culture In comparison to the situation today, Israeli culture should be: Haredim Religious Traditional Secular Total (N = 50) (N = 96) (N = 322) (N = 471) (N = 939) Much less Jewish A bit less Jewish Remain as it is A bit more Jewish More Jewish Total

0 2 10 10 78 100

3 0 29 31 37 100

5 15 45 24 11 100

24 29 38 7 2 100

14 20 38 16 13 101

Cramer’s V = .39**; Kendall’s tau c = –.44**

The distribution of the entire sample is almost symmetrical: 34% opt for a less Jewish-Israeli culture compared to 29% who prefer a more Jewish-Israeli culture. The largest category presents a conservative attitude, which stabilizes the distribution. More specifically, any radical change in favor of or against the Jewish character of Israel will meet strong majority opposition. A very similar pattern is revealed in response to a question about the more or less Western character of Israeli culture. 50% prefer the existing balance between Western culture and Jewish tradition. Currently, the most extreme controversy between the religious and the secular concerns the balance between the Jewish and the democratic orientations of the Israeli society. This question takes on a great deal of acuity given the fact that Israel includes an Arab minority which is highly sensitive the development of the on-going protracted Israeli-Palestinian conflict and tends to identify with the Palestinian cause. The question then concerns the extent to which democracy, under these conditions, which is attached to the safeguarding of the minority’s rights, constitutes for Israel a major cultural-political goal, and if the degree of religiosity of Jews makes a difference. Table 12.11 reveals a substantial gap between the Jewish-orientation of the Haredim and the democratic orientation of the secular, with again both the religious (relatively closer to the Haredim) and the traditional (relatively closer to the secular) in a middle-of-theroad position. The sample as a whole is tilted towards preference of democracy over the state’s Jewish character (46 > 26), but again, there is a sizeable portion of the sample (30%) which evaluates both

the religious-secular cleavage in contemporary israel

131

values ( Judaism and democracy) as equally important. Any attempt to eliminate either Jewish or democratic values from the Israeli agenda is strongly opposed. Table 12.11. Israel as a Democracy versus Israel as a Jewish State If you had to choose between Israel as a democracy or as a Jewish state, which would you prefer? Attitudes Haredim Religious Traditional Secular Total (N = 50) (N = 96) (N = 322) (N = 493) (N = 971) Prefer a Jewish state Both goals are equally important Prefer a democratic state Total

84 10

59 30

32 34

9 29

26 30

6

10

34

63

45

100

99

100

101

101

Cramer’s V = .37**; Kendall’s tau c = .41**

Table 12.12. The Necessity of Mutual Concessions between Religiosity Categories (%)* Who is to make concessions in the religious-secular relations? Categories Religious Chiefly Both sides Chiefly Secular Total only religious secular only Haredim (N = 44) Religious (N = 83) Tradition (N = 247) Secular (N = 391) Total (N = 765)

0 0 2 9 5

2 1 10 29 18

75 88 75 60 69

11 8 13 1 6

11 2 0 1 2

100 99 100 100 100

Cramer’s V = .26**; Kendall’s tau c = –.25**

Undoubtedly, a large portion of the Israeli public is aware of the gravity and depth of the religious-secular cleavage. This cleavage is considered to be second only to the Arab-Israeli rift as a danger to the integrity and to the very existence of Israeli society. How should this issue be addressed? Table 12.12 shows that the majority of the sample (69%) supports a solution based on mutual concessions. The same tendency is revealed in each of the separate categories, from ultra-orthodox to secular. Only a negligible percentage demands that all concessions should be made by one side only. In summary, the religious–secular conflict is perceived to endanger the integrity of Israeli society to a

132

yochanan peres

degree which makes it necessary for all groups to contribute to its moderation. Conclusion This paper focuses on the role of religion in the collective identity of Israeli Jews. In our study, as in many preceding studies, we found that religiosity among Israeli Jews is a matter of degree, rather than a polarized dichotomy (see also Katz, 1997). Even those who define themselves as secular or “non-religious” are reluctant to declare that they have no religion (Oron, 1993). The belongingness to Jewish religion means also belonging to the Jewish people. Hence, religious symbols, myths, and traditions merge into all versions of Jewishness (Levy, 1996). This fusion of religiosity and nationalism seems to be the reason for the never-ending controversy over the issue whether Judaism is basically a religion or a nationality. Those who define themselves as religious seem to have an edge over other categories in terms of integration of modern nationalism with ancient Jewish religion. The seculars’ commitment to modernity, individualism, and democracy seems an obstacle to the acceptance of a Jewish religious perspective, while the ultra-orthodox’s radicalism does not allow smooth adjustment of norms and values to a modern liberal society (Friedman, 1986). Hence, while the religious and the traditionals buffer the antagonism opposing the ultra-orthodox and the secular, the latter two are by no means just a virtual threat.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ON EUROPEAN JEWISH ORTHODOXY, SEPHARDIC TRADITION, AND THE SHAS MOVEMENT Zvi Zohar Introduction There are many ways in which a Jew can express his or her Jewish identity. One of these is by living according to the guidelines of halacha—the normative aspect of Torah as explicated by scholarly rabbis. Different understandings of halacha will generate different modes of Jewish Halachic identity. In this article, I seek to illustrate this thesis by consideration of the Halachic dynamic in modern times in Northern European versus in Muslim countries. Subsequently, I argue that the cadre of the Shas movement in contemporary Israel reflects an interesting case in which Jews of Sephardic extraction have internalized central aspects of a non-Sephardic Halachic identity. It is hard to imagine a society in which change and development do not occur over time. This is true not only of modern societies; even in ancient times and pre-modern societies, change was rampant. Sometimes change was sharp and acute; a clear example of this in the history of the Jewish people is the destruction of the Second Temple. But during most of history social norms evolved at a moderate pace enabling people to imagine, along with Ecclesiastes, that “there is nothing new under the sun.”1 The above held true for the world of halacha as well. Indeed, even in bracketing the effects of historical-social change, some dynamic is bound to characterize halacha simply as a result of the intellectual activity of Torah sages: “A beit midrash [hall of study] is never totally without innovation.”2 But beyond changes rooted in interpretation and religious thought as intellectually autonomous areas of

1 2

I:9. Cf. BT Hagigah 3a.

134

zvi zohar

creativity, halacha is intimately connected to the reality of real life and to the natural activities of concrete societies and times.3 Thus, even in pre-modern periods, some Halachic change occurred as a result of the response of Halachic sages to the exigencies of social change. Change in the modern era differs from that of the past, in both frequency and breadth. As a result, ever widening gaps open, at a relatively rapid pace, between life patterns of the past and of the present. Moreover, and perhaps even more important for the present discussion: these changes undermine not only actual continuity with the life patterns of the past, but also the consciousness of continuity that contemporary people sense with the lifestyles of previous generations. Despite the fact that every culture and every social setting is possible only because of deep-rooted and basic elements of tradition and continuity with the past,4 in the modern era consciousness of “the new” has become a central hallmark of human existence. In conjunction with this, awareness increases as to the significant differences between our lifestyles and patterns of existence in the present, and those of the past. This reinforces historical awareness, thereby undermining even more the sense of a “self-evident” connection between the reality of our forefathers and our own. Accelerated and widespread processes of change, coupled with the crisis in the consciousness of continuity with traditional times, create unprecedented challenges for present-day Jews who seek to manifest a Halachic identity. This determination is even more true with regard to rabbis, who are expected to define and formulate norms of Halachic life within the modern context. In addition to the above, the processes of modernization included ‘enlightenment,’ non-traditional education, and secularization. Quite a few Jews affected by these phenomena adopted anti-traditional and anti-religious ideological positions. It was not easy for traditionalminded Halachic sages to differentiate between what they saw as their responsibility to negate such ideologies, and their duty to respond in a relevant manner to modern developments per se. Many sages were sorely tempted to posit an integral—even necessary—link between modern society in toto and the challenging and threatening views of

3 4

I have expanded on this elsewhere; see Zohar 1984; 59–71. See: Edward Shils, 1971, 122ff.

on european jewish orthodoxy

135

those who had “thrown off the yoke” and totally rejected Halachic identity. Indeed, quite a few great scholars succumbed to this temptation and formulated a worldview that equated faithfulness to Torah with faithfulness to the norms and life patterns that characterized the Jewish community before the “outbreak of modernity.” This attitude was epitomized in the motto, “the new is prohibited by the Torah.”5 In this view, Torah can be fulfilled only if Judaism consciously isolates itself from the influences of the times, and if its proponents are “hidden away in a room within a room.”6 This worldview placed great constraints upon rabbinic scholars attempting to relate halacha to current issues and realities. The Halachic system regards precedent as significant but not binding.7 This does not mean that a rabbi will deliberate on current issues in disregard of accepted praxis and norms. However, the bottom line is that the system authorizes him to determine the halacha considering both his own understanding of the Halachic sources, and the circumstances and contexts that differentiate the case at hand, relative to the past: “The judge has nothing but what his eyes see.”8 However, the position that “the new is prohibited by the Torah” led to a notion of Halachic identity according to which faithfulness to Judaism entailed denying the authority of Halachic sages to rule in a manner different from what had been accepted in the past. It is forbidden to change the halacha or custom “because of the spirit of the times,” writes Rabbi Shmuel Yitzhak Shor, “and if you find

This motto was first applied in this manner by rabbi Moshe Sofer, known by the title of a work he composed as “the Hatam Sofer.” Sofer is considered the founder of the modern trend within Judaism known as Orthodoxy. 6 In the words of the Hatam Sofer, in an impressive sermon he gave in 1811, when the “Enlightened” Jews wanted to establish a modern Jewish school in the city of Pressburg. See: The Sermons of the Hatam Sofer, on the Torah portion of B’Shalach. The strategy he preaches is characterized by the Hatam Sofer (ibid.) as the behavior “that we followed from the days of Moshe Rabbenu until now.” Here the Hatam Sofer uses rhetoric typical of other Orthodox leaders who stated that they simply continuing the lifestyles and the worldview of pre-modern Judaism. However, these declarations are not consistent with socio-historical data. Jacob Katz writes: “The claim of the Orthodox that they are none other than the preservers of ancient pure Judaism is a fiction. In fact, Orthodoxy was a way of confronting “heretical” trends, and of reacting to those stimuli that caused these trends—with a conscious effort, however, to deny such “external” motives.”—J. Katz, (1986; 4–5). 7 See Elon, 1992, p. 802. 8 Bavli, 6b. 5

136

zvi zohar

some heretics who say otherwise, why, the knowledge of fools isn’t knowledge.”9 Religious education in Israel, including the education provided by State-Religious stream, advocates this version of Halachic identity. It teaches its pupils to accept as a self-evident truth and central religious principle the notion that European Orthodoxy was the authentic Halachic-traditional approach. Students are acculturated from childhood to believe that “Orthodoxy” and “true faithfulness to Judaism” are synonymous terms. It follows, that to hold an authentic Halachic identity, one must emulate Central and East European Orthodoxy as described above. Interestingly, most secular Israelis seem to hold a similar view. While their Jewish identity is not expressed as a Halachic identity, they nevertheless agree that European Orthodox Halachic identity is the only authentic Halachic identity. The fact that classic European Reform Judaism rejected both Zionism and the authority of any form of halacha may have contributed to the internalization of such a view among secular Israelis, from the early twentieth century onwards. However, is it really necessary for every Halachic sage facing the challenges of modernity to hold that “Torah prohibits the New”? Perhaps this was not an immanent, necessary reaction of Halachic Judaism, but a specific strategic move whose inner logic related to a specific socio-religious context? Happily, we have a comparative test case that allows us to follow the response to modernity by sages who were active in a modernizing socio-religio-historical context essentially different than that of Europe. I refer here to the Jews of the Middle East and North Africa. Middle Eastern and North African Jewry in Modernity The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa were significantly exposed to the influences of modern Europe since the fourth decade of the nineteenth century. In 1830, France conquered Algeria; in 1831 Egypt conquered Palestine and Syria, and soon thereafter extended legal equality to non-Muslim inhabitants; in 1839 the 9 Quoted by his son, Avraham Zvi Shor, 1934, comments on the halakhot of Sabbath, section 340 (page 73ff.).

on european jewish orthodoxy

137

Ottoman Empire followed suit in its Hatt-i-Sherif Gulhane policy declaration on civil rights. In addition to increasing general European influence in the Middle East and North Africa, Jews of these lands were directly influenced by another factor: West European Jewry. The latter mobilized to assist their ‘downtrodden’ Oriental brethren and established international organizations— such as the Alliance Israelite Universelle—dedicated to that task. In addition to political lobbying aimed at effecting European diplomatic intervention for the protection of Oriental Jews, the organizations (and private philanthropists) also sought to enlighten those Jews by providing modern, western education. In schools such as those established by Cremieux in Cairo (1840), by Lemel in Jerusalem (1853), and especially by the Alliance Israelite Universelle from 1862 (Tetuan) onwards, generations of young Jews and Jewesses in Islamic lands received a modern, European-oriented and basically secular (though not anti-religious) education. Activities of Gentile and Jewish Europeans was augmented by local government policy: legal and politico-structural reforms were initiated during the nineteenth century by Ottoman, Egyptian and Tunisian governments, seeking to modernize their states so as to withstand external pressures. New technologies in communications, transport, industry, agriculture, and urban development reached the area and had far-reaching effects, especially in the urban centers. Thus we find that on the eve of the First World War, Jews of North Africa and the Middle East were significantly affected by modernity, in direct proportion to their economic status, their education and their urban location.10 The inter-war years saw the extension of modernization to large sectors of the Jewish middle and lower-middle class. In sum, by the late 1940’s, a large proportion of Sephardic-Oriental Jews in their countries of origin were quite modernized. However, the typical response of the Sephardic rabbinic elite to these developments was very different from that of their European Orthodox peers. These differences are linked both to externalcontextual and to internal-cultural factors.

10 That is to say, a wealthy, Alliance-educated Jew living in a newly built quarter of Cairo was quite modernized indeed, while a lower class, kuttab-educated Jew living in a Kurdish village was little touched by modernization.

138

zvi zohar

Contextual Differences Elsewhere, I have noted and discussed several variables which made modernization in Islamic lands different from that of Europe.11 Here, I would like to stress one of those variables, namely, the lack (in Islamic lands) of anti-clericalism as a salient feature of modernism. Also, Islamic religious leaders in these countries did not respond to modernity by rejecting traditional religiosity and attempting the formation of radically different modes of Islamic religious life.12 Rather, even those Muslims who criticized the current socio-political and cultural situation of their society chose to characterize the sought-for changes as truly compatible with the spirit of Islam and with the norms of the Shari’a.13 In this respect, Jews of Islamic lands were similar to their Muslim compatriots: attacking rabbis as backward and criticizing Halachic Judaism as obscurantist were not a la mode in the Sephardic-Oriental milieu, and movements which advocated abandonment of rabbinic Judaism in favor of some new definition of Jewish identity did not develop there.14 In general, even those sectors of the Jewish community whose lifestyle reflected a Halachic identity in only the most minimal way—including those who advocated modern political ideologies such as socialism, communism or secular Zionism—did not seek to bolster their position by insulting the community’s rabbis or traditions.15

11 For a concise presentation, see my article “The Halachic Teachings of Modern Egyptian Rabbis,” 1983, pp. 65–88 (Hebrew). 12 Thus, the so-called “Islamic Reform” movement, which was an important factor in Egyptian and Middle Eastern Islam in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century under the leadership of Afghani and ‘Abduh, was much less radical than European Christian Reform. Conversely, the Wahabi movement, which radically attacked the traditional Islamic establishment, was not at all a response to modernity. 13 Inter alia, this was the path adopted by most Arab communists. 14 A very unusual exception to this general rule was Rabbi Raphael Katzin’s attempt to establish a “reform” congregation in Aleppo ca. 1862, described by Yaron Harel (1992) pp. XIX–XXXV (Hebrew). 15 Which is to say that rabbinical leaders were never openly and directly criticized. Thus, many Cairene Jews in the early 1920’s severely criticized the behavior of the incumbent Chief Rabbi as high-handed and despotic; in the late 1940’s, thousands of Baghdadi Jews participated in a mass demonstration against Chief Rabbi Khaduri, whom they regarded as cowardly in failing to demand that Iraq’s nationalist (and effectively anti-Semitic) leadership alleviate the community’s plight. But even these radical critiques were definitely ad hominem.

on european jewish orthodoxy

139

Halacha as a Dynamic Religious Phenomenon, as seen by Sephardic Rabbis In the absence of Jewish ideological attacks upon Judaism or against rabbinic authority per se, there was no external impetus for SephardicOriental rabbis to formulate a policy stating that “Torah prohibits the new,” or to refrain from reaching novel Halachic decisions if warranted by specific socio-historical developments. However, lack of such external factors is not enough; considerations internal to Halachic discourse might conceivably lead rabbis to reject Halachic change. Let us see then, how Sephardic Halachic writers regarded change in halacha. Examining writings of prominent Sephardic rabbis of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, we find that the prevailing attitude was that there were no immanent features in halacha requiring rabbis to refrain from formulating new Halachic rulings, in new circumstances. Rather, they held that the greatness and eternal vitality of halacha lie in its capacity to express Judaism’s noble values in a variety of forms, as appropriate to changing circumstances. Let me provide several illustrations: 1. In nineteenth-century Europe, some voices were heard calling for the revision of Maimonides’ thirteen Principles of Jewish Faith. Inter alia, it was suggested that the Article affirming belief in the absolute eternality of Torah be re-phrased or deleted, so as to provide Jews with the capability of accommodating Judaism to modern conditions. Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan16 responded that Torah as we have it requires no change at all in order to enable response to contemporary historical developments. The reason, he wrote, is this: Since the Holy Torah was given to physical human beings, who are always subject to changes stemming from differences in history in rulers and decrees, in nature and climate, in states and realms—therefore, all Torah’s words were given in marvelous, wise ambiguity; thus, they can receive any true interpretation at any time . . . Indeed, the Torah

16 Eliyahu Hazan was born ca. 1847 in Izmir and grew up in Jerusalem, where he received a thorough rabbinic education. He later served as rabbi of Tripoli and then of Alexandria, until his death in 1908. His published works include Ta"alumot Lev (Secrets of the Heart), responsa (in four volumes) and Neve Shalom (Oasis of Peace), on the Halachic traditions of Alexandrian Jewry, in addition to the work cited in the following note.

140

zvi zohar of Truth, inscribed by God’s finger, engraved upon the Tablets—will not change nor be renewed, for ever and ever.17

In other words, the words of the Holy Torah are eternal; yet the eternality of Torah is manifest specifically in its inexhaustible capacity to yield multiple meanings, each appropriate to a different human reality. 2. In the introduction to the first volume of his collected responsa, Mishpetei Uzziel, Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uzziel18 totally rejected the central premise of European Orthodoxy and stressed that halacha must respond to modern developments: In every generation, conditions of life, changes in values, and technical and scientific discoveries create new questions and problems that require solution. We may not avert our eyes from these issues and say “Torah prohibits the New,” i.e., anything not expressly mentioned by earlier sages is ipso facto forbidden. A fortiori, we may not simply declare such matters permissible. Nor, may we let them remain vague and unclear, each person acting with regard to them as he wishes. Rather, it is our duty to search Halachic sources, and to derive, from what they explicate, responses to currently moot issues . . . In all my responsa, I never inclined towards leniency or strictness according to my personal opinions; rather, my intention and striving were always to search and discover the truth. To the extent that my understanding enabled me, I walked in the light of earlier Halachic masters, whose waters we drink and whose light enlightens us. With this holy light, which issues from the source of the hidden, concealed Light, I illuminated my eyes . . .19 In this paragraph, Rabbi Uzziel rejects the path of Orthodoxy, of Reform, and of those “afraid to decide” described by Elon, above. He states that halacha can and should develop through 17

Eliyahu Hazan, 1874, p. 57. Rabbi Uzziel (1880–1953) was born in the Old City of Jerusalem to an ancient and illustrious Sephardic family. From 1912 to 1939, he served as Sephardic rabbi of Jaffa and Tel-Aviv, and from 1939 until his death, he was Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel. He composed a seven-volume work of responsa, entitled Mishpetei Uzziel; a two-volume work, Sha’arei Uzziel, on the halacha concerning the legal guardianship of orphans and widows; and works of theology and homilies such as Hegyonei Uzziel and Mikhmanei Uzziel. 19 Introduction to the first volume of Mishpetei Uzziel, 1935 pp. IX–X. 18

on european jewish orthodoxy

141

hermeneutic and analogy, applied by halakhists deeply motivated to discover the truth. His sentences are replete with what may be termed mystical rationalism, which bring to mind Maimonides’ introduction to the Guide of the Perplexed. Clearly, Uzziel sees halacha as far from a finite set of normative dicta, but rather requires halakhists to discover anew how Jews should relate to developments in human life, values and science—following the light contained in earlier rabbinic writings so as to illuminate thought on contemporary issues. 3. A third illustration is to be found in the thought of Rabbi Hayyim: David HaLevi served as Chief Rabbi of Tel-Aviv.20 In response to criticism directed against him by an (unnamed) Orthodox rabbi, HaLevi rejected that rabbi’s assertion that commitment to Judaism entails abstention from Halachic innovation. Since all legislation known to human beings requires nearly constant revision due to “changes in the conditions of life,” how is it, asked HaLevi, that the laws of our Holy Torah, revealed to us thousands of years ago, can still function and guide us, today? He responded: This is possible only because permission was given to Israel’s sages in each generation to renew halacha as appropriate to the changes of times and events. Only by virtue of this was the continuous existence of Torah in Israel possible, enabling Jews to follow the way of Torah . . . There is nothing so flexible as the flexibility of Torah . . . it is only by virtue of that flexibility that the People of Israel, through the many novel and useful rulings innovated by Israel’s sages over the generations, could follow the path of Torah and its commandments for thousands of years.21

20 Rabbi HaLevi was born in Jerusalem in 1924, and was educated in Jerusalem’s Sephardic yeshivot. He served as rabbi of Rishon Le’Zion, and from 1973 until his decease in 1998 was Chief Rabbi of Tel-Aviv. In addition, he served from 1964 as a member of Israel’s Chief Rabbinate Council. HaLevi wrote hundreds of articles on a wide range of Jewish topics, and published over twenty-five volumes, including Bein Yisrael La’Amim (Between Israel and the Nations), 1954; Devar Hamishpat (The Word of Judgment), three volumes, 1963–65; Dat U-Medinah (Religion and State), 1969; Maftehot Ha-Zohar u-Ra"ayonotav (Keys to the Zohar and Its Ideas), 1971; Mekor Hayyim Ha-Shalem (The Complete Mekor Hayyim), an ideationally explained code of religious norms, five volumes, 1967–1974; 'Aseh Lekha Rabbi (Choose a Rabbi), nine volumes of responsa, 1976–1988; et alia. 21 Hayyim David HaLevi, 1989, pp. 183–186. The words of the anonymous questioner appear on p. 182.

142

zvi zohar

I do not know if Rabbi HaLevi was acquainted with the words of Eliyahu Hazan, quoted above, but the similarity between them is striking: the “same” Torah can serve as the ground of Jewish life over thousands of years, despite far-reaching changes in society, history, science and culture, only because of the flexibility inherent in its words, whose potential is realized through the creative endeavours of Israel’s rabbis. In sum, perennial renewal is a sine qua non of authentic halacha. The Halachic identity deriving from such a notion of halacha is markedly different from an Halachic identity deriving from “Torah prohibits the new.” Halachic Innovations: According to What Principles and Values? Prominent sages of Oriental Jewry in modern times adhered to a basic orientation very different from that of European Orthodox rabbis. While the former uphold a dynamic halacha, the latter identify faithfulness to the Torah with the preservation of a pre-modern Halachic status quo. But, what content and values characterized that living halacha? A dynamic reaction to the modern world might take a direction of increased isolation and stringency, as Samet wrote, for example, about those elements of innovation that he nonetheless detected in Orthodox halacha: “Innovations are added in one direction only: towards more stringency.”22 Elsewhere, I deal at length with the qualities of a wide range of specific reactions by Sephardic-Oriental Halachic sages to the challenges of modernity.23 A partial summary of the characteristics of their positions on modern issues includes: 1. Support for integration of secular studies into the Jewish curriculum. 2. Positive regard for modern science and technology. 3. A sense of solidarity with aspects of contemporary non-Jewish societies and states.

22 See his article, “The Reaction of the Halacha to Modernization,” (1969), pp. 26–30. The quote is from page 30. 23 I dealt with these issues in my books, Tradition and Change (1993) and The Luminous Face of the East ( 2001), and in other articles I published in various forums. And see above, note 1.

on european jewish orthodoxy

143

4. Acknowledgment of a common, Jewish Gentile rationality which encompasses (inter alia) the realm of halacha. 5. Halachic affirmation of certain values central to European modernity. It should now be apparent that beyond conventionally recognized options of Jewish identity—Orthodoxy, secularism, and the “innovative” European religious movements—there is an additional Jewish culture: Oriental-Sephardic Judaism, in all its variations. Indeed, it should also now be clear that the prevailing popular image of the Judaism of the Islamic countries as colourful, folkloristic and nonintellectual requires a basic revision: the Halachic creativity of many important sages from Oriental-Sephardic Jewish circles includes conceptual aspects of abiding interest, by any comparative standard. The Shas Movement as a Modern Israeli Phenomenon Let us now focus on a modern Israeli social phenomenon that has significantly impacted contemporary Israeli society and politics: the Shas movement. In order to understand the outlook of Shas, one must focus one’s attention, not on the rabbinic elite of the Jewry of Muslim lands, but on the characteristics of the “Torah world” in Israel during the past century, especially since the establishment of the State of Israel. Some relevant characteristics are these: 1. The world of advanced [post-teenage] yeshivot in Israel follows the East European—ultra-Orthodox model.24 Therefore, young immigrants from Islamic countries who sought to continue their Torah studies in Israel, ‘naturally’—in the absence of any other alternative—entered the world of the Lithuanian yeshivot, and were socialized to an ultra-Orthodox Halachic identity and religious ethos. 2. Ultra-Orthodox society is characterized by a consciousness of ethnic superiority, that in other contexts we would unhesitatingly call “racism.” Such approaches were characteristic in the past of broad sectors of European Jewry that tended to denigrate Jewish sub-groups

24

Many “Zionist” yeshivot deviate from the Lithuanian-Haredi model only in the theological-religious attitude they have towards the establishment of the State. Other areas, such as methods of study and worldviews in non-political areas, the difference is nonexistent or not significant.

144

zvi zohar

other than their own: Lithuanians vs. Galicians, Austrian Jews vs. Hungarian Jews, German Jews vs. the Ostjuden, Hassidim vs. Mitnagdim, etc. In Israeli Jewish society since the mass immigrations, these attitudes have declined among broad sectors of the populace, due, inter alia, to direct contact in the army, and subsequently to courtship and marriage of couples from different Diaspora communities. However, these attitudes were preserved and perhaps even strengthened among the most conservative sector of the Jewish community in Israel, i.e., the Haredi [ultraOrthodox] sector.25 3. Therefore, Torah scholars of Oriental-Sephardic origin were not accepted as equals within the elite of the Haredi Torah world. This was—and is— reflected in central areas such as lack of opportunities for matches with brides from “prestigious” Ashkenazic families, and lack of opportunity to be accepted for important positions in the yeshiva world and in the world of the Haredi rabbinate. 4. Similarly, even the greatest of Oriental-Sephardic Torah sages were not accepted into the ranks of the spiritual-religious leadership of Haredi Judaism, such as the Council of Torah Sages of Agudat Israel, etc. All the above resulted in the creation of a large group of rabbinic scholars of Oriental-Sephardic origin who had studied in the Haredi yeshivot and who had internalized the Haredi religious worldview, but because of their origin were marginalized in the world with which they had been educated to identify. This social group is the mainstay of the Shas Movement. Yet it is doubtful if this group would have coalesced into a sustained religio-social and political movement, had it not been for the unique and charismatic figure of rabbi Ovadia Yosef. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef ’s background is very different from that of the Sephardic-Lithuanian Torah scholars described above.26 Rabbi Yosef studied at the Sephardic Porat Yosef yeshiva in the Old City of Jerusalem before this yeshiva became heavily influenced by the Ashkenazic-Lithuanian yeshiva world.27 He was recognized early-on

25 This sector, among other things, does not serve in the army and has no “spontaneous” meetings of couples nor the ideal of marriage as a result of courtship. 26 In recent years, two doctoral dissertations have been devoted to Rabbi Ovadia and analysis of his oeuvre: Benni Lau, 2002 and Ariel Picard, 2004. 27 Nonetheless, it should be remembered that the Porat Yosef Yeshiva itself was

on european jewish orthodoxy

145

as outstanding in his studies and is today the pre-eminent Halachic scholar as measured by mastery of the corpus of Halachic works created throughout the generations. While his detractors intimate that he lacks originality and simply rules mechanically according to the views of the majority of past Halachic masters, this criticism is not supported by a critical analysis of his writings. Even when he himself declares that he is ruling merely according to the “majority” of the Halachic sages, this is but a rhetorical move. Rabbi Ovadia holds that “the power of the more moderate position is to be preferred,” and while he has issued quite a few conservative rulings, a significant number of lenient and even innovative rulings characterize his Halachic work, especially in his earlier decades but also in more recent years. Already as a teen-age yeshiva student in mandatory Palestine, Rabbi Yosef felt that the traditional-religious world of Oriental Jews had not received proper recognition in the Land of Israel, and that there was a tendency towards the assimilation of Sephardic Jews into European Halachic culture.28 He felt that this assimilation was a negative phenomenon. Moreover, in his opinion, it reflected a shocking Halachic injustice: according to halacha, a person who has left his home community and made his permanent residence in another place is obligated to accept the Halachic identity of his new location. Therefore, everyone who immigrates to Eretz Yisrael should take upon himself the norms of Eretz Yisrael—which were formulated by Rabbi

controlled by one school among the Oriental Torah sages: the Aleppo school, that tended towards religious conservatism with different characteristics than those of European Orthodoxy. As to the approach of the Aleppo sages in modern times, see my article: “Activist Conservatism: Guidelines to the Socio-Religious Leadership of Aleppo’s Sages in Modern Times,” (1993) 57–78. 28 It should be remembered that during the 1950’s and 1960’s it was standard to pray from the Ashkenazic siddur in the State-Religious schools in Israel, to learn the Ashkenazic Torah cantillations, and to learn the Halacha according to the “Abbreviated Shulkhan Arukh” of the Hungarian Rabbi Ganzfried. Even in the army, the “unified version” of prayer formulated by Rabbi Goren was a compendium of Ashkenazi versions of prayer. To be fair, this was not a phenomenon only among the religious sector, for the general cultural tendency in Israel during the time of the Mandate and in the first decades after the establishment of the State was characterized by positing the world of the European immigrants in general, and specifically of the “pioneering” socialist immigrants from Eastern Europe, as the general social and cultural ideal for Jewish society; all this in the context of a declared and deliberate “melting pot” policy.

146

zvi zohar

Yosef Caro, the great 16th century Halachic master who resided in the Galilean town of Safed and there authored the canonical Halachic work Shulhan Arukh. The teachings of European rabbis were valid for Jews who lived in Europe, but upon immigration to Israel, all Jews must accept the ways of the Jews of Eretz Yisrael. In other words, the Jews of Europe did not come to a culturally empty land but to land with an existing Sephardic Halachic identity. Rabbi Ovadia holds that there is, indeed, a need for “assimilation” and for determining a joint Halachic identity for all Israeli Jews. However, what is required is “assimilation” in the sense of general acceptance by all Jews in Israel of the rulings of the author of the Shulkhan Arukh— certainly not the opposite. On his view, all Jews should internalize and display a strong Sephardic Halachic identity. In his rulings and sermons since the 1950s and 1960s, Rabbi Yosef has sought to reinforce the Sephardic Halachic tradition and has negated any call made in the name of “unity” for adoption of European Jewish norms by all Israeli Jews.29 He believes that the Sephardic tradition of Eretz Israel will prevail; indeed, it is that tradition that will ultimately be vindicated by the Messiah himself.30 During the years 1973–1983, Rabbi Ovadia Yosef served two terms as the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel and carried the title of Rishon Le"Zion. Despite the fact that he was clearly the leading Torah scholar of Oriental Jewry in Israel, the Knesset did not enable him to continue in his position, and did not change the law (passed just prior to 1973) limiting a Chief Rabbi to two five-year terms of office.31 Thus Rabbi Yosef found himself “fired” from his position in 1983 and barred from official leadership of the Oriental-Sephardic religious sector, despite his stature as leading master of Halachic sources. 29 Thus, he severely criticized the willingness of Chief Sephardic Rabbi Uzziel to reach a compromise with Chief Ashkenazic Rabbi Herzog on certain Halachic matters pertaining to the laws of personal status, since rabbi Uzziel agreed to shelve the Sephardic Halachic tradition, according to which levirate marriage ( yibbum) should be preferred to the halitza (release) ceremony even in contemporary times. 30 For an analysis and explication of rabbi Ovadia’s religious thought and the meaning of his program of “restoring the crown to its ancient glory,” see chapter 16 of my book The Luminous Face of the East (above note . . .). 31 At the time, it seemed apparent that the refusal of the Knesset to change this law stemmed from the political clout of Moshe Nissim, whose father, Rabbi Yitzhak Nissim, was dismissed from the office of Rishon Le"Zion in 1973. Rabbi Nissim’s dismissal had been facilitated by the willingness of Rabbi Yosef to replace him in that position.

on european jewish orthodoxy

147

Soon thereafter, the preparations for the 1984 elections to the local authorities began. Several Sephardic political leaders running in these elections asked for Rabbi Yosef ’s support and blessing; those who received his support won. This proved to be a winning combination: a charismatic-religious leader, disaffected by the religiouspolitical system and seeking to “return the crown [of Sephardic Judaism] to its former glory”, joined forces with Oriental political activists who succeeded (with the blessing of the rabbi and with his encouragement) in reaching quite broad target audiences and earning their trust. Such success on the local level led to the organization of a national party that competed in the Knesset elections in 1984 and succeeded in winning four seats—an impressive achievement for a new party.32 Subsequently, Shas began to establish a broad religious-social movement whose target audience was the entire Oriental-Sephardic community, especially those whose economic and social situation were relatively difficult. The activists who mobilized as the “cadres” of the movement were mainly those young students of Torah who had experienced discrimination in Haredi yeshivot and found in Shas an arena for educational-religious-leadership and activity that had been closed off to them in the Haredi yeshiva world. A wide network of Torah lessons was established for people of all ages and all levels of knowledge, including young pupils of kindergarten and elementary school ages whom the existing educational system (especially the State-Religious system) had failed to effectively reach. In addition, other community activities of a more “social” nature were set up: the establishment of low-cost food stores for the impoverished sector, free loan associations, etc.33 It is important to note that the religious, educational, and social activity of the Shas movement was welcomed precisely by those segments of society for whom established governmental activities of the State and the local authorities have failed. If not for this widespread failure of the official systems of the State and its official religious leadership, it is doubtful whether such a large sector would have responded to the efforts of the Shas movement. In other words, 32 Shas reached its zenith in the 1999 elections with 17 seats in the 120-seat Knesset. In the 2003 elections it lost a third of its strength, remaining with 11 seats. 33 On the social and religious-cultural activities of Shas on the grass-roots level, see: Anat Feldman, 2001.

148

zvi zohar

a necessary (although not sufficient) condition for the success of Shas was the failure of the State of Israel to absorb many of the immigrants from Islamic countries in a manner respectful of their identity and their heritage, and to empower the immigrants—and their children—by actual success in educational achievement and in economic-professional activity.34 Two additional conditions were, 1. The existence of a cadre of young Torah scholars with ability and enthusiasm, prepared to work daily, under difficult conditions, in the poorer neighbourhoods and towns throughout the country. 2. The leadership of an outstanding Halachic scholar—Rabbi Ovadia Yosef—who believes that the activities of the movement reflect authentic principles of Torah. However, in light of our comparison of European and SephardicOriental Halachic identity, it is important to note a major problem with regard to the type of Halachic identity propagated by Shas amongst Israelis of Sephardic-Oriental extraction. The problem is epitomized by the attempts by the leaders of Shas to gain public support during election time, through the use of symbols of a populist-religious nature. I refer to the blatant use of amulets and oaths, as well as the public use of a “low/vulgar” style in election speeches and rabbis’ exhortations. While such phenomena had existed among Jews wherever they lived, major Halachic sages, in both Islamic and Christian countries, were critical of these phenomena and saw it as part of their mission to raise the religious and cultural horizons of the people to higher levels. At times they even unequivocally criticized such “popular” religious behaviour.35 The willingness of the Shas leaders to endorse such patterns of popular religion as proper

34

On the social and economic factors contributing to the success of Shas, see also Yoav Peled (ed.), Shas. 35 Thus, Rabbi Rafael Yosef Hazan, one of the greatest middle-eastern rabbinical scholars at the turn of the nineteenth century, and who subsequently served as Rishon Le"Zion, greatly opposed the popular customs surrounding the Lag B’Omer celebrations at the tomb of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai in Meron; Rabbi Rafael Aharon ben Shimon, the chief rabbi of Cairo during the years 1891–1921, vociferously opposed the traditional carnival-like folk celebrations of Simhat Torah in Cairo and mobilized the heads of the community to change these patterns (on rabbi Ben-Shimon’s activities see The Luminous Face of the East, above note . . ., pp. 141–144). Rabbi Ovadia Yosef himself, in pre-Shas times, had expressed opposition to the Mimouna celebrations held in Israel.

on european jewish orthodoxy

149

manifestations of religious culture represents a break with Sephardic Halachic identity, besides causing significant denigration of Judaism in the eyes of secular and educated segments of Israeli society. In more general terms, there exists a deep gap between the education and Halachic identity of the Shas cadres, and the cultural ideal that they seek to represent. Focusing on the slogan “To Return the Crown to its Ancient Glory”, the party advocates leading the Oriental-Sephardic sector of Israeli Jews back to religious observance, i.e., to the religion, Torah and the cultural heritage of their forefathers. However, the European ultra-Orthodox Halachic identity and ethos that the movement’s cadres internalized, are radically different from the Halachic identity and traditions of the Sephardic-Oriental Torah sages in the Middle East and North Africa—characterized by openness to general education, Zionism, new political trends, etc. In other words, the Halachic identity of the political-intellectual leaders of Shas (except, perhaps, for Rabbi Yosef himself ) is in dissonance with the cultural-religious heritage and identity that they invoke, and the glory of which they seek to restore.36 Not only Maimonides and other great medieval Sephardic rabbis would have found it difficult to recognize the religious culture and Halachic identity of today’s Shas leadership, but so would most prominent Sephardic scholars of the twentieth century, such as the chief rabbis of Jerusalem rabbis Ya"acov Shaul Eliachar, Ya"acov Meir and Ben Zion Uzziel. Conclusion In this article I argued that one aspect of Jewish identity is Halachic identity—identifying as a Jew by identifying with the guidelines of halacha and by living according to those guidelines. I noted that Halachic identity was not uniform and monolithic, and characterized two major modes of Halachic identity in modern times: European Orthodox and Sephardic-Oriental. Finally, I focused on one group in contemporary Israeli society, the cadre of the Shas movement, and pointed out the dissonance between the Halachic identity they internalized during the course of their socialization and studies in

36 It is worth noting that Sephardic Torah sages of the “classic” school did not support Shas; examples of such sages are Rabbi David Chelouche of Netanya and Rabbi Haim David HaLevi of Tel-Aviv.

150

zvi zohar

ultra-Orthodox yeshivot, and the Halachic identity that they glorify in their political campaigns. I realize full well that the subjects I raised merit further consideration and analysis and hope that I have made a small contribution to discussions of Jewish identity by identifying the notion of Halachic identity as relevant to such discussions.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ULTRA-ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX, AND SECULAR WOMEN IN COLLEGE Lior Ben-Chaim Rafael Introduction This study, completed in 2003, probes the implications of the diffusion of higher education among women in Israel’s ultra-Orthodox (“Haredi”) sector, in reference to these women’s values and images, from a comparative perspective. The study compares the experience of female students who identify as nonreligious (“secular”), Orthodox (“nationalreligious”), or ultra-Orthodox and who are enrolled in higher education, which is, per se, an essentially secular endeavour. The research explores the encounter, replete with potential or actual tensions and conflicts, between two main focal points in contemporary society: religion and tradition on the one hand, and modernity on the other. The arena of secular higher education, as an important signifier of modernity, exposes those who experience it to new worlds of knowledge, perceptions, and patterns of behaviour—and subjects traditional values and patterns to unavoidable influences. Moreover, since the participants in the encounter are women, the question of woman’s status is an important dimension of the problems explored. The higher-education experience exposes female students to new gender perceptions, equips them with an important resource for social mobility and, therefore, may animate far-reaching changes in their attitudes toward gender relations in the public and family arenas. By so doing, the experience not only gives women an opportunity for personal change but also allows them to become agents of change in their surroundings. This study takes a particular interest in women in the Israeli ultraOrthodox sector because this sector tends towards cultural and social separatism and for many years ruled out secular academic education for women. At most, Haredi women were encouraged to attend Haredi teachers’ colleges in order to work later in the Haredi school

152

lior ben-chaim rafael

system. Today, as the ultra-Orthodox sector is increasingly exposed to its surroundings, Haredim (the plural of Haredi) are increasingly receptive to various aspects of modernity, including the principle of women’s acquisition of higher education. Moreover, because men are often lifelong students in yeshivot (institutions of religious learning), many Haredi women are expected to participate actively in generating household income. Indeed, a significant number of Haredi women become principle household breadwinners. Such women must adapt to the labor market which, today, demands higher education for any attractive position and possibility of advancement. Thus, the expansion of academic higher education among Haredi women has become a salient phenomenon in recent years. My own estimate is that about 14,000 Haredi women attended institutions of higher study in 20031—80 percent at Haredi teachers’ colleges and 20 percent at other colleges and universities. The programs they took were quite diverse, including social work, communications, accounting, computers, management and economics, business administration, law, and architecture. These women encounter not only new worlds of secular knowledge but also new social settings in which they mingle with non-Haredi students and teachers. This situation, as suggested above, should in turn affect the attitudes and predispositions of these women as they undertake family roles and act within their own communities, especially after they complete their studies and embark on occupational careers. We should expect these developments among Haredim to contrast with those among members of other population groups that have a different attitude toward religion. For modern-Orthodox women, whose communities believe that modernity and Orthodox Judaism do not clash, higher education should reinforce the sense of social rootedness—even though, in some respects, one may find here, too, some traces of the special attitude of this milieu toward religious practices and values. As for the secular female students, whose attitudes most closely approximate the orientations of liberal Western modernity that are predominant in Israeli society, they should

1 According to calculations based on figures in the Statistical Abstract of Israel, published by the Israeli Central Bureau of Statistics ( Jerusalem: 1999), one may speak of 11 percent of the female Haredi population aged 18+ as being students in higher education, as against 7 percent of students in the total Israeli Jewish female population aged 18+.

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

153

experience higher education as an integral aspect and a determining component of “normal” lifestyles. It is in the context of these expectations that this study observed and compared the attitudes of female students of different kinds of religiosity—Haredi, modernOrthodox, and non-religious. The aim is to uncover contrasting attitudes toward modern higher learning and its significance in view of the different modes of religiosity. Theoretical Background In the context of this work, it is first necessary to consider the concept of ‘modernity’ and some theoretical attitudes towards it. Sociologists agree that one of the underlying social processes of the modern era is the development of modern science and the spread of secular higher education. Overall, the cultural-modernity project instilled new basic perceptions about individuals and their relationship with society. Central among these perceptions is the principle of personal autonomy and acknowledgment of the individual’s right to shape the social reality—the endeavour that Wittrock (2001) and others call “human agency.” At the micro level, individualism has become a central cultural code. Not only is the individual’s right to act on the basis of rational motivation stressed, but self-determination and the ability to effect self-change have been vested with crucial importance (Arnason, 2000). These developments are associated foremostly with sweeping change in the status of religion. Modern society has expedited the process of secularization and banished religion from the public domain into the private domain (Berger, 1974). The tension between modernity and religion today stems from the value contrasts between them. The modern code, in contrast to the systematic truths of religion, stresses the reflexivity and autonomy of the individual, who is expected to shape his/her surroundings on the basis of rational considerations, values, and beliefs (Boudon, 2000). A recent outlook known as the multiple-modernities perspective (Eisenstadt, 2000; 2001) attacks the functionalist assumptions about the homogenization of societies under the influence of modernity and the unavoidable contrast of religion and modernity. This new theory argues that various societies define and undertake a range of modernity projects that create different integrations of particularistic and modern-universalistic cultural elements. This theory also allows for cross-fertilization between religion and modernity (Gole, 2000)

154

lior ben-chaim rafael

and the possibility of different models of tension and interconnectivity. This study wishes to apply the multiple-modernities perspective, as the literature applies it for the comparison of contemporary societies, to the investigation of a multicultural reality in one society—Israel. The multiple-modernities concept may be able to express the convergent nature of the modernization process as diverse cultural groups are exposed and become receptive, to varying degrees, to main aspects of modernity. It is this condition that modifies the cultural and social boundaries between them. This concept may also be able to shed light on the differentiating and divergent nature of this process, which prompts different cultural groups in one society to construct diverse versions of modernity. The specific question in this study is whether women in one society—Israeli society—who belong to sectors differentiated by religious allegiances construct different visions of modernity under the influence of the higher education to which they are exposed. Studies on the intersection of religion and modernity point explicitly to the singular role of educated religious individuals as agents of change who redraw the boundaries between the two horizons. This is especially true in respect to non-European societies, where intellectuals are described as being driven by ambition to take part in the universalistic modern world without abandoning all components of their traditional culture (Eisenstadt, 2000). In this context, Eickleman (2000, 2001) developed the concept of intellectual market forces to underscore the influence of intellectuals who draw nourishment from both religious and secular sources on cultural development in Islamic countries. Other scholars have noted parallel processes in Japan and China and have challenged the accepted dichotomies of tradition versus modernity, West versus non-West, and local versus global (Shiloni, 1989; Weiming, 2001). The literature also makes reference to the singular contribution of educated religious women toward the structuring of new realities of modernity in modernizing societies; it tends to describe such women as predicating their own “modernity” on a call for reinterpretation of relevant elements of the religion and tradition at issue (Afshar, 1998). In Muslim societies, for example, women who have access to sources of both religious and secular knowledge are becoming active players in the integration of religion and modernity (Gole, 2000). Studies about American Orthodox Jewish women give evidence of various configurations of interaction between the worlds of Orthodoxy and modern feminism. Some describe this

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

155

integration as an act of conservatism—a swathing of conservative contents in modern terminology (Myers and Litman, 1995)—while others depict it as an act of innovation, powered by women, that seeks the best of both worlds, the traditional and the modern, and transforms the women into agents of change in their communities (Greenberg, 1976; Kaufman, 1987). In respect to the Israeli reality, studies indicate that modernOrthodox women are influenced by feminist outlooks that encourage them to challenge various traditional patterns that are solidly entrenched in their surroundings. For example, they increasingly demand access to religious education, positions of community leadership, and the right to participate in religious ritual (Shashar Aton, 1999). Some scholars even term the spread of Jewish studies among women and the recently published innovative theological constructions a “quiet feminist revolution” (El-Or, 1998). Academically educated Orthodox women have been moving into the professional field of rabbinical pleaders and their demands for equal opportunity in this context attest to a new gender consciousness (Shamir et al., 1997). Salient aspirations for gender equality are also evident in the occupational domain and in career expectations (Yishai, 1996; Hartman, 1993). The picture in the household sphere is not as clear. Some studies point to a negative correlation between religiosity and egalitarian attitudes (Hartman, 1993); others point to similar gender expectations among national-religious and nonreligious women (Yishai, 1996). Be this as it may, national-religious women have more liberal attitudes than national-religious men (Yishai, 1996). As for ultra-Orthodox women, some scholars claim that they are still a conservative force despite the reversal of gender roles in ultraOrthodox society that has transformed many women into the main breadwinners and their husbands into “perpetual” yeshiva students. Women’s status in the family and the community has not changed even though women are better schooled and have become their families’ main breadwinners. This is explained by factors such as early age of marriage, large numbers of children, gender segregation, and the definition of women’s vocations as secondary to the male pursuit of religious (Torah) study (Atzmon, 1995; Friedman, 1999). Other scholars, however, believe that educated Haredi women are in fact expediting their society’s rapprochement with modernity. In their opinion, gender segregation and the focus of the male identity in religious study have actually accelerated this trend by prompting

156

lior ben-chaim rafael

women to create their own subculture, an act that encourages the nurturing of autonomy and new aspirations (Starr Sered, 1992; 1994). Thus, Haredi women are found to be much more open than Haredi men to Israeli society and various aspects of modernity (Simon, 1978). They display new leisure patterns and receptiveness to secular media and literature (Rotem, 1992). At the personal level, Haredi women are branching conspicuously into additional fields of endeavour (Shilhav, 1991). Studies about their integration into occupations that are new to them, such as nursing (Binkowicz, 1990) and social work (Garr, 1999), speak of creative coping with the conflictual cultural encounter. Thus, in reference to the implications of these changes in the occupational domain for the family domain, some point to an absence of gender change (Rotem, 1992) while others argue that women’s power is steadily rising (Sheleg, 2000). Research Questions and Methodology In view of the foregoing review of the literature and the multiplemodernities perspective, this study wishes to answer eight research questions: The first research question concerns the extent to which the women students in the three groups—nonreligious, Orthodox, and ultraOrthodox—are structuring different visions of modernity. To answer this, the study attempts to evaluate the modern and traditional orientations toward aspects of various contexts—value, vocational studies, familial, women’s status, and the relation between the sector at issue and society at large. This research question also looks into the general orientations—modern and traditional—in terms of their interrelations and the correspondence of duration of studies with each orientation. The second research question gauges the students’ wish to attain “secular” social mobility, i.e., academic schooling and secular employment. To answer this, the study examines the students’ academic aspirations for themselves and their children and their aspirations to a secular vocation for their children. Where children are at issue, sons and daughters are examined separately. Finally, the question probes the correspondence between duration of studies and students’ aspirations to “secular” mobility for their children.

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

157

The third research question asks how the students view the costbenefit aspect of their studies. The discussion here uses the socialexchange perspective as its point of departure. Accordingly, the nature of the gains that is stressed—individualistic, instrumentaleconomic, and collectivistic—is examined for each group and contrasted with the nature of the costs—environmental, cultural, economic, and familial. In this line of inquiry, the study also considers how each group balances the exigencies of higher education with those of family life, and asks whether the group views these spheres as conflicting with each other. The fourth research question pertains to desired gender images— egalitarian versus non-egalitarian—in regard to the division of roles and power in the family, in three main family spheres: breadwinning, education, and household. The fifth research question concerns the groups’ gender consciousness in respect to the following dimensions: perception of gender disadvantage, motivation to advance women’s status in the private and public domains, and attitude toward individualistic and collectivistic practices of change. The sixth research question explores the students’ relationship with Israeli society in the following dimensions: social solidarity; desired arenas of public influence—cultural, economic, and political; and the desired directions of the influence—modern-universalistic, national, and traditional-religious. The seventh research question explores the groups’ attitude toward the religious sectors to which the students do not belong, at three levels: affective, cognitive, and social. Accordingly, the following dimensions are probed: intersectoral affective distance, intersectoral images, and three respects of intersectoral social distance: familial, intercommunal, and occupational. The eighth research question gauges the students’ self-perception as agents of change in their sectors, on two levels: promotion of “secular” mobility (secular schooling and employment) among women and men, and rapprochement between the religious and the nonreligious at large. These issues are tested from two perspectives: personal and in comparison with male members of the sector. This question also examines the relationship between a modern orientation and self-perception as an agent of change.

158

lior ben-chaim rafael

In regard to methodology, the study uses a correlated cross-sectional design. The target population is composed of 1,445 nonreligious, national-religious, and Haredi women who attend ten institutes of higher education of various sectoral affiliations—four Haredi, three national-religious, and three nonreligious. The women in the various sectors are represented in the sample on the basis of numerically identical quotas. The sampling of students was based on a combined method of strata, clusters, and discretion in view of institutional constraints. The data were gathered by means of a structured questionnaire, in which most items were at the level of ordinal measurement. Measurement scales were devised for most of the research concepts in order to enhance the measurements and facilitate multivariate statistical analyses. The statistical techniques employed were tailored to the level of measurement of the variables. However, to reinforce control, the main methods used were multivariate of variance and multiple regression analyses. Findings and Discussion The findings pertaining to the first research question show that the three groups of women students represent differentiated versions of modernity that include various blends of aspects of tradition and religion, on the one hand, and of modernity, on the other hand, in reference to the contexts examined—value, vocational-study, familial, women’s status, and outlook on relations between the sector and its surroundings (see Table 14.1). Hence, we see that in respect to value orientations, both religious groups share an allegiance to traditional values. As for appreciation of modern values, the Haredi group displays a medium level and the national-religious a high level. The nonreligious, in contrast, have a medium appreciation of traditional values and a high appreciation of modern ones. In regard to the benefits they expect to gain from their studies, both religious groups expect moderate benefits in terms of traditional norms (religious self-fulfillment and dependency on religious guidance regarding professional issues). However, they also stress the benefits of their studies in terms of modern lifestyles— although the national-religious emphasize this point more2 than Haredi 2 When we use relative terms such as “more” or “less” and the expressions “positive/negative correlation,” we refer to a statistically significant finding that

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

159

students do. In the realm of family life, both religious groups expect to have large families—Haredim expect to have more children than the national-religious—and a traditional household division of labor between wife and husband. However, they also share an egalitarian gender outlook on children’s education and family breadwinning. As for the status of women, both religious groups sustain the traditional gender-segregative pattern in various social contexts but are eager— the national-religious more so than the Haredim—to advance women’s status in the community. In their attitude toward Israeli society outside their community, the national-religious are more open to the nonreligious although they favor only moderate use of secular media. Haredi students are much more prone to self-segregation and are more sharply opposed to the use of secular mass media. They do, however, favor cooperation with people outside their community where professional interests are concerned—though less than the national-religious. Summing up the orientations of the different groups regarding modernity and tradition in a variety of aspects, we find three different models. The modernity vision expressed by the nonreligious is noted for polar asymmetry—a strong modern orientation and a weak traditional one, although the two are not mutually exclusive. (There is no significant negative correlation between these orientations.) The vision elicited from the Orthodox women is symmetric—moderate and negatively correlated traditional and modern orientations. The modernity vision presented by the ultra-Orthodox women is mildly asymmetric, composed of a strong traditional orientation and a moderate modern one with no significant negative correlation betweenthem. The presence of these diverse visions of modernity, which integrate modernity, religion, and tradition in different ways, does not necessarily result in mutual exclusiveness between religion and modernity, thus supporting the multiple-modernities perspective. This perspective is additionally reinforced by the finding that a longer term of studies, which are intrinsically modern, not only leaves the modern orientation unscathed but also fails to weaken the traditional orientation and, in the case of the Haredi women, actually strengthens it.

responds to p < 0.05. When the terms “similar” or “equal” values or “absence of correlation” are used, the finding at issue responds to p > 0.05.

lior ben-chaim rafael

160

Table 14.1. Modern Orientation (MO) and Traditional Orientation (TO) of the Groups Aspects of modernity/ traditionalism*

Nonreligious MO TO

National-religious Ultra-Orthodox MO TO MO TO

Values1 Studies/profession2 Family3 Status of women4 Society at large5 Measure consistency General orientation Models

85 46 74 6 88 9 70 6 84 6 92 70 68 18 Strong MO, weak TO

69 90 67 49 78 67 49 69 81 40 91 87 57 63 Middle-range MO and TO

65 94 62 48 74 84 36 98 60 62 88 91 53 82 Strong TO, middle-range MO

* The numbers in this table and in all subsequent tables represent the average value of a variable among the respondents of the individual group. The variable may receive values from 0 to 100; we take the average value as an index of a “high,” “moderate,” or “low” level of the variable within the group in accordance with the position of the value in range of variance—highest third, middle-range, or lowest third. Moreover, numbers that refer to several variables represent their means. 1 Modernity refers here to individualism, support of democracy, and pluralism. Traditionalism refers here to religious lifestyles and emphasis on the performance of religious duties in the public domain. 2 Modernity refers here to an emphasis on self-fulfillment, a career orientation, personal autonomy, and ambitions for advancement in the community. Traditionalism refers here to religious self-fulfillment and recourse to a religious authority as a source of guidance for professional issues. 3 Modernity refers here to an emphasis on gender equality in major areas of family life and favoring of democratic education practices. Traditionalism refers here to an emphasis on the wish to have a large family. 4 Modernity refers here to an emphasis on the favoring of the enhancement of women’s status in the private and public domains. Traditionalism refers here to an emphasis on gender segregation in various social contexts. 5 Modernity refers here to an emphasis on willingness to cooperate with individuals from different sectors in the professional domain. Traditionalism refers here to an emphasis on social segregation and rejection of secular mass media.

As for the second research question, concerning aspirations for “modern secular” mobility (see Table 14.2), differentiated models were again elicited by the three groups and may also be interpreted as the products of diverse modernity visions. The nonreligious mobility model wishes to apply modern mobility criteria—academic schooling and secular employment—to men and women alike (as indicated by their aspirations to mobility for their daughters and sons). The Orthodox mobility model approximates the nonreligious model but

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

161

has somewhat higher secular expectations of women than of men, who are encouraged to take part in the alternative mobility arena, religious studies. The mobility model of the ultra-Orthodox women radicalizes this tendency by dichotomizing the arenas of mobility along gender lines—modern for women and Torah-centric for men. The groups are also differentiated in terms of the extent of secular mobility that they desire. Ultra-Orthodox women wish to limit this extent and channel it more to the occupational context than to the scholastic one, while both the Orthodox and the nonreligious do not. At the same time, only the nonreligious women tend to exhibit rising ambitions for their children’s secular mobility as the duration of their own studies lengthens. Accordingly, the groups converge around the modernistic discourse in respect to the mobility aspiration for their daughters. Yet, the groups remain differentiated in mobility aspirations for boys in their sector and in terms of the desired extent of secular mobility, in view of their differentiated relationships with tradition. Table 14.2. Aspirations for (Nonreligious) Scholastic and Career Mobility Respondents Aspects of social mobility Nonreligious Aspirations to further Academic study Aspirations to mobility of daughters1 Aspirations to mobility of sons1 Desired span of mobility

Nationalreligious

UltraOrthodox

77 98

68 94

59 77

99

78

32

Equally wide for Wider for studies and for studies than career for career

Wider for career than for studies

* See explanation of index in Table 1. 1 Average of expectations from academic studies and nonreligious career.

In respect to the third research question, the groups’ differentiated perceptions of the benefits of their higher education (see Table 14.3) are also structured in view of their differentiated relationships with tradition, which result in different visions of modernity. The nonreligious model values the individualistic principle of self-fulfillment, career involvement, etc., more than both religious groups. It also

162

lior ben-chaim rafael

attributes collectivistic benefits (future professional assistance to people and to the community) to higher education and, by doing so, it reflects a liberal modern orientation that associates a commitment to personal development with “good citizenship.” The Orthodox model treats the collective benefit as the most important outcome but also strongly values the individualistic and instrumental economic benefits of higher education. This should be understood in view of the symmetric modern and traditional orientation of Orthodox women, as found in this study. The ultra-Orthodox women’s model stresses the instrumental economic benefits of higher education above all, i.e., it takes a practical attitude toward higher education, an approach consistent with the Torah-centric and moral justification of these women’s scholastic activity (helping to support the family so that the husband may devote himself solely to religious study). However, this model does not dismiss the importance of the individual benefit, assigning it a moderate value. Thus, although the groups are clearly differentiated by their different allegiances to tradition, they move toward each other in the importance they attribute to values of modernity in the context of their studies. This conclusion is sustained by the fact that even though religiosity has a positive effect on the perception of the cultural costs of higher education (perceived negative cultural influence of studies) and the social costs of this activity (perceived lack of support of one’s milieu), these costs remain low in the opinion of all three groups. As for ultra-Orthodox women, cultural and social costs also correlate inversely to the duration of their studies. The multiple-modernities perspective also helps to explain the differences found in the students’ attitudes toward the relationship between higher education and the family sphere. Thus, the more religious the respondents, the more they valued the economic importance of higher studies for the family. By the same token, both religious groups complain less than the nonreligious about the cost of studies to the family in terms of difficulties in issues such as childrearing, spousal life, and the need to defer marriage. Thus, both religious groups express a more complementary approach toward the nexus of higher learning and family life. In their opinion, social mobility and religious exigencies—including the centrality of the family—are far from contradictory. This stance may also be understood in view of their wish to maximize the advantages— preservation of relative strength in the family sphere on the basis of

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

163

Table 14.3. Perceived Benefits and Costs of Higher Learning Benefits and costs of higher learning 1. Benefits Individualistic1 Economic-instrumental2 Collective3 2. Costs Cultural4 Environmental5 Familial6

Nonreligious

Nationalreligious

Ultra-Orthodox

74 58 78

67 67 77

62 75 68

7 13 45

10 13 41

14 15 41

* See explanation of index in Table 1. 1 Self-fulfillment, career development, independence, and personal social status. 2 Contribution of studies to household income. 3 Assistance to people and to the community. 4 Negative cultural influence of studies. 5 Lack of support from social environment. 6 Difficulties related to childrearing, spousal life, and deferral of marriage.

traditional rewards, and consolidation of strength in the scholastic arena on the basis of modern rewards. In contrast, the nonreligious women, following a feminist outlook, have a conflictual view of the relationship between higher learning and occupational career, on the one hand, and the requirements of family life, on the other. Concerning the fourth research question, it seems that the groups also construe the family gender images of the desired division of spousal roles and power as manifestations of different visions of modernity (see Table 14.4). The nonreligious model stresses gender equality and spousal partnership in all aspects of family life that were researched—education, breadwinning, and household. The nationalreligious model stresses equality in education (like the nonreligious model) and breadwinning (though less than the nonreligious model) but shows a slightly traditional non-egalitarian inclination in the household realm. The ultra-Orthodox model combines an egalitarian attitude toward education (though less emphasized than in the two other models), a traditional gender image in the household, and support for a breadwinning pattern in which the wife assumes most responsibility. These models indicate that the religious groups, particularly the ultra-Orthodox, have created a synthesis of modern and traditional outlooks. Be this as it may, the convergence of the groups’ different modern discourses is expressed in the context of acceptance

164

lior ben-chaim rafael

of the principle of gender equality, primarily in respect to education and secondarily in regard to breadwinning (in consideration of the variations found). On the other hand, the groups tend toward differentiation in the household domain, where the influence of traditional outlooks correlates positively with the level of religiosity. It is important to stress two tendencies that are common to the groups and that indicate convergence among them. The first is the order of domains that are given importance in terms of gender equality—education first, followed by breadwinning and household. The second is the fact that gender equality corresponds more to spousal decision-making—distribution of power—than to spousal division of labor. Table 14.4. Desired Equality in Spousal Divisions of Roles and Power Areas and aspects 1. Education Equality in role division Equality in power2 2. Income Equality in role division Equality in power 3. Household Equality in role division Equality in power

Nonreligious

Nationalreligious

Ultra-Orthodox

98 98

99 100

95 98

93 100

84 96

90 89

90 92

76 80

60 64

* See explanation of index in Table 1. 1 The higher the score, the more egalitarian the gender orientation of respondents. 2 “Division of power” refers to decision-making by husband and wife.

As for the fifth research question, concerning gender consciousness (see Table 14.5), the “feminist” secular model shows staunch support for the advancement of women’s status in the public and private spheres by means of individual and collective praxis. The Orthodox model favors the advancement of women’s status more moderately and encourages it mainly by individual praxis or within “traditional” segregated women’s settings. The ultra-Orthodox women’s model is the most disapproving, although in its moderate way it upholds the importance of women’s advancement, by means of personal mobility, mainly in the public domain. The fact that religiosity has a negative effect on gender consciousness, in all dimensions examined, attests to the strength of traditional gender outlooks.

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

165

Differentiations aside, all the groups clearly share several tendencies. All three refuse to see themselves as genuinely “deprived” (although a negative correlation was found between religiosity and awareness of gender discrimination), probably due to the special status of learned women. Respondents in all three groups ascribe greater importance to women’s advancement in the public sphere than in the private sphere. All three groups emphasize the value of personal mobility rather than collective action, thereby expressing an active orientation and an awareness of the importance of amassing personal resources for mobility—basically a modern-secular approach. The trend of rapprochement also stands out in the attitude of Orthodox women toward nonreligious women, as shown in the finding that their gender consciousness correlates positively with the duration of their studies. Table 14.5. Gender Consciousness Components of gender consciousness

Nonreligious

Nationalreligious

UltraOrthodox

Awareness of gender discrimination Motivation for advancement in private domain Motivation for advancement in public domain Relevant individualistic change practices1 Collective change practices2 General index of gender consciousness

52

33

23

67

45

33

82

54

39

84

67

50

69 69

51 49

44 38

* See explanation of index in Table 1. 1 Mobility by one’s own efforts and investment. 2 Advancing women’s status by collective action and organization.

In regard to the sixth research question, concerning the groups’ connectedness with Israeli society (see Table 14.6), again three models were obtained. The nonreligious model represents a modern-secular outlook; that of the Orthodox reflects a mitigated modern-traditional outlook; and the model of the ultra-Orthodox women emphasizes traditional elements more strongly than the others but does not ignore aspects conveyed by the modern-secular model. All three models reflect a strong solidarity with Israeli society at large—though the

lior ben-chaim rafael

166

tendency is weaker among the ultra-Orthodox. Moreover, all groups show a strong desire to be involved in and influential on this society—economically, culturally, and politically—although the nationalreligious are more assertive in their demand for influence in the latter two dimensions. Table 14.6. Aspirations to Influence Israeli Society

Kinds of influence

Respondents Nonreligious

Nationalreligious

UltraOrthodox

Solidarity Economic influence Cultural influence Political influence Emphasizing modern perspectives Emphasizing traditional and religious perspective Emphasizing national values

80 80 75 74 82 52

80 80 86 82 62 88

67 67 82 67 58 93

88

76

13

* See explanation of index in Table 1.

However, the groups channel the desired influence onto different paths. The nonreligious model stresses a nexus of the modern and the national, the Orthodox model a nexus of the national and the traditional, and the ultra-Orthodox model a nexus of the religious and the traditional. The very wish to make one’s sector influential in the public domain shows that all three sectors have a modern orientation, and the two religious sectors’ wish to reinforce traditional matters may be viewed, from the multiple-modernities perspective, as a confrontation with the dominant nonreligious sector over alternative visions of modernity. Support for this contention is provided by the greater importance that the two religious groups ascribe to cultural influence than to political and economic influence, in contrast to the nonreligious group, which stresses economic influence above all. In regard to the seventh research question, concerning the students’ relations with the population groups to which they do not belong (see Table 14.7), the connection between the ultraOrthodox and the Orthodox sectors was found to be the strongest; that between the Orthodox and the nonreligious fell in the middle; and that between the ultra-Orthodox and the nonreligious was the weakest at all levels—affective (feeling of closeness between sectors),

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

167

cognitive (images of sectors), and social (existing and desired social relations among members of different sectors). Here we find a consistent symmetry3 in the perception of relations between the Haredi and the national-religious sectors at the three levels investigated, in contrast to the lack of consistency in symmetry between the nonreligious and both religious sectors. In another salient finding, intersectoral relations gather strength commensurate with levels of connectedness—affective, cognitive, and social, in ascending order. Furthermore, when we analyze the social level more closely (Table 8), openness to social interaction is found to be correlated positively with the degree of publicness of the sphere. It is minimal in the family sphere (marriage relations), in which all three groups wish to erect intersectoral buffers, higher in the intercommunal (neighbourhood and socializing) sphere, and highest in the public (occupational) sphere. Here again we see a symmetry between the Haredi and nationalreligious sectors in all three spheres—with respect to desired and existing relations—in contrast to the lack of consistency in symmetry between the religious and the nonreligious sectors. In the family sphere, the readiness of the nonreligious to widen the circle of marriage bonds with the religious sectors—especially the nationalreligious—is stronger than the corresponding attitudes of the religious groups toward the nonreligious. In contrast, in the intercommunal sphere and even more in the occupational sphere, Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox women are more interested in relations with the nonreligious than vice versa, and they even aspire to strengthen these relations—as is evident when we compare the data about existing and desired social relations . These findings confirm the tendency of convergence among the Haredi sector toward the mainstream of Israeli society, as depicted by scholars (Ben Rafael, 2002; Ravizki, 1997). Moreover, these findings are also consistent with a multicultural reality that legitimizes cultural religious pluralism. Such a reality entails a partnership among diverse sectors along mutually agreed modern lines in the public domain but allows singular cultural ways—

3 The notions of symmetry and lack of symmetry concern the similarity/dissimilarity between the values of the variables, irrespective of statistical significance.

lior ben-chaim rafael

168

Table 14.7. Attitudes toward Intersectorial Relations Types of attitudes 1. Affective attitudes1 Of nonreligious respondents Of national-religious respondents Of Ultra-Orthodox respondents

V-a-v the nonreligious

V-a-v natreligious

V-a-v UltraOrthodox

— 42

36 —

12 57

32

55

—

67 —

55 70

67

—

69 —

33 76

70

—

2

2. Cognitive attitudes Of nonreligious respondents — Of national-religious 55 respondents Of Ultra-Orthodox respondents 38 3. Social attitudes3 Of nonreligious respondents — Of national-religious 69 respondents Of Ultra-Orthodox respondents 52

* See explanation of index in Table 1. 1 Intersectoral feelings of closeness (the higher the score, the stronger the feeling of closeness). 2 Intersectoral images (the higher the score, the more positive the image). 3 Existing and desired intersectoral relations (the higher the score, the stronger the intersectoral relations).

or, in the language of multiple modernities, diverse visions of modernity—to exist in the private domain, i.e., at the intercommunal and family levels. As for the last research question, pertaining to the students’ selfperception as agents of change in their sectors (Table 14.9), it was found that even though the ultra-Orthodox women are a vanguard in higher education, religiosity has a negative effect on students’ selfperception as agents of change in respect to the advancement of women’s mobility (secular education and occupation)—although the ultra-Orthodox women themselves express a moderate outlook in this context. In any event, from a comparative gender perspective, in all three

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

169

Table 14.8. Interaction between Sectors: Ideal versus Real Areas of social interaction— reported by respondents 1. Family (marriage) From standpoint of nonreligious From standpoint of national-religious From standpoint of Ultra-Orthodox 2. Intercommunal relations From standpoint of nonreligious From standpoint of national-religious From standpoint of Ultra-Orthodox 3. At the occupational level From standpoint of nonreligious From standpoint of national-religious From standpoint of Ultra-Orthodox

V-a-v non- V-a-v nati- V-a-v Ultrareligious religious Orthodox

As it is

—

7

0

As As As As

— 9 16 12

50 — — 4

12 24 50 —

As desired

3

20

—

As As As As As

it is desired it is desired it is

— — 70 90 63

55 82 — — 80

20 46 70 95 —

As desired

66

86

—

As it is

—

64

29

As As As As As

— 75 95 60 80

88 — — 78 95

62 67 96 — —

desired it is desired it is

desired it is desired it is desired

* See explanation of index in Table 1.

groups, female respondents tend to think that women have more influence than men in their sector on their own mobility. This indicates their self-perception as wielders of power in their communities. As for whether or not women see themselves as agents who encourage men’s secular mobility, it is noteworthy that religiosity has a negative significance. While this role is strongly endorsed by the nonreligious and moderately so by the national-religious, it is quite weak among the Haredi respondents. Nevertheless, the last-mentioned, like

lior ben-chaim rafael

170

Table 12.9. Self-Perceptions as Agents of Change Areas of agency

Nonreligious

Nationalreligious

UltraOrthodox

Women’s influence on advancement of women’s mobility1

74

55

44

Women’s influence on women’s mobility compared with men’s influence on women’s mobility2

75

70

68

Women’s influence on advancement of men’s mobility

67

46

29

Women’s influence on men’s mobility compared with men’s influence on men’s mobility2

48

48

48

Women’s influence on promotion of rapprochement between religious and nonreligious

32

54

51

Women’s influence compared with men’s influence on promotion of rapprochement between religious and nonreligious2

58

46

40

* See explanation of index in Table 1. 1 Secular education and occupation. 2 The values on this row should be interpreted as follows: lower values mean that men are perceived as more influential than women; middle-range values that women and men are perceived as having more-or-less equal influence; higher values indicate that women have more influence than men.

the two other groups, consider themselves as influential as men on the determination of their lifestyles. This means that Haredi women are actively involved in retaining the differentiation of men’s and women’s channels of mobility, i.e., religious study for men and secular careers for themselves. Furthermore, it is in regard to rapprochement between the religious and the nonreligious that the religious groups—Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox—present a cohesive self-image of agents of change, in contrast to the nonreligious students, who hardly consider themselves agents of change in this sense. Thus, by general implication, educated religious women are not only agents of change, as evidenced in their attitudes toward the various issues that crystallize into new visions of modernity, but are also developing a consciousness,

ultra-orthodox, orthodox, and secular women

171

albeit partial, of being so. Moreover, the study indicates explicitly that the stronger the overall modernistic orientation of the Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox students is, the stronger their overall consciousness as agents of change for their sector. Conclusions We may now point to the theoretical contributions of this study. First, the study breaks new ground in research about the growing incidence of higher education among ultra-Orthodox women in Israel. It sheds light on the perceptions and images that this specific segment of the population of ultra-Orthodox women holds in regard to modernity and Israeli society, in comparison with educated women in other religious/non-religious sectors. The comparison elicits a clear picture: these women are agents of change with respect to themselves and to their sector, as they redraw the lines among modernity, religion, and tradition, and serve as boundary markers. Another contribution of the study relates to its theoretical point of departure. We obtained three distinct syndromes of modernity that may be succinctly phrased as follows: (1) Polar asymmetry among the nonreligious: strong modern and weak traditional orientations; (2) Mild asymmetry among the ultra-Orthodox: strong traditional and moderate modern orientations; (3) A symmetric vision among the Orthodox: moderate modern and traditional orientations. Each syndrome represents a distinct nexus of religion, tradition, and modernity. When viewed as a whole, each syndrome supports the multiple-modernities perspective, which rules out the necessity of total convergence toward the Western modernity project or toward any other form of modernity. This perspective also refuses to treat religion and modernity as mutually exclusive by definition. Instead, it asserts the existence of diverse modernity visions that represent various combinations of particularistic aspects of tradition and modernuniversalistic characteristics. By adopting this approach, this study reinforces the advantage of the multiple-modernities perspective in analyzing the complexity of contemporary modern societies and the possibility of applying this perspective to the analysis of individual multicultural societies.

172

lior ben-chaim rafael

Above all, this study confirms the contention that Jewish ultraOrthodoxy can by no means be described as a stagnant and nonmodern niche of contemporary Judaism. The ultra-Orthodox group may be viewed as such by nonreligious individuals who feel estranged from people who voluntarily remain attached to a profusion of traditional markers. Yet this work converges with other studies to show that ultra-Orthodoxy is actually a setting in permanent quest for new adaptations to modernity and syntheses between its requirements and the commands of tradition and faith. This study contributes to our understanding of the complex role of women in these processes and the way they experience and even actively enhance them. The processes at issue actually transform their own condition first and foremost. In this context, the contribution of this study transcends the analysis of Israeli society and fits in with a series of studies that deal with understanding the unique role of religious educated individuals as agents of change in modernizing societies. It also sheds light on the paucity of research on religious educated women as agents of change around the world.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE CHALLENGE OF SECULARISM TO JEWISH SURVIVAL IN ABBA HILLEL SILVER’S THINKING Ofer Shiff In 1926, the Menorah Journal, an organ of an American-Jewish cultural movement, presented a survey of the Jewish religious scene in the United States. The leading articles were written by Horace M. Kallen, a known “secularist” and one of the salient proponents of the doctrine of “cultural pluralism,” by Eilliot E. Cohen, who was the managing editor of the Menorah Journal, and by Henry Hurwitz, the founder and editor of the Menorah Journal. All articles were quite critical of Jewish religious life in America, and portrayed it as incapable of supporting a viable and vibrant Jewish community in the United States. After publication, Mr. Hurwitz approached Abba Hillel Silver, who was at the time a young and promising Reform Rabbi and a Zionist, and asked him to write a rejoinder to these articles. Eventually Silver’s article, “Why Do the Heathens Rage?” was refused by the Menorah Journal and was published in four weekly installments, beginning with the issue of July 23, 1926, in the Jewish Tribune.1 Examining the article from a historical perspective may add an important aspect to our understanding of Reform’s inner discussion of the question of Jewish survival. It may enable us to focus on the role of Jewish religion (as attributed by Reform Judaism) in coping with the question of Jewish existence, either by regarding the Jewish religion as a mere set of intellectual dogmas, devoid of ethnic-cultural characteristics, or as an emotional-cultural basis of an all-inclusive Jewish affiliation. It is especially noteworthy because of Silver’s militant Zionist advocacy and because of Reform’s suspicious attitude toward Zionism as a secular and anti-religious movement.2 1 Silver, Autobiography/Memoirs, Book 1, pp. L/1–7 [c. 1963?], Papers of Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, Microfilm Ed., Ben-Gurion Research Ctr., Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Sde Boqer Campus, Series VII/A, Roll 211/1. 2 The Pittsburgh Platform, for example, sought to emphasize the uniqueness of the Jewish perception of God in both religious and historical-development terms.

174

ofer shiff

In his article, Silver declared that “religion was the sole reason why the Jew persisted in maintaining his identity in the world.” He predicted that if American Jews abandon their faith, “no quantum of Jewish music and Jewish art or books on Jewish literature and philosophy will be potent enough” to save them, and they will swiftly and surely assimilate. In spite of his strong Zionist faith, Silver rejected Zionism when disconnected from the Jewish religion. He described secular American Zionism as an artificial entity, derived from the segregated and compact Jewish community life of Eastern Europe, and predicted that it can endure only until its ideology is dissipated by the dissolving influences of American life. He warned that a strong Jewish commonwealth in Palestine will not preserve the secular American Jew, just as the existence of a great German Fatherland has not kept the Germans in the United States from assimilating. In a similar way, and despite being an advocate of “cultural pluralism” as the desired strategy in dealing with the question of Jewish survival in the United States, Silver bluntly rejected the non-religious facets of this doctrine: The Jew in the United States will not long remain a Yiddishist or a Hebraist, in the technical sense in which the proponents of cultural pluralism understand the terms. Only the religious Jew who will continue steadfast to his faith will conserve and carry on the culture and the traditions of Israel. The rest will disappear, as they always have, as they inevitably must . . .3

In summary, Silver’s main criticism of the Menorah anti-religious campaign focused not on its attitude towards Zionism or towards “cultural pluralism” but on what he interpreted as the absence of an emotional-religious affiliation, which alone can support an all-inclusive Jewish way of life. In his own words, Silver scornfully depicted the authors of the Menorah articles as belonging to a “small group of alienated intellectuals . . . removed . . . from positive Jewish life . . .”4 Significantly, this line of criticism was quite similar to the one used by Silver when targeting his own Reform movement. He often

The 1904 CCAR convention, for example, attempted unsuccessfully to forge a consensus in favor of the establishment of a Jewish-American synod that would exercise supreme religious authority, as an alternative to the World Zionist Congress. See: CCARY (1914), pp. 116, 146–161. 3 Silver, Autobiography/Memoirs, Book 1, pp. L/6–7. 4 Ibid., p. 1.

the challenge of secularism to jewish survival

175

criticized the efforts of nineteenth century classical Reform thinkers and their contemporary disciples who sought to construct a positive view of Jewish identity that is not based on an emotional-religious connection with “Old World” Orthodox traditions. According to Silver, advocates of classical Reform Judaism, many of them Jews of predominantly American upbringing, were estranged from Jewish rites and the intensive Jewish way of life. Many of those Reform thinkers made extensive use of biblical criticism, attempting to stress the foreign and non-Jewish origins of Jewish rituals and to define the universal-value angle as the only substantive factor that might infuse these customs with authentic Jewish meaning. Silver criticized the overuse of intellectual and scientific analysis by classical Reform as a means to arrive at the spiritual and universalistic essence of Judaism, especially when it became the sole indicator for judging the value of various traditional Jewish customs and an almost exclusive indicator of the possibility of modern Jewish existence in America and elsewhere. Years later, in his memoirs, Silver summed up this line of criticism: I believed that the pioneer reformers and their disciples were too zealous to “modernize” Judaism . . . there was too much emphasis in their thought and speech upon “reform,” “change” “progress,” too little upon “rebirth,” “return” “tracing back to God” . . . For all their loyalty, learning and high-mindedness, many of the leaders of our movement over estimated the importance of their ritual reforms . . . What is needed today is not the innovation or renovation or reformation or reconstruction of Judaism . . . It is no longer a question of less or of more. . . . But of Godlessness, secularism and materialism which have blighted our people . . .5

In both cases, when criticizing the lack of an emotional-religious basis of an all-inclusive Jewish affiliation among Jewish intellectuals or among classical Reform thinkers, Silver represented a distinct viewpoint of second-generation American Jews. Since the beginning of the twentieth century, these Jews joined the Reform movement in increasing numbers with their Jewish identity anchored in intimate familiarity with the intensive Old World Jewish way of life.6 Characteristically of this group, Silver had been exposed from childhood not only to general American surroundings but also to the rich 5 6

Ibid., pp. D/5–7. Ofer Shiff, 2001 (Hebrew), pp. 83–88.

176

ofer shiff

and intensive culture of the Jewish immigrants’ quarter in New York. In his memoirs, he describes this Jewish environment as “bubbling over with the ferment of the old world ideas in their new world bottles.” Silver’s education typifies this integration of new and old; he spent his mornings in a public school that exposed him to American culture and his afternoons in a Jewish school (Yeshivat Etz Chaim). Consequently, his Jewish identity was not a matter of impersonal intellectual comprehension of Judaism. By its very essence, his identity was inseparable from both the all-embracing Jewish life in the immigrants’ ghetto and the American way of life. In his later years he described his childhood in the immigrants’ ghetto in New York as a formative experience in an environment that while encouraging him to integrate into American society, also taught him a prerequisite for attaining this goal: “loyalty to a revered [ Jewish] way of life.”7 Silver’s commitment to the revered Old-World Jewish traditions may be seen as the appropriate context in which to understand his decision in 1911, at the age of eighteen, to embark on a Reform rabbinical career and enroll at HUC (Hebrew Union College), the rabbinical academy of American Reform Judaism in Cincinnati. By joining the Reform movement, Silver was not expressing alienation from the intensive Jewish culture of his childhood. On the contrary, he regarded joining the Reform movement as a way of remaining loyal to the Old World Jewish ways of life without having to distance himself from American culture. He described his choice to become a Reform rabbi as the continuation of his father’s and grandfather’s careers as Orthodox rabbis. He stressed that he had decided to enroll at HUC “because of my love for the home of my childhood and the religious way of life of my parents.” In his eyes, the Old World type of Orthodox Judaism represented the basis of an all-embracing Jewish affiliation that rather than being destroyed by Reform Judaism could be reinvigorated by it.8 Silver’s career within the Reform movement provides further evidence of the great importance he attributed to Old World Judaism as a basis of an all-embracing Jewish affiliation, and to the role of Reform doctrines in preserving and reinvigorating this heritage.

7 8

Silver, Autobiography/Memoirs, Book 1, pp. A/1–3. Ibid., pp. 4–5.

the challenge of secularism to jewish survival

177

Perhaps the earliest example was his valedictory address at the ceremony of his rabbinical ordination in 1915. At first glance, his speech attested to the internalization of the classical Reform perspective. At second glance, however, it seems that in Silver’s thinking the universalistic doctrine functions as an intellectual framework that would safeguard the religious-cultural sense of belonging and make it a legitimate part of the American Jewish identity. In his speech, Silver differentiated between two concepts: “vision” and “dream.” All great religions, including Judaism, began with a “vision,” the creative and revolutionary phase of the religion, at which “the holy fervor . . . purges them of all that is sordid and false.” However, like all great religions, Judaism experienced a phase of aging and institutionalization, in which the “vision” was replaced by a “dream.” The “dream,” representing an attempt to preserve the past, enslaves the future and makes the religion, which was originally meant to enrich and deepen the human experience, a tool that limits it and threatens to strangle it. The correct response to this pitfall is to return to the universal-value significance that, according to Silver, remained an inseparable part of each evolutionary stage of Jewish history. It is this core significance that allows Judaism to absorb new truths from all fields of human experience and to invest them with a “high” universalistic-Jewish interpretation of its own. Silver noted this in his speech when he said: Judaism found matter and gave it form. It took the superstitions of primitive man and transformed them . . . It gave to the nature festivals which it inherited from the agricultural Canaanites greater significance by investing them with an ethical-historical character. It elevated the Festival of Unleavened Bread by making it a Festival of Freedom . . . It took divination and transformed it into prophecy. It seized upon the soul of sacrifice and called it prayer.

Like most classical Reform thinkers, Silver put forward the universalistic element, not the national one, as the permanent and unifying core of Jewish history. Unlike them, however, Silver’s universalistic interpretation reflected not estrangement from the intensive OldWorld Orthodox Jewish heritage but rather the basic Jewish “vision” that might reinvigorate and enrich that heritage. Silver regarded adherence to universalistic values as an “envelope” that might protect the traditional intensive Jewish heritage and allow it to reach new heights as a legitimate part of general American culture:

178

ofer shiff We wish to be true to this vision of our fathers by dedicating ourselves to a Judaism which shall ever echo the highest ideals of the human soul, the loftiest truths of the human mind; a Judaism which shall be the implacable foe of all reaction, the friend of all progress.9

It is important to note that Silver’s emphasis on the role of OldWorld Orthodox Judaism was part of an inner Reform discussion on the question of Jewish survival or how to attain the goal of establishing a viable “positive” American Judaism. A salient reflection of this inner Reform debate was the attempt to bring various types of social and cultural activity under the umbrella of the Synagogue Center movement inaugurated back in 1901. After World War I, this movement was infused with new momentum in line with the views of Mordecai Kaplan, then a Conservative rabbi and subsequently the founder of the Reconstructionist movement. Kaplan considered Judaism a culture that reflects not only an intellectual or social outlook but also an all-inclusive religious way of life. His approach, based on his own religious interpretation of “cultural pluralism,” became increasingly popular in the Reform movement and was embraced by second-generation Reform rabbis such as Silver. In contrast to the melting pot, this philosophy stressed the need to preserve and develop traditional Jewish heritages as the best way to assure genuine social integration.10 The influence of this outlook on the Reform movement was manifested conspicuously in 1917, when Silver delivered a sermon in favor of preserving Old World Jewish heritage. The focal point of the sermon was his explanation for why “the Jew in this age of great universalism [should] insist upon his social and religious particularism.” He started his response with a provocative argument, stating that the criterion for any value judgment of assimilation is the extent of its contribution to society. “If it is established that the Jew will benefit the world, culturally and religiously by assimilation,” he explained, “then we must be ready to acknowledge that assimilation is the great, desirable thing.” Although this focus on the “Jewish contribution” to society at large sounds like an updated version of the classical Reform philosophy of a universalistic mission, it was

9 Abba Hillel Silver, “Dreams and Visions,” Valedictory Address Delivered in the College Chapel, HUC, June 12, 1915. 10 For discussion of Kallen and Kaplan’s outlooks, see also Horace M. Kallen, (February 18 and 25, 1915); Kallen (1932); Mordecai M. Kaplan (1934).

the challenge of secularism to jewish survival

179

actually anchored in the doctrine of “cultural pluralism.” Silver explained the importance of Judaism’s religious-cultural contribution by describing the drawbacks of the melting-pot theory, which aims to blend all cultures into a state of cultural homogeneity. Like Kallen, who likened American society to an orchestra, Silver depicted the world as a garden of diverse flowers and argued that human society needed not the degeneration resulting from homogeneity but the unique contribution of each and every culture. “The greatest contribution that [the Jew] can make to the world,” he stated, “is to retain his cultural life.” Silver added another aspect, emphasizing that just as Jews cannot contribute to American society by assimilating, so American society can contribute to the Jews nothing but comfort and material amenities unless the Jews reinvigorate the religious-cultural components of their Jewish identity. A Jew who fails to do so may remain alienated and cut off not only from Jewish society but from American society as well. To avert this menace, Silver said, an American Judaism is needed that will combine both the universalistic Reform ideas and the emotional-religious manifestations of Old World Orthodox Judaism. Silver developed this idea in a 1918 sermon on the “American Judaism of tomorrow.” The Judaism he envisaged would be different from Orthodox Judaism, which underemphasizes the prophetic and rationalistic elements in Judaism, but also very different from the “American Judaism” that classical Reform advocated. “The soul must be kept pure—free from all superstition and falsehood, and the body—the people, must be kept strong.” In this specific sermon, he wished to persuade the “veteran American” members of his congregation in Temple Tifereth-Israel of Cleveland that the Old World heritage of Orthodox Judaism did not reflect a “negative,” separatist attitude. On the contrary, fostering it expresses trust in Judaism’s genuine ability to integrate in America.11

11 Abba Hillel Silver, “Assimilation,” November 25, 1917. It is noteworthy that Silver gave this sermon at a time after had taken up the pulpit at Congregation Tifereth Israel, known as “The Temple” of Cleveland. This was a large and important Reform congregation, most of whose members came from an American Reform background; until that time, it had been headed by an anti-Zionist and anti-ritual Reform rabbi, Moses J. Greis. Until Silver replaced Greis that year, the members of the congregation objected to basing Judaism on Jewish culture, and to implement this resistance they had done away with the Friday night and Sabbath morning services and abolished study of Hebrew in the synagogue’s Jewish school.

180

ofer shiff

Another example of the rising influence of the religious interpretation of “cultural pluralism” in the Reform movement was the appointment of Emanuel Gamoran as director of the movement’s education department in 1923. Gamoran, the scion of a hasidic family who reached the United States at the age of twelve, received this appointment despite his declared support for Zionism and even though he was clearly influenced by Mordecai Kaplan’s thinking. Like Kaplan, Gamoran considered Judaism a culture that reflects not only theological ideas but an all-embracing religious way of life. He introduced a new educational policy predicated on the notion that theological principles can only be taught within the context of a Jewish experience of rituals, the study of Hebrew, and involvement in events in the Jewish world.12 This educational approach was demonstrated several years before Gamoran took up his position, in a symposium on Jewish education that the movement held in 1916. Silver, discussing the importance of Jewish community life in the education of Jewish children, argued that the main role of the community was manifested in adolescence and that the Jewish community should utilize adolescent sensitivity to peer pressure to enhance the internalization of its religious ideals. Silver stressed that precisely because this adolescent sensitivity could also be used for negative purposes, positive focal points of religious identification acquire even greater importance, as they give the youngsters exalted Jewish ideals that may lead to the development of positive Jewish loyalty and solidarity. Thus, according to the educational approach of Silver and Gamoran, the larger cultural and social context of the Jewish religious experience was regarded as instrumental in enabling Jewish children, reared in American surroundings, to internalize the imperative all-inclusive type of Jewish religious sense that was considered self-evident in the Old World Orthodox surroundings of the immigrants’ ghetto.13 To summarize, Silver repeated this notion in a quite concise manner in his memoirs: When I taught my people about Judaism, I spoke to them . . . of the essentials and eternal values of their historic faith . . . Judaism, I often

These were the American Reform Jews to whom Silver delivered his sermon in favor of preserving and nurturing Jewish culture. Thus, we may easily imagine the magnitude of the challenge that he presented to Jewish leaders such as Morgenstern. 12 Robert J. Wechman, 1970; Michael Meyer, 1990, pp. 299–301. 13 Abba Hillel Silver, “The American Jew of Tomorrow.”

the challenge of secularism to jewish survival

181

reminded them, is not a fixed and inveterate set of dogmas, doctrines and observances. . . . it is only the religious sense . . . which gives organic unity to the faith which we call Judaism.14

This trend of thought, which was becoming increasingly influential in the Reform movement, was based on a kind of Jewish commitment that many classical reform thinkers of predominantly American upbringing saw as un-American and threatening. The writings and sermons of Dr. Julian Morgenstern, the President of HUC between 1922 and 1947, may serve as a good example of this counter trend within the Reform movement. In a lecture in 1919, Morgenstern stressed that an “American Judaism” could be made a reality only by Jews who had fully internalized the American values and way of life. Contrasting this “ideal” Judaism with the all-embracing ethnic Judaism of the eastern European Jewish immigrants, he depicted the latter as an imported product of an intolerant environment and, accordingly, a foreign implant that could not survive for long in the progressive and democratic American milieu. He quoted Isaac Mayer Wise, the founder of HUC, and repeated his exhortation: “We must become American Jews as speedily as possible . . . we can not afford to continue as aliens one day longer.” To attain this goal, he even advocated government control of the immigrants’ Americanization. “We welcome all foreigners,” he explained, “but we refuse to allow them to continue too long as semi-foreigners. And even more, we refuse to allow a hyphenated Americanism to exist in this country.”15 In their criticism of the un-American aspects of Orthodox Old World Judaism, Morgenstern and colleagues of like mind in the American Reform movement especially emphasized the danger of Zionism. The debate between Morgenstern and the Zionist Reform rabbi Max Heller may demonstrate this. Heller described himself as a “child of the ghetto” who, having experienced the Sabbath in the ghetto, recognized the basic Jewish spiritual significance that it expressed. Equipped with this formative childhood experience, he described Morgenstern’s contempt for the Orthodox Old World way of life and the Zionist ideology as “shallow.” He also criticized Morgenstern for overemphasizing Americanism and “exalting it as the ideal of perfection and above all other national loyalties.”

14 15

Silver, Autobiography/Memoirs, Book 1, pp. D/8. Julian Morgenstern, (1919), pp. 224, 239.

182

ofer shiff

Unlike Morgenstern, Heller regarded a return to the sense of belonging that the Sabbath in the ghetto once imparted as the mechanism most likely to revitalize Judaism. In fact, Heller offered an alternative to Morgenstern’s outlook on Jewish belonging in American society. Although both thinkers advocated full Jewish social integration, Heller argued that only modernization of the spiritual world of the ghetto by means of Zionism might provide a genuine basis for this integration. Like Silver, Heller believed that the ability to renew the spiritual basis that the Old World ghetto had imparted constituted the difference between assimilation and positive integration.16 Thus, leading Reform thinkers fashioned two almost opposite definitions of “positive” Jewish affiliation. Heller and Silver regarded the fundamentals of Old World Judaism as crucial elements of this affiliation, while Morgenstern wished to reinvigorate the concept of a universalistic Jewish affiliation. In his 1919 lecture on the legacy of Isaac Mayer Wise, Morgenstern depicted the success of Zionism as totally dependent on its foreign and segregationist outlooks. These outlooks, he alleged, served eastern European Jewish immigrants as a surrogate of sorts for the Orthodox way of life that they had failed to sustain in the American environment. Thus, he charged, Zionism was but a reflection of their unfamiliarity with America and their inability to internalize its values. The main challenge of Zionism for American Jewry, Morgenstern claimed, was not the issue of establishing a Jewish state in Palestine but rather the question of whether American Judaism had endogenous vitality or whether it might disintegrate the moment it failed to receive its injection of exogenous vitality, that of the Jewish commitment to the Old World traditions or to Palestine.17 The Zionist debate in the Reform movement reached its final “showdown” at the 1935 CCAR Chicago convention. It was at this convention that the traditional anti-Zionist position of the Reform movement, which was formulated exactly fifty years earlier in the Declaration of Principles of Reform Judaism known as the “Pittsburgh

16 Ibid., pp. 299–300. Morgenstern and Heller conducted a similar dispute in 1915, following Morgenstern’s lecture on the fundamentals of Jewish history: CCARY (1915), pp. 287–299. For the most recent study on Heller’s personality and views, see Bobbie Malone, Rabbi Max Heller—Reformer, Zionist, Southerner, 1860–1929, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 1997. 17 Ibid., p. 237.

the challenge of secularism to jewish survival

183

Platform,” was altered and replaced by a position of neutrality. Prior to the discussion, Dr. Samuel Schulman of Temple Emanuel in New York and Abba Silver were invited to present their contrasting views on the matter. Schulman, while acknowledging Zionism’s importance in strengthening Jewish consciousness, warned against its potential danger of destroying the unique religious character of the Jewish people as “a witness to God,” and making it a “goy” like other “goyim.” In his speech Silver took issue with Schulman’s thesis that the religious mission of the Jewish people precluded the idea of national restoration. He insisted that “nation, race, land, language were always vital and indispensable concepts in Jewish life, indissolubly associated with religion.” He warned against anyone who attempts to separate between these two components, whether emphasizing only secular nationalism or Judaism’s religious mission: In recent years some zealous and mostly uninformed partisans have attempted to reduce Jewish life to what is only a fraction of itself . . . to race or nationalism or folkways or theologic abstractions . . . It is the total program of Jewish life and destiny which the religious leaders of our people should stress today—the religious and moral values . . . as well as the Jewish people itself and all its national aspirations.18

Silver’s insistence on the desired harmony between Zionism and the religious mission of Israel was closely related to his previously described stand regarding the Menorah anti-religious campaign. In both cases, he saw Judaism as an entity that reflects not only an intellectual or social outlook but also an all-inclusive religious way of life. In both cases, he criticized those who would see Judaism in only one of these two dimensions. This basic stand may add an important aspect to our understanding of Silver’s Zionist arguments, not only when sounded in the CCAR and Reform conventions but also when voiced in the general Zionist arena. After his victory over the universalistic camp within the Reform movement in the CCAR conventions of 1935 and 1938, and notwithstanding his maximalist and often militant Zionist advocacy,19 Silver’s criticism was mainly directed

18

Silver, Autobiography/Memoirs, Book 1, pp. K/4–9. Silver demonstrated his maximalist Zionist view in May 1942, when he, together with Ben-Gurion, spearheaded the demand for Jewish sovereignty at the Biltmore conference. A few months later, in a speech before the American Jewish Conference in August 1943, he inspired the delegates to support Jewish sovereignty in the spirit of the Biltmore declaration. In contrast, “moderate” Zionist leaders such as Stephen 19

184

ofer shiff

towards his Zionist colleagues, American and non-American alike. Two speeches by Silver in the 1940s illustrate this. The first (1940) discussed the spiritual Zionism of Ahad Ha"am and was devoted to what Silver described as the universalistic crux of Zionism which can only be attained by emphasizing its interconnections with Jewish religion. According to Silver, the correct interpretation of Ahad Ha"am’s philosophy was that the aspiration for a sovereign state cannot reflect the pinnacle of Jewish aspirations: Two thousand years of heroic suffering and martyrdom cannot find their compensation in the right to play the role of a pitifully small state in a world of political intrigue, a pawn in the hands of scheming international diplomats . . . The universal humanitarian ideal has been and must continue always to be an integral part of the ideal of Jewish nationalism . . . The new Jewish State must be an expression of the historic social idealism of the race . . . Palestine must become the workshop of our people’s highest ethical aspirations and mankind’s experimental laboratory for social reconstruction.

Amidst anti-Semitic assaults in the United States and Nazism in Europe, Silver warned against the inflated importance that the concept of secular nationalism had taken on. Even at a time when Judaism faces severe anti-Semitic and Nazi attacks, he said, one must not forget that nationalism is a means and not an end. In the future, after the Jewish state comes into being, he hoped, “we shall not have to lay so much stress . . . on the importance of nationalism.” Moreover, Silver states: Hitherto wanting the full complement of the attributes of nationalism, we were constrained to over-emphasize its virtues. Many of the spokesmen of our cause were driven to extol nationalism, per se, which is after all a quite recent and, demonstrably, a quite inadequate human concept. It is not mankind’s ultimate vision. Certainly it is not the substance of our ancestral tradition, whose motif is not nationalism but prophetism. Nationalism is not enough. It is minimum requirement, not a maximum program . . .20

Wise attempted to form a consensus between Zionists and non-Zionists around the demand to repeal the White Paper restrictions on Jewish immigration to Palestine. Silver’s militancy stood out also with the American Administration. He is remembered for his interview at the White House in July 1946, where he angrily pounded President Truman’s desk—a meeting after which the president refused to meet with him again. 20 Abba Hillel Silver, (1940).

the challenge of secularism to jewish survival

185

Silver’s second speech, delivered in 1948, shortly after the state for which he had fought uncompromisingly had been established, provides another example of this same outlook. Silver stated vehemently that the future of American Jewry could not rest solely on identification with the State of Israel. He issued a hopeful prediction that American Jews would soon no longer have to invest all their energies in trying to ensure the very existence of the State of Israel; instead, they would focus on reinforcing a pattern of thriving religious Jewish existence: The time will soon come when we shall be free to divert our energies largely to our synagogues, our schools, our academies . . . We shall soon be able to put the emphasis in Jewish community life upon religion . . .

Now that the most important Zionist dream was fulfilled, Silver reminded his people that neither philanthropy, nor culture, nor secular-nationalism, can serve as substitutes in Jewish life for religion: There have been many false prophets . . . in our midst . . . There were professional social workers . . . who announced that a full complement of scientifically administrated hospitals and orphanages and other social agencies was a sufficient “vade mecum” for the Jewish people, and that the synagogue and religious schools were quite unnecessary . . . There were certain educators who resented the instruction of religion in their ultra-scientific curricula . . . There were those Jewish spokesmen who offered Jewish nationalism as a substitute for Judaism, forgetting that nationalism as such, unredeemed by a moral vision and responsibility, had sadly fragmentized our world . . .

Silver explained that while philanthropy, culture and Zionism can and must find their rightful place within the general pattern of Judaism, “the pattern must be Judaism, the Judaism of the Torah, the synagogue and the prayer book . . .” He finished his speech by urging his people to see Zionism and religion not as two opposites but rather as two complementary tasks: The upbuilding of a Jewish national home . . . is one great, urgent and historically inescapable task of Jewry. The upbuilding of Jewish religious life in America and elsewhere throughout the world . . . is another. One is no substitute for the other. One is not opposed to the other.21

21

Abba Hillel Silver, (November, 1948).

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE IDENTITIES OF JEWISH AMERICAN WOMEN Suzanne Vromen Introduction This chapter is interested in the changing role women have played both within the American Jewish community and in society at large. The central questions this chapter deals with from a socio-historical perspective are: 1) How did Jewish American women gradually break the boundaries between the private and the public spheres, and with what consequences? 2) How did they circumvent social limitations? These questions will be addressed through an investigation of salient issues relevant to the lives of American Jewish women and their identity during three formative periods of time: First during the early nineteenth century, then between the years 1880 and 1924 when changes in immigration patters were vast, and finally from 1960 to the contemporary period when American feminism took form and had a lasting impact on the identity of Jewish American women. Early Nineteenth Century In 1819 Rebecca Gratz of Philadelphia created a charitable association called the Female Hebrew Benevolent Society. This organization fused two models of charity: the American model of voluntary associations, which won high praise from the French Count de Tocqueville during his U.S. visit, and the Jewish model of tzedakah.1 The Hebrew Benevolent Society was a memorable novelty because it was entirely organized by women. Traditionally, Jewish official institutions were the domain of men. Organizations that had a major

1 This chapter is reliant on the works of Diner and Benderley (2002), especially part 2, to Hyman (1995) and to Hyman and Moore eds. (1997).

the identities of jewish american women

187

religious function and were directed by women simply did not exist, with the exception of informal women’s groups entrusted with preparing female bodies for burial. The Hebrew Benevolent Society aimed to assist in various areas helping those in needs, for example the organization arranged help for women giving birth, help to reduce poverty, help to arrange marriages, and help caring for the sick. The Hebrew Benevolent Society was not affiliated with a specific religious institution and was imitated throughout the country, at first unofficially, later formally. Its existence had important consequences: it provided the women involved with the opportunity to speak out publicly and gave them a level of independence previously unknown in Jewish traditions. The model of charity pursued by the Hebrew Benevolent Society was very much in keeping with the Victorian model of what was appropriate for women at the time. Reigning in the domestic sphere, middle-class women were deemed exemplars of morality and charged to sustain it. Helping the less fortunate was seen as a badge of Victorian respectability and became the duty of well-to-do wives. The unintended consequences, however, were that charitable organized women learned to make their mark on the larger community. As benevolent charity societies spread across the country, they acquired a significant influence within both the Jewish community and the country as a whole. During the Civil War the focus of charity work shifted understandably to needy soldiers’ families. On the whole it was a way for women to wield some informal authority and yet remain within the imposed societal boundaries. Rebecca Gratz also created the first Hebrew Sunday school in 1838, another novelty within the Jewish world though clearly an imitation of what was done in the major Protestant denominations. In Europe formal Jewish education in heder and yeshivot was directed exclusively by men and intended solely for boys. Jewish women rarely read sacred texts, and they did not teach boys. While in the Jewish tradition in Europe the halacha ( Jewish law) dominated both private religious life and public economic and political life, in the United States the public sphere of work and business was separated from the domestic sphere. This American separation of the spheres had specific consequences for education. More specifically, among other consequences, the children’s education and their moral lives became the sole responsibility of women.

188

suzanne vromen

It is in this context that Gratz established the Hebrew Sunday school, where the teaching was in English. Together with her friends, she devised her own material, using catechism material and Bible lessons published by Christian organizations. She and her teachers covered with paper the printed answers that they considered undesirable for Jewish children. Those who graduated from Sunday school then became the teachers. Jews searched for a Judaism that was adaptable to American life. So, for example in Charleston, shorter synagogue services and an English translation were requested. The mehitza was removed in the building bought from a Protestant church that had no balcony (the traditional place for the women’s section). The building did have an organ and the Rabbis were presented with a fait accompli of choirs and prayers for the whole congregation. Men and women sat together in pews in a more modern conception of family worship; at the same time such seating also had the pragmatic result of filling the synagogue. From about 1830 both churches and synagogues recognized that women were increasingly at the center of their worship. The synagogue became more feminized, as women began to constitute the majority of the attendance. The public practice of religion in the synagogue started to become a most important aspect of their piety. There was little dissonance between their religious practices and their everyday lives, in contrast to the lives of Jewish men. In effect women transmitted a domestic Judaism. They became the guardians of Judaism in the home and in the community while the men limited their religion to periodic appearance in the synagogues. This adaptation to American life was really the result of a choice to remain Jewish rather than abandon Jewish identity, but to also remain loyal to Judaism in a new fashion, one that would respond to the new realities. In this new country, women reached an unprecedented public religious pre-eminence. Changes between 1880 to 1924 The expansive European immigration between 1881 and 1924 fundamentally changed the Jewish community. With the influx of more than two million people, the Jewish community became a large ethnic group of diverse religious nuances that also included with secular ideologies. The majority was also working-class and Yiddish speaking.

the identities of jewish american women

189

Women accounted for about 44% of Jewish immigrants, a proportion larger than for any other immigrant group except the Irish.2 Jewish men and women arrived with previous experience in urban life, and in the United States they settled in dense urban areas. In this process of immigration, family disruption often occurred when married men emigrated first and reunification with their family was delayed, for example by World War I. Women then had to raise children by themselves and became entirely responsible for organizing the family’s transatlantic voyage. Compared to all other women, Jewish women worked less outside the home. In the home they worked at piecework, took in boarders, and assisted their husbands in small stores while living nearby and running back and forth. In official records, the women were described as housewives, but their work was essential to the family’s economic well-being and significantly complemented their husbands’ wages. Some women became successful pushcart peddlers; Louis Wirth described how, in Chicago, they were the majority in the poultry, fish and herring stalls.3 Others ran restaurants or became milliners. Household work in crowded cold water tenements and in difficult economic conditions was demanding. Many autobiographies and interviews report on the mothers’ coping strategies, self-sacrifices and central role in the family’s emotional life.4 Adolescent girls and young unmarried women worked in the garment industry. Gender defined the type of work and the wages. Women earned 60% of men’s average wage, working in crowded and unhealthy conditions. In addition they were also expected to help in the household. Their aspirations also differed from those of their brothers. Men saved to become self-employed and entrepreneurs, young women hoped to ameliorate their economic position by getting a good marriage match. In the absence of men, women with children were particularly vulnerable. Widows with young children and without family could not earn enough to sustain their household. Desertion was a frequent occurrence. The newspaper Jewish Daily Forward regularly published a list of absent husbands. In the early 1900s the Jewish 2

Diner and Benderley (2002) p. 155. Women constituted 53% of Irish immigrants. Louis Wirth, (1928) The Ghetto, p. 236. 4 For example Alfred Kazin, 1951 A Walker in the City, Mary Antin, 1912 reprint 1969 The Promised Land, Shalom Asch, 1930 reprint 1970 The Mother. 3

190

suzanne vromen

philanthropies spent a large part of their budgets on helping deserted and widowed families. They created orphanages and a national bureau for tracing deserting fathers. Fewer than 10% of children in orphanages had lost both parents, but the surviving parent was unable to feed the children. While conditions were tough, the young women liked the freedom they acquired through their work. They kept a small part of their wages for themselves and cherished a sense of autonomy. Unchaperoned, they went to films, cafes, theaters and dancing. The years before marriage Americanized and politicized them. They preferred working in large enterprises in which they experienced a community of peers. They participated in the workers’ movement that became an important force in the immigrant Jewish community, and they often confronted the authorities. In contrast to other young women, they assiduously attended political meetings, discussions and conferences. General working conditions and specific workers’ problems drew their interest. The Yiddish press took their side in political actions. Though the garment workers’ trade-unions did not accept women as equals and discriminated against those seeking significant roles, the Jewish women galvanized the Jewish workers’ movement. The revolt of the 20,000—the mass strike of women in the garment industry in 1909—spurred a successful activist period for Jewish workers. Women were attacked and arrested on picket lines, and the Yiddish press spoke admiringly about “unzere vunderbare farbrente meydelech.” (our wonderful fiery young girls).5 When these young women married and left the garment industry, they continued their local political activities and agitated around the issues that affected them as domestic managers. When Margaret Sanger opened a contraceptive clinic in a Brooklyn neighborhood, Jewish women came in droves, though providing contraceptive information was illegal. Sanger’s pamphlet about contraception was translated into Yiddish. Jewish women organized boycotts against price hikes by kosher butchers, and went on rent strikes to protest evictions and poor housing maintenance. The Yiddish press supported them in their radical actions. When in 1915 and in 1917 New York State queried male voters about women’s suffrage, the Jewish women

5 Hyman, (1995; Chapter 3). Citation is on p. 113. Hyman and Moore (1997) pp. 346–354.

the identities of jewish american women

191

went canvassing door to door in their neighborhoods in order to convince male voters that as women they had a moral right to vote. Because women were less affiliated with institutions than men, they have often been forgotten in studies of the Jewish community. However, it was in their local neighborhoods that the women found the sense of community which sustained their political activities. As for education, the Jewish immigrants kept their children in school longer than other immigrant groups. They also invested more in their sons’ education than in their daughters’, frustrating those women who had defined freedom in America as an unlimited opportunity to study. When Jewish families were doing well, they would keep their children in school, so the younger children had a better chance to receive an education. In The Promised Land, Mary Antin described how privileged she was in comparison to her older sister.6 Gender shaped social mobility. Many sons of immigrants before World War I did not finish secondary education and entered the business world. Many daughters became white-collar workers in sales or clerical work. When they could afford higher education, sons became medical doctors or lawyers, daughters became teachers. Only in certain cities like New York City were women allowed to continue to teach after marriage. Many became housewives after marriage, though they looked for work temporarily in times of economic crisis. Jewish women in large numbers attended evening classes and conferences organized by settlement houses, trade-unions, and Yiddish cultural organizations. Education was the key to the freedom which America symbolized. Sociological studies before 1914 and during the 1920s show the predominance of Jewish women in evening courses. For example in Philadelphia in 1925, 70% of evening students were Jewish women.7 They were eager to receive the secular education they had been unable to secure in their country of origin, but many were unable to achieve their educational goals because of their economic circumstances. Regarding specifically Jewish education, the traditional absence of Jewish women from that education continued in the immigrant community. Only a quarter of the Jewish immigrant children received

6 7

P. 166. Hyman, op. cit. p. 105.

192

suzanne vromen

some Jewish education, the situation being particularly critical for Jewish girls. A study of the Lower East side in 1904 showed that there were 8,616 Jewish boys in the supplementary Jewish schools, and only 361 girls. In 1917 the situation improved as a third of the students enrolled in Jewish schools in New York City were girls. But the girls’ education was much less substantial than the boys’, and often limited to the minimal curriculum of the Sunday school. This state of affairs was eventually remedied as community leaders realized that in order to prevent the disappearance of Jewish knowledge one had to take care of the girls. Since women were the transmitters of moral values to their children, the girls’ Jewish education was crucial to ensure the younger generation’s Jewish identity. In spite of their political activities, Jewish immigrant women were considered obstacles to their families’ Americanization by Jewish and Gentile social reformers because they were seen as transmitting the values of the old world. A more complex view of adaptation to American conditions has recently emerged. For example, the young women working in the fashion industry were often the first to wear American fashions and influenced family clothing purchases. With the help of the Yiddish press, a tool to attract women as consumers, women bought most household items. They introduced new American products into their homes, and became savvy consumers, the ultimate badge of successful balebustes. Social reformers, the middle-class descendents of previous immigrant waves, recognized the new immigrant women as potential agents of assimilation but thought that they had to be taught the appropriate values. The reformers prized cleanliness, order and deference. They were worried that Gentiles would not differentiate among kinds of Jews. The new immigrants were very numerous, highly visible in their Yiddish-speaking ghettoes, and maintained their radical politics. The reformers feared that these immigrants would be the ones to capture the popular imagination, and would displace the image of the settled, prosperous and respectable German Jews. They were also worried that the very strangeness of the immigrants would provoke anti-Semitism. Thus, they hoped that teaching middle-class behavior to immigrant women would halt “deviant behavior” and shape them into respectable Americans. Afraid that the reputation of all Jews would be tarnished, the reformers concentrated on Jewish prostitution. Relatively few Jewish women were implicated, but 17% of women arrested for prostitution in Manhattan between

the identities of jewish american women

193

1913 and 1930 were Jewish, to the great consternation of reformers.8 These reformers were motivated as much by the desire to prevent anti-Semitism as by compassion for women’s victimization. The moral reputation of the Jewish family was at stake. The reformers, with their social class prejudices, considered the immigrants as inferior and wanted to teach them to respect their middle-class superiors, and wanted women to show deference to men. The educational programs of different institutions such as the Clara de Hirsch Home for Working Girls and the Hebrew Orphan Asylum reflected this ideology, emphasizing domestic virtues. The Yiddish press published many recommendations; advice manuals about education, fashion, and manners flourished. Men addressed their advice specifically to women: they felt that even if women had not yet succeeded as agents of Americanization, they had the potential of introducing their families to middle-class behavior and tastes. It was women who could be expected to transform husbands and children into Americans. In fact, oral histories suggest that the immigrant women placed themselves as a buffer between their homes and the public world of school, work, and leisure. Daughters in particular commented about their mothers helping their aspirations and desires for independence. Novels describe mothers as softening the fathers’ traditional rigidity when daughters wanted the freedom to choose a spouse or to leave home to study. With respect to religion, Sisterhoods (mostly middle-class) were organized within synagogues at the end of the nineteenth century, and nationally in the 1920s. These sisterhoods as gendered organizations were an opportunity to apply women’s domestic qualities in the congregations without rupturing or dislocating hierarchies of positions and ranks. Thus, a new focus of religious public interest emerged for the identity of Jewish women. In a certain sense what was then conceived as “success” limited women’s aspiration. This was reflected, for example, when a woman took a paying job which resultantly encouraged the assumption that her husband was an economic failure. Therefore, voluntary social work became the main outlet for the creative energies of immigrant women who acquired the leisure to look for a meaningful occupation. In fact, this was the continuation of patterns from earlier

8

Hyman & Moore, op. cit. p. 352.

194

suzanne vromen

generations previously alluded to. Within this context, the National Council of Jewish Women was created in 1893, Hadassah in 1912. These were followed by numerous local organizations, hospitals, oldage homes, and child-care centers. Many of the hopes the immigrants had had for themselves were transferred to the younger generation. As Hyman has pointed out, the National Council of Jewish Women and Hadassah had a triple legacy: traditional Jewish philanthropy, the Ladies Aid Societies of the nineteenth century, and the club movement among American women. They were an expression of responsibility for a world larger than one’s own. The social aid associations of Jewish women were often more engaged in general civic affairs than were men’s organizations. Through these organizations, Jewish women reconfigured the boundaries between the domestic and the public spheres. They enlarged the space for the behaviors considered acceptable for women; they provided models of middle-class behavior for needy immigrants; they fought against Jews implicated in the international prostitution traffic; and, at the same time, they provided Jewish education to their members.9 With the rise of anti-Semitism in the 1930s, a greater emphasis emerged for women’s Jewish education to enable them to fight assimilation. The ideal was that Jewish men should not only become rich, but they should also resist Gentile women. By being charged to limit assimilation, Jewish women were offered, at the same time, the opportunity to acquire more Jewish education, explore their Jewish identity, and bring their domestic responsibility increasingly into the public domain. Contemporary Feminism: 1960s to the Present In the 1960s the second wave of American feminism emerged and was consolidated through significant events. President Kennedy established the Commission on the Status of Women; Betty Friedan wrote The Feminine Mystique; the National Organization of Women was founded; Title VII of the Civil Rights Act (prohibiting gender discrimination) was enacted and women’s consciousness raising groups proliferated. The positions and roles of American women in all areas

9

Hyman, (1991), pp. 234–238.

the identities of jewish american women

195

of society, including religion, were scrutinized, found wanting, and challenged. Influenced by the feminist momentum, Jewish women committed to Judaism and to their Jewish identity reevaluated both their own place in the American Jewish community and their status in the Jewish tradition. They framed the issues in terms of equal rights and equal access, the extension to women of rights granted to men.10 A good example of how women changed their status in the religious tradition comes from the creation of Ezrat Nashim, a women’s study group of the Conservative movement whose members had received excellent Jewish training. In 1972, Ezrat Nashim presented a list of demands to the Rabbinical Assembly which intended to give women equal religious rights and obligations. Eventually most of their demands were met, so women could be part of a minyan for example, be granted aliyot, and acquired the obligation to say Kaddish. The demand for the ordination of women rabbis, however, created a lengthy crisis which was finally resolved, and the first Conservative woman rabbi was ordained in 1985. The Reform movement had supported equality for a long time. Reform rabbis had declared since 1845 that women and men were equals and had the same religious obligations. However, the rhetoric did not overcome existing social norms in practice. Ordination, in particular, was intensely debated. Eventually, the rhetoric became reality and the first woman Reform rabbi, Sally Priesand, was ordained in 1972, the same year that the conservative Ezrat Nashim group first presented its list of revendications. By the turn of the twentieth century, half of the student body of Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, the Reform seminary, consisted of women. The Reconstructionist movement, a quintessentially American Jewish religious movement created by Mordechai Kaplan, established its Rabbinical College in 1968, admitted women in its first class, and ordained its first female rabbi in 1974. Currently, there are about 700 women rabbis in the United States. Hebrew Union College, the Reform seminary, has ordained 417 since 1972, the Jewish Theological Seminary (Conservative) 177 since 1985, and the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College 113 since 1974.

10

Lipstadt, (2001) pp. 291–304; Hyman, 2004.

196

suzanne vromen

Women account for less than one fifth of the total number of American rabbis.11 Since 1975 there are 165 Reform women cantors, about 40% of the total, and 87 Conservative women cantors, about 20% of the total. From a global perspective, women rabbis are specifically an American phenomenon, influenced by feminist challenges throughout the society and facilitated especially by the fact that other American religious groups have confronted similar demands. To be a woman rabbi is not an easy calling. Challenges to competence and paternalism are only two of the many obstacles. Complaints about being treated differently from male rabbis are frequent. Some women rabbis describe themselves as presenting a new model of rabbi, in that they may be less formal and more approachable. They see themselves “speaking in a different voice.”12 In order to gain some knowledge and to mark the twentieth anniversary of its acceptance of female ordination, the Conservative movement recently surveyed its women rabbis. Some of the findings are that “women in the Conservative rabbinate are paid less, occupy fewer senior positions and are more likely to be unmarried . . . They also lag behind men when it comes to holding onto their first jobs, are less likely to occupy full-time positions and almost unanimously say that they are uninterested in senior rabbinical posts at large congregations.”13 The majority lead small congregations; none lead congregations of more than 500 families. Compensation packages differ greatly, and even “when accounting for full-time work, pulpit work and congregation size, men’s compensation packages on average still led women’s by $21,000.” Men also reported being more satisfied with their careers. The most startling statistic is that 91% of the women surveyed said they did not want to be a senior rabbi at a large congregation. The sociologist Steven M. Cohen, one of the authors of the study remarked: “women likely would want leadership

11 These statistics are from Hyman, ibid. except for the number of Conservative women rabbis, cited by Rabbi Julie Schonfeld in a 2003 JTA press release, also in JTA press release in The Voice, Sept. 2004, p. 46. 12 The expression “in a different voice” is derived from the title of Carole Gilligan’s book in which she argues that men and women develop different conceptions of morality. 13 The Voice of the Dutchess Jewish Community, Sept. 2004, p. 46.

the identities of jewish american women

197

positions more if they had a better chance to attain them. . . . One, women may to some extent on average have different aspirations for their professional careers than men; secondly, those aspirations may be shaped by their assessment of the openness of the market for their candidacy; third, the market may close off opportunity to women.”14 Thus a glass ceiling exists for women rabbis as in other professional occupations. In reaction to the survey the Conservative leadership issued a policy memorandum calling for measures to reduce the gender gap and to convince Conservative congregations to give female candidates a fair hiring chance and real equality of opportunity. The Reform and Reconstructionist movements will probably want to consider how the situation of their own female rabbis compares with the findings of the Conservative denomination. While the gender gap will probably be smaller, the congregational acceptance rate better, and the level of satisfaction higher, there will undoubtedly be room for improvement in that difficult trajectory toward equality of opportunity and justice. The presence of women has changed radically the curriculum of the seminaries and the interpretations of Jewish traditions. For example, Rabbis are now trained not to ignore “marker” events in women’s lives and to handle subjects of importance to women, for example domestic violence and body images. In a way the job description for a rabbi has been reshaped by the inclusion of women, and the emphasis on the need to help all congregants with life as it is lived in all its aspects. In Orthodox Judaism, feminism has also made an impact. Women have created tefillah (prayer) groups since the late 1970s, and have persevered in spite of repeated rabbinical opposition; about 700 tefilah groups exist worldwide, with the majority in the United States. The Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance ( JOFA) was founded in 1997, and supports “meaningful participation and equality for women in family life, synagogues, houses of learning and Jewish communal organizations to the full extent possible within halacha.”15 JOFA has found rabbinical allies, and in particular it keeps the issue of agunot a constant, visible and compelling agenda.

14 15

The Voice, ibid. Hyman, 2004 op. cit. p. 9 citing the JOFA website, www.JOFA.org.

198

suzanne vromen

The contemporary American Orthodox movement provides a significant Jewish education for girls, including the study of Talmud in modern Orthodox institutions. Advanced study in classical Jewish texts is offered to female students in a midrasha like Drisha in New York City, the equivalent of a male yeshiva. By allowing women to become learned, in a certain sense male religious authority becomes attenuated and women’s roles reconfigured. Blu Greenberg describes this change in the following terms in a recent JOFA Journal: “To"anot, yo’atzot, madrichot ruchaniot, congregational interns, shul presidents, tora layners, executive directors, day school principles, mashgichot, gabbaiot, scholars-in-residence, contributors to halachic journals, megillah chanters, tefillah organizers, ketubah readers-titles we never imagined, words that did not appear in our lexicon barely a decade ago . . . Taken together, the new titles and positions for women constitute a fundamental redefinition of women’s roles in traditional Judaism.”16 The impact of feminism in the realm of liturgy and ritual is significant, resulting from women trying to create religious ways conveying their personal experiences. They have devised spiritual and ritual expressions, for example, for miscarriage, abortion, menopause and infertility. All non-Orthodox denominations have challenged the traditional images of and linguistic references to God in ritual and liturgy, and have issued gender-sensitive liturgies. New ceremonies have been created, such as adult bat mitzvah and Passover prayers with special midrashic tributes to Miriam, sister of Moses (who led the women of the exodus in song and dance). The most significant and the most widespread new feminist ritual is the naming ceremony for a newborn girl. Traditionally the birth of a baby girl was hardly noted in the synagogue, the father naming her in passing with a simple alyah, without the presence of mother and child. In the 1970s, feminist parents began to celebrate the birth in communal settings, to mark the inclusion of their baby girl into the Jewish community. The Orthodox revived a home ritual, the Sephardic ritual of Seder Zeved Ha-bat, a home ritual. The unequal way in which boys and girls were welcomed into the community was greatly resented, so these inclusion ceremonies—inspired and led by lay people—became very popular. Rabbis then started synagogue naming

16

Blu Greenberg, 2004, p. 1., cited by Hyman, 2004 op. cit. p. 12.

the identities of jewish american women

199

rituals and made them an important communal event in which mother and baby occupy a central place. This new ritual is an example of the rapid acceptance of a community celebration which benefits all.17 Conclusion In conclusion, a few trends are recognizable in this short survey. First, one is struck by the way in which changes in the wider society affect Jewish women and how these women adapt such changes to their own purposes. It is the ideals of the ambient society that penetrate charity work, it is the example of organization building that in turn mobilizes Jewish women, and it is the impact of feminism at large that influences those who wish to maintain in a new context their Jewish identity founded on greater gender equity. Second, the constant thread of activism and tikun olam is remarkable. Jewish women are of this world. They act in it for themselves and for others, ever since their early and gradual forays into the public world. Third, women have found new ways to highlight their identities, and have been passionate about it. Assimilation has occurred, though slightly lower among women than men. Those who have decided to retain their identity are passionately involved in reshaping it. Jewish feminism has given Judaism a larger significance and has made it into an object of great concern, perhaps in part because there is still so much to accomplish. Finally—not as a trend but as a wish— what would be greatly enriching and illuminating would be engaging in a comparative analysis of the ways in which the identities of Jewish women have evolved in other cultures and countries. Much remains to be done.

17

Hyman, 2004 op. cit. pp. 15–16.

PART III

IDENTITY, SINGULARITY, CONFLICT, AND COOPERATION

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JEWS AND SECULARIZATION: A CHALLENGE OR A PROSPECT? Guy Haarscher The Debate Over ‘Who is a Jew’ and the Issue of Secularizaton Eliezer Ben-Rafael recently published a book on Jewish identities in which he argues that, despite all differences, Jews share what Wittgenstein called ‘family resemblance.’1 In his book, he provides the replies given by leading intellectuals of the Jewish community to a question raised to them in 1958 by David Ben-Gurion, then Prime Minister of Israel. The question was as follows:2 could the offspring of mixed couples be registered as Jews, if it involves a non-Jewish mother who has not converted to Judaism?3 A particularly dramatic element of the inquiry was that often the Jewish fathers of these children were Holocaust survivors. Would a simple statement from the parents suffice regarding their child’s ties to Judaism, together with the assurance that the child was not being raised in another religion, or would it be necessary to have a religious ceremony in accordance with the prescriptions of Halacha ( Jewish religious law)? The core of the problem relates to entry into the Jewish community for those not born to a Jewish mother or not having undergone conversion. According to Jewish law, if one is born a Jew, 1 Eliezer Ben-Rafael, 2001. For references to the ‘air of family’, see pp. 28 & 121–124 (L. Wittgenstein, 1961, p. 148—in his translation Pierre Klossowski used the expression ‘ressemblance de famille’). 2 Ben-Rafael, op. cit., p. 135. 3 ‘The Jewish orthodox movement constitutes a majority in Israel and dominates religious institutions even though they perform . . . important social and civic roles. Furthermore, it succeeds in providing an answer—albeit a purely theological rather than civil—to the question of what it means to be Jewish. The orthodox parties want to impose their monopoly and are fiercely opposed to any legal recognition of conversions to Judaism by religious courts (whether reformist or conservative) as well as to the right of the latter to make decisions in matters of marriage or divorce, or even gain membership in local religious councils.’ (‘The unstoppable rise of the men in black’ Le Monde diplomatique, February 1998).

204

guy haarscher

he need not be practicing in order to be considered Jewish. The only way that he will become an outsider is if he embraces another religion. The way in which the question posed by Ben-Gurion was phrased clearly reveals the deeply intertwined relationship in Israel between religion, on the one hand, and the State, citizenship and personal status, on the other. This relationship can hardly be considered compatible with the principle of secularism. Secularism is a concept that is, of course, much broader than the French interpretation, rooted as it is in the laws on public education (the so-called ‘Ferry Acts’) and the Act of 1905 on the separation of the State and the Church.4 In any case, the state must be neutral in regards to religion, guarantee absolute freedom of conscience, and shun any discrimination on the grounds of affiliation with any spiritual, or other, movement. In this context, there has been a debate on the symbolic mention of God in the future European Constitution (a reference which has been rejected)5 and on the symbolic use of a reference to God in public acts (which in the US is allowed—but only in a symbolic way, although when a reference to religion results in tangible consequences, the position is highly ‘separatist’).6 Another recent debate erupted over Article 51 of the European Constitution which provides for regular consultation with representatives of religious and non-religious organizations on important ethical and political matters.7 The proponents of a more uncompromising brand of secularism are opposed to this article. It is worth pointing out that the article in question only posits a vague kind of consultative power of these churches and organizations. As far as the civil state is concerned,

4

For what follows, see Guy Haarscher, 2004. The text of the Constitution, as it was adopted by the European Council on June 18 2004, states in the preamble that: ‘Drawing inspiration from the cultural, religious and humanist inheritance of Europe, from which have developed the universal values of the inviolable and inalienable rights of the human person, freedom, democracy, equality and the rule of law, (. . .)’ (Treaty establishing a Constitution for Europe, 25 June 2004, http://europa.eu.int/constitution/en/ptoc1_en.htm#a1). This phrasing is perfectly adequate and corresponds entirely to John Rawls’ concept of ‘overlapping consensus’, which I shall use later on in this article. 6 See Haarscher, op. cit., pp. 102–105. 7 ‘Recognizing their [The “churches” and “non-confessional organizations”] identity and specific contribution, the Union shall maintain an open, transparent and regular dialogue with these churches and organizations.’ (Draft Treaty establishing a Constitution for Europe, art. I–51, § 3). 5

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 205 contemporary democratic countries traditionally take the view that only the state, in its capacity as the representative of the entire political body, is fit to manage questions related to personal status since it involves such a core component in civil law. It is also important to point out that one of the milestones in the secularization process in France was the fact that in 1791—long before the secularization of the school and of the state itself—the Catholic Church was no longer allowed to keep the registers of births, marriages and deaths.8 Public records are linked to the rights and duties of citizens which affect the issues of legal capacity, legal age, marriage, divorce, succession, etc. In a secular state, these records can not be handed over to the discretion of representatives of certain religions. Furthermore, one has to assume—and this is by no means self-evident—that those representatives agree among themselves. On the ground, we see that their appointment is no easy task in the highly divided religious communities of the modern age ( Judaism being a case in point).9 Thus, the problem raised by Ben-Gurion seems to be intractable within the framework of even the most ‘open’ variety of secularism. Yet, in order to perform an act which, according to the secular presuppositions of public action, is a prerogative of the state, the religious community must be considered. The latter point is valid without having yet addressed the issue whether Judaism can be reduced to a religion, and whether Judaism can be viewed as a ‘denomination’. In this respect, one can recall the numerous debates which divided Judaism in the emancipation period when acute questions arose: how should one deal with the national, or even state, element in Judaism? How should one consider the emphasis on the Promised Land in the Torah and Talmud traditions if the Jews are to fully integrate into developing democratic states?10 One can also think here of the concept of ‘israélite’ in France which is a product of emancipation

8 Constitution of 1791: ‘the law does not consider marriage a civil contract. The Legislative Power shall for all inhabitants, without distinction, set forth the way in which births, marriages and deaths shall be established, and appoint public officials who shall receive and keep the certificates.’ (see Haarscher, op. cit., p. 13). 9 See supra, note 3. 10 “Many . . . saw a solution in a process of assimilation which, conceiving Judaism as a merely abstract creed . . ., allowed for attachment to the Jewish religion . . . while, at the same time, carrying with it a denial of all distinctive national elements in Judaism.” (Isidore Epstein, 1985 [1959], p. 291).

206

guy haarscher

against a secularization backdrop; a Jew in private, a citizen of the Republic in public.11 It stands to reason that the same problem of religious identity arose for Muslims and Christians (as well as any other recognized religion)12 in Israel as it did for Jews. In order to be ‘registered,’ i.e. considered a citizen of the state, one must meet the criteria imposed by one of the established religious communities (again assuming that they are not too divided on the issue). Avoiding the problems this entails, Ben-Gurion did not seem to reject the complete secularization of the state in principle, but he did reject to it for security reasons,13 which are, unfortunately, still pertinent at the present time. In short, Ben-Gurion’s argument was that the state, which is supposed to play an essential role in the saving of Diaspora Jews and in the reconstruction—perceived in secular or religious terms—of a people, must be able to recognize ‘its own people.’ At the same time, Israel is a democratic state, with independent courts and a Supreme Court which has been known to make brave decisions in favor of democracy. It is a state that guarantees the freedom of conscience and non-discrimination, particularly on religious grounds.14 On the backdrop of Ben-Gurion’s inquiry of ‘who is a Jew,’ a question inherently linked to the issue of secularism, Ben-Rafael raises the problem of Jewish identity. The replies by the ‘sages’ to Ben11 The French Republic only recognizes the individual, definitely not ‘peoples’. A few years ago the constitutional council rescinded an Act in which there was a reference to ‘the Corsican people’. (Decision dated 9 May 1991). Individuals have the right of association, even though one should hasten to add that associations of worship, created on the basis of the Separation Act of 1905 were, at least initially, subject to more restrictions than associations formed on the basis of the famous ‘liberal’ Act of 1901 (Haarscher, op. cit., p. 19). 12 There are 14 recognized religions. ‘Though debatable, this hybrid system can be explained by history, law and politics. The only ones to challenge it are the Jews. Indeed, for the minorities in Israel—Christians, Muslims, Baha"is, Druze, etc.— these public religious tribunals are an officialization of their autonomy. All these religious groups, who are very aware of the reality in the Near East, feared that a unique system—Jewish religious or Israeli secular—might become an instrument of assimilation with the majority population in society, i.e. the Jews.’ ( Julien Bauer, Le Devoir.com, Internet ed. of the Quebec newspaper Le Devoir, 4 August 2003, http://www.ledevoir.com/2003/08/04/33180.html). 13 ’From time to time, there are calls to rescind the civil state, or at least the headings religion and nation, but for reasons of security . . . we have as yet been unable . . . to accede to this request.’ (Ben-Gurion, cité par Ben-Rafael, op. cit., p. 134). 14 This statement is not intended to imply that there is no discrimination of Arab Israelis, but it is not the religious dimension that is involved.

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 207 Gurion’s question varied greatly, in accordance with various ideas relating to the question of ‘what it means to be a Jew today’, and what Jewish identity is. According to Halacha,15 as mentioned, the answer is quite clear: a Jew is someone born to a Jewish mother or one who has converted in the prescribed way to Judaism. As a result, the question of ‘who is a Jew’ only arises when one takes into consideration the huge influence by modernity on this traditional definition. If one takes a look at the issue of identity on its own, without linking it to the question of Jewishness, it becomes clear that this identity comes in at least four guises, the religious aspect being just one of them. Below, I shall examine these dimensions of identity in detail with reference to the Jewish case: the religious, ethnocultural, nationalterritorial, and ‘racial’ dimensions (the first three were explored by Ben-Rafael). We will begin with the fourth dimension, as it differs significantly in both its sources and incorporation into identity. The Four Dimensions of Identity a) ‘Racial’ Dimension: Anti-Semitism and Identity through Rejection The ‘racial’ factor ensues from prejudice, i.e. the perception of the racists. The biological-natural category that is their target is part of the realm of fantasy; it is made up of hatred and finding a scapegoat.16 However, it is clear that the rejection of the racist impacts the way in which the victim views himself 17—even if one is able to develop a kind of counterculture, transforming the status of being oppressed into a historical-cosmic mission. If this counter-culture constitutes a kind of counter-fantasy—that is to say if it is not based on anything solid, and if it is nothing more than what American scholars refer to as therapeutic history,18 then the counterculture will easily fade away once the cause is removed, i.e. the end of racial stereotypes and behaviour. It is in this sense that Sartre, in his Réflexions

15 Halacha is rooted in the Torah, the reflections of the Scribes from the period of the Second Temple onwards, the Mishnah and the Gemara, but also rooted in mediaeval rabbinical literature, Jewish philosophy, Jewish mysticism (the Cabbala), and Hassidism. 16 See Pierre-André Taguieff, 1987. 17 On this subject see the thought-provoking analyses by Albert Memmi, 1962 and 1973. 18 See Arthur M. Schlseinger, Jr., 1993 [1991], p. 80.

208

guy haarscher

sur la question juive, argued that the modern Jew was constituted by the racist, i.e. defined by the view of the Other.19 Naturally, this is a fear that is very much alive within the Jewish community; if anti-Semitism were to disappear, the external binding agent of identity, which creates indissoluble links between the persecuted in their common fight against Evil, would also disappear. And, if the ‘soft’ pressures of the modern weaken the internal binding agent, the community would just collapse. It is against this view that some have held that the emancipation of Western European Jews in the nineteenth century foreshadowed the disappearance of Jewish specificity, thereby inexorably opening the door to assimilation. Though, in reality, this did not happen. One explanation is the birth and development of modern anti-Semitism, which is substantially different from Christian antiJudaism, but which was fuelled by what Jules Issac called ‘teaching of contempt’20 (at least until Vatican II). Did not Georges Friedmann predict forty years ago the normalization of the state of Israel and the assimilation of Jews of the Diaspora would lead to the ‘end of the Jewish people?’21 To this one could add that, often, the sense of belonging to a group (and Jews are no exceptions to the rule) is more a question of pretence than of the actual transmission of values. Was it not Alain Finkielkraut who coined the expression of the ‘imaginary Jew,’22 i.e. the exterior Jew, who exists solely for the Other, exploiting the memory of the Holocaust in order to give himself some sort of ‘depth’? In this perspective, the Jew is actually empty inside,23 lacking any knowledge of the very tradition that he proclaims so loudly,24 and ready to do

19 ‘The Jew is a man that other men think of as Jewish ; there you have the simple truth from which to start . . . it is the anti-Semite who makes the Jew,’ ( J.-P. Sartre, 1973 [1954], pp. 83–84). 20 See Jules Isaac, 2004 (L’enseignement du mépris: vérité historique et mythes théologiques was first published in 1962). 21 Georges Friedmann, 1965. 22 Alain Finkielkraut, 1980 (Points, 1983). 23 See Finkielkraut, op. cit., ‘L’ostentation du rien,’ pp. 103–123. 24 In order to strike the happy medium, one could characterize these terms by expressions taken from the Islamic tradition. In Jihad vs. McWorld (1995), Benjamin Barber shows that globalization as it exists actually weakens democratic states and ‘citizens,’ awakening a desire among helpless people to return to ‘hotter,’ ‘more ethnic’ communities. Jihad is the symbol of those ‘killing identities’ as Amin Maalouf (2001) has called them. According to Barber, it thrives on the ‘unchecked’ globalization and the loss of reference points it engenders. MacWorld is downward cultural unification towards the lowest common denominator, the ‘era of emptiness’

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 209 battle with the ‘eternal’ anti-Semitism. What would this person do if suddenly the adversary disappeared? He would have to face himself, his emptiness, ‘normality’ and inner banality. The imaginary Jew is the nearly perfect antithesis to the Israelite25 who is a Jew in the inside, in conscience, and in his community, yet unrecognizable as such on the outside (before the ‘scientific’ anti-Semites flushed him out).26 And when more recently Jean Daniel spoke of the ‘Jewish prison,’27 this was also a warning of the dangers facing Judaism, particularly in its ability to transform into an ‘ethnic’ group and retreat into itself, relying on anti-Semitism in order not to have to define the inside.28 So, if the definition of Jewishness by anti-Semitism (which one should clearly distinguish from the Sartrian idea of the Jew)29 constitutes a pathology, this pathology is very present, particularly with the rise in anti-Semitism today. Moreover, it is impossible not to take into account the way in which certain Jews define themselves and act accordingly. b) Religious Identity The other three aspects discussed here are the traditional and essential poles around which Jewish identity has manifested itself, albeit

(cf. G. Lipovetsky, 1989), individualism, consumerism, and entertainment. If one wants to present things in a purposefully paradoxical manner, one could say that the imaginary Jew is the Jihad Jew (what a paradox!) on the outside, MacWorld on the inside. 25 Finkielkraut, op. cit., ‘Le Juif et l’Israélite. Chronique d’un déchirement’, pp. 73–102. 26 ‘Thus the Jew was slowly pushed aside to make way for the Israelite, in other words, for a Frenchman, a Frenchmen of Jewish faith.’ (Riccardo Calimani, 2002 pg. 93). However, ‘even the Jew of French nationality, the one referred to as ‘Israelite,’ had to be treated as a semi-foreigner, or even a foreigner full stop, since he was, by definition, considered, to be unassimilatable.’ (Encyclopedia Universalis— Vichy [régime de]). See also Michel Wievorka, preface of Ben-Rafael, op. cit., p. 14; Dominique Schnapper, 1980. 27 Jean Daniel, 2003. 28 Ibid., esp. pp. 45 ff. 29 To be sure, Sartre defines Jews by the perception of the anti-Semite, but it is to wage a political and cultural fight against anti-Semitism and to free the individual who is considered to be Jewish by the racist Other from this stigmatization. The way in which the liberated individual behaves in relation to the Jewish heritage depends on the person and is an entirely different matter. On the other hand, the ‘imaginary Jew’ relies, in a manner of speaking, on an ‘eternal’ anti-Semitism in order to parade a false identity and hide an inner void.

210

guy haarscher

to varying degrees over time and according to a variety of positions: ‘One God, one people, one (Promised) Land.’ In these three terms, on which the foundations of Judaism rest, one can observe the first three dimensions of identity: religion, the ethnocultural community, and the territory. The intertwining of these three dimensions results in a complex picture of religious identity. The closest adherents to this form of Jewish identity are the orthodox and ultra-orthodox Jews. From their perspective, all three poles are based on religious belief and there is a rejection of the reduction of Judaism to a ‘denomination.’ Indeed, the central pole for the religious identity among the Orthodox is the Torah.30 c) Ethnocultural Identity Ethnicity is a term that gained popularity in the nineteenth-century by anthropologists who used it to refer to non-European societies that were said to be ‘without a history.’ The term enabled them to make a distinction between sociology and ethnology, between the study of ‘civilized’ societies, and those called ‘primitive.’ For the ancient Greeks, ethnos referred to the village, the enlarged family, the tribe (cf. the German Stamm, the branch-bearing trunk, like a genealogical tree),31 and was thus a community based on blood ties. An ‘ethnic group’ consists of a group of individuals marrying among themselves and through this transmit habits, customs, values and cultural features. One should add that the more closed the group is regarding marital unions, the more genetic features are transmitted, resulting in group members sharing certain specific physical characteristics. These characteristics are often exploited by the racist in order to stigmatize the group in question. The transmission of Jewishness through the mother undoubtedly ensues from this dimension of ‘ethnicity’ in the broad sense of the term: it is the mother who first See Ben-Rafael, op. cit., esp. pp. 48 ff. ‘The Greeks opposed . . . the ethnè (sing. ethnos) and the polis (city). Societies that grew out of their culture but ‘lacked’ the organization into city-states were ethnè. The term is often translated by ‘tribe’ (Stamm in German), or by ‘tribal state.’ According to V. Ehrenberg, it is ‘likely [that the ethnos] is much closer to primitive society.’ Ethnology taken literally would then be the study of societies that are ‘apolitical’ and which, because of it, cannot be ‘subjects’ of their own history.’ (Encyclopedia Universalis —«Ethnie»). According to Aristotle, a barabarous nation is ‘an ethnos, a coalition of scattered identical villages, and not a real organized polis.’ (Philippe Nemo, 1998, p. 147). 30 31

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 211 raises the child and transmits the culture. Today, the term ‘culture’ is surrounded by a great deal of confusion and thus clarification is in order. Culture is this ‘immaterial’ element which—especially in pre-modern societies but also in modern groups that practise a kind of ‘endogamy’—is intrinsically linked to ethnicity. However, the more societies open up, the more there is access to information about the way ‘Others’ live, and the more the family transmission of values becomes subject to competition, for better or for worse, by the outside world. This was already a highly debated issue at the beginning of the Haskalah. The central divisions revolved around whether the Jews should open up to the outside world with the risk that the Talmudic and rabbinical culture that for so long had ensured a certain degree of cohesion among the Jewish people would be gradually abandoned. At the same time, it was held that if Judaism became more ‘cultural,’ in the sense of a reformed Judaism, it would be better able to take on the dimension of universality. It is not simply that any great culture, as Charles Taylor said, is forced at some point to face up to essential questions that every human being grapples with, and thus has something potentially universal to offer the world,32 beyond strict ethnicity. In the case of Judaism, through the notion of the ‘chosen people,’ paradoxically, the tradition from its origin aims at the universal, at least if one views this ‘chosenness’ as a constraint, an obligation to set the example. From the traditional religious perspective, the Jews were the only ones to accept the commandments in the Talmudic tradition, whereas the rest of mankind, who would also be saved by the arrival of the Messiah, only had to respect ‘Noachic’ commands, and in particular the one that forbids idolatry.33 This perspective is obviously at odds with modernity, the secularization of societies (which tends to weaken religious identities), and the advent of the principle of equality which makes the concept of a ‘chosen people’, however interpreted, highly controversial. It is not difficult to see that reconciling Judaism with modernity in a way that

32

See especially Charles Taylor, 1994. The Talmud holds that all mankind must observe the ‘Seven Precepts of the Son of Noah,’ which have been deduced by the Talmudic authors from their interpretation of Biblical texts. The first involves abstaining from idolatry (see Epstein, op. cit., p. 141). 33

212

guy haarscher

would be in keeping with the initial universalist inspiration of the Jewish faith, which would have to go through a ‘culturalization,’ concomitant with the ‘dis-ethnicization’ of Judaism. There are, then, two ways in which Judaism can be considered a carrier of a universalist approach: 1) as a culture with historical experience and a vector of lessons for humanity on ‘how to live’, 2) as a culture that has been endowed with a universalist ethic since its origins.34 At the same time one can, of course, contest this kind of culturalization of Judaism and hold the view that the pressures of the outside world, especially in an era of accelerated globalization, will transform this opening into a weakness, resulting in assimilation and standardization. That is, resulting in the disappearance of Jewish specificity. From the ethno-cultural dimension regarding Jewish specificity, there is an emphasis on a way of life linked to a language practised in all ‘useful’ acts of everyday life. This is of course redolent of the Bund, a movement created at the end of the nineteenth century which was both socialist (and thus a rival of the Bolsheviks) and oriented towards the cultural autonomy in the Diaspora of Eastern Europe, especially in Russia (where it competed with the Zionists who stressed the third dimension, that of territory). From this perspective, the claim for cultural autonomy is always understood, even today, as being situated ‘beyond’ the claim for independence; it consists of demanding collective rights in terms of education and use of the minority language in dealings with the authorities.35 The example of 34 One may well wonder whether a civilization is not a culture that is open to the universal. Usually, this is opposed to barbarism (violence, brutality, lack of control of instincts in the Freudian sense as expounded in the latter’s Unease in civilization [1930]), and identified with the refinement of morals. However, this opening up of cultures, the process of learning from enriching encounters with the Other, teaches self-criticism and creates open, ‘non-murdering’ (cf. Maalouf ) identities, i.e. ‘civilized’ identities. The question of knowing whether beyond ethnic or even nationalist identities there are great civilizations (eight in the case of Samuel Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations.) is a totally different one. See the critique of the concept of civilizations, in the plural, by Roger Sandall, 2003: “For behind the claim that the modern world consists of “civilizations” (plural), and not just “civilization” (singular), a lot of linguistic mischief is afoot. By degrading the concept of universal “civilization” and elevating a multiplicity of “civilizations” in its stead, Huntington mimics an already well-established and disastrous precedent—the transformation of “culture” (singular) into a multiplicity of uncultures, noncultures, and unmistakable anticultures.” (http://www.newcriterion.com/ archive/21/sum03/sandall.htm). 35 Seer Guy Haarscher, 2003.

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 213 the Bund gives us an additional point of comparison in the realm of Jewish identity. This is well contrasted with the nineteenth century French solution36 which promotes defending the individual rights of Jews in the private sphere yet rejects a showing of this individuality in public life. This policy was very much in keeping with the famous words uttered by Clermont-Tonnerre during the Revolution: “One must refuse everything to Jews as a nation, but grant everything to Jews as individuals. They must not form a body politic or political order within the state. They must be individual citizens. . . .”37 That is, a French Jew is a Frenchman who is also a Jew; however, his/her religion is a personal issue that does not involve his/her public life, activities as a citizen, employee, consumer, etc. There is a kind of French ‘carapace,’ in which the language plays a crucial role and which prevents Judaism, for better or for worse, in these conditions from taking root in ethnicity. d) National-State Identity The third identity includes a national dimension38 which has its basis in traditional Jewish belief of the Promised Land, the Return to it, and the Messiah. The national dimension was revived with new meaning in the nineteenth century by authors such as Moses Hess and Pinsker before being extended by Herzl. In the orthodox community, but also among ‘emancipated’ reformist, conservative, and free-thinking Jews, it succeeded in eliciting widely divergent reactions. Some stressed Zionism as the fulfilment of a promise made by God to the Jewish people whereby the creation of the Jewish state is a step in preparation of the Messianic era. This was the view of the Mizrachi movement which in 1955 became the National Religious Party. Others, in fact the majority of the political pioneers and leaders, adopted a far more secular view, without however turning the new state into a ‘normal’ state like all others. These pioneers were drawn to the creation of a state which offered a ‘renaissance’

36 In his preface to Ben-Rafael’s book, Michel Wieworka shows the extent to which the situation has changed today, particularly after the Six Day War of 1967 («La grande mutation des Juifs de France», in Ben-Rafael, op. cit., 14 sq.). 37 quoted in Haarscher, La laïcité, op. cit., p. 12—italicized in the text. 38 On the history of Zionism, see, for instance, Shlomo Avinery, 1982; Zeev Sternhell, 1996.

214

guy haarscher

of the Jewish people and included in the building of the state principles embodied in the kibbutz movement. From the secular Zionist perspective, it is only in the land of Israel that one can truly live a complete Jewish life. Additionally, the state saw itself as a promoter of liberal values which can serve as a model to other nations. In other words, the creation of the state for Jews would be the ‘Light on to the nations.’ Another position towards the national dimension was that of some orthodox groups who rejected Israel for being an ‘ungodly’ state and a usurper of the ‘rights’ of the Messiah. From this perspective, some believe that Israel as a Jewish state does not have legitimacy, an argument based on religious principles concerning the Jewish sovereignty on the land of Israel and the Messianic era. However, this national-state dimension, which contrasts with that of ethnicity and culture (if one views the latter two as linked to the possibility of Jewish emancipation in the Diaspora), has itself been profoundly changed by the major transformations that took place in the sociological structure of the population of the Jewish state. Here, I am not referring to the theories that see the very dynamic of the state of Israel as giving way to a new people, exemplified by the Sabras and the use of dugri speech39 as markers for ‘ethnic’ identity. Rather, I am referring to the identity awakening of Mizrachi (Oriental) Jews since the Likud’s electoral victory under Menahem Begin which marked the end of the Labor party’s reign of power. The Oriental Jews define themselves by their history, by their rites, by their social position (which is often at the lower end of the social ladder), and even by the racism they encounter from certain European Jews who sometimes view Oriental Jews with contempt. However, in this context, one should also refer to the mass arrival of Russian speaking Jews,40 whose Jewishness has sometimes been problematic, and who imported the use of their language as well as ways of life which also stem from ethnicity. These different ethnic groups set up political parties and were able to wield considerable influence on the Israeli political scene. It should be noted that their influence is due in large part to the proportional representation political system which sometimes

39 ‘frank and direct’: the language of the sabras (Israel-born Jews). See Ben-Rafael, op. cit., pp. 73 ff. 40 Ibid., pp. 85 ff.

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 215 lends disproportionate weight to small blocs. (The religious blocs as well have gained significant political power as a result of this system.) To this discussion of ethnic identity that has formed in Israel, we can also add the Ethiopian Jews (the falachas),41 who have found it very difficult to integrate into a world so different from their own, where their Jewishness raised suspicions and where they encountered racial discrimination on the grounds of their skin colour. Aside from the dimension of ethnicization of Israeli social and political life, recent trends are also calling into question Zionism in its religious or secular interpretation under which the state of Israel is identified with the destiny and salvation of the Jewish people. Let us take as an example those who call themselves ‘Canaanites.’42 This term, if taken literally, constitutes a radical negation of Zionism. Initially, the Canaanites created a right-wing movement intent on breaking off all ties with the Diaspora and drawing a clear line between those who were Hebrews—living in the land of Israel—and Jews.43 The next generation of Canaanites adopted a left-wing ideology in which there was an attempt to ‘de-Judaicize’ and secularize Israel in order to avoid any kind of discrimination against the Arabs living in Israel. Naturally, this also implied that Israel would, in effect, be de-Zionized. Another group that would like to see the secularization of the state is the post-zionists44 who feel that there is little sense in maintaining the presence of Judaism in public life. One can imagine that as far as they are concerned, Ben-Gurion’s problem of ‘who is a Jew’ should never have come up in the first place. In the end, irrespective of the excesses and illusions conveyed by these two latter movements, their very existence at least raises important questions that cannot simply be swept aside as they concern the future of Zionism and the identity of Israel.

41 This took place between 1984 (march from Ethiopia to the Sudan) and ‘Operation Solomon’ (1991) for the repatriation of those black Jews, which are the only Black Jews. 42 Ben-Rafael, op. cit., pp. 88 ff. 43 Yonatan Ratosch, for instance, very radically aimed for ‘the normalization of a Hebrew people detached forever from Jewish tradition.’ (quoted in Ben-Rafael, op. cit., p. 89). 44 Ben-Rafael, op. cit., pp. 90 ff.

216

guy haarscher

Normalization of Israel Post-Zionism—whose influence should, once again, not be overestimated but which is viewed here as a ‘symptom’—raises the question of the normalization of Israel in particular and the Jewish people at large. Should Israel become a nation-state like the others, even if this means gradually merging into larger entities like the European Union to have an impact on the pressing issues facing humanity? Or, should Israel preserve the specificity with which it was endowed by both secular and religious Zionism? A concomitant question, one that in fact dates back to the beginnings of Jewish emancipation and the Haskala, is whether the Jews of the Diaspora should adapt to the surrounding world in an attempt at ‘normalization’ and preserve only a certain cultural ‘memory.’ Within the context of normalization, however, two interpretations of the process arise: The first is an understanding of normalization as simply adaptation to the modern world—which, in short, means that Israel becomes (some would argue has already become) a state comprised of consumers where money and entertainment reign supreme together with cynicism and violence. That is, Israel would adapt to a kind of mercantile and ‘imperial’ globalization and entirely relinquish the idea of a mission. In the now forgotten parlance of Herbert Marcuse, the philosopher of the very Jewish Frankfurt School, Israel would let itself be absorbed by the unidimensionality of the contemporary world, instead of preserving hope and the critical demand of ‘another’ dimension, a ‘bidimensionality.45 However, in this case, the people of Israel (together with the Jews in the Diaspora) would symbolically become the ‘stiffnecked’ people mentioned by God to Moses;46 a people who would be exposed to terrible suffering if it ‘normalized,’ if it converted to the worship of ‘Baal,’47 and, more generally, to the pagan and idolatrous rites of the surrounding world. This development would mark the end of the ethical dimension of the Jewish people. That is, an end to the very universality represented by a single ‘non-incarnate’ God, a concept that can easily be secularized and is today represented

45

Voir H. Marcuse, 1968. Exodus, XXXIII, 3. 47 On the influence of the cult of Baal and the attraction it held to the Hebrews to the detriment of, for instance, the Prophets, see Epstein, op. cit., pp. 33 ff. & 40 ff. 46

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 217 by the demand for human rights associated often with a global responsibility for the future of our planet. The second meaning of normalization—the more appealing one— involves attempts by any means possible to exterminate anti-Semitism in the Diaspora and finally to create the conditions in which Israel and the Palestinians can live in peace. In this context, the link between the question of anti-Semitism and peace with the Palestinians is indeed far more complex than is often claimed today. This form of normalization would lead Israel to a rejuvenation of the prophetic message, decisively secularized and wrested from the dogmatism that is inextricably linked with every kind of political-religious aim. The place of religion is an important point in the discussion on forms of normalization. In this context, an aggiornamento would today first of all refer to the need for cultures to rid themselves of obscurantism, withdrawal, and intolerance which are in part characteristic of the religious dimension.48 In this context, secularization which promotes a separation between religion and politics could be a change in the direction of a more tolerant religion. John Locke, the great precursor of the modern concept of the separation of politics and religion, noticed the inherent weakness of coercion in matters of faith, as it created hypocrites49 who only converted out of fear or personal interest, rather than for reasons of inner conviction of the validity of the imposed (rather than proposed) commitment. One could use Jean Daniel’s and Alain Finkielkraut’s words and transpose them to a totally different context saying that, in a way, the idea of a Christian prison or an imaginary Christianity was finally debunked by Locke and, in the same period, even more radically by Pierre Bayle.50 Protestantism, which constituted the philosophical horizon of Locke’s thought, could only thrive on freedom of conscience and the independence of spiritual communities of the state. The normalization of the Jewish people and Israel as a state comes through a separation of politics and religion. One may even imagine 48 Gabriel Ringlet, a Catholic priest and holder of high office at the Université catholique de Louvain, states the problem in very simple and direct terms: ‘Even if the Gospel does not escape these harsh words and can be merciless when intoning a painful litany of maledictions . . . there is, at the very heart of religions, and uniquely the monotheistic religions, an aggressiveness, pride and exclusiveness that is sometimes quite chilling.’ (G. Ringlet, 2002 [1998], p. 22). 49 On the Letter on Tolerance of 1689 and other texts by Locke on this issue, see Patrick Thierry, 1997, pp. 29 ff. (esp. p. 31 on the ‘hypocrites’). 50 Ibid., pp. 58 ff.

218

guy haarscher

that in the somewhat distant future the very idea of a Jewish state will be called into question, but indeed for very different reasons than those heard both in the past and present. The secularization of Israel was very fashionable some thirty years ago when the Palestinian movement, which did not have its own (semi) ‘aggiornamento,’ demanded a ‘democratic and secular’ state. This calling brought to the fore ideas that few modern-liberal people could, on the face of the matters, disagree with. However, in reality this calling turned out to be nothing short of propaganda, which was reminiscent of the intellectual manipulations associated with the use of the expression ‘popular democracies’ for countries in Eastern Europe that were suffering under the Soviet yoke at the time. It is clear that in a context of radical hostility, the underlying causes of which are the subject of much debate, the Jews of the Near East will for a long time to come need a state to protect them against the violence and a potential threat of annihilation. Though the call for a ‘democratic and secular’ state in the past was tainted with other directed propaganda, this does not mean that this form of normalization should not be reflected upon. Let us suppose that the exterior pressures on the Jewish community start waning, that anti-Semitism disappears, and that there is peace between Israel and its Arab neighbours. While this is a utopian image, there are two pitfalls—one seen by the realist and the other by the idealist. For the realists, the precarious position of Jews has led them to an approach (which often verges on pure cynicism) that refuses to be seduced by the sirens of utopia since experience has taught them differently. They see in the ‘democratic and secular’ Palestinian state a cloak of the desire to destroy Israel and see the Jewish community in the Near East as a cultural entity unprotected by a state ‘of its own.’ The adherents of this school are both right and wrong: they are right since one can never be too careful, vigilant or realistic when one knows the hatred that has accumulated in the Arab world and, connected with this, the persistence today, albeit underground and weakened, of a ‘teaching of contempt’ in Europe. However, they are wrong in refusing to see the critical and creative virtues of a utopia. For the more idealists who truly believe in the ideals of peace between Israel and its neighbours and an end to anti-Semitism, the question that confronts them is: what are the negative and positive effects of this ‘utopia’ on Judaism and Jewishness. One might hope

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 219 that this peace will not bring on the type of normalization that is full of mass consumption, entertainment, and—in short—emptiness. Moreover, the Jewish people would be at a juncture where they would no longer be able to rely on exterior threats in order to avoid introspective analysis. How will Judaism then be able to express its vitality after having been jeopardized by the Jewish prison syndrome or that of the imaginary Jew? It is possible that the result will be what the great political philosopher John Rawls referred to as ‘overlapping consensus.’51 Rawls used the expression of ‘overlapping consensus’ to show that it was neither necessary, nor advisable perhaps, to aspire towards universalist ideals on the basis of the same motivations and traditions. He attempted to resolve the conflict between tradition and modernity that can be applied to Judaism in the modern day. His resolution stems from the clash between two major philosophical movements near the end of the twentieth century: liberalism and communitarianism. Put in simple terms, liberalism posited the ideal of a society based on individuals free to choose their direction in life, with the collective having the duty and power to make those freedoms compatible, as well as broadening their field of application and promoting the moral ideal of the universality of human rights. Communitarianism, placed the emphasis on what humanity would lose under liberalism: the wealth in traditions, depositories of long periods of learning, a well of culture all which would be dismissed first because of the dogmatic and oppressive elements that they conveyed prior to the arrival of the Renaissance, and then because of an increasingly dominating materialism and a disenchantment with the world that liberalism may entail.52 In short, liberalism is criticized for favoring individualism and the era of emptiness while communitarianism is criticized for wanting to maintain ‘community’ traditions that could destroy liberties. In Political liberalism, Rawls attempts to reconcile the two positions. He states that liberalism does not aim to abolish traditions as if they were outdated relics or superstitions; rather, it must help liberalize them, i.e. preserve what is best about them, what is most universalist.53 This task can easily be imagined, and achieved, by ‘religions of the Book’, 51

See John Rawls, 1993, esp. pp. 150–154. See Alain Finkielkraut, 1999. 53 In essence, Bernard-Henri Lévy (1979) wrote that ‘God is dead, but . . . he left a will.’ 52

220

guy haarscher

to the extent that (or maybe precisely because) universalism is an integral part of monotheism. This is the case, even if, as Gabriel Ringlet54 pointed out, universalism was under threat from the religions of the Book from the outset. In order to achieve the ideals of the renaissance and political liberalism, or of secularism (which is inextricably linked with them), everyone does not have to be motivated in the same way when promoting those ideals. Quite the contrary. The main problem of liberalism, if we are to believe certain communitarian arguments, is that it may well lack motivational resources because it uproots itself from its origin. Because of the struggle against dogmatism in the name of the rights of the individual, the individual is left very much like the hero in Sartre’s Nausea—alone, afraid, ‘in the way of eternity.’55 The overlapping consensus means that the liberalized traditions can and must overlap within the framework of a common universalist aim, but in the name of different motivations, taken from different traditions, each carrying intellectual vitality, spiritual richness and new crossbreeding. An alternative to both liberalism and commuitarianism is to return to the roots of traditions—a fundamentalist approach. Yet, in this direction, the emancipation process resulting from the renaissance and the idea of secularism are at risk of being scuppered by what Gilles Kepel has called the ‘revenge of God.’56 The Importance of Self-Criticism The overlapping consensus which has been briefly outlined above can be well applied to the case of the Jews particularly for their ability of self-criticism. The issue of identity is first and foremost corrupted by the lack of self-criticism. Cultivating identity most of time involves selectively re-writing history by casting oneself in the “good” roles and the others in the role of the enemy or persecutor. Communitarianism in the negative sense of the word is this regression in thought and behaviour that consists of turning oneself and one’s group into absolute victims, with the Other being the absolute executioner. This confinement in the group, the screening

54 55 56

See supra, note 51. Jean-Paul Sartre, 1938, coll. ‘Folio,’ p. 182. Gilles Kepel, 1991.

jews and secularization: a challenge or a prospect? 221 of information, the rejection of anything that is disturbing and the acceptance, without evidence, of everything that comforts the ‘victim’ image of the group is the cancer of the policy of identity. It is a negative return to a tradition of prejudice, comfortable dogmatism, confinement in the ‘prison’ of particularism, and of the ‘right to be different’. This perversion, in which the Other is caricatured as the evil oppressor, firstly affects the group itself. The culture which it claims is transformed into a terrifying amalgamation of hatred and arrogance, fear and panic, all of which combine to make the presumed sense of belonging and identity entirely imaginary, in the sense put forth by Finkielkraut.57 What is lacking in the modern concept of identity is precisely this liberalization mentioned above in relation to overlapping consensus. But what does this mean exactly? First and fore mostly, it requires ability for self-criticism and distance from one’s actions (and indulgence).58 It is when the evil comes from the group itself that its members must denounce it, even at the risk of being perceived as traitors in the eyes of the very defenders of the pathological identity described above.59 In this vein, it was the Communists who should have denounced the Stalinist perversion. The Germans did do a tremendous job after Nazism and the Holocaust in condemning their own acts; likewise, genuine Catholics strongly denounced the compromises of Pius XII that have been highlighted in Rolf Hochhuth’s Vicar; it was Taslma Nasreen, a woman doctor born in Bangladesh, a Muslim country, who was forced to flee into exile after bravely denouncing the violation of the rights of Hindus by Muslims,60 and not the opposite, which would have turned her into a heroine of (pathological) identity. It is in the quest for overlapping consensus, especially in terms of self-criticism, that the Jews could be a model for the world. It was precisely the prophets who vehemently criticized the ‘stiff-necked’ 57

These arguments are developed in Guy Haarscher, 2002, passim. ‘. . . I was led to systematically think against myself to the extent of measuring the evidence of an idea to the displeasure it was causing me.’ ( Jean-Paul Sartre, 1964, p. 210). 59 Without this rejection from within the group itself, without this distance in relation to the dark moments in the history of a community, how can members who recognize themselves in diverse identities trust each other and be reconciled with one another beyond their belonging, i.e. integrate themselves (in the most ambitious sense of the word ‘integration’) into a common universalist project, rather than simply ‘coexisting’ by looking at each other like china dolls, so to speak? 60 See Taslima Nasreen, 1996. 58

222

guy haarscher

people—promising the worst kind of suffering, which in the end befell them because they let themselves be seduced by the worship of Baal, paganism, particularism and, by extension, dawn to the worship of closed and pathological identities. In other words, they fell victim to the prison of the imaginary identity. Last but not least, one may also cite, among the many examples, the specific nature of Jewish humour for its capacity of self-criticism which should render (or should have rendered) Jews immune to any dogmatic and pathological identity cult.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SUBMISSION AND SUBVERSION BEFORE THE LAW Rivon Krygier Contrary to what may be assumed, a great number of those who defend or promote secularism are keen on proclaiming that secularism can not necessarily be equated with anti-religion or irreligion. Secularism does, however, imply anticlericalism, which is found on an institutional and social level, due to its opposition to the bestowal of privileges or powers upon a clergy or party. At the doctrinal level, the opposition is rooted in the fact that secularism cannot brook any authoritarian or dogmatic thought. The cornerstones of secularism are the notions of free conscience, freedom of thought, of subscribing—or not—to a specific view of the world, and of being able to make changes without let or hindrance. Based on this understanding of the terminology, the question that will be addressed here is whether Judaism can be compatible with the requisites of secularism as described above. Is it possible for Jewish worship to legitimately incorporate the autonomous judgement of conscience even if this means opposing the authority of the divine Law? In this chapter, this question will be addressed through various examples extracted from the sacred texts that show Jewish worship cannot be reduced to a mere instigation to the docile submission of defined beliefs and practices. Many of the most classical and authorized sources, both Biblical and Talmudic, contain a clearly subversive dimension. That is not to say, however, that in any of those texts, obedience to God, as such, is questioned; that would be nothing short of a rift with religiousness, with God. However, the nuance, or subtlety if you will, lies in establishing the order of alignment between the various echelons of divine will and, consequently, determining which is at the top and, thus, prevails. So, one degree is the divine will as it is expressed through the codes of conduct set forth by the Halacha, Jewish religious Law interpreted by scholarly rabbis. Yet, there is a higher degree, a meta-legal ethic (outside of situations provided for in the Law), and sometimes an anti-legal ethic

224

rivon krygier

which, in certain cases, warrants or even instigates a breach of or opposition to the rules of conduct prescribed by the Law. In fact, it may happen that man questions the explicit authority of a divine law or ordinance for the sake of an implicit adherence to the higher divine will and that this is recognized as being legitimate. This should be viewed as an actualization of the antinomic initiative in situations in which there is a conflict between a rule and the voice of conscience. As such, it is clearly instigation, or education aimed at ethical principles deemed superior to the Law. In this context, we should not forget that the midrachim are not simply there to decorate or embellish points of law but that they have a paradigmatic value. Let us consider a few examples from the Torah, itself: Every child who is instructed in Talmud Torah grows up knowing the story of the famous bartering by Abraham, who refuses to accept the ineluctability of the divine decree to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah (cf. Gn 18). Although the text finally proves God right as the inhabitants of the two cities did not deserve to be saved, it remains that God partook in the negotiations and did not in any way consider it insolent to challenge His authority. Quite the contrary. In this regard, it is important to note the explicit supreme principle under which the divine decision to destroy the cities is questioned by Abraham in his dialog with God: “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” (Gn 18:25).

A second example, which is perhaps less known but just as significant, can be found in the Book of Numbers (Nb 27:1–11), where there is a mention of a request made by Moses on behalf of the five daughters of Zelophehad who died without any male offspring and as a result of which the inheritance would be lost to them and their family. The girls claim their share of the possessions. Moses brings their case before God who judges in favor of the girls. In passing, it must be said that we have here the very first feminist claim in Biblical history, and one which was conferred from the highest authority, to boot! Later on, in a second episode, there is mention of representatives from the Manasseh tribe intervening with Moses as they were annoyed at seeing the land inherited by Zelophehad’s daughters passing to another tribe in case one of them should marry a member of another tribe (cf. Nb 36). In this case, land reserved for the tribe of Manasseh would indeed pass onto another tribe, which would bring about disorder and rivalry. It is again the Eternal who cuts

submission and subversion before the law

225

the knot when he informs Moses of His decision, which is as follows: as the girls are in a similar position, they will not be able to marry anyone outside their own tribe. Here the Law is challenged for the sake of a principle of justice, and the case is won. It behoves us to see the full force of these texts: God’s Law is perfectible. The righteous one should not only obey the predefined rules, but should also respond to situations that arise on the ground, implying the application of equity within this interaction with social reality, even if it means making several attempts at finding the right balance, and even if it means going back on a decision that was implemented based on divine intervention. The above reveals an attitude on the part of Moses, the very paragon of piety, which is nothing short of subversive. As is well known, when Moses sees his people worship the golden calf, he breaks the Tables of the divine Law that had been entrusted to him by God. We are so familiar with this story that the outrageous and profane character often eludes us: how dare Moses on his own initiative destroy this sacred object, “written with the finger of God” (Ex. 31:18) and delivered into his care! Evidently, there is no divine punishment of this act, which makes it seem as if it was entirely approved by God. The midrach leads one to understand that by breaking the Tables, Moses formally makes the charge disappear while at the same time referring symbolically to the profound act of rebellion perpetrated by his people: Thus, Moses deemed just he who made a decision based on his own initiative. He says to himself: how can I transmit the Tables to the children of Israel? In so doing, I will force them to submit to major commandments, and I will, at the same time, have to declare that they are punishable by death, thus it is written: He that sacrificeth unto any god, save unto the Lord only, he shall be utterly destroyed (Ex 22:19). On the contrary, I will break them until they are in a better disposition. [. . .] Rabbi Yehuda, son of Betira, says: Moses only broke the Tables because this had been requested of him explicitly by God, Himself, with the following words: With him will I speak mouth to mouth (Nb 12:8) (Avot derabbi Natan A:2).

It is clear to see the extent to which the midrach is ill at ease with this initiative and is torn between the act being approved a posteriori by God and the fact that God, Himself, would have suggested to Moses that he should do it, “mouth to mouth” when he entrusted

226

rivon krygier

him with the stones, at the prospect of the sin. Whatever the case may be, Moses reacts to the circumstances and behaves in the way that his judgement tells him to do, i.e. to break the sacred object conferred upon him by God. The midrach wants to make it clear that it is in no way to be considered an act of contempt, of illadvised anger, but, fundamentally, an act of obedience to God in accordance with the higher principle identified through his judgement, whether or not inspired by above. In the course of the same story, Moses intervenes and outright opposes God. Upon observing the worshipping of the golden calf, God says to Moses: “I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people; Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may was hot against them, and that I may consume them; and I will make of thee a great nation.” And Moses besought the Lord his God, and said, Lord, why doth thy wrath wax hot against Thy people, which Thou has brought forth out of the land of Egypt with great power, and with a mighty hand? [. . .] And the Lord repented of the evil which He thought to do unto His people. [. . .] And it came to pass on the morrow, that Moses said unto the people, Ye have sinned a great sin: and now I will go up unto the Lord; peradventure I shall make an atonement for your sin. “And Moses returned unto the Lord, and said, Oh, this people have sinned a great sin, and have made them gods of gold. Yet now, if Thou will forgive their sin—and if not, blot me, I pray Thee, out of Thy book which Thou has written.” And the Lord said unto Moses, Whosoever hath sinned against Me, him will I blot out of My book (Ex 32:7–33).

The midrach (cf. Tan˙ouma, Ki tissa 22; Rachi, Ex 32:10) reads the text at two levels, with a deliberate insinuation. Why should God have told Moses ‘let me alone,’ if it was not to impart to Moses his power to prevent the waxing of the divine wrath? It would seem that God wanted to destroy the people since this was required by ‘divine reason.’ God has to assume His role as the demanding source and as such He cannot tolerate that His authority should be flouted. Man, on the other hand, can beseech God to be merciful and, based on this, God can only approve this kind of move and allow this kind of outcome, precisely because it comes from man. However, it is not a game or mere stage scene: God actually proposes Moses to make him and his descendants alone a sacred Nation, to which Moses replies with a truly remarkable audacity, rejecting it, thus leaving God very little choice: “if not, blot me out of Thy book which Thou

submission and subversion before the law

227

hast written.” Naturally, those wishing to minimize things will undoubtedly say that Moses only fulfilled the unexpressed wish of God. Nevertheless, it still took a lucid and sensitive man to perceive it and to resist the expressed wish. Before concluding, I should like to refer to another episode involving the character of Moses in an even more audacious mode. The following extraordinary story is recounted in Deuteronomy: [God speaking to Moses:] Rise ye up, take your journey, and pass over the river Arnon: behold, I have given into thine hand Sihon the Amorite, king of Heshbon, and his land: begin to possess it, and contend with him in battle! This day will I begin to put the dread of thee and the fear of thee upon the nations that are under the whole heaven, who shall hear report of thee, and shall tremble, and be in anguish because of thee. [Moses, retorting:] And I sent messengers out the wilderness of Kedemoth unto Sihon king of Heshbon with words of peace (Dt 2:24–26).

The divine order clearly says to start the battle, but, strangely enough, the first measure adopted by Moses is to send messengers with a peace proposal! The Midrach rabba interprets this passage as follows: Three words were spoken by Moses to God, to which God responded: “You have taught me something.” [. . .] The third was when the Saint— may he be blessed—ordered him to wage war on Sihon: “even if he does not seek war with you, begin to possess it, and contend with him in battle!’’ (Dt 2:24). However, Moses did not proceed in this way, as it is written: ‘‘I sent messengers . . . with words of peace’’ (Dt 2:26). To which God says: “Upon your life, I cancel my own words and adopt yours, and so it is written: ‘When thou comest nigh unto a city to fight against it, then proclaim peace unto it.’ ” (Dt 20:10) (NbR 19:33; also see NbR 19:27).

In short, Moses’ initiative is presented as an act of disobedience to the divine order but, far from provoking the wrath of God, elicits His approval to the point of making Him ‘review’ his instructions regarding the waging of war written in the Torah! This is a way of saying that God is pleased to see that the prophet—just like Abraham negotiating the saving of Sodom and Gomorrah—subordinates the fervour of upholding the Law to mercy, even if it means going against His initial instructions. In keeping with the spirit that prevails in the Bible and the Talmud, God is pleased to see this turn of events as it embodies high ethics, which merit, as much as possible, to prevail over any implacable conduct, even if it is justified by law.

228

rivon krygier

Prior to this moral question of the primacy of values, there is a more philosophical and epistemological question in this and the other examples cited above: does God adapt to man, or vice versa? Is it the same ‘immutable’ Torah which gives different answers due to a change in living conditions, or does the Torah modify its intimate and profound structure as a result of the imponderables on the ground? To the extent that there is evidently an interaction between the Torah and reality, one cannot claim that the ‘ambient’ reality does not bend the very meaning of the law. This is what clearly transpires from the above-cited examples, which give rise to a change in the original rule dictated by God! However, since the Torah inherently instigates one to review the norm from an ethical point of view, one may well wonder whether it is not subject to the eternal and immutable self-regulation entrusted to the Wise and just. In fact, it is by being faithful to ‘immutable’ values such as justice and mercy, which appear to be preponderant and at the very heart of the Torah, that the practical application is modified. The subject needs to be examined in much greater detail. For instance, it should be extended to the legal exegesis of the Sages of the Talmud which has considerably bent the severity of the Law. Finally, I should like to take this opportunity to quote a particularly apt Talmudic saying which captures a certain state of mind: Rabbi Yo˙anan says: Jerusalem was not destroyed because they (the Sages) no longer judged according to the (strict) letter of the Law. Should one dispense justice according to other principles (such as those of the megiston, [Greek]: men endowed with privileges of immunity)!? No, the meaning of this is that the judges were confined to the rule and no longer acted in a spirit of leniency (Baba metsiâ 30b).

Should one conclude from all of this that in Judaism there is a higher authority, one which would translate the will of God to the highest and which expresses itself only through the voice of conscience and of adherence to the principles of justice? Absolutely. Incidentally, this has been the object of an open-ended quest: are we able to appreciate the strictness of justice all the way to its application without making any errors? Should the Law be bent each time we think it is not just? Is man not at risk of misusing and corrupting the texts? Who is man, so we are often told, that he should contest even a ‘minor’ edict of God? The answer to this question is not written anywhere, yet it emerges from the dialectic ensuing from the

submission and subversion before the law

229

incessant opposition between, on the one hand, that which the Torah leads man to understand from its divine source and, on the other, human judgement which is compelled to evaluate the sense and purpose, based on intuitive and predefined moral values.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TRADITION OF DIASPORA AND POLITICAL REALITY OF THE STATE OF ISRAEL David Meyer The title of this short chapter, in many ways, speaks for itself. “Tradition of the Diaspora and political realities of the state of Israel” immediately raises the issue which is at the center of what the state of Israel is supposed to represent for us, the Jewish people: namely, what is the Jewish identity of that state and how, in a Jewish way, do we relate to what is happening there? While asking this question, I clearly assume that the state of Israel is Jewish in its essence and not just in its demography. We all know that Israel is not a theocratic state ruled by Halacha, Jewish codes of laws. However, we do wish to see in the state of Israel something of a Jewish ethical behaviour specific to our history and our people. The problem of this relationship between Jewish ethical teaching and the political reality of Israel comes to light when we understand that through our history we have spent the last two thousand years in the Diaspora and that therefore every rule, every code of behaviour, and every ethical teaching that we have is based on a situation in which Rabbis and Sages did not have the power associated to a state and a country. According to its own definition, Diaspora Judaism is the product of a sense of ethical thinking which is not associated with the practice of power and to the responsibilities that go hand in hand with it. The consequence of this statement directly relate to the following two questions: 1. How can the state of Israel today use Judaism to assess its own political situation? 2. What impact can the policy of the state of Israel have on the teaching of Diaspora Judaism? Let me try to briefly address the first question: how the state of Israel can base its political thinking process on the basis of Jewish traditions. Two choices are in front of us. The first choice is to go

tradition of diaspora and political reality

231

backwards towards a renewal of biblical Judaism, as this is the only Judaism that has a certain experience of power. In other words, we can try to by-pass everything that rabbinic Judaism has established and all the teachings of Diaspora Judaism, and look back at biblical times in order to find in them a model for today’s practice of power by the state of Israel. Though, in this case it would be wise to remember that biblical Judaism has a very violent history. The reading of the book of Joshua should be enough to convince us of this fact. We must also remember that biblical Judaism is mostly a huge failure, which ended with the destruction of the Temple, the cities and the expulsion of the Jews from their own land. Therefore it is highly problematic, quite apart from the violent aspect of this history, to go back to a model of Jewish thinking which led to total failure and catastrophe in the past. This leaves us to embrace the only other option that we have, which is to use the wisdom of Diaspora Judaism without the practice of power and then to be creative so as to find new ways to adapt those Diaspora teachings into a situation in which we have today the practice of power and the responsibility that goes with it. Indeed, the sixty years since the creation of the state of Israel are not enough in order to find a way to adapt our old teachings to the new situation of the practice of power. It requires time, courage, new thinking and the ability to adapt the “old” to the “new.” Additionally, it requires the courage to understand that the practice of power cannot be detached from the ethical teachings that Diaspora Judaism seeks. The second question is in a way a more difficult one, at least from an emotional point of view. What impact does the political reality of the state of Israel have on the Judaism of the Diaspora? This question is indeed central. We do know that whatever Israel does has an impact on the Jews of the Diaspora and therefore on the Judaism of the Diaspora. We only have to look at the rise of anti-Semitism in Europe to ascertain the depth of the relationship between the policies of the state of Israel and the situation of the Jews outside of it. But more important than this relationship is the central fact that the state of Israel is seen by us, Jews of the Diaspora, as the real test of Judaism. We do know that it is extremely easy to look at rabbinic Judaism and talk about respect, tolerance, ethical value, love and justice when one does not have the responsibility of the practice of power. In other words, we can talk about justice and ethical value as long as we don’t have to translate this justice into

232

david meyer

real acts and to behave in unethical ways in real life situations. As long as we did not have the practice of power, it was easier to pretend being the barer of an ethical tradition. From that point of view, the state of Israel, with its responsibility and with the power that it represents, is the “reality test” that all of our Jewish tradition has to face. If the state of Israel does not achieve putting into real practice those ethical values our tradition talks about, then everything that would have been done by the Rabbis over the last two thousand years can be seen as pointless and futile, nothing more than words. What counts are not just the words but the deeds. How the state of Israel can transform those teachings into daily political values, even in the face of a difficult international and security situation, is what the test of Judaism is all about. If we do not succeed in this test, then I am afraid we will have to witness the total failure of Judaism from its very beginning up to today. Let me conclude by this quote that Martin Buber in 1949 recalls during an interview he had with the then Israeli Prime Minister, David Ben Gurion who said: ‘for the state of Israel La Raison d’Etat can never be sufficient.’ This is what the test of Judaism is about. We do not want to be a state like others. We must transform our ethical teaching into a political reality.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE DIASPORA MUSEUM AND ISRAELI-JEWISH IDENTITY Dina Porat The 1950s were years of search for a new identity in the young state of Israel. The attempts to shape such an identity were reflected in a large number of areas in public life, from educational programs to archaeological excavations, from the establishment of ceremonies and symbols to historiography. It was during this decade that a public debate emerged between two of the most central figures of the country, David Ben-Gurion, then Prime Minister, and Dr. Nahum Goldmann, then president of the World Zionist Organization, regarding one basic aspect of Israeli identity—its relations with Jewish identity. Ben-Gurion’s position was that Jewish identity, as an outcome of many long generations of life in the Diaspora, should be categorically put behind, though not gotten rid of. Moreover, he believed that the sources for identity, education, and history should be found in the periods during which the People of Israel lived on the land of Israel. Goldmann, on the other hand, held the position that the worldwide contribution of Diaspora Jews to all areas of civilization should be equally respected, taught, and commemorated. He also believed that “the cultural and spiritual bonds which link Jewish communities in the Diaspora to Israel” need a living expression.1 Indeed, towards the end of the 1950s the debate turned into a confrontation. In the Zionist ideological gathering of 1957 which took place in Jerusalem, the definition of the Diaspora, its essence and character as regarded after nine years of statehood, was at center stage. Goldmann claimed that the Diaspora created indeed an unfortunate historical fate, but the suffering does not contradict the value and importance of Jewish history and creativity during the 2000 years. Ben-Gurion could not contain his anger as he replied:

1

See the Beth Hatefutsoth archive, the Goldmann files, file 1969–April 1971.

234

dina porat

“I cannot share Goldmann’s glorification of the Diaspora. Each of us admires the Jews for withstanding their suffering, but the exile in which Jews lived and still live in is in my view a miserable, poor, destitute, doubtful experience, nothing to be proud of. On the contrary—it should be negated by all possible negations.” In short, BenGurion argued that the glorification of the exile cannot go hand in hand with Zionism.2 Goldmann tended to speak about the Diaspora in the past tense both because so much of it had already been destroyed in the Holocaust and because the future of many Jewish communities worldwide, especially in Europe, including the Soviet Union, and in Moslem countries, seemed bleak in the 1950s. Besides seeing the Jewish contribution to the world, Goldmann had some reservations regarding the Diaspora—more specifically, an aesthetic reservation and an emotional one. The former was that Jews became talkative, noisy, and conspicuous. The emotional reservation was that being a “wandering Jew” is a miserable pain-causing existence. Ben-Gurion went far beyond the emotional level that Goldmann expressed and conveyed a political reservation regarding the Diaspora. In his view, the Diaspora is a state of mind that causes constant concern regarding assimilation. Thus, Ben-Gurion refused to grant exile and the state the same status and importance in the future existence of the people; in this context he claimed that the exile cannot exist without Israel, while the opposite is possible. In short, the debate continued as follows: Goldmann argued that the Diaspora should be an equal partner and the state is but an instrument. BenGurion argued that it is a precious and most central instrument. In refutation Goldmann claimed that the national states will come to an end, and the world will continue without them.3 It is important to note the use of the two terms “exile” and “diaspora” alternately: exile (Galuth) means suffering and destruction. It is a divine punishment envisaged by the prophets; Diaspora (tefutsoth), on the other hand, has a more positive connotation, pointing to dispersed communities, each carrying its cultural and traditional baggage. Indeed, the Diaspora museum in Tel Aviv which depicts the 2

Aharon Alperin, Nahum Goldmann, 1978, pp. 54–64. Yeshayahu (Shaike) Weinberg (undated). 3 See Nahum Goldmann, 1968, p. 16 (on Jewish characteristics), pp. 37–41 (on national states) and Hazut 4, 1958, p. 168.

the diaspora museum and israeli-jewish identity

235

history of the Jewish people according to Goldman’s views (explained later) is named “Beth [home of ] Hatefutsoth, The Nahum Golmann Museum of the Jewish Diaspora.” It should be noted here that Goldmann’s views, to which he was “extremely dedicated,” as observed by Sir Isaiah Berlin,4 had already been crystallized in the early 1940s. Goldmann lamented the tendency of many Eretz-Israeli youngsters to limit their past into a heroic story, continuing from Bar-Giora and Bar-kochva directly to Trumpeldor and the Hagannah, as if hundreds of Diaspora years never existed in between. He lamented as well about their tendency to eliminate the Holocaust from the national identity of a free, proud and self-confident new people, as if the Holocaust was merely a source of shame. Such elimination, claimed Goldmann according to Berlin, was a kind of barbarity, for civilized people should know their origins and their past: Those Jewish martyrs, who chose to live as Jews, were no less heroic than those who struggled for the establishment of Israel and gave their lives for her sake. He [Goldmann] opposed the notion that only in Israel can Jews enjoy full human and civic rights, and that the loyalty of Diaspora Jews to Israel comes before their claim to such rights in their respective countries. Such a notion was in his eyes a total denial of the Jewish tradition, the Bible and the Prophets, the Babylonian Talmud and its commentators or the Golden Age in Spain, and should be held as historically, morally and politically unacceptable to free individuals.5

Needless to say, such views were not welcomed in Israel of the 1950s. Two years after the Ben Gurion—Goldmann confrontation in Jerusalem, the 1959 World Jewish Congress plenary meeting in Stockholm decided that “an institute bearing his [Goldmann’s] name be established in Israel and serve as a living expression of the cultural and spiritual bonds which link Jewish communities in the Diaspora to Israel.”6 The question at that point was how to build it and with which contents to fill such an institute so that it serves indeed as a counter-balance to radical Zionism as represented by Ben-Gurion, and contributes towards the forging of a balanced IsraeliJewish identity. 4

Isaiah Berlin, 1987, pp. 73–78. Isaiah Berlin, 1987, pp. 73–78. 6 See the Stockholm decision in the B.H. archive, Goldmann’s Files, file 1969–April 1971. 5

236

dina porat

The institute was built during the 1960s on the campus of Tel Aviv University. Upon the completion of the building in 1968, a long line of meetings and consultations were organized to raise ideas for the institute, though no clear concept emerged from these meetings.7 In the early 1970s, Abba Kovner, poet and WWII partisan who was then also a member of Kibbutz Ein-Hachoresh and winner of the Israel Prize for his literary and life work, was approached regarding the plan for the institute. It immediately became clear that Kovner and Goldmann, two personalities of very different personal history and somewhat opposite character, saw the issues at hand in the same manner, and that their encounter would give way to fruitful cooperation. Little did Goldmann know at that time what the origins of this similar attitude were: Kovner, who grew up in Vilna, the Jerusalem of Lithuania, between the two world wars, had already developed a kind of a “Vilna model” that was directly relevant to the deliberations regarding the contents of the empty building. During his youth he witnessed in Vilna a vibrant Jewish community, as varied and as heterogeneous as could be—parties, movements, and ideologies of the whole political spectrum; education systems, press, and literature in a number of languages; artistic creativity, libraries, and scientific institutes. Yet despite the differences and rivalries among its sections, Jewish Vilna constituted one community, equipped with its proper organs and leadership. There was one framework for many opinions. “The dispute,” wrote Kovner, “is a corner stone in Jewish culture.”8 Kovner tried to implement this model on later occasions: when the Germans invaded Lithuania in 1941, he was among the founders and commanders of an underground, the only one among those established in the larger ghettos that was based on genuine cooperation and comradeship among traditionally rivalling movements. Later, when they left liberated Vilna towards the end of 1944, Kovner and the survivors he led southwards founded an a-political, nonpartisan entity, into which all survivors, of any political hue, could be accepted. Additionally, while in the Givati Brigade during the 1948 War of Independence, he fostered tight human contacts among new-comers from all over the world. He always searched for the unifying framework in which every Jew could be different. 7 8

See Dina Porat, 2000, pp. 335–336. See Abba Kovner, 1998, pp. 225–232.

the diaspora museum and israeli-jewish identity

237

Kovner was always imbued with a strong sense of mission and personal responsibility for the public he felt so much part and parcel of. A few years after the state was born, he decided to take leave of his Kibbutz and family for a number of months and embarked on a visiting tour of the Jewish communities in the Diaspora. On his tour he tried to find out whether “this state has a people? [. . .] what was left of the Jews abroad, in quantity and quality, and do they really wish for a national existence?” As aforementioned, the situation of many a community at that time seemed shaky.9 During his many travels, especially in the 1950s and later on, he crystallized the idea of establishing a visual enterprise, an everyman representation of the spiritual treasures of the Jewish communities lost in the Holocaust or by immigration and totalitarian regimes. Therefore, when Kovner and Goldmann met, the time was ripe, on both sides for cooperation. They seemed to be two opposites. Goldmann was a man of the world, usually well-dressed, keen on enjoying what life has to offer, travelling among large communities and cities. Kovner, a Kibbutznik with his sandals and an eternal Tembel-hat, a seldom smiling survivor, was an adamant anti-establishment person. Yet what they had in common was far more significant: Both were born in Lithuania, and had, as many Litvaks do, a very strong sense of a special brand of Jewish identity; one built on reason, scepticism and analysis; both carried from their childhood environment an enormous admiration for the Jewish religion and especially for the ancient traditions and customs; both appreciated the role tradition, not necessarily religion, could still play in the modern world in the life of socialist, secular and Zionist Jews as a unifying factor; both had an intimate knowledge of Jewish traditions and sources, though it was Kovner who continued to enlarge his scope of studies every day of his life.10 Besides their common origin and its continuing impact, there were two more points of principle they shared: First was their objection to the negation of the Diaspora as advocated by Ben-Gurion and other adherents of the centrality of Zionism. According to Kovner 9

See Abba Kovner, 1981, pp. 291–294. For Goldmann’s initiative to publish the Jewish Encyclopedia, see ibid., ch. 7. Kovner’s accumulation of knowledge is best demonstrated in his “Guide to the Ocean of the Halacha,” undated. 10

238

dina porat

and Goldmann, who both considered themselves zealous Zionists, Zionism and the Diaspora should complement each other. Zionism, still in its first steps as a society in formation, could integrate the Jewish ceremonies and texts and folklore into a new synthesis that would enrich life in Israel and abroad. Kovner slowly instilled into his leftist atheist kibbutz a Passover night and a wedding ceremony, Kaddish on a friend’s grave and presents during Purim. All of the latter were newly shaped in accordance with the new Zionist reality, yet based on the old traditions. The second point of principle they shared was their strong conviction that the Jewish people and its history are unique, hence no one had the right to break its historic continuity arbitrarily into separate periods: before the exile (First and Second Temples periods, one thousand years all together), two thousand years of exile, and Zionism. Nor had any one the right to educate youngsters on the “from the Tanach to the Palmach” notion, thus jumping from Biblical times to the struggle for the state of Israel. Civilization, as a collective identity, as well as personal identity, is built in layers, one leading to the other. When Ein-Hachoresh celebrated its fiftieth anniversary, Kovner turned the dining hall into a shore, reached by a ship on board of which were newcomers from 11 Jewish communities. In this he gave the message that those immigrating to Israel are not reborn upon arrival. They each come from different communities, each carrying a name, a language, and a culture that one does not have to abandon or cut off one’s former roots. On the contrary, the baggage one brings upon arrival is a treasure, and all collected treasures create a rich new entity. He used to tell the story of the Rabbi of Mezerich who, when still a child, told his mother, weeping at the sight of their burnt down home and destroyed family genealogy papers, that he would write her a new one. When he grew up, the Rabbi would cover his face when remembering the incidence, ashamed for his childish arrogance, for no one can have a truly new beginning. We all have a personal history; generation after generation, from a forefather to a grandson, we are part of a chain. These ideas were part of the vision created for the Diaspora museum by Kovner and a team of architects, artists and historians.11 11 Architects Dora Gad and Rafi Blumental, painter Dani Caravan, historians Shlomo Simonsohn, Geoffrey Vigoder and Eli Ben-Gal, art teacher Ida Huberman and museum experts Bezalel Narkis, Karl Katz, and James Gardner, and manager in chief Yeshayahu Weinberg were all part of the enterprise.

the diaspora museum and israeli-jewish identity

239

The permanent exhibition was aimed at reconciling Israel and the Diaspora, Zionism and Jewish history, and thus created a tool for the shaping of a reconciled identity. Let us first describe the exhibition, and then turn to the debates it aroused when the House opened its gates on the thirtieth Independence Day of the state of Israel, 1978. Parts of the exhibition represent Kovner’s vision. In fact, in his will he stated that he wanted three inscriptions of his words written on the walls of Beth Hatefutsoth which, in short, comprise of the central theme of the museum. The first inscription is near the entrance and speaks about a nation dispersed among the gentiles, in various countries and over many centuries, “And They are One Family.” This is a primary message that was intended to be carried with the visitor throughout his visit: the unity of this nation, everywhere and at anytime. The visitor then crosses the sad sight of the Roman soldiers looting the burning Temple and faces an area that serves as inner entrance. It consists of photographs of Jews—faces of every age, color, expression, and traditional head attire. The faces keep changing, thus telling the visitor that very different people can live together in one frame, in unity without uniformity. This is an image that one could interpret as strongly resembling Kovner’s impression of his lost Vilna. As the visitor progresses through the central exhibition, he reaches the first gate, entitled “The Family Gate.” There the exhibition demonstrates Jewish and Zionist holidays and family ceremonies blended together, from Birth to the Kaddish, in their traditional as well as in their new Eretz-Israeli version. On the wall of this room lies the second inscription written by Kovner: “There is no Jew lonely in his Holidays.” This statement tells the visitor that a Jew does not live alone and does not create for himself only. He is, of course, an individual, but he is always part of a ‘public,’ and the creations of this public are his because he has contributed to them. Kovner defined Judaism as “a culture of a public” that does not serve as an oppressing collective, but rather as a fertile protecting ground enriching the individual. Kovner, born and raised many years before post-modernism, was convinced that creativity, performed by an individual for his own sake and needs, isolated from the public around, is meaningless. The visitor then arrives at the next stop in the exhibition, “The Community Gate,” where the institutions of the Jewish public are exhibited, from the Mikveh to Chevra Kadisha, from the Heder to

240

dina porat

Bikkur Cholim. The variety of institutions that operated even in the smallest of communities, proves Kovner’s point—a Jewish individual is never alone, his public takes care of his needs. The next visual in the museum is the “Martyrological Colomn” which cuts through the House’s three floors. This symbolizes the individual, equipped with the strength that he acquired at home, and in his immediate surrounding, can now face suffering. The visitor faces an impressive column that reminds him of a cage, a prison or a camp, engulfed by metal wire. A faint light, representing some scant hope, beams from within. Next to the column lies a large book, entitled “The Scrolls of Fire,” written by Kovner. This book is divided into 52 chapters, like the weeks in the Jewish year, and each is devoted to another event in Jewish history, mainly the traumatic ones: expulsions, pogroms, libels and deprivation. On the adjacent wall a large inscription blames the Germans and their accomplices for the Holocaust. It does not blame the Jews of Europe or their leadership, nor does it refer to the Yishuv—the Hebrew community in Eretz Israel, or the communities in the free world. “Locked in the ghettos they defended their souls as much as they could, and the world stood by, silent.”12 The respect for the Diaspora is here at its utmost: the Holocaust is not a source of shame, and Jews should be commended for their moral strength. In order to enhance the atmosphere of sympathy and the feeling of being in an environment of suffering, soft Hassidic music is heard in the background. The next gates are those of “Faith” and “Creativity.” The sequence of first leaving the area of suffering—the column, the large ominous book and the inscription, accompanied by the music—followed by entering these two gates, a message is conveyed to the visitor: The Jewish individual, forged by family and community, emerges out of suffering with an even stronger faith in his Judaism, and with the sensitivity and scope needed in order to create. Faith is demonstrated by a large number of exquisite replicas of synagogues, and by the Isaiah Scoll, found in the Kummeran Caves. This symbolizes the Bible’s role in Jewish history and the bond between the people and its land. Then comes an astounding demonstration of creativity, from

12 It should be mentioned that Kovner’s initial idea was much more Holocaust oriented, yet he moderated it, and concentrated on the column-scrolls-inscription combination. See Kovner’s files in B.H. archive, 03–01–01–05.

the diaspora museum and israeli-jewish identity

241

the canonized texts, Bible, Mishna and Talmud to the many generations of Rabbinical interpretations and innovations to modern authors, poets, scientists, and Nobel prize laureates. It is a vast cultural contribution made by a people tiny in proportion. The visitor is filled with amazement when facing the variety of press, education systems, literary and artistic expressions, and if he is Jewish—he most likely takes pride in this creativity. This was, indeed, the goal of the team that created the exhibition. “Among the Nations” is the title of the next gate in which the history of the Jewish communities in exile is shown in detail. There are 13 stations on the long way, the same number as on the way from Egypt to the Land of Canaan. In each a community lived and worked for a certain period of time, in better or worse relations with its surrounding neighbours, until it was destroyed or until another Jewish center overshadowed it, in another station. The last gate is “The Gate of Return,” ending the exhibition with the return to Zion. The subsequent rebuilding of Eretz Israel is a matter for other museums. As for the Diaspora museum, focusing on the exile starts with the Roman soldiers and ends with the Menorah, the symbol of the state. Having passed through seven gates—again a symbolic number, the visitor reaches the third and last of Kovner’s inscriptions: “Remember the past, live in the present, trust the future.” With this statement, the visitor leaves the museum knowing that Jewish history is a chain, made of past-present-future, and no one can presume to break its links, not even Zionism. Speaking on the inauguration ceremony in 1978, Kovner warned more than advocated that “if the Jews will draw from their past knowledge of and love for their heritage, they will have the strength to open the gates of their future.” When Kovner came home that day, he sat down at his desk and wrote that the exodus out of Egypt started when God told Moses to let the Israelites know, that “I [will be] hath sent me unto you” (Exodus 3/14). For God does not reside where a person says, “I was,” neither where he says “I am.” As long as we can say “I’ll be, in the future tense, we shall have a spark of the creator in us.” The permanent exhibition opened in 1978 and met both deep prays of success and angry criticism; both of which are relevant to the issue of Jewish identity. It should be remembered that when Goldmann and Ben-Gurion had their arguments in the 1950s, and when Kovner went to look for Jewish communities around the world,

242

dina porat

public opinion in Israel sided with Ben-Gurion that Zionism should be a rebuilding of everything afresh, from scratch. The prevailing spirit was one of shaping a new identity, as distant as possible from the former one; a feeling of exhilaration engulfed these attempts. Yet with time, towards the end of the 1960s and the beginning of the 1970s, educators and policy makers realized that the price paid for an extensive root cutting was a high one, and that a new generation is indeed growing up with little connection to the history and traditions of their people. Kovner and Goldmann had already warned that new Zionist contents were slow to emerge and a danger of a vacuum was immanent. New educational programmes were developed, the most famous among them being “Jewish awareness” (or Jewish consciousness), initiated by Zalman Aran, the education Minister, in 1959.13 The Six Days War that swept Jewish communities with enthusiasm and the Yom Kippur War which brought about a better understanding of distress, choices, and desperate situations did their share in changing the attitudes of the Diaspora and the alleged uniqueness of Israeli identity. This means that when the Diaspora museum was opened, the public mood had already changed and the links between Israel and the Diaspora seemed almost natural. For about twenty years, until the end of the 1990s, hundreds of thousands of visitors a year frequented Beth Hatefutsoth, the majority of whom consisted of soldiers, high school students, new immigrants and tourists. It became, alongside with yad-Vashem, Massada and the Western Wall, a “must see” for visitors to the country. The question of the identity that the house radiated became crucial, far more than during the deliberations on the contents of the House. It is perhaps best to follow this question of the Jewish identity portrayed by the House by taking a look at the criticism and controversies that emerged parallel to the continuing success of the permanent exhibition and the activities the House offered. Some of these debates in fact started when the exhibition was in the process of being built. In the following we will trace six of the major debates. The first criticism concerned the ethnic representation, namely the proportion of room allocated to each of the various Edot, the ethnic groups in Israel. The critics of the museum argued that it has

13

See for instance Porat, 1991, pp. 157–174.

the diaspora museum and israeli-jewish identity

243

a very East European slant, emphasizing the culture and traditions of the Ashkenazi communities. A place that was supposed to represent national unity, they said, did not live up to its promise.14 Indeed, when deliberations regarding the contents of the house started in the beginning of the 1970s, the first idea was to populate the then empty building with a special exhibition for each community worldwide. But the idea, which first seemed a fair one, giving a chance to all, was rejected on the following grounds: how many histories of communities can a visitor see in one visit, and what would the difference, or the innovation actually be among the small exhibitions? Moreover, there are richer and poorer landsmanschaften as well. Rivalry would follow if the “equal” representation was adopted. In fact, having taken a thorough look at the exhibition, one might say that the claim that the house is too Ashkenazi is not fully substantiated, and the Sephardi communities, especially the North Africa ones, have their share, though a greater effort could have been invested in finding more Sephardi authors and rabbis to mention in the exhibition. Also, it should be remembered that in 1977, the year the Likud came to power, the status of the Sephardi communities strengthened, and they could afford to complain in a much more vociferous manner. The end result of this debate was that the guides, who mediate between the exhibition and the public, made a greater effort to emphasize equality among the different sections, and unity of the people as a leading principle. Another issue of criticism was the fact that the exhibition ends chronologically more or less in the middle of the nineteenth century. If it ends at that point in time, asked the critics, among them Gershom Scholem, on the brink of modernization, where are the socialists, the communists, the Bundists—all the leftists? And the secular, the assimilationists, reform and conservative, converts, the nonZionists? The territorialists, or the autonomists, followers of Dubnow seeking cultural autonomy? A long line of opinions and ideologies is missing, and it seems as if they were ignored on purpose. A new wing is needed, it was (and still is) claimed, in order to host these large groups and parties that were and are part of the Jewish people as any other. Indeed, the common origin and ideas of Kovner,

14 Author’s note: I heard about this criticism from Ela Bar-Ilan, then in charge of guiding the visitors.

244

dina porat

Goldmann and others among those shaping the concept of the House, is reflected here: the exhibition is, in its deepest layer, a praise for and a tribute to times when Jews were glued by the power of tradition, and still lived by the ancient cycle of life. It was already in 1947 that, in a lecture delivered in Yad-Vashem, Kovner spoke about “the glue of tradition” that melted with secularism and universal ideologies long before the Holocaust. He argued that once the collective soul of the people was divided into many fractions, it was actually murdered, and later on it would become much easier to murder its body. It is as if Kovner harbored some kind of animosity towards these ideologies and fractions, blaming them actually for paving the way to Jewish weakness and lack of unity prior to the Holocaust. Is this the reason they were not included in the exhibition? Goldmann wrote about the “Jewish religion as contents and as a way of life, without which no Jewish people would have survived.”15 The exhibition is not, and was certainly not meant to be, a tombstone to cover the past’s grave. It is rather an expression of a quest for another, more modern glue that would serve as a basis for a renewed togetherness. And it is rather a call, a plea, to give tradition—not religion—a second chance, in a renewed version, blended with the Zionist attempts to create new ceremonies, texts and way of life. A third critic referred to the proportion of suffering in all its forms, in the presentation of the history of the people. Life should originate in the positive, not the negative, was the argument. Izmar Schorsch, Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, among these critics, wanted a stronger emphasis on quiet periods of time, when relationship between Jews and gentiles allowed for prosperity and creativity. A nation—here he referred to the state of Israel— cannot be built on suffering, and there is too much of it in the exhibition. One should take into account that Schorsch spoke from the perspective of an American Jew, who cannot accept or live with Kovner’s notion, that the exile, even if called Diaspora, is always the source of all evil. Moreover, claimed Uriel Tal, one of the founders of the study of Jewish history as a discipline at Tel Aviv University, Judaism is a way of life, not of indulging in death.

15

See B.H. archive, Goldmann’s files, file 1969–April 1971.

the diaspora museum and israeli-jewish identity

245

A column of water should be added facing the martyrological column to extinguish its fire. The Scrolls of Fire are an antithesis to Jewish Halacha because they devote a chapter a week mostly to exiles and pogroms, while the ancient Scroll of Lamentations, for instance, combines days of commemoration and mourning into a few dates, and forbids lamentation on others. In other words, the exhibition aroused concerns that an identity of a victim, always an easy pray, would persist despite the Zionist ending of the Scrolls and the exhibition, where fighting and struggle result in independence. An additional question, associated with the latter one, is whether the House leads to at least some kind of reconciliation with the gentile world, as if telling the visitor: here is what happened in the past, but now, as the state of Israel is already thirty years old, the time has come to rethink the hopes of the forefathers of Zionism. They spoke about a normal political entity, a state much as any other that has a periphery of immigrants outside its borders, and they are in contact with it as the Italians and Poles in US are with their homelands. Being a normal entity, Israel would be related to as any other state. Such an attitude could have worked towards the shaping of a normal, or better said, balanced identity that puts victimhood behind and is ready to integrate in the world at large. The known phrase, used at that time by the Israeli right-wingers, “all the world is against us,” would loose its edge, and would be replaced by “all the world is with us.” But the House does not actually deal with the notion of reconciliation. And when Kovner was asked, whether the place is Zionist enough (for the exhibition ends with the Gate of Return, that started in the 1880s, and does not go on into statehood and its consequences, he used to answer: “It is not Zionist enough? Nu, go take a look from the balcony, facing the green grasses of Tel Aviv university, the white buildings of the first Hebrew city and the blue Mediterranean, and have Zionism to your hearts content.” In other words, the House ends where it does, and discussions that are related to the implications of the exhibition are, in fact, the responsibility of the thinking visitor. The question of reconciliation, more specifically, is related to the way the Holocaust was presented and worded by Kovner: “Locked in the ghettos, they defended their souls as much as they could, and the world stood by, silent.” The question that follows is, then, how is reconciliation possible, if the world—which includes the Allies and the populations under German occupation and influence in Europe—

246

dina porat

stood by, silent. Therefore, if the Jewish people, whether in Europe or outside at that time, cannot be blamed for the evolvement of the Holocaust, and the blame lies with “the world,” not to mention the Germans and their accomplices, then blame should be defined: how long, or for how many generations, should the blame lie with those who stood silent? How should this blame be treated by Jews—with all severity, with constant or rather with temporary vows to ban most of the nations of the world? When the House was being built, the attitude in Israel towards the Jews in Europe, and the way they withstood their fate, was already changing, mainly following the Eichmann trial. Kovner was one of the first and most persistent to uphold the view that the Jews have nothing to be ashamed of and that self-accusation is an unfair though understandable reaction, certainly in comparison with the ways other nations, who did not face annihilation, withstood Nazi domination.16 By upholding this attitude Kovner fulfilled an important task, for he anchored the plight of the Jews in the realities of World War II, not in wishes of the Yishuv or Israeli society. But by the same token, leaving the blame to lie on the shoulders of most of the countries of the world, he left open the issue of the duration and intensity of the blame, and of the proper ways to resolve this open account. Thus, the identity of an Israeli and Jewish youngster, facing Kovner’s inscription, is bound to be at least slightly burdened with feelings of bitterness and resentment. Lastly, on a more general level, is the issue of the House’s framework. It is no doubt a Zionist one, for it starts with the expulsion and ends with the Gate of return, ignoring the other options opened for a Jew nowadays. The Scrolls of Fire carry the same narrative, starting with the destruction of the Second Temple, and ending with a few chapters on fighting during the Holocaust, Ha"apalah (coming up to the Land of Israel), Hagannah (self defense) and the 1948 war. So, the framework, as mentioned, is Zionist and should have contributed to the normalization of the people, righting the wrongs of exile. But in between there is a long praise for and admiration of the Jewish contribution to the world, and a very strong emphasis on the uniqueness of the Jewish people, its achievements, and its history. The contradiction between normalization and uniqueness is

16

See his Scrolls of Testimony, 2001, p. xv: “innocent of crime and unashamed.”

the diaspora museum and israeli-jewish identity

247

built in and, since uniqueness is already a fact, normalization is still a wish though doubt is cast on the chances of reaching the normalization stage. All in all, the Diaspora museum offers a number of binding principles, such as unity, being an integral part of a public, continuity, cultural contribution, the possibility of mixing Judaism and Zionism, and tradition as a tool. But it does not offer a clear-cut modern identity, and perhaps it should not be expected to. It raises the basic issues and leaves a lot of room for the visitors and the guides to elaborate on them. It offers a picture of complexity and variety, of a quest for meaning that is the essence of the Jewish people.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE JEWISH TRANSNATIONAL COMMUNITY AND THE HEBREW UNIVERSITY OF JERUSALEM Uri Cohen Introduction This discussion focuses on the organizational and ideological institutionalization that took place between the Zionist Movement and Jewish communities in the Diaspora. This institutionalization resulted in an unbroken structure of shared current needs and interests within the framework of a transnational social space and in transnational communities, under basic conditions that would seem more likely to encourage mutual fragmentation and distance. I intend to show how the concept of Klal Yisrael as a worldwide commonwealth of the Jewish people took form just as the Zionist Movement coalesced into a secular national movement that depicted, as one of its fundamentals, an aspiration to dissociate itself from the centuries-old pattern of Jewish existence. At the forefront of the Zionist consciousness was an argument that a national way of life should be preferred over life in “exile” ( gola). In the words of historian Ben-Zion Dinur: The principle of the Zionist view of Jewish reality is negation of exile. This negation is the prime fundamental of the Zionist ideology. The problem of the Jews is one: exile. It embraces all the disasters and woes, all the ills and afflictions, the enmity of generations and the hatred of peoples, the envy of the benighted and the contempt of the enlightened. The exile is the cause of them all.1

In Dinur’s opinion, a fundamental insecurity underlies the Jewish dispersion even at times when the Jewish communities functioned as well-developed autonomous entities. Therefore, the liquidation of exile that Zionism offered was perceived as a return to political “normalcy,” in which Jews exist safely in a single political unit that they themselves control.2 1 2

Ben-Zion Dinur (Dinaburg), 1939, p. 12 (Hebrew). Ben-Zion Dinur (Dinaburg), 1978 (Hebrew).

the jewish transnational community

249

The purpose of this article is to show how acute differences among Diaspora Jewish communities—flowing from rivalries, tensions, disagreements, and disunity in view of the basic ideas and institutional frameworks of the nascent Jewish nationality—evolved into cooperation and the establishment of an institutional common denominator, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. This institution led to organized and long-term action that points to the existence of values which promoted the development of uniqueness, responsibility, and mutual commitment between Jewish communities that were territorially and ideologically distant from each other and the Zionist enterprise. We will show that these values do not point to a harmonic continuity of relations; instead, they effect a merger that is culminated in power struggles and protracted disputes surrounding the reinterpretation of an ontological vision that the aforementioned Jewish worldwide commonwealth shares. At the empirical level, the purpose of this discussion is to investigate the mutual integration of the main elements in the Zionist reality, which aspired to singularity and dominance in the Zionist collective historical consciousness, and the self-organization of Jewish influence around the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, a nationalcultural institution established in Palestine during the pre-independence era. My argument is that it was the Jewish communities, especially those that did not identify with Zionism, that most frequently demanded a role in shaping the national society in formation. Furthermore, it was the communities’ clear intent to play a decisive and influential role in important aspects of the nationalcultural endeavor. We will find that, for the Jewish communities, the Hebrew University was an important medium that allowed them to shape symbolic and institutional relations that were meant to define their identity vis-à-vis “others” in their surroundings. We will also consider the nature of their relationship with and integration into the national enterprise. I do not intend to claim that those who took part in establishing and running the Hebrew University had identical interests and a uniform worldview; instead, I point to several aspects of the modern Jewish effort to maintain an intertwining relationship between Jewish communities in modern societies and the Zionist Movement. In recent years, the school of “new historians” and “critical sociologists” in Israel has developed a research approach that depicts relations between the Jewish national collective in Palestine and the

250

uri cohen

Jewish communities around the world as an acute and protracted confrontation stemming from the Zionist concept of negation of exile.3 The main argument of these scholars is that the Zionist consciousness is based on the invention of a modern national tradition that served the Ashkenazi pioneering settler elite as a focal basis for the crafting of a heroic, proactive “new Jew” in Palestine, as against the suffering and persecuted “old Jew” in exile. Scholars of this bent depict the basic goal of this Ashkenazi national elite as the creation of a new historical consciousness that demands disconnection from, and structured banishment of, prior traditions that are termed “Exilic.” “These debates raised a continual dichotomy between the general interest of the Jew and the particularistic interest of the Israeli (or the Zionist); both of which ostensibly came into the world mutually hostile and existed in a state of mutual exclusivity.”4 One of the most conspicuous manifestations of this outlook, which aims to drive a wedge of estrangement between the Jewish Diaspora and the Zionist Movement, is derived from the conception that modern Jewishness can only be fulfilled on the basis of a relationship with the conceptual language of the dominant culture. In this setting, the Jew carries on as a minority that lacks sovereignty and, as a consequence of this status, takes a critical stance toward the culture. In other words, exile is the only authentic state of the Jew, since only in exile can the Jew devise a symbiotic relationship of critical value between the self-image of the Jew and the self-image of the non-Jew. Zionism, in contrast, is depicted as an aggressive action that strives to obliterate the symbiotic relationship. Thus, it is essentially a mechanism of cultural repression and induced amnesia based on the negation of the Jewish past.5 The present discussion confronts these outlooks by noting the existence of a different and consistent modus operandi, in which, since the first half of the 1920s, there has been a systematic, centralized, and substantial transfer of economic and symbolic resources by Jewish Diaspora that is neither Zionist nor Zionistically inclined to the prominent Zionist institution—the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 3 Tom Segev (1991); Idith Zertal (1996) (Hebrew); Yosef Grodzinski (1998); Moshe Zuckerman (2001). 4 Anita Shapira, 2003, pp. 9–54 (Hebrew). 5 Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin (1993) (Hebrew). The second part of the article appeared in Theory and Criticism, 5, Autumn 1994, pp. 113–133 (Hebrew). See also George Steiner, 1994 f1965, pp. 32–38; and George Steiner, 1985, pp. 4–25.

the jewish transnational community

251

Apart from the qualities mentioned above, this transfer has not been passive; it includes a demand for meaningful participation in the management and development of the institution.6 Thus, the Jewish communities have had a decisive effect on the formation of autonomous academic elite; an elite that has consistently resisted the demands of the political center in the Yishuv regarding academic structure and curricula, thereby making it possible to establish basic conditions for the activities of heterodox political organizations such as Brit Shalom and Ihud.7 I will show that the negation-of-exile concept is not limited to the attitudes of various branches of the Zionist Movement toward the Diaspora. We must also turn our attention to a response by the “exile” that—in contrast to acts of philanthropy, support, and rescue—was a model of involvement, partnership, and mutuality that are the outgrowths of voluntarism. I also argue that the roots of this model germinated in the era preceding the terrible and tragic ordeal of the Holocaust and the attainment of territorial political independence by the Yishuv. One of the goals of this model was the sustaining of Jewish collective activity of a sort that would reflect the development of a meaningful political-culture consciousness in a transnational community that intended to challenge the “negation of exile.” The transnational cooperation at issue formed around the protracted activities of Jewish personalities and Friends of the Hebrew University (FHU) before the university was dedicated in 1925. It became an important factor in encouraging the development of modern Israeli scholarship to this very day. We find that between 1998–2003, some 1,900 donors in thirty-seven countries have raised $762 million for the Hebrew University; half of the benefactors are long-time donors; others had no prior relationship with the university. Be this as it may, the university is verging on its 2004 target of $1 billion. As for the distribution of the donations, 48% of the revenue came from the United States; 2% from Australia; 10% from Canada, 10% from Europe, 7% from Israel, 5% from Latin America,

6

Uri Cohen, in press (Hebrew). On the status of the Hebrew University during the Yishuv (pre-independence) period, see Anita Shapira, (1997). This article stresses the thesis of the marginality of the Hebrew University relative to the Zionist Movement and the Zionist Labor Movement. For an opposing approach, see Moshe Lissak and Uri Cohen, in press (Hebrew). 7

252

uri cohen

3% from South Africa, 11% from the United Kingdom, and 4% from elsewhere.8 The pattern presented here is not unique to the Hebrew University; it has been adopted by other institutions of higher education in Israel. It shows that after the Hebrew University was founded, a voluntary array, originating in a consciousness of solidarity between intellectual groups and well-heeled benefactors, has created a stable and long-term relationship that is sustained by a historical experience related to a particular territory and shared cultural characteristics. This has resulted in a sustainable framework of collective loyalties and identities. As such, bonds that united the Jewish collective were forged anew after having been transformed in the initial phases of the modern era but managed to preserve a state of ethnie that may be associated with pre-modern continuity. This is very similar to the communities that Anthony Smith defined as a population with one name that had myths of shared ancestral patriarchs, shared historical memories, elements of shared culture, an attachment to a homeland, and some extent of solidarity, at least among its elites.9 This presentation allows us to make a contribution toward explaining a phenomenon known as the “riddle of Jewish historical continuity.” Some of the riddle may be explained on the basis of the existence of social space and transnational communities that include social and symbolic ties,10 alongside dense networks of permanent institutions and organizations. Medieval Jewry maintained such structures for centuries around the axis of halacha (the rule and praxis of rabbinical law). Although progress and the consolidation of modernity caused these transnational structures to transformed, they managed to redesign and replicate themselves around the goal of nurturing the civilizational dimension of Jewishness among nonreligious Jews. They did so, primarily by adjusting themselves to pronouncedly modern settings (such as a Jewish university) that were meant to

8 “$762 million Collected,” Toar, Journal of Alumni of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2002, p. 20 (Hebrew). 9 Anthony D. Smith, 1986. 10 Social ties are a continuing series of interpersonal transactions to which participants attach shared interest, obligation, expectations and norms. Symbolic ties are a continuing series of transactions, both face-to-face and indirect, to which participants attach shared meanings, memories, future expectations, and symbols. Symbolic ties often go beyond face-to-face relations, involving members of the same religious belief, language, ethnicity, or nationality.

the jewish transnational community

253

institutionalize an intensive and permanent dialogue around the idea of the “shared historical fate of all mutually separate segments of the Jewish nation.”11 The Road to the Formation of a Jewish University The idea of establishing a Hebrew-speaking Jewish university in Jerusalem was a fundamental, a creation, and one of the pronounced expressions of the Zionist Movement. It was championed with particular vigor by Ahad Ha"am, the progenitor of “Cultural Zionism,” who in the early twentieth century expressed the view that “establishing a large scholastic institution in Palestine for science or the arts, establishing one academy there for language or literature, is [. . .] a grand and exalted national enterprise that would bring us closer to our goal than a hundred farming colonies.”12 Ahad Ha"am continued to profess this conviction after World War I and was joined by an important political leader, Nahum Sokolow, who in 1918 stated, “the Hebrew University embodies the meaning of Zionism.”13 The metamorphoses of the university idea give evidence of a gradual maturation processes amidst comprehensive if not tumultuous debate among advocates of various Zionist outlooks about the right way to produce the Hebrew intellectual.14 The common point of departure in the dialogue among the transnational Jewish communities over the establishment of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem was twofold: negation of the Halachic fundamental as the organizing factor of Jewish intellectual life and, as a corollary of this principle, negation of the monopolistic supremacy of Orthodox outlooks in the shaping of Jewish education. Concurrently, Jewish scholars were increasingly concerned that the separate segments of Jewry were steadily pulling apart15 and the Jewish communities were worried about taking any step that might make suspect their allegiance to their countries of residence. The solution that Ahad Ha"am proposed was unification around the establishment of a national research academy: 11

Simon Dubnow, 1953 (Hebrew), p. 11, emphasis in the original. Ahad Ha"am (Asher Hirsch Ginsberg), 1947 (Hebrew), pp. 173–186. 13 Ahad Ha"am to Weizmann, Aug. 12, 1918, and Sokolow to Weizmann, Aug. 21, 1918, Central Zionist Archives, L4/114. 14 Israel Kolatt, 1997, pp. 3–74. 15 Israel Abrahams, 1908. 12

254

uri cohen The only salvation of Jewry as a nation, whose continued existence is hardly imaginable without a spiritual national center in Palestine [. . .] in view of the close relations that already exist and are still developing between Palestine and the Diaspora lands, there can be no doubt that such an academy in Jerusalem would rather quickly become the very national spiritual authority, the very powerhouse, the lack of which we feel so acutely.16

The main issue in the debate, which continued with various degrees of intensity for more than four decades until the university was established in 1925, was whether and to what extent the new academic institution in Palestine would influence the Jewish communities or vice versa. If the negation-of-exile idea was the dominant underlying factor in the goals of the Zionist Movement, the movement presumably would have determined categorically that the university should apply its influence and direct its activities solely toward the needs of the Yishuv. As such, it would strive to attract students and scholars who could not gain admission to European higher-learning institutes for reasons of anti-Semitism. What actually happened was different: the application of the negation-of-exile idea at the university-to-be was championed by a minority only, whose demands were rejected repeatedly. The main issue actually debated concerned the intensity of the relationship between the “exile” and the national enterprise in the view of the coalescence of a “transnational social space.” Here the Zionist Movement discussed ways to integrate nonZionist scholars, scientists, and funders into the project, assuming that the Movement would continue to maintain dominance over these personalities and the Jewish communities. The university idea was born in articles by Professor Zvi Hermann Schapira in the newspaper Hamelitz in 1882, before Zionist settlement in Palestine began. The import of Schapira’s proposal was the establishment of a combined rabbinical seminary, university, and institute of technology that would help to counteract the problems of loss of Jewish identity, internal fragmentation, and the Jews’ uncertain place among the nations. The Jewish higher academy, Schapira wrote, would tackle the abandonment of the moral messages that had shaped the essence and the universal human mission of Jewishness by unifying the nation around the establishment of a Jewish intellectual authority that the higher academy would represent. The first 16

Ahad Ha"am 2000 (Hebrew), pp. 318–320. Emphasis in the original.

the jewish transnational community

255

faculty, for example—the “Divine” faculty, in Schapira’s words, would focus on training teachers and rabbis; its teachers would be chosen by groups of rabbis and Maskilim (secular-Jewish intellectuals) from all over the Diaspora. On this basis, the faculty would serve as a unifying and binding spiritual authority for the settlements in Palestine and the Jewish people at large. Later on, the Democratic Praxis faction of the Zionist Movement17 took up a salient role in 1901. The leading figure in this activity was Dr. Chaim Weizmann, whose “heart and mind,” as Jehuda Reinharz argues, “were totally devoted to the enterprise that he viewed increasingly as a personal goal and the most important mission of Democratic Praxis: the establishment of the Jewish university.”18 Weizmann’s first plan was to establish a two-part academic institute, a technical segment in Europe and a Jewish studies segment in Palestine. This, he said, would achieve “a synthesis between Yavne and Europe.” A year later, he copublished with Berthold Feiwel and Martin Buber a pamphlet titled “A High Jewish Academy,” which described the ravages of anti-Semitism and the vitiation of the Jewish spirit that had been caused by the systematic and far-ranging exclusion of Jewish students and scholars from institutes of higher learning.19 In his keynote address at the XI Zionist Congress, in Vienna on September 2, 1913, Weizmann unveiled his conception of a university that would be established in Jerusalem and would teach all subjects in Hebrew from the outset. Turning to our topic of concern, he stressed the university project as the factor that would lead to the fashioning of a new Jew—a proud, upright Jew who, by dint of his creativity, would influence the Jews’ integration in the Diaspora: We will all sense the immense value of an intellectual center where Jews will be able to study, teach, and perform research in a convenient atmosphere, with neither restrictions nor pressure from non-Jewish cultures, amidst national life saturated with the will to create new Jewish values and connect our great heritage with the values of modernity.

17

Democratic Praxis—an internal faction of the Zionist Movement that was organized in 1901 by Chaim Weizmann and Martin Buber, who presented the V Zionist Congress with a demand to defend the principles of secular Zionism against the religious circles that were seeking to exclude cultural activities from the Zionist Organization framework. 18 Jehuda Reinharz, 1985. 19 Martin Buber, Berthold Feiwel, and Chaim Weizmann, 1968 (Hebrew).

256

uri cohen This synthesis will give rise to an authentic Jewish enlightenment that will be much to the benefit of the Jewish nation. Such a center will give the Diaspora a great deal of influence and, thereby, will enhance the self-esteem of Jewish intellectuals [. . .]. The university is of unimaginable value for the Diaspora [. . .]. It will bring the new Jew, proud and blessed with creativity, into being. This national enterprise will strengthen the Jewish people immensely and reinvigorate its intellect.20

The Congress instructed the executive council of the Zionist Organization to establish a committee to begin preparations for the establishment of a Hebrew university in Jerusalem. David Wolffsohn, the Hibbat Tsiyyon association in Odessa, and Isaac Leib Goldberg made an important financial contribution toward the project. The money was used to acquire Sir John Gray-Hill’s land and buildings on Mount Scopus, which have been the core of the university ever since. Concurrently, Weizmann began negotiations with Baron Edmond de Rothschild, who had agreed to support the project. Rothschild explained that his goal was the establishment of an elite research institute in Jerusalem, akin to the Pasteur Institute or the Rockefeller Institute, where a small group of Jewish scholars would work. Weizmann, who had initially conceived of a full-fledged university, adopted Rothschild’s idea in the belief that Rothschild’s institute would evolve into a set of research institutes that would eventually become a university. In these early phases of the initiative, Weizmann’s main strategy for action was manifested in public efforts to establish a minimum common denominator for the university: it should use Hebrew as its language of instruction and be located in Jerusalem. “We are willing to compromise on everything else,” Weizmann informed Magnes.21 Seemingly, then, the Zionist Movement narrowed its goals with regard to the university. However, Weizmann’s approach was meant to create a model for the establishment of a “Jewish commonwealth,” i.e., a ramified network of branches in Jewish communities around the globe that would organize on behalf of a shared conceptual and institutional project and exert an administrative influence on its development as it integrated into the process of Jewish national coalescence. As Weizmann explained:

20 Central Zionist Archives, Chaim Weizmann, Minutes of the Eleventh Congress (Hebrew), pp. 300–308. 21 Chaim Weizmann, 1913a, p. 204.

the jewish transnational community

257

Those to be chosen for these subcommittees should be people from the worlds of science, statecraft, and so on, who are not Zionists but who accept our basic principles, i.e., Hebrew and Jerusalem. The subcommittees shall prepare a plan and engage in initial propaganda— only from person to person at first. For this purpose, their members shall travel from town to town and act among those who take an interest in the enterprise. Afterwards, we will begin to establish the Hebrew University Association. The Association will have chapters all over the world; there will be a central committee that will build and own the university. . . .22

The modus operandi described here is one that aims to establish a “Jewish commonwealth”—an act of communal transnational selforganization around an ontological vision that creates a nexus between consensual groups of intellectuals and outlooks that wish to regulate the main arenas of Jewish social life—by means of a national university. Jewish intelligentsia circles in Russia criticized the model, arguing in 1914 that by so acting the Zionists were striving to achieve the “negation of exile,” i.e., to abandon Diaspora Jewry and disregard its needs. Afterall, they reasoned, the university would be an integral part of the Zionist enterprise and, as such, would be at the expense of Russian-Jewish students. An important member of this group of critics was the historian Simon Dubnow. Dubnow, like Weizmann, believed it important that the intended university in Jerusalem serve the nation as a spiritual and cultural center. However, he argued that this academic institution should be only one of two centers of the Jewish national culture; a Jewish university in Europe should be established as well. What is more, the Zionists should favor this. Another critic, Vladimir (Zeev) Jabotinsky, came from the Zionist Movement itself. Jabotinsky argued that the goal should be to establish an academic teaching institution that would not focus on research. His outlook rejected the view of the university as a Jewish spiritual center patterned after elite research institutes in other countries; he settled for a rescue center for Jewish students of poor academic quality who would focus on teaching only. Jabotinsky commented on Weizmann’s aspirations in 1913: Dr. Weizmann wants nothing but ‘research institutes’ where the teachers will strive to win the Nobel Prize—not a school where they teach students. I wrote a protest letter to the central committee of the Zionist

22

Chaim Weizmann, 1913b p. 206.

258

uri cohen Organization of Germany in Berlin, and I even remember one of its paragraphs: ‘It is clear to me, too, that we’re not yet able to create a good university. So what? Let’s start with a bad university. You’ll see that it will have as much national and educational value as a dozen top-flight research institutes’ . . . I demanded that the ‘institutes’ plan be rejected and that the principle of a high academy for studenttrainees be established.23

This approach gained support among members of the small general council of Zionist Organization, who considered the university plan a takeover of the Zionist Movement by Ahad Ha"am’s teachings. Weizmann opposed Jabotinsky’s approach vehemently, defining it as “reductionist” since it viewed Zionism as a movement that wishes “to march again on the soil of faith in miracles, a Zionism that exists by the kindness of antisemitism.” The concern embodied in Jabotinsky’s views, which prescribed the establishment of a teaching university that would open at once without a solid academic infrastructure, was that even if this institution managed to come into being, its success would cause the Zionist Movement severe long-term damage by driving a wedge between Zionists and the “bourgeoisie.” The Jewish intelligentsia and moneyed class would not soon support such a university that, from its outset, seeks to deal the bourgeoisie a stunning blow. Afterwards, the university would be rejected by “the others, cognizant Jews” who would realize that a Jewish university geared for teaching only is not serious. Weizmann dismissed the idea that it was possible to create quickly a suitable corpus of academic literature in Hebrew, on the basis of which academic personnel who would function as a scholarly community could be recruited. In Weizmann’s opinion, it was important to prefer the research-institute method and its kernel, the principle of academic excellence. “Imagine just one possibility that is definitely not utopian,” Weizmann urged. “Imagine that one of the researchers at the institute wins a Nobel Prize or, at the very least, that the works of the research institute gain international recognition and its journal is found in important academic centers.”24 A third group that formed as an outgrowth of ambivalence toward the university idea was composed of elements in the Zionist Labor Movement. These Zionists regarded Weizmann’s plan as part of a 23

Moshe Bella, ed., 1986, 40 (Hebrew). Chaim Weizmann, Writings of Chaim Weizmann, First Series, Letters, Jerusalem, 1969–1979 (Hebrew) p. 362. 24

the jewish transnational community

259

zero-sum game, in which the efforts and resources to be invested in promoting the academic project would be subtracted from the urgent needs of agricultural settlement, land and labor. From this perspective, establishing a university should be the last step for the national movement to take, not the first. The first step is the establishment of the foundation: Jewish productivization that leads to productive occupations and not the creation of a jobless academic proletariat. Until the foundation is ready, there is no point in building the roof. Thus, in 1914, Joseph Hayyim Brenner came to a firm conclusion: those who promote the university idea fail to understand the nationbuilding processes. The Jewish people has no assured territorial base to which it maintained a relationship of labor and a profound emotional connection. It also lacks a unifying language that its children and teachers speak, thus, in his words, “such a people has no right even to think about a university.”25 Others in the Zionist Labor Movement tended to favor the university idea in view of initiatives for the opening of non-Jewish institutes of higher learning in Palestine. They also considered it untenable to base the whole idea of the university solely on Ahad Ha"am’s stance and believed in the existence of a direct relationship between a university and national life. Aaron David Gordon, a leading Labor Movement intellectual, considered intellectual effort an arm-in-arm partner of physical effort and argued that the Zionist Movement should strive to promote settlement and scholarship concurrently. There is nothing about the national renaissance idea, he said, that should exclude persons of higher learning. Yet, the conventional wisdom viewed the university initiative as an idea ahead of its time that would not serve the cause of consolidating the Jewish working class in Palestine. The fourth convention of Po"alei Tsiyyon, held shortly before the XI Zionist Congress, took an explicit resolution against the establishment of a university: The economic and cultural conditions and the situation of the Jewish population in Palestine today do not suffice as a basis for a Hebrew university in Palestine. This plan would divert the Zionist Organization from its direct economic and cultural functions. The Congress shall assure the establishment of public, vocational, and agricultural schools in Palestine.26 25 26

Bar-Yohai [ Joseph Hayyim Brenner], 1914. Ha-ahdut, D:44–45, Sept. 26, 1913.

260

uri cohen

During the seven years between the cornerstone-laying ceremony of the Hebrew University ( July 1918) and the dedication of the university (April 1925), the Zionist Organization under Weizmann made perceptible efforts to promote the idea of the university on the basis of a Zionist claim to control and exclusivity in encouraging the project.27 The official Zionist view, championed by Weizmann, was that just as the only proper organizational setting for control of raising and investing capital in Palestine would operate under the auspices of the World Zionist Organization—Keren Hayesod, the “foundation fund”—so too should a “Keren ha-Universita,” a “university fund,” be in charge of the university. Louis D. Brandeis, the charismatic leader of the American Zionists, challenged this view by arguing that settlement in Palestine should be promoted on an economic and business basis. Thus, he favored the decentralization of the Zionist public funding system. Magnes rejected the belief that Keren Hayesod should be an inclusive and integral fund that would receive donations (voluntary taxes) for all sorts of Jewish public expenditures in Palestine. Instead, he said, there should be two types of entities that are structurally and organizationally separate: those engaging in fundraising for expenses that had no expectancy of financial return and those dealing with investments that might generate profits. The tension between the two outlooks—decentralization of investments coupled with direct management and control, and centralization of capital in the hands of the Zionist Movement—led to a visible rift between Brandeis’ circle and the WZO after the Zionist Organization established Keren Hayesod in July 1920 as a central fundraising mechanism for immigration and settlement. This action prompted Brandeis to suspend the transfer of funds to the Zionist enterprise and to secede from the Zionist Organization.28 The historian, Yigal Elam, interprets Brandeis’ views in the following way: “It would be no overstatement to say that Brandeis belonged, both ideologically and practically, more to the world of American non-Zionist circles than to that of European Zionism.”29 During the period preceding the establishment of the university, non-Zionist Jews viewed their participation in the project with growing 27

Hagit Lavsky, 1997, pp. 120–159 (Hebrew). Jacob Metzer, 1978 (Hebrew). See especially Chapter 5, “The Struggle for the Nature of Keren Hayesod.” 29 Yigal Elam, 1980 (Hebrew), p. 12. 28

the jewish transnational community

261

disapproval. This was reflected in the wish of the Zionist Organization to organize a world conference of scholars in early 1920 as an external, pan-Jewish consulting mechanism for the university. The initiative was an abject failure; no such conference was convened. Though, notably the group of scholars whom the Zionist Organization contacted included leading personalities in academic knowledge and creative endeavor in the world: the physicist Albert Einstein, the mathematician Edmund Landau of Goettingen, the physicist Leonard Salomon Ornstein of Utrecht, the psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud of Berlin, the philosopher Henri Louis Bergson of Paris, the Orientalists Ignaz Goldziher of Budapest, and Eugen Mittwoch of Berlin. The failure was mainly in respect to budgeting and funding the university when the Keren ha-Universita was established under Shlomo Ginsberg, Ahad Ha"am’s son, under the auspices of Keren Hayesod. In March 1921, a delegation composed of Albert Einstein and Shlomo Ginsberg went to the United States to raise funds—this initiative was unsuccessful. At that very time, foundations not controlled by the Zionist Movement, such as that of the American Jewish Physicians Committee, did rather well in fundraising. What looked like a schism between the Zionist Organization and the non-Zionists, however, was in fact a matter of tough negotiations over the regulation, control, and definition of shared codes for the participants in the establishment of the Hebrew University. In one of the climaxes of the struggle against the dominance of the Zionist Movement, Louis Marshall (1856–1929), an American Jewish leader and one of the most important donors to the university, stated, “It certainly will not help matters to have the idea go forth that the Hebrew University at Jerusalem is to be a tail to the Zionist kite; in other words, that it is to be controlled by the Zionist Organization. If that should be the result, it would be far better if the University had never been created.”30 I would argue that Chaim Weizmann, who led the struggle for the establishment of Keren Hayesod, adopted Brandeis’ basic stance in the case of the establishment of the Hebrew University, i.e., Jewish communities that helped to fund the university would maintain direct and intensive control over the university’s actions and development.

30 Marshall to Weizmann, May 28, 1926, in Louis Marshall, 1957, Vol. 1, pp. 759–60. This quotation can be found also in Arthur A. Goren (1996), p. 215.

262

uri cohen

By implication, the Zionist Organization was willing to waive its dominant status in regard to the development of an important enterprise of national culture. Thus, to circumvent the ontological crisis that had built up around the founding of the university, Weizmann (during his first trip to the United States, in the spring of 1921) established the principle that would govern the management of the university’s finances: the management of the university and Keren ha-Universita would be entrusted to a “governing body” composed of representatives of the Zionist Organization and the funders, with the latter having representation commensurate with the size of their donations.31 When this step proved unsuccessful, efforts to raise personal donations for specific projects began. Due to this course of action, the funders and the professionals quickly seized the initiative and the non-Zionists, academics, and others were given a piece of the action. Throughout these maneuverings, however, an effort was made to leave room for the Zionist Organization as a senior partner alongside other senior partners. For example, the Institute of Microbiology was established on the basis of fundraising by the American Jewish Physicians Committee, but the agreement for its establishment stated that the Zionist Organization and the Committee members would be equally represented.32 Institutionalizing the Supracommunal Partnership in the Hebrew University The person who did the most to clear away the undergrowth of tension between the American Jewish mainstream and the Zionist Movement was Dr. Judah Leib Magnes, who moved to Palestine in 1923 and devoted most of his activity from then on to the establishment and consolidation of the Hebrew University.33 The importance of Magnes’ activity during the formative period of the university lay in his ability to provide a crucial channel of communication between the Zionist Movement and the non-Zionist American Jewish leadership. Evidence of this surfaces in remarks made by Dr. Gershom Scholem, one of the most important academic participants in the establishment of the Institute of Jewish Studies: 31

Lavsky, p. 155. Provisional Articles of the American Jewish Physicians Committee, May 1, 1921, Central Zionist Archives, A48/57. 33 Norman Bentwich, 1954. 32

the jewish transnational community

263

Several influential people among the leaders of American Jewry admired Magnes, with all his metamorphoses, as a man of strong character and rectitude. They included Louis Marshall and his wife (Magnes’ sisterin-law) and Felix Warburg and his wife. Early in the spring of 1924, the Warburgs visited Palestine to see what was happening there and did so under the guidance of Magnes, whose views they often expressed. They also took an interest in the university and visited the library, escorted by Magnes, to see what was there and to hear what Bergman had to say about our problems and woes. Warburg is from a banking family in Hamburg that observed the Jewish tradition at home, and he and his wife have open minds about Jewish causes even though they do not adhere to Zionism. As they left the country, they handed Magnes a sealed envelope and said nothing about its contents. Inside was a check for $100,000, a very respectable sum at the time. This donation, meant for the establishment of the Institute of Jewish Studies at the university, set the immovable stone in motion because when the matter became known, three more good Jews opened their wallets and the dream began to become true. A conference of renowned figures in Jewish studies and their representatives from various countries was held in London over the summer; its purpose was to make the first appointments at the institute and to prepare for its inauguration in late 1924. One of the invitees was Hugo Bergman. Due to the special circumstances and the conditions of the time, Magnes became a central personality. It was clear to Weizmann and his comrades that after the destruction of Russian Jewry the institute could be funded only by circles that favor the building of Palestine but do not identify with the Zionist idea, and Magnes is a person who has inroads with and influence on these circles. (For several years, there was no “Friends of the Hebrew University” association in the U.S. because they relied on Magnes’ correspondence with the deep pockets).34

Magnes’ historical role as a provisional broker remained equally obvious after 1935 when he was forced out of the chancellorship of the Hebrew University and into the largely ceremonial post of president. It transpired then that the cooperation between Zionists and nonZionists was not fated to retreat, decline, and atrophy, since the fundraising that had been based on Magnes’ personal connections was now replaced by the institutionalized activity of a ramified network of societies of FHU around the world. The founder of the network was S. Z. Schocken, who chaired the Executive Committee of the University. Our purpose in saying this is to show that a transition took place from the formative stage, in which a “Jewish

34

Gershom Scholem, 1982 (Hebrew), pp. 219–220.

264

uri cohen

Commonwealth” model coalesced around temporary non-Zionist involvement of a totally personal nature, to a degree of permanent, institutionalized, and organized supracommunal cohesion and purposefulness. One of the most significant parts of Magnes’ involvement was his success in establishing the Institute of Jewish Studies in December 1924, in which three professors served, as a complement to the Institute of Chemistry under Professor Andor Fodor and the Institute of Microbiology under Professor Saul Adler. In fact, Magnes functioned as the representative inspector, so to speak, of a Diaspora that ruled out the establishment of a teaching university only—an act that, in their opinion, might be adverse to the spiritual tradition of the Jewish people. Instead, the Diaspora and Magnes favored the foundation of a series of research institutes, even when this approach clashed with the views of the Zionist Movement and public opinion in Jewish Palestine, which demanded exclusive priority for the immediate needs of the Yishuv or of students in distress in Europe. A comment in University’s 1939 Yearbook illustrates the point: From the outset, there was a large stream in Jewish public opinion that opposed the idea [of developing a research university]. Those who felt this way demanded mainly a Hebrew university that would have as many faculties as possible, in which practical vocational schooling in all fields of scholarship would be provided, even if this meant sacrificing the development of scholarly research. They felt that the practical needs of Jewish students were more important. The thought of a scientifically mediocre or inferior university did not frighten them. They were willing to leave the attainment of a high level of scholarship and research to a later period of development. However, the executive and the teaching faculty of the university refused to allow the rapid expansion of the institute to take precedence over scholarly work, and most of the university’s friends and well-wishers around the world shared this view.35

The strong cooperative relationship between the founders of the national project and non-Zionist personalities was reflected in the membership of the Executive Committee, the Board of Governors, and the Academic Council in 1926.36 The list indicates that the 35 The Hebrew University of Jerusalem—Its Formation and Situation, Jerusalem, 1939 (Hebrew), pp. 4–5. 36 Members of the Board of Governors: Dr. ___ Ad.er, New York; Prof. Ahermann, {} Berlin; Prof. Leonard Salomon Ornstein, Utrecht; Ahad Ha"am (Asher Zvi

the jewish transnational community

265

permanent institutions of the university absorbed members of the Jewish scholarly elite in Europe, affluent American Jews who could support the university economically, and Zionist representatives.37 As Norman Bentwich stated, “The World Zionist Organization made a small contribution to the library, but for the rest was content to leave the support of the University to the ‘non-Zionists.’”38 This reflects a main tenet in the existence of a diaspora that coalesces in reference to the need to form long-term transnational institutional systems for activity around a code of common themes: Consent and unanimity among the participants in these systems are not necessary. In the case of the Hebrew University, the three main groups that took part in establishing the institution—European-Jewish scholars, American-Jewish funders, and Zionists—coexisted amidst acute tension and, occasionally, crisis in regard to determining the proper model on which to base their university. Unlike the premodern (Medieval) diaspora model, which lacked an official and institutionalized center, the modern paradigm ostensibly had one obvious center, Jerusalem. However, this center was unable to set binding rules for the behavior of Diaspora Jews; it offered itself as a setting for dialogue that lacked unchallengeable authority. The demand that the initiator of the project, the Zionist Organization under Weizmann, limit its influence over the new university found Ginsberg); Prof. Albert Einstein, Berlin; Dr. Martin Buber, Hafenheim {}: Chaim Nachman Bialik, Tel Aviv; Norman Bentwich, Jerusalem; Prof. Jacques Salomon Hadamard, Paris; Prof. Josef Horowitz, Frankfurt and Jerusalem; Chief Rabbi Joseph Hertz, London; Dr. Chaim Weizmann, London; Felix Warburg, New York; Prof. Zvi (Hirsch) Peretz Chajes, Vienna; Dr. Y. {??} Liebman, New York; Prof. Edmund Landau, Goettingen; Dr. Judah Leib Magnes, Jerusalem; Sir Alfred Mond, London; Judge Julian Mack, New York; Nahum Sokolow, London, Sir Herbert Samuel, London; Harry Sacker, Jerusalem; Prof. Sigmund Freud, Vienna; James D. Rothschild, London, Dr. Nathan Ratenoff, {??} New York; and Dr. Max Schlesinger, The Hague. Members of the Provisional Academic Council: Prof. Albert Einstein, Berlin (chair), Prof. Leonard Salomon Ornstein, Utrecht; Prof. Aherman, {} Berlin; Prof. Jacob Nahum Epstein, Jerusalem; Dr. Martin Buber, Hafenheim; Prof. Paris; Prof. Hadamard, Paris; Prof. Josef Horowitz, Frankfurt and Jerusalem; Dr. Chaim Weizmann, London; Prof. Otto Warburg, Tel Aviv, Prof. Hirsch) Perez Chajes, Vienna; Prof. Edmund Landau, Goettingen; Prof. Andor Fodor, Jerusalem; Prof. Sigmund Freud, Vienna; Prof. Joseph Klausner, Jerusalem; Prof. Israel Caligaler, Jerusalem; Prof. Shmuel Klein, Jerusalem. Based on 1935/1936 Yearbook, pp. 6–7 (Hebrew). 37 Felix Warburg and his wife (New York), Solomon Rosenbloom (Pittsburgh), and Philip Wattenberg (New York). 38 Norman Bentwich, 1961 p. 137.

266

uri cohen

its main expression in the appointment of Magnes as Chancellor of the university, a post that conferred the extensive powers of a president and a rector, and in the debate that took shape between Magnes and Weizmann at the first meeting of the Executive Committee after the grand inaugural ceremony.39 The first decision of the Executive was that the Zionist Organization hand over the management of university affairs to a “Special Executive Committee” that would be totally independent of the Organization. Its second action was a statement made by Weizmann and Sokolow that they would obtain formal confirmation that the Zionist Organization would transfer to the Executive Committee all university property that has belonged to the [Zionist] Organization and all its rights within the university. The third step involved the consolidation of the university’s financial affairs. Weizmann proposed that the Jewish Agency be the source of support for the academic institute, by means of a substantial permanent donation from its funds, much like the British government’s assistance to British universities. In return, “[T]he university constitution shall be put in order with the participation of the Jewish Agency, and representatives of the Agency shall be given an appropriate place on the Executive Committee of the university. This will also assure some permanence in the university’s labor affairs.”40 Magnes responded to this by vehemently opposing the notion of the university’s becoming a “quasi-governmental” institution, due to the concern that this would infringe upon freedom of scholarship. Dr. David Eder, a member of the Zionist Executive and chair of the Zionist Organization in Britain, emphasized to the Board of Governors the direction in which he though the Hebrew University should develop: The Hebrew University should not issue a large number of publications . . . The voice of the teacher—more than of the people—should be heard there. The question of teaching should be dealt with cautiously. In any event, the Board of Governors should tread carefully in the matter of diplomas; otherwise, we’ll easily find ourselves with a university of diplomas.41 The Executive Committee of the university held its first meeting on April 12, 1925, in Tel Aviv, with the participation of Ahad Ha"am, C.N. Bialik, Chaim Weizmann, Nahum Sokolow, and Shlomo Ginsberg. The meeting continued in Europe on April 21, 1925, with Felix Warburg and Magnes in attendance. 40 Archives of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, minutes of first meeting of the Hebrew University Executive Committee, April 12, 1925. 41 Archives of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, minutes of Third Assembly 39

the jewish transnational community

267

A key personality in establishing the primacy of research over teaching was Professor Albert Einstein, the Jewish-German physicist and 1922 Nobel Prize laureate who, in his public activity, became closely associated with the founding of the Hebrew University.42 Einstein, as noted, had participated in fundraising campaigns for the university under Zionist Organization auspices, was a member of the first Board of Governors of the university, and chaired the Academic Council, which was made up of Jewish scholars from all over the world. The duties of the council were to supervise academic staff appointments and monitor the appointees’ research works until they could attain a level of scholarship that would allow the university to establish an autonomous senate. Einstein regarded the modern university as a place where the universality of the human intellect would crystallize and the establishment of a Hebrew university as a basis on which an exalted spiritual center of the Jewish people would be built.43 With this in mind, he insisted that research be developed at the expense of teaching. This should be done, he said, by establishing research institutes that followed the German pattern, in which the institute head is in charge of developing junior staff who will focus on theoretical, as opposed to applied, research goals. The appropriate supervisors of these processes, he said, are Jewish academics in the Diaspora. By so proposing, Einstein criticized the involvement of American Jewish funders, which he considered dangerous. He sought to neutralize their influence out of concern that they would favor a low-quality university. These views led to acute crises between Einstein and the Zionist and American representatives, resulting in Einstein’s resignation in 1928 from active involvement in the university’s affairs. He retracted his resignation five years later, when his scathing criticism of the behavior of the university under Magnes’ management led to the establishment of the Research Committee, the conclusions made by this committee set the university on new executive and academic foundations.44 The worldview that saw a linkage among the Diaspora Jewish communities at large came into clear focus in the report of the

of the Board of Governors of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, August 1–3, 1926, in London. 42 Zeev Rosenkranz, 1997, pp. 386–394 (Hebrew). 43 Albert Einstein, 1925. 44 Uri Cohen, forthcoming.

268

uri cohen

Hebrew University Survey Committee, which the Board of Governors appointed in October 1933.45 Formally, the committee was to propose structural reforms for the university so that the institution could better absorb Jewish scientists and scholars who had been ousted from German universities.46 The report pointed to the pattern that had developed during the university’s seven years of existence to that time: Jewish communities had become the dominant players in the institution’s main fields of activity, with seventy-seven scholars active in twelve research institutes, schools, and departments.47 As for the economic aspect, American Jews had been the most conspicuous subventioners of the university from the time it was founded. Their £22,987 in pledges accounted for 65 percent of the £35,689 total revenue in the 1933/34 academic year, even though the Great Depression was in full swing. This manner of economic behavior had been typical of American Jews since Magnes took up the chancellorship of the university. However, the relationship was not confined to the financial domain only; it expanded to include one of the basic principles of the term “Jewish Commonwealth”—an eagerness to propose a common denominator between Zionist and non-Zionists. Thus, the committee report stated in respect to the Institute of Jewish Studies: Zionists may differ from non-Zionists, Zionists may differ among themselves on the necessity or even the desirability of a University in Palestine; there can, however, be only one view of the dire need of a House of Jewish Learning on the soil from which it sprang. All the other departments of the Hebrew University are primarily interested in the needs of the country. The Institute of Jewish Studies attempts to satisfy the demand of “All-Israel.”48

The concept of “All-Israel” at the Hebrew University took on final contours with the formation of societies of FHU, which assumed

45 The members of the committee were Philip Hartog, Dr. Louis Ginsberg, and Redcliffe N. Salaman, who spent November 1933–January 1934 in Jerusalem. 46 Herbert Parzen, 1974. 47 Institute of Jewish Studies; School of Oriental Studies; Institute of General Humanities; Institute of Mathematics; Institute of Physics; Department of Biological and Colloidal Chemistry; Laboratories of Inorganic and Applied Chemistry; Institute of Palestine Natural History; Department of Parasitology; Department of Hygiene and Bacteriology; Library; Extension Department of Music. 48 Hartog Philip, Louis Ginsberg, Redcliffe N. Salaman, Report of the Survey Committee of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1934, p. 16.

the jewish transnational community

269

responsibility for the university’s existence and upkeep.49 In fact, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem is unique among universities in that it was able to exist during its first decades due to the intense activities of transnational communities, i.e., with no support from the sovereign in its territory, the British Mandate, and without meaningful economic support from the population among which it operated, the Yishuv. Most universities base their budgets on revenues from governments and civil authorities where they are located, donations from industrial enterprises, tuition fees, and local societies of friends. The Hebrew University, in contrast, had negligible revenues from these sources and sustained itself on donations from “societies of friends” in the Jewish communities around the world.50 The societies of friends that these communities established raised funds for the university in annual campaigns and information and propaganda rallies. Some sponsored specific academic projects, resulting in a regular flow of information between them and the university. The first societies predated the university. In 1921, the American Jewish Physicians Committee was formed to raise donations for the establishment of a medical school.51 In Poland, a Society of Friends was established in 1922 and had 850 members in Warsaw alone by 1925. By the time Polish Jewry was liquidated, thirty societies were active in Poland. In Australia, leaders of all factions in the Jewish camp—Zionists, Bundists,52 Communists, non-Zionists, and antiZionists—took part in festivities related to the tenth anniversary of the university (1935), and even notable anti-Zionists who refused to 49 In 1939, permanent societies of Friends were active in Austria, Australia, Britain, Estonia, South Africa, Palestine, the U.S. and Canada, Belgium, Germany, Denmark, the Netherlands, Hungary, Yugoslavia, Luxembourg, Latvia, Lithuania, Egypt, Norway, China, Finland, Czechoslovakia, France, Romania, Sweden, and Switzerland. 50 Ruth Klinov, forthcoming. 51 D. Kalinski, March 27, 1925. 52 The Bund, the first Jewish labor party, was established in Vilna in 1897 as “a general alliance of Jewish workers in Russia, Poland, and Lithuania.” The Bund fiercely opposed the Zionist ideology and regarded Yiddish as the only national language of the Jews. Thus, it vehemently rejected Hebrew language and culture. The party in Russia was deactivated after the Bolshevik Revolution and some of its members joined the Communist Party. In independent interwar Poland, however, the Bund remained active and had an influence on Jewish community life. Most Bundists perished in the Holocaust, but the party continued to oppose the Zionist Movement even afterwards. After the State of Israel was proclaimed, a Bund “International Coordinating Committee” stated that the establishment of statehood posed a grave danger to World Jewry. For expanded discussion, see Yoav Peled, 1989.

270

uri cohen

join the Society of Friends, let alone the Zionist Organization, made significant donations. The flexibility of the transnational communal network in fundraising was demonstrated in the 1930s, when donations from South African Jewry increased steadily while the United States was mired in economic crisis. In the U.S., the presidents of the Society of Friends were important community personalities and the Society became a mainstream mechanism that projected a message of high social status. The first president of the American Society of Friends was Felix Warburg, a leading communal figure in American Jewry during the interwar years.53 The main channel of regular support from North America was a permanent annual allocation to the Friends from community chests and welfare funds in various towns, augmented by legacies and special gifts.54 In Britain, an integration of efforts occurred due to the presence of Dr. Chaim Weizmann in London; Sir Herbert Samuel; the first British High Commissioner for Palestine; and Dr. David Eder, an activist in the Zionist Organization of Britain: “With the leadership of these three, the English Friends were able to engage the support of all sections of the community, whether or not they were Zionists, whether Conservative or Liberal in their synagogue.”55 For many years (1926–1936), the involvement of the English Friends was not based on meaningful financial donations; their main contribution was in strengthening intracommunal relations by sponsoring joint discussions on the topic of the Hebrew University. Thus, they organized lectures and encounters for teachers and emissaries from the university who visited London, collected books, and subventioned several scholarships.56 Bernard Cherrick, director of the Hebrew University Department of Organization and Information in the 1940s and 1950s—a office that had been established to formalize relations with the Diaspora—noted the steadily rising scale of the Society’s activity, especially after Hitler’s accession to power in Germany in 1933: 53 Warburg’s successors were Dr. Abraham Rosenbach, a famous bibliophile and bibliographer; Dr. Israel Wechsler, an eminent neurologist; Dr George Wise, subsequently chairman of the Board of Governors of the Hebrew University; Daniel Ross, a leading lawyer in New York; and, since 1959, Philip Klutznik, former Grand President of the Order of B’nai B’rith. The Canadian Friends have had one president since the formation of their society, Allan Bronfman. 54 Eliyahu Honig, forthcoming. 55 Norman Bentwich, 1961, p. 138. 56 Archives of the Hebrew University, file 47, England: English Friends of the University (1925–30).

the jewish transnational community

271

From America, the idea of societies of Friends spread to all parts of the world. During the course of the years, active and powerful groups have come into existence. In Israel itself, in England, in the various countries of the British Commonwealth, in all the different countries of Europe, and indeed in almost every place where there is a Jewish Community.57

The last issue in this discussion concerns the symbolic interrelations, ideological premises and core symbols that surround the interaction between the Diaspora Jewish communities and the Hebrew University. What were the limits of authority and the responsibilities regarding the establishment of the transnational Jewish collective identity that legitimized the dominant role of the Jewish elite in the national academic project? In other words, what were the central origins of the institutionalization of the vision around the new university which was expressed in metaphysical terms and often described as of universal significance? The source of information in this part of the study is The New Palestine, a weekly journal published in New York by the Zionist Organization of America (ZOA) on March 27, 1925, under the editorship of ZOA secretary Meyer W. Weisgal. The festive edition, published a few days before the inaugural ceremony of the Hebrew University (April 1, 1925), carried many congratulatory advertisements and contributions by ninety-five personalities, most of whom were Jews who had taken part in establishing the university. Their writings illuminate their ideological attitude toward the institution. Felix M. Warburg, one of the university’s most important donors, titled his article “From Sura to Scopus—The Rebirth of the Jewish Genius.” Warburg emphasized the connection between the new university on Mount Scopus and institutes of higher schooling in the distant past in Palestine, Babylonia, and throughout the Jewish Diaspora. The erstwhile institutes, he wrote, integrated diverse disciplines into their teaching of Judaism—geography, history, and natural sciences—that required proficiency in mathematics, astronomy, and foreign languages. Throughout the national dispersion, these institutions continued to function but focused on Jewish studies only. Now that the Jews are returning to the Holy Land, and in view of the barriers that anti-Semitism was erecting against Jews’ access to higher schooling in Europe, the Jewish people had to establish a university

57

Bernard Cherrick, 1950, p. 179.

272

uri cohen

of its own. Warburg continued with an emphatically phrased categorical question: “And what more natural than that Palestine, to which many eyes were looking with longing, should be chosen as the seat of this institution?” Continuing, Warburg asserted that the Hebrew University would develop modern disciplines that would further the Jewish settlement effort and benefit the entire Middle East. The efforts to establish the university are rooted in the ancient Jewish tradition of fostering “intellectual excellence,” an inseparable part of the self-perception of the Jewish Diaspora. This tradition, in turn, will lead to a general unity of humankind that overarches all differences among religions and beliefs. “[I]s it too much to hope that in these sacred and solemn surroundings, and on the high plane of scholarship, Jew, Christian, Moslem and men of any other faith with high and noble purpose may again meet, clasp hands and exchange ideas to the glory of God and the betterment of man?”58 Max Heller, a leading American Reform rabbi, described another task that the Diaspora imposed on the Hebrew University. It derived from the national settlement venture in Palestine which would lead to the normalization of Jewish occupational life, largely shaped in the Polish or Romanian Diaspora due to forced ghettoization. The first task of the national project, according to Heller, was to narrow the gaps among geographically and culturally distinct Jewish centers by means of a “melting pot,” i.e., by re-creating a pan-Jewish unity of the sort being achieved by American Jewry, among whom distinctions were steadily disappearing. The national home should rise to a leading position in Jewish religious life vis-à-vis the entire world by adapting Judaism to the conditions of modernity and rationalism. This would also present the world with a national entity that derived its nourishment from the spirit of universalism. The mission would be accomplished by means of “our university” in Jerusalem, which would grow not only around teaching disciplines but also around a cluster of “giant souls.” The university should not become a magnet for Jews who had been rejected by the Diaspora, those who were being persecuted; it should attract only “chosen spirits,” people such as Einstein, who had attained a level of global leadership without abandoning their Jewish loyalties. Only thus will the university become “a spiritual temple-center to the Jewish world,

58

Felix M. Warburg, 1925, p. 291.

the jewish transnational community

273

the true Zion from which shall go forth the law.”59 Furthermore, by becoming a repository of Jewish creative endeavor, the Hebrew University would be a role model. The generation that endured World War I saw how university professors had enlisted in support of militaristic aggression; the Jewish national university, in contrast, would be a place that preaches peace. Albert Einstein, like most contributors to the journal, offered an inclusive view that linked enlightenment and modernity with a university that embodies these values. On this basis, he wrote from a point of departure that justifies Jewish nationhood in view of the intolerance, repression, and exclusion of Jews across Europe. The main imperatives of the Jewish university, he said, were to avoid restrictions in the admission of students and to grant its teachers total academic freedom. By so doing, it would create a unique pattern that stems from the natural inclinations of the Jew, who has always, without exception at any time in history, given education primacy over all other goals.60 The main theme, cited by the contributors time and again, was an attitude of inclusive responsibility for the institution and a demand, largely Utopian, that the new university be regarded as a comprehensive and a dramatic step that transcends the establishment of a small and modest academic institution in a settlement with a population of 120,000 in Jerusalem in 1925 as against 63,000 in 1922, of whom 34,000 were Jews.61 Conclusion I would like to argue that, contrary to what may be thought, the Societies of Friends are not fundamentally an economic enterprise designed to raise funds for the Hebrew University. The material aspect is important in their activity, but the main aspect is an act of social mingling meant to encourage regular and long-term transnational interaction among members of a diaspora who wish to participate in establishing and confirming power relations between themselves and a nation-building processes that focuses on the resettlement of the ancient homeland. This is done primarily by establishing

59 60 61

Max Heller, 1925, p. 292. Albert Einstein, 1925b, p. 294. Gershon Swit, p. 43.

274

uri cohen

basic attitudes in regards to a shared vision. The result was a modern Jewish rendering of the Jewish experience. It is fitting in this context to paraphrase a remark by the anthropologist Clifford Geertz: it is a story that these Jews tell themselves about themselves by means of a web of rituals and texts that is played out around the Societies of Friends in their relations with the Jewish university in Jerusalem.62 The process of building a collective identity among dispersed Jewish communities around the Hebrew University of Jerusalem has continued very successfully to this day, more than fifty years after the State of Israel was established. The Hebrew University describes itself in its publications as “the University of the Jewish People.”63 Culturally symbolic self-definitions of Diaspora have become institutionalized and, however imaginary they may be, they have developed loyalties around a shared network that provides patterns for a cultural platform and ethnic solidarity. Both outcomes, the platform and the solidarity, occupy an identifiable space of their own that, in essence, is not derived from the roots of identification with religious fundamentals but is rather based on ethnic components of the individual or group identity.64 The success of the transnational model that has evolved around the Societies of Friends of the Hebrew University lies in its great flexibility. A flexibility which involves the intertwining of primeval components of Jewish identity, now being rebuilt, of universal and civil components, and of the latter two with perpetual tension vis-à-vis the modern nation-state. Thus, the present discussion sheds light on an outlook that contrasts with the view of the modern way of life as an unadulterated challenge to the Gemeinschaft, the community, that erodes the social fabric by weakening group loyalties and encouraging an individualistic, bottom-line approach that focuses on facts and strives for ruthless and impersonal efficiency.65 The analysis above indicates that the modern term “worldwide commonwealth of the Jewish people” concerns, at least partly, the structuring of a social space on the basis of the transnational community—flexible, voluntary, ethical, and anti-hierarchic—in which components that help to define the identity and singularity of dispersed

62 63 64 65

Clifford Geertz, 1973. Arye Dayan, 2000, pp. 20–21 (Hebrew). Anthony Smith, 1981. Toennies Ferdinand, 1963; orig. 1887.

the jewish transnational community

275

Jewish communities coexist. This social space has assimilated components of the traditional religious Jewish identity while adopting new components that solidified in view of the significant changes that modernization has ordained. The self-organization of the modern “Jewish commonwealth” is leading to the formation of a network of relationships that lies somewhere between “diaspora” and “transnational community,” in a zone that I wish to term a “civilizational reality space.” By this I mean the formation of an array of institutions and intensive debates around unifying key issues shows that, beyond the fragmentation and contrasts amidst which the Jewish Diaspora communities function, the persistent functioning of transnational support systems powered by a shared ontological vision gives evidence of combinations, some new, that become possible with the assistance of dialogue in a diverse and supranational paradigm. As we examined the establishment of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 1925, we argued that a transnational social space had been established. Within this space, Jewish communities and the Zionist Movement interacted on the basis of give-and-take, coalitions, and crises so frequent that the university that came into being there seemed at first to have been built not on the basis of a logical process but in accordance with whatever circumstances and possibilities were available. However, two basic models lay at the focus of the exchange and the polemics between the sides: a “university for the Jews” and “Jewish university.” Viewing the matter from this point of departure, one might say that the crux of tension concerned the relative statuses of research and teaching at the university. As it turned out, however, the intensive involvement of the Jewish communities, most of which were non-Zionist, led to the establishment of a national academic institution that, at the beginning of its career, considered it its main mission to express the unity of the Zionist Movement and to symbolize the wish to view the Jewish university as an idea that creates a spiritual center of all of Jewry. The focus of such an orientation is the establishment of a shared collective identity that concerns itself with evaluating a specific institutional arena and finding ways to behave and to apportion resources in it. The institutional arena of the Hebrew University, however, contains more than this. It emphasizes the primacy of the fundamental of inclusion in the Diaspora Jewish community, by means of flexible, in/out demarcation lines of cooperation, over fundamentals of exclusion. This primacy of inclusion, however, is operative only

276

uri cohen

when based on transcendental visions that emphasize the basic tension between a given world order and a transcendental order that aspires to establish a new type of social elite. The elite in question here is composed of the scholars and scientists at a Jewish university—an elite that is expected to function on the basis of the model of a central social and cultural order for the formation of the modern Jewish collective identity.

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CONTEMPORARY DILEMMAS OF IDENTITY: ISRAEL AND THE DIASPORA Eliezer Ben-Rafael Jews more easily say that they are not religious than that they have no religion; The religion that they do not have is necessarily the Jewish one, and if it is another one, that means they are not Jewish.

Are Jews today still the carriers of a single collective identity and do they still constitute a single people? This two-folded question arises when one compares a Habad Hassid from Brooklyn, a Jewish professor at a secular university in Brussels, a traditional Yemenite Jew still living in Sana"a, a Galilee kibbutznik, or a Russian Jew in Novosibirsk. Is there a significant relationship between these individuals who all subscribe to Judaism? There are approximately 13 to 14 million Jews in the world, making the Jewish people one of the smallest peoplehoods in the world. The largest community resides in Israel, with 5.5 million Jews, thus representing 40–42% of the Jewish people. According to the latest census (Della Pergola, 2003), the American Jewish community comes a close second with 5,200,000 members. Together, these two groups make up 80% of the total number of Jews in the world. The three or four million others are found in Russia, France, the United Kingdom, Argentina, Brazil, South Africa, and elsewhere. The Jewish communities in Israel and in Germany are the only ones whose numbers are continuing to increase, especially due to the migration flow of Russian speaking Jews—in Israel, an additional factor is the natural population growth. Given the current situation, at this rate, the Israeli Jews will outnumber all other Jews in the world in about twenty years time. Decades ago, it was stressed that one of the essential features of the Jews is a preoccupation with collective identity (Marienstras, 1975). Over the past two or three decades, we can see this preoccupation among other groups that have also begun to illustrate the concept of a transnational Diaspora, i.e. of a group dispersed in

280

eliezer ben-rafael

several countries but whose members retain links of solidarity with each other and with their original homeland (Baubock, 1994). Judaism subscribes to a coherent but complex view rooted in a range of definitions of collective identity which, despite the differences, are for the most part recognized as legitimate in certain respects. Historically, this identity resided—and according to some contemporary definitions, still resides to an extent—in the unshakable link between three axioms: 1) the individuals’ commitment to the group identified by the legacy of being the people of Israel (Am Israel ); 2) the recognition of the singular character of this people in its faith, in the God of Israel (Elohey Israël ), and in His Teaching (Torah); and, 3) the conviction according to which the land of Israel (Eretz Israël ) denotes both the origin and the destiny of the people (Ben-Rafaël, 2003). According to these axioms, the people of Israel was not simply dispersed (Gr. diaspora), but also in exile (Gola or Galout in Hebrew). Moreover, from this perspective the Jews are seen as the carriers of a divine message and it is only through the accomplishment of their collective mission that they can acquire the right to Redemption. By acting in a way that brings forth redemption, the Jews pave the way not only for their own salvation but that of all of mankind. Herein lies the basis of the Jews’ biblical claim that they hold a status of a ‘chosen’ or ‘sacred’ people. The concept of a ‘caste’ as defined by historians such as B. Smith (1994) or anthropologists such as Dumont (1977) seems the most apt in order to delimit this type of collective identity. The ‘caste’ presupposes a group which, by its members’ social practices, is essentially inward looking and sees itself as being endowed with a crucial role within the universe. Jewish self-representation of this nature, which is diametrically opposite to the Jews’ quondam status of pariah for many centuries, would come to be challenged by modernity and emancipation to the extent that one may well wonder whether Jews today still share the same identity. In modern times, previously unshakable and eternal axioms have given rise to a number of questions: to what extent does the notion of a Jewish people living among non-Jews in the same community still refer to an irreducible collective? How can one, within a secular society, define the specificity of the people of Israel outside of reference to their ancestral faith? Does the Jew always remain attached to the Promised Land, insofar as any other land signifies exile?

contemporary dilemmas of identity

281

Jews in the modern day have addressed the latter questions, which signal both a perpetuation of the same preoccupation with traditional responses and a discontinuity of them, in primarily three ways. Each way is linked to different sociological categories: The UltraOrthodox and a large part of the Modern Orthodox subscribe to the extension of the caste model, insisting on a traditional approach based on religious faith and its requirements. They are committed to a world of the Torah and are supported in this by the religious academies, synagogues and the network of community institutions. Another set of responses, ranging from the Reformers to liberal Judaism and even to secular and humanist Judaism places emphasis on the community and its cultural symbols (Wassertein, 1996), a ‘syndrome’ described here as ethnocultural. The proponents of this school, who share views that are both idealist and individualist, construct new types of educational, social and cultural organizations of the modern Diaspora in which the cultural center and the school often have a greater influence than the synagogue. Finally, an additional ‘syndrome,’ which is an extension of Zionism, stresses the element of the Land of Israel and the nation that lives there. Among the adherents of this school were the founders and guardians of the State of Israel. Thus, the notion of the Jewish people is given different significance among the latter three groups: for the ultra-Orthodox and a number of orthodox Jews, the Jewish people is fore-mostly a community of believers more than anything else; adherents of ethnocultural Judaism hold most important the idea of a community founded on history and a culture; those who subscribe to the idea of a national Judaism consider a territorial dimension as the most vital part of the Jewish people today. Orthodox Jews continue to view the principle of the Jewish faith and the Torah in a traditional light, i.e. as the essential aspect of Judaism that conditions all others. The ethnoculturalists see Judaism as men and women marked by a history and universal values to be disseminated across the world. In the nationalist view, the focus is on the new Hebrew culture and the secularization of traditional symbols within the framework of a sovereign society. In each of the three ‘syndromes’, the Land of Israel holds a central place, but its significance is given very different interpretations: the ultra-orthodox school links Jewish territorialization to Messianic redemption; Zionism places the territorialization of Jewish

282

eliezer ben-rafael

identity at the heart of its programme; liberals and secularists regard the call for territorialization as a metaphor for the utopia that explains the universalism of Judaism. These various syndromes are also expressed in distinctive registers of language. The caste syndrome favors Biblical Hebrew, the language of the Holy Book, with many of its adherents remaining attached to Yiddish as a vernacular, while only grudgingly accepted Modern Hebrew. For a long time, they hesitated to use Hebrew in everyday life for fear of committing sacrilege against the language of the sacred texts. As for the ethnocultural school, it fully recognizes the use of the national language/s dominant in the countries Jews reside in, whereas the national syndrome is predicated on the vitality of modern Hebrew as the ferment of the new Israeli culture and society. Within each of these syndromes, one can find multiple variations, or expressions: Within the caste syndrome there is a distinction between the tradition of Lithuanian Judaism and Hassidic types of Judaism, which are themselves subdivided into divergent schools. Initially, this division ensued from the relative importance attached to the study of the sacred texts (vehemently supported by Gaon de Vilna’s disciples) in relation to the spontaneous religious experience (enthusiastically praised by the Hassidim), and has been maintained to this day through a multitude of customs and traditions (Friedman, 1986). Hassidism, itself, is divided into various schools each with its own spiritual leader known as the rebbe. Furthermore, today it is important to make a distinction between Israeli and Diaspora ultraOrthodox Jewry. Those in Israel have become Hebrew speakers, though they retain Yiddish as well, and are involved in the national affairs of the country. In many respects, these ultra-Orthodox are already part of the national syndrome (Sivan and Kaplan, 2003). This national syndrome, which was engendered by Zionism, is primarily aimed at Israelis though comes in a variety of guises. The predominating view supports the existence of a Jewish secular democratic nation-state founded on an amalgamation of communities (Avineri, 1981; Ohanna, 1998). Taking after the fashion of European brands of nationalism, Zionism has hollowed out the sacred symbols of tradition in order to appropriate them in pursuit of a national project. As far as the Zionists were concerned, it was a question of creating and consolidating a ‘normal’ society, ‘like any other.’ Yet, far from exceeding the complexity of the Jewish identity, that which has become known as the ‘normalization’ of the Jewish people has

contemporary dilemmas of identity

283

not resulted in a normalization in any sense that Jews are able to understand and has been marked by new dissensions and rivalries. Besides the ultra-orthodox Israelis already mentioned, there are other major movements within Israeli society that set themselves apart and point towards other syndromes. For instance, there is the faction of religious nationalism which includes a large group of the settlers in the West Bank and in the Gaza Strip. Under the banner of messianic Zionism this movement combats the predominant pragmatic view in Israel regarding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict based on a nationalist interpretation of the Bible. The central issue for this movement revolve around the relation between, on the one hand, the religious and the political in a Jewish state situated on the Land of Israel, and, on the other hand, the solemn commitment by Jews to this Land, promised and bestowed upon them by God who allowed them to reconquer it. Another rift, which is at once religious and ethnic, involves the Shas party. This party has succeeded in politically mobilizing part of the Jewish population of North African and Middle Eastern origins. The rallying cry of this group is the legitimacy of non-European Jewish heritage and it aspires to leave a stronger mark on the national collective identity. Shas stresses the importance for all forms of Judaism in Israel of the Sepharadic heritage which has been cultivated by religious academies on the land of Israel for nearly one thousand years. Thus, one could argue that that Shas is the most ‘Israeli’ of all. It is on this platform that Shas itself justifies its vocation as an instrument of a national project (Leon, 1999). At the same time, recent Russian Jewish immigrants aim to promote an expression of Judaeo-Israeli identity which allows them to retain their cultural specificity while integrating into the nation. For the most part, these immigrants do not have a strong Jewish culture. The lack of Jewishness among this group is not surprising given the history of Jews in the Soviet Union where three or four generations lived in a Marxist-Leninist society hostile to the Jewish tradition and to Jews. In the Soviet Union, Jews were part of an urban class most often associated with cultivated and professional milieus where Russian culture dominated. Drawing on their allegiance to Russian culture and language as central to their identity, Russian Jews in Israel seek to retain these dearly held resources, while at the same time learning Hebrew and becoming an integral part of society (Leshem and Lissak, eds. 2001).

284

eliezer ben-rafael

Besides these divisions among Jews, Israel also has an Arab minority which demands equality between the Jewish and non-Jewish populations. This demand cannot be ignored in a democratic society, particularly one which is concerned about becoming part of the Middle Eastern space. The split between the Jewish and Arab populations is one of the most important elements in the analysis of Israeli society. The Arab minority accounts for 18 per cent of the entire population and holds a national identity that is tied to the larger collective of Palestinian in the West Bank and Gaza who are at war with the State of Israel. In general, at times when the conflict grows more bitter, so do relations between Jews and Arabs in Israeli society (Horowitz and Lissak, 1989). This has resulted in a climate of mutual distrust in which it is difficult to combat the flaws in the Israeli legal and political system which still allows discrimination of the Israeli-Palestinian minority. Nevertheless, it is obvious that, in the long run, Jews and Arabs can only live together harmoniously when both sides subscribe to some version of an Israeli identity, while recognizing each party’s insistence on their Jewish and Palestinian identities, respectively. Even more pertinent in the current context is the fact that the Judaeo-Palestinian conflict also lies at the heart of post-Zionist demands within the Israeli population aimed at promoting closer ties with the Arab world. These post-Zionists (see Lissak, 1996) demand that Israel ‘de-Zionize,’ which also implies nothing less than the ‘de-Jewishification’ of the Jewish majority. Indeed, as long as the majority remains Jewish, however tolerant it may be, because of Jewish identity, it is inevitable that the Jewish majority relegate Israeli Arabs to the rank of a national minority. All these conflicts of identity in a national and democratic state have ultimately brought forth the emergence of a multicultural reality in which pluralism is a fact of life. However, this multiculturalism requires that the rules of engagement among rival options be defined and that, most important of all, beyond the disputes there remains a common basis which must be shared and respected by all. This basis must include the following two central elements: the Jewish and democractic nature of the state. Regarding the former, there must be recognition of the unshakable bond between Jewish and Israeli identities. Jewishness, in fact, constitutes a sociological reality in Israel which individuals as members of a sovereign collective are involved in, even if the latter is split by contrastive expressions

contemporary dilemmas of identity

285

of identity. Regarding the democratic nature of the state, it must continue that everyone is invited to express their own preferences and support of forces that fight over influence and power. Because of the prevalence of Jewishness and Jewish culture and symbols in the public sphere, Israeli Jews can often only perceive their Jewishness as Israelis. That is, the two aspects are so interconnected that Jewish Israelis have a difficult time separating what is “Jewish” from what is “Israeli.” Thus, to them being a Jew and an Israeli are one and the same. An exception to this is the case of the ultra-Orthodox Jews for whom allegiance to Jewishness is the only one that counts, their Israeli citizenship is of secondary importance. Another group that is an exception, and one that is the opposite of the ultra-orthodox, are the post-Zionists for whom being an Israeli is the most, if not the only, important aspect. In short, the Jewish Israeli reality is fundamentally different from that in the diaspora where a national identity is essentially different from a Jewish identity. In the case of the Diasporic ethnocultural syndrome, Jewish identity is expressed in very diverse ways, depending on whether one is talking about France—where a sense of suspicion of anything that is pejoratively described as ‘communautarisme’ (Birnbaum, 2003; Wieviorka, 2003) predominates, about Russia—where the identification with Judaism is only gradually substantiated by the rediscovery of a legacy (Gittleman, 2003), or about the United States—where congregational pluralism is the main axis of Jewish life (Feingold, 2003; Liebman, 2003). Yet, everywhere, individuals retain a transnational allegiance to the notion of the ‘Jewish people,’ with Israel being, for most of them, a topic of concern. For many Jews, their country of residence is their home country, which excludes any sense of feeling as if in Gola (exile). To be sure, Israel remains to them their remote country of origin, from which many symbols of their contemporary experience are drawn; yet, this loyalty in no way affects their sense of belonging to the nations in which they are citizens. The crucial challenge which this syndrome must address is the issue of the survival of Jews amidst non-Jewish populations, as Waxman (2003) notes with regards to the United States. This becomes a more acute problem for those not strongly committed to the Jewish community. Jewish individuals living in the diaspora make personal choices in terms of their affiliations, degrees, and forms of Jewisness. As has often been noted, outside of Israel, being Jewish is a choice.

286

eliezer ben-rafael

Some recognize that they are Jews, but do not feel the need to act on it. Others consider Jewishness a varied set of possible models from which one may choose at will. This element of choice may, on the one hand, enrich elements of Jewish life from drawning on a variety of approaches. Yet, on the other hand, it also weakens the collective bond of singuarity. Thus, to a degree, these approaches towards Jewishness explain the high rate of mixed marriages and the gradual decrease in Diaspora populations. Faced with this complex landscape both within Israel and in the diaspora, we return to the initial question raised at the beginning of this chapter of whether Jews throughout the world still make up a people when their identities have multiplied, their cultures diversified, and their allegiances have pushed them in diverging directions? When considering the various aspects and complexities invovled, there is one particularly apt notion that may help describe, or even decipher, the reality of the Jewish world. Reference is made here to Wittgenstein’s (1961) use of the concept of ‘air of family’, by which he meant all the common features that appear—albeit not in equal measure or systematically—among individuals of the same family group, such as shape of the mouth, hair color, or the size of forehead. If we continue the analogy of a family group, we may refer to the frequent rivalries that shake it and the intensity of conflicts that develop within it, precisely because it involves close relatives, whereas solidarity also leads to more violent emotions and at times less controlled reflexes that come into play. Moreover, this kind of group is often structured around certain individuals perceived as being the ‘center’, whereas others are reduced to ‘distant cousins’ and may be tempted to abandon the group to the advantage of other networks to which they also belong. It is possible to make this analogy regarding the phenomena within the Jewish space of identity insofar as there lie very different, if not contradictory, expressions that are mutually competing yet at the same time share common allegiances. Even when considering only the above-mentioned three major syndromes, a comparative view can easily identify the breeding grounds of tensions. Each of the syndromes contrasts with the others and, in some ways, challenges them. The caste syndrome contrasts with the others by the innumerable markers it preserves that are at variance with the civil and secular styles of the proponents of the ethnocultural and national syndromes. The national syndrome stands out from the other two regarding its

contemporary dilemmas of identity

287

reference to a collective residing in a clearly defined territory whose day-to-day experience sets it apart from all other Jewish communities. The ethnocultural syndrome is in stark contrast with those of the caste and the nation regarding the pre-eminent position it allocates to non-Jewish national identity as compared to Jewish identity. Moreover, this syndrome also defies the other two by its enthusiasm for generating innovations—especially in terms of belonging to Judaism—which are anathema to the caste syndrome and do not sit very well with that of the nation. It should, however, be underscored that the latter has its sights set on leadership of the Jewish world, which stems from the fact that its point of departure is that of a condition of Jewish sovereignty. By the same token, this national syndrome cannot but yield to the sensibilities of the Orthodox. In this respect one can consider the current debate regarding adoption by Israel of the unlimited legitimacy of non-Orthodox conversion. This change in favor of nonOrthodox movements could, in fact, bring Orthodox public opinion both in Israel and the Diaspora to no longer see Israel as a Jewish state. For the liberal Jew, on the other hand, there can be no denial of the fact that being a Jew relies on certain criteria laid down by Talmudic law. The national syndrome in Israel devalues the status of Jewish liberalism by supporting in the orthodox monopoly in all public offices of religious institutions. This confrontation of the national and ethnocultural syndromes is all the more paradoxical since the majority of the proponents of the national syndrome, the Israeli Jews, are not observant, just as is the case among the Jews in the Diaspora. Thus, this is viewed as a repellent attitude by the adherents of the ethnocultural syndrome and one which reverberates on Israeli Judaism in its preoccupation with leadership (Ben-Rafael, 2002). These tensions tearing at the various syndromes should not, however, be allowed to obscure the fact that there are also points of convergence. In Israel, all three recognize the intrinsic value of Talmudic criteria, and, in so doing, refer to a large extent to the same individuals, i.e. the same ‘Jewish people’—with the exception of the small minority of Jews converted by non-Orthodox rites which are not recognized by the Orthodox. Moreover, these syndromes draw a large number of their respective symbols from the same pool of traditions, have recourse to the same texts, and refer to the same narratives. As a result, this precludes proponents of the various syndromes from feeling alienated from the others, while explaining the

288

eliezer ben-rafael

relations that are maintained between the syndromes, over and beyond their differences. Finally, there are two facts that tie together the adherents of all these syndromes and which to a large extent construct their common relations with the non-Jew. First of all there is the existence of the state of Israel which through its difficult history constitutes a point of cynosure and a major preoccupation for the vast majority of Jews, independent of their attitude towards the Zionist ideology. Secondly, there is the collective and to this day highly traumatic memory of the Holocaust, which at all times proclaims the common destiny of Jews worldwide. All this leads to the conclusion that even in this era of multiple Jewish identities, the Jewish people are, for the time being at least, still one. After Wittgenstein, we can see that like the members of a real enlarged family, the various expressions of the identity that personify the pluralism of Judaism simultaneously converge and diverge. Although these various expressions cannot be described as being alien from one another, it is in no way certain that they will wish to form part of the same family, at all cost. This is a challenge that all syndromes and their supporters, the Jews, will have to face, regardless of whether they live in Tel-Aviv, Moscow, Paris, New York, or Brussels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

WAS THE SHOAH THE “SANCTIFICATION OF GOD”? Thomas Gergely Was the Holocaust a “sanctification of the Name,” in the sense of the Hebrew expression Kiddush Hashem?1 In other words, the six million or more Jews, among them one million children, who died martyred—were they martyrs? The question is not, in fact, as paradoxical as it may seem at first glance. It simply confronts the factual and theological sides of the problem. To put it differently, did the victims of Nazi barbarism who perished in the death camps die as martyrs, i.e. by sacrificing themselves in order to give meaning to their martyrdom? The answer to this question is far from clear, even if from a theological point of view, whether Christian or Jewish,2 to interpret the absurd end of these uncountable victims as some kind of consenting sacrifice to honour of God means that certain disturbing, and even unbearable, questions can be avoided. Indeed, the Shoah invariably raises the issue of the non-existence or existence of God and, in the case of the latter hypothesis, the difficulty of imagining a God who would allow such a tragedy. And then there is, of course, the judgement of human nature that Auschwitz compels us to make. It is well known that Jewish history is marked by a series of persecutions and massacres. This particular feature of the Jewish condition3 has over the centuries resulted in behavioural patterns ensuing from the answers provided in many situations of great distress. 1

The Hebrew phrase kiddush hashem literally means ‘sanctification of the Name’ (of God). In the Jewish tradition, martyrs were said to have ‘sanctified the Name’. 2 Cf. the recent beatification of Edith Stein, the German Catholic sister of Jewish origin, who was honoured because she was deemed to have sacrificed herself. However, one should hasten to add that she was deported after having been in hiding in the Netherlands since the Nazis considered her Jewish, in spite of the fact that she had relinquished her faith. She was gassed together with her sister and millions of others. 3 The first anti-Jewish persecutions are generally said to go back to the reign of the Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175–164), a staunch supporter of the Hellenization of Judaea.

290

thomas gergely

Among these attitudes, one must mention those which, in the absence of any possible effective resistance to attack, consisted of adding the permanent risk of a violent death to the number of probable events in human existence. Maimonides, in his seminal work ‘The Book of Knowledge,’4 stated the circumstances in which a Jew should prefer to be killed rather than violate the sacred Law, and those in which he would be obliged to breach the commandments in order to escape death: If a pagan forces an Israelite under the threat of death to breach one of the commandments set forth by the Law, the Israelite must accept the transgression rather than be killed. The verse, in effect, states: ‘Let man execute (the commandments) in order to live by them.’ The text does not state ‘so that he dies because of them.’ So, if this man prefers to die rather than commit a breach of the law, his death must be put down to him. This provision applies to all commandments of the Law, with the exception of three prohibitions regarding idolatry, illicit unions and murder. Being faced with committing one of these three crimes or dying at the hand of a pagan, the Israelite should prefer death to transgression.5 According to Maimonides: The principles only apply in normal times. However, in times of persecution (. . .) one prefers death to transgression, even if the latter involves commandments other than those related to idolatry, illicit unions and murder, and irrespective of whether one is presented with the choice in the presence of ten Israelites or alone with the pagan. Any person who has the ability to transgress in order not to let himself be killed, and who prefers death to transgression is responsible for the murder committed against him. However, if a person who has the duty to get himself killed rather than commit a transgression is killed without breaking the Law, then he shall be deemed to have sanctified the Name (. . .).’6 ‘Conversely, anyone who has the duty to get killed rather than transgress and who prefers transgression to death, becomes guilty of desecrating the Name.’7

In short, when the danger went beyond the individual and threatened the group—which is what Maimonides calls the period of persecution—aiming, through the faith, at the source of its cohesion

4 5 6 7

Maimonides, 1961, pp. 68–76. Op. cit., pp. 68–69. Op. cit., p. 70. Ibid.

was the shoah the “sanctification of god”?

291

and survival, the rule was that priority should lie with the principles, even if this meant that some members of the community would lose their lives. The latter would be choosing, in this case, as martyrs, to lay down their lives for what was called ‘the sanctification of the Name.’ It would seem that this is also one of the reasons, and an important one at that, for preferring the word Shoah, ‘the annihilation,’8 to ‘holocaust,’ a term which implies the idea of a wanted sacrifice. Indeed, even though recourse to the ‘sanctification of the Name’ has, throughout the ages, preserved the ‘remainder of Israel,’ this means was only effective in the confrontation with ordinary enemies, such as the Romans who, in an attempt to quell the revolt in a distant province, thought they would succeed by stifling the faith of the insurgents. Or, for example was also the case of the Torquemada’s inquisition, driven by an overwhelming desire to convert; another examples is when the Jews faced the Tsars who attempted to solve their internal political problems by launching pogroms in the name of the holy Orthodox faith. As it was considered an acceptable fact in response to these challenges, Jews did not think of death in terms of God, His existence or His reasons, the latter being often explained as tests of the faith of Israel. There is nothing of the actions of ‘classical’ persecutors in those of the executors of the ‘final solution;’ the latter were men who for the first time in Jewish and probably in world history set out to destroy an entire people, for no reason other than its existence. Few people, initially at least, knew the whole truth about the deadly secret of Wannsee. Jews did not know more than anyone else. In fact, many of them thought that they would, as usual, be forced to pay the usual tribute, after which the rest would survive. Contempt was a fundamental factor. In a perverted twist of fate, recourse to the ‘sanctification of the Name,’ far from saving anyone, turned against its own creators, driving them, more or less docilely, into the jaws of hell. At the same time, there emerged questions 8 In French, as in many other languages, the Hebrew word shoah, ‘annihilation,’ tends to be preferred over the Greek word ‘holocaust,’ the controversial term that is commonly used in English. Meaning ‘completely burnt,’ it denoted sacrifices, both biblical and others, at which animals were entirely consumed by the flames. As it involves sacrifices offered by man to appease the gods, it is difficult to see, within the context of the genocide, which priests would have attempted to appease any god by immolating six million victims.

292

thomas gergely

about God, since some still thought of their death—unwanted though it was—as being a sacrifice, a ‘sanctification of the Name,’ even though the latter did not yield its effects. Quite the contrary. Naturally, in some circumstances, people or groups of people did choose immolation over survival. In so doing they performed a real Kiddush Hashem in the traditional sense of the term. The best-known example—one of many—is that of Dr. Janus Korczak, the head of the orphanage in the Warsaw ghetto whose life the Nazis had cynically offered to spare if he abandoned his two hundred little protégés at the doors of the railway carriages. Korczak refused and preferred to die with the children. However, in the case of very pious Jews, who were very much aware that nothing would go according to the models inherited by history, the ancient ‘sanctification of the Name’ took on an entirely new dimension, in keeping with the uniqueness of the situation. Indeed, in the course of their long history, whenever they were threatened, the denial of their religion was the choice that Jews were generally given in order to survive. The victims of the Shoah were deprived of this option. Yet, as performing the ‘sanctification of the Name’ is, within Jewish thought, connected with the mitzvah, the command, many tried to regain the possibility of a choice, which is a necessary condition to observe this prescription. So, they substituted the option, which did not exist anymore, between life and death for the choice between an abject end and one accepted in the dignity of inner peace. It was the possibility of adopting, or not, the latter attitude which at the time of the genocide constituted the new criterion of the ‘sanctification of the Name.’ As the Jewish faith imposes the recitation of specific benedictions prior to complying with a commandment, in this case the ‘sanctification of the Name,’ the rabbis at the time wondered which benediction should be uttered while entering the places of execution.9 Should it be: ‘Blessed art Thou, our Eternal God, King of the Universe, who hath sanctified us by Thy commands and ordered us in the matter of the sanctification of the Name?’ Or should it be: ‘. . . . Who has ordered us to sanctify thy Name?’ The rabbis decided that in view of the circumstances the appropriate formula was: ‘. . . and hath ordered us to sanctify Thy Name in the face of multitudes.’ The nuance was significant

9

See Irving J. Rsenbaum, 1976, pp. 61–62.

was the shoah the “sanctification of god”?

293

and clearly referred to a refusal to have the spirit broken. Naturally, this effort was born out of despair. Yet, in many cases it enabled the very religious to cope with their fate in a more tranquil manner thanks to the idea that they had at least chosen a way of dying with dignity and, through this attitude, they were paying homage to God, whose ‘Name’ they were thus ‘sanctifying.’ At the same time, at the eleventh hour, they found some meaning to their death. Better still, some interpreted the terrifying silence of God at precisely the greatest hour of need, as an excellent opportunity to sanctify him, by accepting, without demurring, His terrible absence.10 That, in short, was the situation for people of great faith. But what about the others? Those who did not know how to, could not, or would not transform this silence and who only saw in it proof of an empty heaven? Some, like those of the resistance in the Warsaw ghetto, revolted; others died even more desperate than their fellow sufferers who were hoping to honour God. As for the survivors, they waited some twenty years before they began to talk; such was the shock that had struck the Jewish spiritual universe. It was, in fact, through this acknowledgement of the absence of God that the discussion began, thanks to people like Richard Rubenstein, an American rabbi turned atheist whose ideas shall be discussed later on since they are among a number of theories regarding the Shoah that have divided the Jewish community over the past twenty-five years. These theories go as follows: the Shoah is comparable to other disasters in Jewish history and raises only the question of theodicy;11 the Shoah constitutes the deserved punishment for an accumulation of mistakes;12 the Shoah is an expiatory sacrifice offered for the sins of other men, whose mistakes Jews atoned for by their deaths;13 the Shoah is a kind of reproduction of Isaac’s sacrifice, a sort of faithtesting dementia;14 the Shoah is an example of ‘hester panim,’ the ‘veiling 10 This is the theory of the ‘veiling of the Face,’ hester panim in Hebrew, which will be discussed later on. 11 However, the Shoah was new in that the intent to murder that lay behind it was both gratuitous and absolute. 12 But what would have been the sin committed by babies and children? 13 This is a view that goes back to Isaiah 53, the chapter of the so-called ‘Suffering Servant.’ This is a kind of As it stands, it is a negative image of Christian theology of the Christ who died for the sins of man. Here, the Christ’s role is, paradoxically, taken on by the Jewish people. 14 But with what result? While the faith of Abraham was strengthened by the

294

thomas gergely

of the Face,’ a Hebrew metaphor referring to the temporary withdrawal of God from history at times when He is said to leave man to his own devices;15 the Shoah proves the ‘death of God’—if there were a God, He would definitely have avoided or prevented the genocide;16 the Shoah is the height of human ignominy, and the price to pay for exercising free will, of which it is said to be a horrible accident;17 the Shoah is an unfathomable mystery, transcending human comprehension and imposing faith and silence. This selection of highly simplified explanations provides an indication as to the complexity of the debate within Jewish theology and leads one to wonder whether Judaism, whose religious certainties were affected, will ever be able to find a satisfactory answer to that intractable question of ‘why?’ At the same time, this tangle of fragmented attempts does throw up a few meaningful analytical models that merit further examination and which will be discussed below. It took until 1966 for the first unconventional Jewish commentary on the Shoah to appear. This was the book, entitled ‘After Auschwitz,’18 by the aforementioned liberal American rabbi Richard Rubenstein. In the book, which caused a great deal of furore, the author draws a number of highly controversial conclusions when reflecting upon the evil incarnate of the extermination camps. Dismissing the reluctance and even taboos of other thinkers who, like him, were struck by the inevitability of questions arising from what happened at Auschwitz, Rubenstein addressed the core questions. If God is perceived as a being intervening in history, what is His responsibility after Auschwitz? Were the Nazis instruments of His wrath?19 If not, how could He have tolerated the unleashing of such evil? These questions did not come to Rubenstein out of the blue. They were the result of a meeting in 1961 with the German Protestant

test of the (near) sacrifice of his son Isaac, that of the Jewish people emerges disturbed from the Shoah. 15 Hester panim; q.v. further down in the article. 16 Unless God, in spite of the kindness that is attributed to Him, allowed this most heinous of abominations for reasons that are entirely unfathomable. 17 In this case, the perfection of God would not be questioned. Only the executioners would have dishonoured their inner beings. 18 Richard L. Rubenstein, 1966. 19 Isaiah 10–5–7: ‘O Assyrian, the rod of mine anger, and the staff in their hand is mine indignation. I will send him against a hypocritical nation, and against the people of my wrath will I give him a charge, to take the spoil, and to take the prey, and to tread them down like the mire of the streets.’

was the shoah the “sanctification of god”?

295

theologian Heinrich Grüber, Dean of the Evangelical Church of West and East Berlin, who had himself spent time in concentration camps for helping Jews. However, when it was time to take theological stock of things, he held the view that Hitler was indeed ‘the rod of God’s anger’ as it was self-evident to him that nowhere else was the presence of God more manifest than in the life and destiny of the Jewish people.20 To Rubenstein’s question of whether it was ‘God’s will that Hitler destroyed the Jews’, Grüber replied by citing Psalm 44:22: ‘For Thy sake we are slaughtered every day,’21 adding that ‘at different times, God uses different peoples as His whip against his own people, the Jews, but those whom he uses will be punished far worse than the’ people of the Lord. You see it today in Berlin.22’ In short, as far as Grüber was concerned, responsibility for the genocide lay with transcendence and unfathomable designs, not with the perpetrators of the crime. Even though, theologically speaking, Grüber’s stance had some basis in Scripture, it was, humanely speaking, untenable.23 Rubenstein, arrived at a different conclusion: ‘If I believed in God as the omnipotent author of the historical drama and Israel as his chosen People, I had to accept Dean Grüber’s conclusion that it was God’s will that Hitler committed six million Jews to slaughter. I could not possibly believe in such a God nor could I believe in Israel as the Chosen people of God after Auschwitz.’24 As a result, the only acceptable answer to the death camps was rejection, the ‘death of God,’ and a need to recognize the fact that there is no direction whatsoever to our existence. To claim that the Shoah was a punishment for the sins committed by the Jews would be tantamount to blasphemy against man.25 And if in spite of

20 Rubenstein (1966), p. 54: ‘In the past the Jews had been smitten by Nebuchadnezzar and other ‘rods of god’s anger.’ Hitler is simply another such rod.’ 21 Idem, p. 53. 22 Idem, pp. 54–55. 23 This was also the view held by the countess von Rittenberg, the representative of the Evangelical Church in Bonn who said: ‘Theologically this may be true, but humanely speaking and in any terms that I can understand, I cannot believe that God wanted the Nazis to destroy the Jews.’ Rubenstein (1966), p. 53. 24 P. 46. 25 ‘During the Eichmann trial, Dr. Servatius, the defense counsel, had offered the suggestion that the death of the six million was part of a ‘higher purpose,’ and in recompense for an earlier and greater crime against God, thereby joining the modern trial in Jerusalem with one held twenty centuries before.’ Rubenstein (1966), p. 55.

296

thomas gergely

everything, one were to accept Grüber’s views, it would still be necessary to determine the kind of mistake that would require six million deaths as redemption! This sort of religious rationalization involving God, sin, punishment and instrument is, in Rubenstein’s view, absurd and there can be only one conclusion: God does not exist. There was never any alliance with Israel, for the simple reason that the party ‘above’ was not there. And so the lesson to be drawn from Auschwitz and places like it may be summarized by saying that life, in itself, is the greatest value and does not require any transcendental reference. Nevertheless, if God does not exist and if man can only count on his fellow man, this is all the more reason to preserve the religious community since it binds society. Rubenstein added that Jews could not ‘at this late date, invent a better medium in and through which we could remain so united with our own and past generations.’26 Rubenstein takes his view to its logical conclusion, promoting the ‘demythologization’ of Judaism, i.e. the maintenance of religious ceremonies, preserved for their psychosocial value, but devoid of all reference to transcendence.27 This is, in very simple terms, the position of Jewish atheists on the Shoah. One can easily imagine that a stance as radical as this one inexorably brought about attempts to adjust, or even refute it. One such opponent was the German-born Canadian-Israeli Jewish philosopher Emil Fackenheim, the author of the God’s Presence in History, which was published in 1970.28 Conciliatory above all else, Fackenheim attempted to find a medium ground between, on the one hand, the absolute faith of the ultrapious, who were inclined to view the Shoah as nothing more than a repetition of the past or the opportunity for a Dantesque ‘sanctification of the Name,’ and, on the other, the total rejection of God propounded by Rubenstein’s followers. According to the philosopher the fact of saying ‘that Auschwitz was punishment for the sins of Jews (. . .) is to traduce more than a million innocent children in order

26

P. 119. Pp. 227 ff. To this one may add that Rubenstein, the author of The Religious imagination, a Study in Psychoanalysis and Jewish Theology (1968), has made quite a reputation for himself as a psychoanalyst. 28 Emil Fackenheim, 1970. 27

was the shoah the “sanctification of god”?

297

to build a bad defence of God,’ whereas the claim that because ‘this calumny is inadmissible, the God of history is impossible’29 is equally debatable. As Fackenheim rejected the resignation of the first group and the atheism of the others, he then had to try and place the genocide within a divine Providence. In order to do so, he went out of his way to prove that God was right there amidst the most heinous acts, even though we do not know why he should have authorized, or even wanted, this extreme atrocity. Fackenheim’s explanation hinged firstly on his vision of history in general and that of the Jews in particular. Taking into account the succession of events that implied the history of mankind, Fackenheim distinguished certain moments with a special purpose. These are what he called ‘founding experiences,’ as opposed to ‘epoch-making events.’30 According to Fackenheim, ‘founding experiences’ are those that continue to have an influence, long after the generations that witnessed them. The Sinai revelation would be part of this category. Conversely, ‘epoch-making events’ are neither formative, nor creative. Quite the contrary even, as they are said to defy the ‘founding experiences’ by verifying, through their novelty, the ability of these ‘experiences’ to respond to hitherto unknown situations. Within this view, the Inquisition episode, for instance, would be an ‘epochmaking event,’ serving as a test of the faithfulness promised at the foot of Mount Sinai. The Shoah, too, would be one of these particular instances. However, where to place it? Among the most negative ‘epoch-making events’ or ‘founding experiences? Fackenheim defined it as an ‘event’ capable of challenging, in a very dramatic fashion, the idea of a divine presence in the history of the world. Having said this, the conclusion is still positive since, according to the author, this ‘epoch-making event’ should push believers to hearken the new ‘founding experience’ which lies at the very heart of the horror and thus imposes new commands on mankind as it is faced with absolute evil. It is this which would oblige human beings to fight for survival, and thus not to give in to iniquity; to keep their faith, and not to give in to

29 Op. cit., pp. 70–71. Fackenheim ended his quote as follows: ‘. . . a God concerned about Auschwitz must have decided Auschwitz, and that God is dead.’’ 30 Op. cit., pp. 35–44.

thomas gergely

298

despair; to believe in redemption, and not to give in to cynicism; and finally to remember the victims. To relinquish one of these principles would be tantamount to entering into a pact with evil and thus allow it ultimately to vanquish. If God were, in a way, to make Himself heard through the experience of the horror, He would extract from the latter the sacred obligation on man to survive and to persevere as a direct result of the wish for annihilation that they sometimes have to face. At this point, the ‘final solution,’ which aimed at the total destruction of Judaism, becomes, paradoxically, the basis for its legitimacy, or even necessity. Fackenheim thus retains God in his system and endows the Shoah with a kind of ‘educational’ purpose. The views of Rubenstein and Fackenheim converge at times, as is the case for instance in their refusal to interpret the Shoah as a punishment for mysterious mistakes. In other areas, their positions are diametrically opposite to one another given that what happened at Auschwitz turned Rubenstein into an atheist, whereas it barely affected Fackenheim’s faith. Beyond these two schools of thought, there is that of the philosopher Eliezer Berkovits, the author of a more traditional analysis, entitled Faith after the Holocaust, which was published in 1973.31 Berkovits stated the problem in the following terms: the Nazi barbarism, in his view, does indeed support the theory of the absence of a God, while, at the same time, highlighting the moral grandeur, even sanctity of some victims. How else should one call people who, at the very edge of the abyss, praised God for being one of the victims and not the executioners? However, Berkovits explains that this is not new in Jewish history. The Shoah would, then, be unique by its magnitude, not by its nature, the basic question remaining the same, as ever: is the Shoah in keeping with divine moral perfection and providence? In order to deal with these questions, Berkovits, like Rubenstein and Fackenheim, rejected the simplistic explanation of a just punishment. He felt that the Shoah was first and foremost an injustice which was all the more absolute in that it seemed sanctioned by God, Himself. However, if this is the case, how does one fit this flagrant manifestation of evil into the grand divine design? Berkovits referred

31

Eliezer Berkovits, 1973.

was the shoah the “sanctification of god”?

299

to the ancient Biblical concept of hester panim, the ‘veiling of the Face,’ according to which, God, sometimes, turns away from man for no objective reason like, for instance, human sins.32 This view of the issue, in essence, translates the wish to maintain, at all cost, the idea of a divine presence, irrespective of what happens in its absence. But even if one were to accept this, there is still the question as to why God, who is always there, should one day become indifferent to world-shaking events? Berkovits’ answer was that only the ‘withdrawal’ of God enabled man to be a moral creature. By stepping back from history, God in fact gave man his freedom, including that of choosing between good and evil; if mankind was moral, God would not be able to stop man in exercising evil just as He would not be able to stop man from exercising good, even if His creature risked abusing this freedom. However, as evil must nevertheless be stopped, Berkovits felt that everything revolves around a kind of equilibrium of incompatibles; as God must be absent for man to be able to act, so too must God be present in order to prevent His creation from ultimately destroying itself. This means that the liberating absence of God in history must be seen as a sign of His presence and that, therefore, the Shoah was not proof of the ‘death of God,’ but a sign of His existence, even if this implies necessary absences that ineluctably open the gateways to horror. In short, the Shoah would then be but a serious accident in Jewish history, in which it would in no way constitute a culminating event. Rubenstein, Fackenheim, Berkovits; the ‘sanctification of the name,’ ‘the death of God,’ the ‘Nazi agent of god,’ the ‘epoch-making event,’ the ‘veiled face’—one is faced with a multitude of explanations for what remains, in spite of the refusal by some and the theological approach of others, the single-most important experience of modern Jews, with incalculable consequences to this day. Indeed, the Shoah not only means the terrible loss of six million human beings and the destruction of an entire civilization, but also represents a major traumatic experience for the survivors, who have been forever shaken in the belief in their millenarian religious and cultural system as they

32

Op. cit., pp. 94 ff.

300

thomas gergely

are unable to find a satisfactory answer to their questions, in spite of, or possibly because of, the wide variety of hypotheses. Most of the survivors, who generally reject interpretations according to which the genocide was a purifying suffering, seem to remember from the Auschwitz experience the following lesson: ‘the angels, asked someone, do they ever arrive late? No, of course not, he was told. They have the sacred duty to arrive on time.’ And yet, because of Auschwitz we know that this is wrong; at that time, the angels did arrive too late six million times. This teaches us that this sacred duty has since then passed to man. It is up to them to want to be on time, always and everywhere. That is the main lesson of the Shoah.’

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abrahams, I. (1908), “A University in Jerusalem,” Jewish Chronicle, Feb. 28. Adler, R. (1998), Engendering Judaism. Boston: Beacon Press. Afshar, H. (1998), Islam and Feminism, an Iranian Case-Study, Macmillan Press LTD, Great Britain. Alperin, A. and N. Goldmann (1978), the WJC, Tel Aviv, pp. 54–64. Arieli, Y. (1992), History and Politics. Tel-Aviv: Am Oved [Hebrew]. Arnason, J. P. (2000), “Communism and Modernity”, Daedalus, Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences—Multiple Modernities, Winter, Vol. 129, N. 1, pp. 61–90. Atzmon, Y. (1995), “Hayahadut Ve-hahadara shel Nashim Min Hazira Haziburit” ( Judaism and the exclusion of women from the public sphere) in Atzmon Y. (ed.) Ashnav Lechayeyhen shel Nashim Bechevrot Yehudiot. A glimpse into the life of women in Jewish communities, Shazar Center for Israeli History, Jerusalem: pp. 13–43 (Hebrew). Avineri, S. (1981), The Making of Modern Zionism: The Intellectual Origins of the Jewish State, New York: Basic Books. ——— (1982), Histoire de la pensée sioniste, Paris, Lattès. Bady, M. H. (1985), Din trecutul judaismului român, Tel Aviv. Barber, B. (1995), Jihad vs. McWorld: How Golbalism and Tribalism are reshaping the world. New York; Random House. Bareli, A. and Y. Gorny (forthcoming), ‘An “Inside Intellectual” Remarks on the Public Thought of Natan Rotenstreich,’ introduction to Natan Rotenstreich, Zionism Past and Present, Suny Press, New York. Baskin, J. (ed.) (1991), Jewish Women in Historical Perspective. Detroit: Wayne State University. Bar-Yohai [ Joseph Hayyim Brenner] (1914), Ha-po"el ha-Tsa"ir, July 31 [also in Complete Writings of J. H. Brenner (1961), Tel Aviv (Hebrew), pp. 143–146]. Baubock, R. (1994), Transnational Citizenship, London: Edward Elgar Bella, M. ed. (1986), The World of Jabotinsky, a Selection of His Works and the Essentials of His Teachings, Tel-Aviv: Defusim (Hebrew). Ben Ezer, E. (1974), Unease in Zion, New York: Quadrangle Books. Ben-Rafael E. (2002), Jewish Identities: Fifty Intellectuals Answer Ben-Gurion, Leyden and Boston: Brill. ——— (2001), Qu’est-ce qu’être juif ? 50 Sages répondent à Ben Gourion, Paris, Balland. E. Ben-Rafael, Yosef Gorny and Yacov Ro"i (eds.) (2003), Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden and Boston: Brill Academic Press. Bentwich, N. (1954), For Zion’s Sake —A Biography of Judah L. Magnes, Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America. ——— (1961), The Hebrew University of Jerusalem 1918–1960, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, p. 137. Berger P., Berger B., and Kellner H. (1974), The Homeless Mind: Modernization and Consciousness, London: Pelican. Berkovits, E. (1973), Faith after the Holocaust, New York, Ktav. Berlin, I. (1969), “Two Concepts of Liberty,” In Four Essays on Liberty. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 118–172. ——— (1987), “Nahum Goldmann: A Tribute,” Gesher 116, summer, pp. 73–78. ——— (1990), The Crooked Timber of Humanity. London: John Murray. Bines, C. (1998), Din istoria imigrarilor în Israel, 1882–1895, Bucharest. Bin-Gorion (Berdichevsky), Micha Yosef (1966), Articles (Hebrew). Tel Aviv p. 30.

302

bibliography

Binkovitz, P. (1990), Chayey Avoda shel Achayot Musmachot Bogrot Batey Hasefer Hadatiem Lesiud Baaretz (Work life of Nurses who graduated religious nursing schools), Tel Aviv: Nursing School, Tel-Aviv University (Hebrew). Birnbaum, P. (2003), “Is the French model in decline?” in E. Ben-Rafael, Y. Gorny and Y. Ro"i (eds.) Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden/Boston: Brill, pp. 266–281. Bloch, T. (2002), “From the Bimah to the Home The Position of Women in Judaism Today” Aufbau, June 13. Boudon R. (2000), L’Acteur et Ses Raisons. Paris: PUF. Brenner, Y. C. (1985), In Press and in Literature (1910), in Nurit Govrin, The Brenner Affair: The Fight for Free Speech (1910–1913), Jerusalem (Hebrew). Buber, M. (1983), A Land of Two People: Martin Buber on Jews and Arabs. Ed. by Paul Mendes Flohr, New York: Oxford University Press. ——— (1963), Israel and the World, New York: Schoken. ——— (1967), Kingship of God. New York: Harper and Row. ——— (1967), On Judaism, New York: Schoken. ——— (1968), Berthold Feiwel, and Chaim Weizmann, A High Jewish Academy (in Germany: Judischer Verlag), Jerusalem: Magnes (Hebrew). Calimani, R. (2002), Destins et aventures de l’intellectuel juif en France; Toulouse. Cherrick, B. (1950), “The University and the Diaspora,” in The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, April, Semi-Jubilee Volume, p. 179. Christain L. (September 14, 2004), Des belges complices de la Shoah? La Libre Belgigue. Cohen, U. (forthcoming), “The Managing Institutions of the Hebrew University, 1925–1948: Ups and Downs in the Pursuit of Total Institutional Autonomy,” in Hagit Lavsky, ed., History of the Hebrew University, Vol. B. Confino, M. (1972), “On Intellectuals and Intellectual Traditions in Eighteen and Nineteen Century Russia,” Deadalus, Spring. Cypel, S. (2004), ‘L’empreinte de la Shoah’, Le Monde, September 10. Daniel, J. (2003), La prison juive, Paris, Odile Jacob. Dayan, A. (2000), “Moshe Arad Sums Up a Decade,” Toar, Journal of Alumni of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 16, November pp. 20–21 (Hebrew). Della Pergola, S. (2003), “World Jewish population at the dawn of the twenty-first century,” in E. Ben-Rafael, Y. Gorny and Yaakov Ro"i (eds.) Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden/Boston: Brill, 45–64. Diner, H. and Benderley, B. L. (2002), Her Works Praise Her: A History of Jewish Women in America from Colonial Times to the Present. New York: Basic Books. Dinur (Dinaburg), B. (1939), The Zionist Book, Tel Aviv (Hebrew). ——— (1978), “The Historical Path of Polish Jewry,” in Ben-Zion Dinur, Generations and Writings: Studies and Observations on Jewish Culture and the Problems and History of Jewish Historiography, Jerusalem (Hebrew). Dubnow, L. (1937), Letters on Old and New Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, p. 20 (Hebrew) ——— (1953), What Is Jewish History? Tel Aviv: Sinai (Hebrew). ——— (1977), Homo Hierarchicus —Le Systeme des Castes et ses Implications, Paris: Gallimard. Eickelman, D. F. (2000), “Islam and the Languages of Modernity,” Daedalus, Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences—Multiple Modernities, Winter, Vol. 129, N. 1, pp. 119–135. ——— (2001), “Islam and Modernity,” in Ben-Rafael and Sternberg (eds.), Identity, Culture and Globalization, Brill, Leiden-Boston-Koln, pp. 93–103. Einstein, A. (1925), “The Mission of Our University,” The New Palestine, Feb. 27. ——— (1925b), “The Mission of Our University,” The New Palestine, March 27. Eisenstadt, S. N. (2000), “Multiple Modernities,” Daedalus, Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences—Multiple Modernities, Winter, Vol. 129, N. 1, pp. 1–30.

bibliography

303

——— (2001), “The Vision of Modern and Contemporary Society,” in Ben-Rafael and Sternberg (eds.), Identity, Culture and Globalization, Brill, Leiden-Boston-Koln, pp. 25–47. ——— (1983), Tradition, Change and Modernity. Malabar, Fla.: Robert Krieger. Elam, Y. (1980), The Jewish Agency—The First Years 1919–1931, Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization, The Zionist Library (Hebrew), p. 12. Elon, (1992), Jewish Law (third expanded and emended edition), Jerusalem, p. 802. El-Or, T. (1998), Ba-pesach Haba, Nashim Veorianut Ba-zionut Hadatit (Next Pesach: Literacy and Identity of Young Religious Zionist Women), Am Oved Publishers Ltd Tel Aviv, Israel (Hebrew). Epstein, I. (1985 [1959]), Judaism, New York, Penguin. Fackenheim, E. (1970), God’s Presence in History, New York University Press. Farago, U. (1989), “The Jewish identity of Israeli youth, 1965–1985.” Yehahadut Zmanenu: Contemporary Jewry, Jerusalem, vol. 5:259–285. Feingold, H. I. (2003), “Between two Zions;” in E. Ben-Rafael, Y. Gorny and Y. Ro"i (eds.) Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden/Boston: Brill, 103–142. Feldman, A. (2001), Factors in the Growth of a New Party: Shas, Bar Ilan. Felkai (1992), László Felkai: A budapesti zsidó fiú- és leánygimnázium története [The history of the Budapest Jewish Grammar School]. Az Anna Frank Gimnázium kiadása, Budapest. Ferdinand, T. (1963/1887), Community and Society (Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft), New York: Harper and Row. Finkielkraut, A. (1980), Le Juif imaginaire, Paris, Le Seuil. ——— (1999), L’Ingratitude. Conversation sur notre temps avec Antoine Robitaille, Paris, Gallimard. ——— (2003), Au nom de l’Autre, Réflexions sur l’antisémitisme qui vient, Paris, Gallimard. ——— (2003), Le Figaro Magazine, September 31. ——— (2004), L’Express, August 30. Fishman, S. B. (1995), A Breath of Life: Feminism in the American Jewish Community. Hanover, N.H.: Brandeis University Press. Forrester, V. (2004), Le crime occidental, Paris, Fayard. Frankel, J. Prophecy and Politics: Socialism, Nationalism and the Russian Jews 1862–1917 (Hebrew). Friedmann, G. (1965), Fin du peuple juif ? Paris, Gallimard. Friedman, M. (1983), Martin Buber’s Life and Work, Vol. 3, The Later Years, 1945–1965, New York: Dutton. ——— (1999), “Col Cvoda Bat Melech Chuza” (All woman’s honor outside her home), in Arieli, Leibovitch and Mazor (eds.), Baruch Sheasani Isha? (God bless me for making me a woman), Yediot Acharonot Publishers and Chemed books, Tel Aviv, pp. 189–206 (Hebrew). ——— (1986), ‘Haredim confront the modern city’ Studies in Contemporary Jewry 2, 74–96. Garr M., Marans G. (1999), “Ultra-Orthodox Women in Israel, A Pilot Project in Social Work Education,” Social Work Education. Gaston-Marin, G. (2001), In serviciul lui Gheorghiu Dej, Bucharest. Gaubert, P. et Philippe Benassayn (2003), Le Figaro, March 20. Geertz, C. (1973), “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight,” at Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures, Basic Books. Gittleman, Z. (2003), “The meanings of Jewishness in Russia and Ukraine,” in E. BenRafael, Y. Gorny, Y. and Y. Ro"i (eds.) Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden/Boston: Brill, pp. 194–215.

304

bibliography

Glenn, S. A. (1990), Daughters of the Shtetl: life and labor in the immigrant generation. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Glöckner, O., and W. Jasper (2001), “Jüdische Einwanderer aus der GUS in Berlin.” In Frank Gesemann (Hg.), Migration und Integration in Berlin, Opladen Goldmann, N. (1968), On My People’s Roads, Jerusalem. Gole, N. (2000), “Snapshots of Islamic Modernities,” Daedalus, Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences—Multiple Modernities, Winter, Vol. 129, N. 1, pp. 91–118. Goren, A. A. (1996), “The View from Scopus: Judah L. Magnes and the Early Years of the Hebrew University,” Judaism, A Quarterly Journal of Jewish Life and Thought, Issue No. 178, Volume 45, Number 2, Spring, p. 215. Gorny, Y. (1994), The State of Israel in Jewish Public Thought: the Quest for Collective Identity, New York University Press, New York. Greenberg, B. (1976), “Judaism and Feminism,” in Koltun E. (ed.), The Jewish Woman: New Perspectives. New York: Schocken Books. ——— (1981), On Women and Judaism A View from Tradition. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. ——— (2004), “Orthodox Women and Leadership: The Journey Continues” JOFA Journal 4, 4, Winter. Grodzinski, Y. (1998), Good Human Material, Tel Aviv. Ha"am, A. (1949), Writings, “Rabbi Mordechai Eliashberg,” Tel-Aviv/Jerusalem, Second Edition, pp. 41–43, and “Divrei Shalom,” pp. 56–60. ——— Letters concerning Eretz-Israel (1891–1926), edited by Shulamit Laskov, Tel Aviv/Jerusalem, pp. 247–255. ——— (1947), “Revival of the Spirit,” Writings of Ahad Ha"am, Jerusalem (Hebrew), pp. 173–186. ——— (2002), Letters about Palestine 1881–1926, collected and edited by Shulamit Laskov, Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, The Chaim Weizmann Zionist Research Institute, and Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben Zvi, pp. 318–320 (Hebrew). Haarscher, G. (2002), Les démocraties survivront-elles au terrorisme? Brussels, Labor. ——— (2003), ‘Pour les minorités,’ in T. Berns (éd.), Le droit saisi par le collectif, Brussels, Bruylant. ——— (2004), La laïcité, Paris, PUF (‘Que sais-je?’), 3rd ed., passim. Halishca Hamercazit Le-Statistica (Bureau of Statistics) (1999), Studentim Be-Universitaot Uvemosdot Acherim Lehascala Gvohaa, Tashnach (Students in Universities and Colleges), Collection 11, Jerusalem (Hebrew). Halevi, H. D. (1989), 'Al Gemishuta Shel Ha-Halakha (On the Flexibility of Halakha), in Shana B’Shana, pp. 183–186. Harel, Y. (1992), “Spiritual Ferment in the East: The Establishment of a Reform Congregation in Aleppo, 1862,” HUCA 63 pp. XIX–XXXV (Hebrew). Hartman H. (1993), “Economic and Familial Roles of Women in Israel,” in Y. Azmon and D. N. Izraeli (eds.), Women in Israel, Transactions Publishers, pp. 135–146. Hazan, E. (1874), Zikhron Yerusalayim. Livorno, p. 57. Hazaz, H. (1968), Collected Works, Seething Stones. Tel-Aviv: Am Oved, pp. 219–237. Heilman, U. (2004), “Gender Gap for Conservative Rabbis,” The Voice of the Dutchess Jewish Community, XV 9, September, p. 46. Heller, M. (1925), “Our Directive Genius—The University—The National Soul,” The New Palestine, March 27, p. 292. Herman, S. J. (1988), Jewish Identity: A Social Psychological Perspective, New Brunswick: Transaction. Heschel, S. (ed.) (1983), On Being a Jewish Feminist, New York: Schocken Books. Heyd, D. (1996), Toleration: An Elusive Virtue. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Honig, E. (forthcoming), “Societies of Friends of the Hebrew University, 1925–1948,” in Hagit Lavsky, ed., History of the Hebrew University.

bibliography

305

Horowitz, D., and Lissak M. (1989), Trouble in Utopia: The Overburdened Polity of Israel. Albany: State University of New York Press. Horton, J. and S. Mendus, eds. (1985), Aspects of Toleration. London: Methuen. ——— (1991), John Locke: A Letter Concerning Toleration in Focus. New York: Routledge. Hyman, P. E. (1991), “Gender and Immigrant Jewish Experience” in Baskin (ed.), Jewish Women in Historical Perspective, Detroit: Wayne State University, pp. 234–238. ——— (1995), Gender and Assimilation in Modern Jewish History The Role and Representation of Women. Seattle: University of Washington Press. ——— (2004), Feminism and the American Jewish Community. Unpublished manuscript. Hyman, P. E. and D. D. Moore, eds. (1997), Jewish Women in America: An Historical Encyclopedia. New York: Routledge. Isaac, J. (2004), L"enseignement du mépris, followed by L"antisémitisme a-t-il des racines chrétiennes?, Paris, Gallimard. Kalinski, D. (1925), “The Physicians Committee, Its Efforts and Achievements,” New Palestine, vii, 13, March 27. Kallen, H. M. (1915), “Democracy versus the Melting Pot,” The Nation (February 18 and 25). ——— (1932), Judaism at Bay. New York. Kamen, H. (1967), The Rise of Toleration. New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company. Kaplan, M. M. (1934), Judaism as a Civilization, Toward a Reconstruction of American Jewish Life, New York. Kattan, E. (2002), Penser le devoir de mémoire, Paris: PUF. ——— (2004), Du souvenir comme talisman, Nouvel Observateur, Memoire de la Shoah. December 03/January 04. Katz, E. (1997), “Behavioral and Phenomenological Jewishness,” in Liebman, C. S. and Katz, E. (eds) The Jewishness of Israelis: Responses to the Guttman Report, NY: SUNY: 71–84. Katz, J. (1998), The House Divided. Orthodoxy and Schism in Ninteenth-Century Central European Jewry. Brandeis University Press, London and Hanover. ——— (1986), “Orthodoxy in Historical Perspective,” in Studies in Contemporary Jewry, 2. Katznelson, B. (1949), “Hurban u’Telishut” (Destruction and Uprooting), and “Mekorot Lo Achzav” (Inexhaustible sources) Writings vol. 6, Tel Aviv pp. 365–367; 385–393. Kaufman (1987), in Baker A. (1993), The Jewish Woman in Contemporary Society, Transitions and Traditions, London: Macmillan. Kekes, J. (1993), The Morality of Pluralism. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press Kepel, G. (1991), La revanche de Dieu, Paris, Editions du Seuil. Kessler, J. (1997), «Jüdische Immigration seit 1990. Resümee einer Studie mit 4.000 Zuwanderern aus der früheren Sowjetunion in Berlin». In: Trumah. Zur Geschichte und Kultur des osteuropäischen Judentums. Zeitschrift der Hochschule für jüdische Studien Heidelberg; 7. King, P. T. (1976), Toleration. London: George Allenand Unwin. Klinov, R. (forthcoming), “Economic Aspects of the Development of the Hebrew University, 1925–1947—Goals and Fulfillment,” in Hagit Lavsky, ed., History of the Hebrew University, Vol. B. Kolatt, I. (1997), “The Idea of the Hebrew University in the Jewish National Movement,” in Shaul Katz and Michael Hed, eds., History of the Hebrew University — Roots and Beginnings, Jerusalem: Magnes, pp. 3–74. Kovács (2003), “Jewish Groups and Identity Strategies in Post-Communist Hungary.” In: Zvi Gitelman, B. K. and A. Kovács (eds): New Jewish Identities. Central European University Press, Budapest, New York, Kovács, A. (2004), Jews and Jewry in Contemporary Hungary. The result of a survey. Jewish Policy Research Institute, London. Kovner A. (1981), On The Narrow Bridge, Essays, ed. Shalom Luria, Tel Aviv, pp. 291–294.

306

bibliography

Kovner, A. (1998), Beyond Mourning, ed. Muki Zur, Tel Aviv pp. 225–232. ——— (2001), Scrolls of Testimony, Philadelphia. ——— (undated), Guide to the Ocean of the Halacha, B.H. Kuller, H. (2002), “Le processus de permanence-rupture dans la dynamique d’aprèsguerre des Juifs de Roumanie,” in Les Juifs en Roumanie aux XIX e et XX e siècles: permanences et ruptures (ed. Carol Iancu), Montpellier. Lau, B. (2002), Restoring the Crown to its Former Splendor —studies in the Halachic methodology of rabbi Ovadia Yosef, Bar Ilan (unpublished dissertation). Lavi, T. (1979), Nu a fost pisica neagra, Tel Aviv. Lavsky, H. (1997), “Between Cornerstone-Laying and Inauguration: The Establishment of the Hebrew University, 1918–1925,” in Shaul Katz and Michael Hed, eds., History of the Hebrew University—Roots and Beginnings, Jerusalem: Magnes, pp. 120–159 (Hebrew). Leibowitz, Y. (1995), His World And Philosophy, edited by Avi Sagi. Jerusalem: Keter, 162–176. Leon, N. (1999), Sephardim and Mizrakhim: An Ethnographic Inquiry into the Significance of the Influence of the Shas Movement on Mizrakhi-ultra-Orthodox Identity, Tel Aviv University: Department of Sociology (Hebrew). Leshem E. and Lissak M. (eds.) (2001), From Russia to Israel: Identity and Culture in Transition, Tel Aviv: Kibbutz Hameuchad. Levi, P. (1995), Le Devoir de mémoire, Paris, 1001 Nuits. Lévy, B. H. and A. Finkielkraut et Benny Lévy, Institut d’Etudes Lévinassiennes, Les Cahiers d’Etudes, no 1, Grand Débat du 14 février 01. Lévy, B. H. (1979), Le Testament de Dieu, Paris, Grasset. Levy, R. (2001), Ana Pauker. The Rise and Fall of a Jewish Communist, University of California. Levy, S. (1996), Values and Jewishness of Israeli Youth, Jerusalem: Guttman Institute Liebman, C. (2003), “Unraveling the ethnoreligious package” in E. Ben-Rafael, Y. Gorny and Y. Ro"i (eds.) Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden/ Boston: Brill pp. 143–150. Liebman, C. S. and Katz, E., eds (1997), The Jewishness of Israelis: Responses to the Guttman Report, NY: SUNY. ——— (1997a), “Religion and Modernity: The Special Case of Israel” in Liebman, C. S. and Katz, E. (eds) 85–102. ——— (1997b), “Cultural Conflict in Israeli Society” in Liebman, C. S. and Katz, E. (eds.) The Jewishness of Israelis: Responses to the Guttman Report, 103–118. Lipovetsky, G. (1989), L’ère du vide—essais sur l"individualisme contemporain, Paris, Gallimard. Lipstadt (2001), “Feminism and American Judaism” in Nadell and Sarna (eds) Women and American Judaism, pp. 291–304. Lissak, M. (1996), “‘Critical’ sociology and ‘establishment’ sociology in the Israeli academic community: Ideological struggles or academic discourse” Israel Studies, 1:247–294. Lissak M. and U. Cohen, (forthcoming), “The Hebrew University as an Alternative Cultural Center in the Jewish Yishuv,” in Hagit Lavsky, ed., The Hebrew University— Roots and Beginnings, Vol. B, Magnes (Hebrew). Maalouf, A. (2001), Identités meurtrières, Paris, Le Livre de Poche ([Grasset et Fasquelle, 1998]). Maimonides (1961), Le Livre de la Connaissance, trans. from Hebrew by Valentin Nikiprowetzky and André Zaoui, Paris, PUF, pp. 68–76. Malone, B. (1997), Rabbi Max Heller—Reformer, Zionist, Southerner, 1860–1929, Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Marshall, L. (1957), Champion of Liberty: Selected Papers and Addresses, edited by C. Rezniloff, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, Vol. 1, pp. 759–60.

bibliography

307

Marcuse, V. H. (1968), L’homme unidimensionnel, French trans., Paris, Editions de Minuit. Marienstras, R. (1975), Etre un peuple en diaspora, Paris, François Maspéro. Marty, E. (2002), Revue Cadmos Nr. 2, L’universel et le singulier, Autumn. Mendelsohn, E. (1983), The Jews of East Central Europe between the World Wars. Indiana University Press, Bloomington. Mendus, S. and D. Edwards, eds. (1987), On Toleration. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Mendus, S. ed. (1988), Justifying Tolerance: Conceptual and Historical Perspectives. New York: Cambridge University Press. Metzer, J. (1978), National Capital for a National Home, 1919–1921, Jerusalem (Hebrew). Memmi, A. (1962), Portait d’un juif, Paris, Gallimard. ——— (1973), Portrait du colonisé, Paris, Payot. Meyer, M. (1990), Response to Modernity—A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism, New York and Oxford, pp. 299–301. Mill, J. S. (1984), On Liberty. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Morgenstern, J. (1919), “Were Isaac M. Wise Alive Today: A Program for Judaism in America,” CCARY, pp. 224, 239. Múltunk, L. S. (1993), “Dokumentumok. A magyar zsidóság és a hatalom 1945–1955. 32 dokumentum” [Hungarian Jewry and the political power 1945–1955. 32 documents]. nos. 2–3, pp. 248–298. Budapest. Myers, J. and J. R. Litman (1995), “The Secret of Jewish Femininity: Hiddness, power, and Physicality in the Theology of Orthodox Women in the Contemporary World,” in Rudavsky (ed.), Gender and Judaism, The transformation of Tradition, New York University Press, New York and London, pp. 51–77. Nadell, P. (1998), Women Who Would Be Rabbis; A History of Women’s Ordination 1889 –1985. Boston: Beacon Press. Nadell, P. and J. D. Sarna, eds. (2001), Women and American Judaism. Hanover, N.H.: Brandeis University Press. Nasreen, T. (1996), Lajja, New York, LGF. Nemo, P. (1998), Histoire des idées politiques dans l’Antiquité et au Moyen Age, Paris, PUF. Ochana, D. (1998), Ha-israelim ha-akharonim (The last Israelis), Tel Aviv: Ha-kibboutz ha-meoukhad (Hebrew). Oron, A. (1993), Zehout iehoudit israelit (The Jewish Israeli identity), Tel Aviv: Sifriat hapoalim. Parzen, H. (1974), The Hebrew University 1925–1935, New York: Ktav Publishing House. Peled, Y. (1989), Class and Ethnicity in the Pale: the Political Economy of Jewish Workers’ Nationalism in Late Imperial Russia, New York: St. Martin’s Press. Peskowitz, M. and L. Levitt, eds. (1997), Judaism since Gender. New York: Routledge. Philip, H., L. Ginsberg, and R. N. Salaman (1934), Report of the Survey Committee of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, p. 16. Picard, A. (2004), The Halachic Decisions of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef in the Context of Historical Change, Bar Ilan, (unpublished dissertation). Pinto, D. (2000), “The Third Pillar? Toward a European Jewish Identity”. In: A. Kovacs (Ed.): Jewish Studies at the Central European University. Public Lectures 1996–1999. CEU, Budapest. Porat, D. (2000), Beyond the Corporeal, the Life and Times of Abba Kovner, Tel Aviv, pp. 335–336. ——— (1991), “Attitudes of The Young State of Israel towards the Holocaust and Its Survivors: A debate over identity and Values,” in: New Perspectives on Israeli History, ed. Laurence J. Silberstein, New York and London, pp. 157–174. Rapport de la Commission nationale consultative des droits de l’homme. April 1, 2004. Ravizki, A. (1997), Datiyim Vechiloniyim Be-Israel, Milchemet Tarbut? (Religious and Nonreligious People in Israel: A War of Cultures?), Working paper No. 4, Jerusalem (Hebrew).

308

bibliography

Rawls, J. (1993), Political liberalism, New York, Columbia University Press. Raz, J. (1984), “On the Nature of Rights.” Mind 93, pp. 194–214. Raz-Krakotzkin, A. (1993), “Exile amidst Sovereignty—A Critique of ‘Negation of Exile’ in Israeli Culture,” Theory and Criticism, 4, Autumn, pp. 23–56 (Hebrew). Reinharz, J. (1985), Chaim Weizmann—The Making of a Zionist Leader, New York: Oxford. Ringlet, G. (2002), L’Evangile d"un libre penseur, Paris, Albin Michel ‘Espaces libres.’ Rorty, R. (1979), Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, Princeton: Princeton University Press. ——— (1991), Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ——— (1994), Objectivity, Relativism, and Truth, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rosenkranz, Z. (1997), “‘Exalted Spiritual Center’ or ‘A Home Crawling with Roaches’? Albert Einstein’s Involvement in the Affairs of the Hebrew University, 1918–1935,” in Shaul Katz and Michael Hed, eds., History of the Hebrew University — Roots and Beginnings, Jerusalem: Magnes, pp. 386–394 (Hebrew). Rosen-Zvi, A. (1996), “‘A Jewish and Democratic State’: Spiritual Parenthood, Alienation, and Symbiosis—Can We Square the Circle?” In A Jewish Democratic State, edited by Daphne Barak-Erez. Tel Aviv: Ramot [Hebrew]. Rotem Y. (1992), Achot Rechoka (A Sister afar), Stemazki Publishers, Tel Aviv (Hebrew). Rotman, L. (1966), “The Politics of the Communist Regime concerning the Jews: Contradictions, Ambivalence and Misunderstanding (1945–1953),” in The Jews in Romanian History, Bucharest, pp. 230–248. Rotenstreich, N. (1950), “Israeli Society in Crisis,” Molad, 1:31, October (Hebew). ——— (1951), “The First Pincer,” Molad, 8:43, October–November. ——— (Oct.–Nov. 1952), “Socialism and the Problem of Responsibility,” Molad 10:55, pp. 18–25 (Hebrew). ——— (May 1952), “Social Trends in the State of Israel,” Bitsaron, 26:6 (150), pp. 77–85 (Hebrew). ——— (August 1952), “Technique and Politique,” Molad, 9:52–53 pp. 183–191 (Hebrew). ——— (1953), “Exploration of Concepts Relating to the Essence of the Jewish Exile,” in Rotenstreich, Al ha-Temura, Chapters on Issues of Nation and State, Tel Aviv (Hebrew). ——— (Feb. 1953), “Width and Height,” Ha-Doar, 32:15, Feb. 20, pp. 285–286 (Hebrew). ——— (1972a), [Remarks] on the Renewal of the Zionist Idea, Jerusalem, p. 19. ——— (1972b), [Remarks] on Contemporary Jewish Existence, Merhavia and Tel Aviv, pp. 139–162. ——— (1977), “Changes in Israel—Diaspora Relations (1974/75), in Studies in Contemporary Zionism, Jerusalem, pp. 33–44. Rsenbaum, I. J. (1976), The Holocaust and Halacha, New York, Ktav, pp. 61–62. Rubenstein, R. L. (1966), After Auschwitz, Radical Theology and Contemporary Judaism, New York/Indianopolis, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Rudavsky, T. M., ed. (1995), Gender and Judaism—The Transformation of Tradition. New York: New York University Press. Safran, A. (1989), Un tison arraché aux flammes. Mémoires, Paris. Sagi, A. (1997), “Leibowitz—The Man against his Thought: The Possibilities of Philosophical Thinking” [Hebrew]. Daat, p. 38. Sagi, A. (1999), “Religious Pluralism Assessed.” Sophia, 38, 2: pp. 93–115. ——— (1995a), “Tolerance and the Possibility of Pluralism in Judaism”, Iyyun 44: 175–200 (Hebrew). ——— (1992), “The Suspension of the Ethical and the Religious Meaning of Ethics in Kierkegaard"s Thought.” International Journal for the Philosophy of Religion, 32, pp. 83–103. Said, E. W. (1994), Representations of the Intellectual. N.Y.

bibliography

309

Samet (1969), “The Reaction of the Halakha to Modernization,” Dei"ot, 36 (Winter), pp. 26–30. Sandall, R. (2003), “The politics of oxymoron,” The New Criterion, summer. Sartre, J. P. (1938), La nausée, Paris, Gallimard. ——— (1947), Huis-Clos, Paris, Gallimard. ——— (1964), Les Mots, Paris, Gallimard. ——— (1973 [1954]), Réflexions sur la question juive, Paris, Gallimard, coll. Schiffman, Pinhas (1995), Who is Afraid of Civil Marriage, Jerusalem: Jerusalem Institute for Israel Studies (Hebrew). Schlseinger, A. M., Jr. (1993 [1991]), The disuniting of America. Reflections on a multicultural society, New York, Norton Paperbacks. Schnapper, D. (1980), Juifs et Israélites, Paris, Gallimard. Schoeps, J. H., W. Jasper, B. Vogt (Hg.) (1996), Russische Juden in Deutschland. Integration und Selbstbehauptung in einem fremden Land. Weinheim (German). ——— (1999), Ein neues Judentum in Deutschland? Fremd- und Eigenbilder der russischjüdischen Einwanderer, Potsdam (German). Scholem, G. (1982), From Berlin to Jerusalem—Memories of Youth, Tel Aviv: Am Oved, (Hebrew), pp. 219–220. Schreiber, J. P. (1994a), Typologie des conditions d’accès des Juifs à la modernité dans Le Migrazioni in Europa. Seccolo XIII–XVIII, Prato, Le Monnier (pp. 415–440). ——— (1994b), L’organisation du culte israélite en Belgique et en France (1831–1905), ressemblances et dissemblances dans «Problèmes d’Histoire des Religions», 5, Bruxelles (pp. 87–96). ——— (1995), Politique et religion: le Consistoire central israélite de Belgique au XIX e siècle, Editions de l’Université de Bruxelles, Bruxelles. ——— (1997), La Belgique, le judaïsme et les Juifs dans Etat laïque et société plurielle, Actes du colloque organisé par la Commission de Politique Culturelle «Interculture», PAC, Bruxelles (pp. 91–97). Segev, T. (1991), The Seventh Million: The Israelis and the Holocaust, Domino Press. Sered S. S. (1992), Women as Ritual Experts, Oxford University Press. ——— (1994), “She Perceives Her Work to Be Rewarding: Jewish Women in a Cross-Cultural Perspective”, in Davidman L. Tenenbaum S. (eds.), Feminist Perspectives on Jewish Studies, Yale University, pp. 169–190. Shamir R., Shatrai M. and Elias N. (1997), “Shlichut, Feminism Ve-prophesionalism: Toanot Rabaniot Bakehila Hadatit—Ortodoksit” (Mission, feminism and professionalism: Rabbinical pleaders in the Orthodox community), Megamot, volume 28, pp. 313–348 (Hebrew). Shapira, A. (1997), “The Labor Movement and the Hebrew University,” in Shaul Katz and Michael Hed, eds, History of the Hebrew University —Roots and Beginnings, Magnes, Jerusalem, pp. 675–689 (Hebrew). ——— (2003), “Where Has ‘Negation of the Exile’ Gone?” in Alpayim, 25, pp. 9–54 (Hebrew). Shashar-Aton, N. (1999), “Giluy Chadash shel Haratzon Ha-Elohi—Hashpaat Hafeminism al Hazionut Hadatit” (A new disclosure of God’s will: The influence of feminism on religious Zionism), in Arieli, Leibovitch and Mazor (eds.) Arieli, Leibovitch and Mazor (eds.), Baruch Sheasani Isha? (God bless me for making me a woman), Yediot Acharonot Publishers and Chemed books, Tel Aviv, pp. 57–76 (Hebrew). Sheleg Y. (2000), Hadatyim Hachadashim, Mabat Achshavi al Hachevra Hadatit Be-Israel (The New observants—Contemporary outlook at the religious society in Israel), Keter Publishing House Ltd., Israel (Hebrew). Shiff, O. (2001), Assimilation in Pride, Tel Aviv, pp. 83–88 (Hebrew). Shilhav, Y. (1991), Ayara Bacrach, Geographya shel Hitbadlut Vehashlama (A ghetto in the metropolis: A Geography of separatism and symbiosis) Jerusalem Institute for Israeli Researches, Jerusalem (Hebrew).

310

bibliography

Shiloni, B. (1989), “Klitat Hatarbut Hamaravit Beyapan: Hatmaa Bli Hitcoleloot” (The absorbtion of Western culture in Japan: Acculturation without assimilation), in Kaplan and Shtern (eds.), Hitbolelut Ve-Tmia (Acculturation and Assimilation), Shazar Center for Israeli History, Jerusalem, pp. 249–260 (Hebrew). Shils, E. (1971), “Tradition,” in Comparative Studies in Society and History, 13, 122ff. Sibony, D. (2004), L’énigme antisémite, Paris, Seuil. Silberstein, L. J. (1989), Martin Buber’s Social and Religious Thought, Alienation and the Quest for Meaning, New York and London: New York University Press. Silver, A. H. (1963), Autobiography/Memoirs, Book 1, pp. L/1–7, Papers of Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, Microfilm Ed., Ben-Gurion Research Ctr., Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Sde Boqer Campus, Series VII/A, Roll 211/1. ——— (1915), “Dreams and Visions,” Valedictory Address Delivered in the College Chapel, HUC, June 12, Papers of Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, Microfilm Ed., Series V, Roll 171/15. ——— (1917), “Assimilation,” November 25, Papers of Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, Microfilm Ed., Series IV, Roll 145/19. ——— “The American Jew of Tomorrow,” Papers of Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, Microfilm Ed., Series IV, Roll 145/36. ——— (1940), “Beyond the Jewish State,” Papers of Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, Microfilm Ed., Series V, Roll 180/567, pp. 1–3. ——— (1948), “Liberal Judaism in Relation to the State of Israel—1948–1949,” (November) Papers of Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, Microfilm Ed., Series V, Roll 182/752, pp. 16–19. Simon R. J. (1978), Continuity and Change, A study of Two Ethnic Communities in Israel, Cambridge University Press. Sivan, E. and K. Kaplan (2003), The Israeli Haredim: Insertion without assimilation? Jerusalem: Van Leer Institute. Smith, A. D. (1981), The Ethnic Revival, Cambridge. ——— (1986), The Ethnic Origins of Nations, Oxford: Blackwell. ——— (2003), The Nation in History, Jerusalem, pp. 63–64 (Hebrew). Smith, B. (1994), Classifying the Universe: The Ancient Indian Varna System and the Origins of Caste, NY: Oxford University Press. Soloveitchik, J. B. “Kol Dodi Dofek: It Is the Voice of my Beloved that Knocketh” in Theological and Halachic Reflections on the Holocaust, edited by Bernhard Rosenberg. New York: Ktav, 1992, 51–117. Steiner, G. (1994 fl 1965), “A Kind of Survivor,” Commentary 39, February, pp. 32–38. ——— (1985), “Our Homeland, the Text,” Salmagundi 66, Winter–Spring, pp. 4–25. Sternhell, Z. (1996), Aux origines d’Israël: entre nationalisme et socialisme, Paris, Fayard. Swit, G. “Jerusalem,” in Dan Pines, Baruch Krupnik, and Azriel Carlebach, Journalists’ Yearbook 1943, Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv Association of Journalists (Hebrew). Taguieff, P. A. (1987), La force du préjugé. Essai sur le racisme et ses doubles, Paris, La Découverte. ——— (2004), Prêcheurs de haine, traversée de la judéophobie planétaire, Paris, Mille et Une Nuits. ——— (2004), Les Protocoles des Sages de Sion, faux et usages d’un faux, Fayard (nouvelle édition à paraître). ——— ( July 6, 2004), Le Figaro. Tamir, Y. (1998), “Two Concepts of Multiculturalism.” In Multiculturalism in a Democratic and Jewish State, eds. Menahem Mautner, Avi Sagi and Ronen Shamir; Tel Aviv: Ramot. Taylor, C. (1979), Hegel and Modern Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ——— (1992a), Multiculturalism and “The Politics of Recognition.” Princeton: Princeton University Press.

bibliography

311

——— (1992b), The Ethnics of Authenticity. Cambridge: Harvard. ——— (1994), Multiculturalism. Examining the politics of recognition, Princeton, Princeton University Press Thierry, P. (1997), La tolérance, Paris, PUF. Toar, Journal of Alumni of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 14, November 2002, p. 20 (Hebrew). Trigano, S. (1989), Penser Auschwitz, Paris, Pardes-Cerf. Uzziel, B. Z. (1935), Mishpetei Uzziel, Tel-Aviv, pp. IX–X. Warburg, F. M. (1925), “From Sura to Scopus—The Rebirth of the Jewish Genius,” The New Palestine, March 27, p. 291. Wasserstein, B. (1996), Les Juifs d"Europe depuis 1945. Une diaspora en voie de disparition, Paris, Calmann-Lévy. Waxman, C. (2003), “Identity and identification of Jewish baby boomers”, in E. BenRafael, Y. Gorny and Y. Ro"i (eds.) Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden/Boston: Brill, pp. 151–160. Wechman, R. J. (1970), “Emanuel Gamoran: Pioneer in Jewish Religious Education” Ph.D. Dissertation, Syracuse University. Weiming T. (2001), “‘Confucian’ East Asia and Modernity,” in Ben-Rafael and Sternberg (eds.), Identity, Culture and Globalization, Brill, Leiden-Boston-Koln, pp. 105–119. Weinberg, Y. (Shaike), (undated), essay on “Nahum Goldmann’s Jewish Historiography,” the B.H. archive. Weizmann, C. (1913a), Writings of Chaim Weizmann, First Series, Letters, Jerusalem, 1969–1979, Weizmann to Magnes, Dec. 3, Vol. 6, p. 204 (Hebrew). ——— (1913b), Writings of Chaim Weizmann, First Series, Letters, Jerusalem, 1969–1979 (Hebrew), Weizmann to Ussishkin, Dec. 14, Vol. 6, p. 206. Weizmann, C. Writings of Chaim Weizmann, First Series, Letters, Jerusalem, 1969–1979 (Hebrew), Weizmann to Small General Council, Vol. 6, p. 362. Wexler, T. and M. Popov, eds. (2001), Anchete si procese uitate, 1945–1960 (Preface by Carol IANCU), 2 vols, Bucharest. Wieviorka M. (1998), Le Racisme, une introduction, Ed. La Découverte. ——— (2003), “The changing French Jewish Identity” in E. Ben-Rafael, Y. Gorny and Y. Ro"i (eds.) Contemporary Jewries: Convergence and Divergence, Leyden/Boston: Brill, pp. 255–265. ——— (April 28, 2003), Les Juifs l’antisémitisme et Israël. ——— (September 3, 2004), Le Monde. Winch, P. (1972), Ethics and Action. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Winock, M. (2004), La France et les Juifs de 1789 à nos jours, Seuil, L’Univers historique. Wittgenstein, L. (1961), Tractatus logico-philosophicus, suivi de Investigations philosophiques, Paris: Gallimard. Wittrock, B. (2001), “Rethinking Modernity”, in Ben-Rafael and Sternberg (eds.), Identity, Culture and Globalization, Brill, Leiden-Boston-Koln, pp. 93–103. Yishai, Y. (1996), “Eshet Chail Ve-Eshet Cherev—Ha-omnam Cvoda shel Haisha Hadatia Beveita P. (1994/5), “A woman of heroism and a woman of war: Is the dignity of the religious woman bound to her home?,” in Shnaton Dat Vemedina (Annual of Religion and State—Israel) (Hebrew). Zertal, I. (1996), The Gold of the Jews, Tel Aviv (Hebrew). Zohar, Z. (1983), “The Halachic Teachings of Modern Egyptian Rabbis,” Pe"amim 16, pp. 65–88 (Hebrew). ——— (1984), “On the Relationship between the Language of the Halakha and Natural Language,” in S. Israeli, N. Lamm and V. Raphael (editors), Jubilee Book in Honor of Rabbi Y. D. Soloveitchik, Jerusalem and New York, pp. 59–71. ——— (1993), Tradition and Change. Jerusalem; Ben-Zvi Institute. ——— (1993), “Activist Conservatism: Guidelines to the Socio-Religious Leadership of Aleppo’s Sages in Modern Times,” Peamim 55 pp. 57–78.

312

bibliography

——— (2001), The Luminous Face of the East. Tel Aviv; haKibbutz HaMeuhad press Zola, Gary P., ed. (1996), Women Rabbis: Exploration and Celebration. New York: HUCJIR Rabbinic Alumni Association Press. Zuckerman, M. (2001), The Grist of Israeliness: Myths and Ideology in a Conflicted Society, Tel Aviv. Zvi Shor, A. (1934), Shvivei A""sh on Orach Haim and Hoshen Mishpat, Jerusalem, section 340 (page 73ff.).

INDEX OF SUBJECTS Activism 7, 199 Agudat Yisrael 79 Aliyah 81–82 Alliance Israelite Universelle 137 American Jewry/Jews ix, 1, 102–3, 174, 181–182, 185, 244, 268, 270, 272 American society 19, 176, 179, 182 Anti-Israel 1, 21, 55, 71 Anti-racism 69 Anti-Semitism 1, 3, 20–23, 25–26, 48, 52–54, 59–60, 62–66–71, 184, 192–94, 207–9, 217–18, 231, 54–55, 258, 271 Anti-Zionism 66, 83 Ashkenazi 6, 31–33,122, 124 Assimilation 4, 13, 29, 32, 43, 48, 80, 103, 145, 178, 182, 192, 194, 199, 208, 212 Auschwitz xi–xii, 60, 65, 289, 294, 296, 298, 300 Belgian Jews 3, 27, 30 Betar 55 Beth Hatefutsoth 239, 242 Bible 86–88, 110, 227, 241, 283; biblical criticism 175 Bnai Brith 51, 54 Bnei Moshe 79 Boniface report 23–25 Bourgeoisization 97–98 Brandeis 261 Bratianu’s National Liberal Party 50, 53 Brit Shalom 251 Buber’s theo-political thought 85–86 Budapest Jewish Congregation 44–45 Bund 78–79, 83, 212–13; Party 76–77 Canaanites 215 Catholic Church 22, 205 Central Council for Jews in Germany 36, 38–39 Central Welfare Institute of German Jews 38 Chosen people 76, 211

Communism 4, 44, 48, 53–54, 56–57, 60, 63, 138; the fall of 57–58 Communitarianism/communitarization 20–21, 25, 219–20; conflictual processes of 22; top-down/ bottom-up 16–17 Community: American Jewish 186, 195, 279; French Jewish 3, 23; imaginary 19; imagined 17; immigrant Jewish 190; Jewish 1, 3, 33–34, 36–38, 40–41, 54, 57–58, 60, 62, 67, 138, 144, 173, 180, 187–88, 191, 198, 203, 208, 218, 236, 249, 251, 253–54, 256, 261, 268–69, 275, 279, 285, 287, 293; Liberal Jewish 34, 38; national 25, Orthodox 213; Sephardic 34, 243, Consistory/consistorial system 14, 28–29 Contingency refugee act 36 Cultural pluralism 173–74, 178–80; religious 167 Culture 2, 15–16, 18, 38, 60, 110–11, 119, 178–79, 185, 211–12, 214, 221, 238, 250, 281; American 7, 18, 176; Israeli 121, 129, 282; Jewish 13, 113, 130, 285; national 262; Yiddish 80, Curierul Israelit 53 Death camps 35 Decentralization laws of 1981 16 Democracy 13, 132 Diaspora x, 8, 9, 13, 34, 83–84, 101, 103, 208, 212, 214–17, 230–31, 233–34, 237–40, 242, 244, 248, 250–51, 255–56, 264–65, 267, 270–75, 279, 281, 285–87; auto-emancipated 103; Jewish communities 249, 267, 271, 275; Judaism 8, 230, 231; multinational 2; transnational 2, 8, 279 Divine law 8, 223–25 Dreyfus Affair 14, 21, 25; era 22, 26

314

index of subjects

Drisha 198 Dubnowists 76 Dutch Calvinists 32 Dutch Jewish Social Welfare Organization 31 Dutch Jews 3, 31, 34–35 Eichmann trial 246 Ein-Hachoresh 238 Emancipation 13, 20, 32–33, 43, 101, 103, 205, 208, 214, 216, 220, 280 Enlightenment (see also haskala) 13, 134, 273 Ethiopian Jews 215 Ethnicity 20, 30, 38, 122, 126, 210–11, 213–14; Jewish 83 Ethnicization of politics 24 European Jewish Congress 67 European Jewry/Jews x, 1–2, 7–8, 143, 214 European Observatory of Racist and Xenophobic Phenomena 67 Exile (galut) 5, 76, 82, 234, 238, 244, 246, 248, 254, 280, 285; nation 80 Ezrat Nashim 195 Federation of Jewish Communities 59 Federation of Mosaic Communities 58 Female Hebrew Benevolent Society 186–87 Feminism 7, 154, 194, 197–99; American 186 Fourth convention of Po’alei Tsiyyon 259 Franco-French wars 19 French Jewry/Jews 14, 16, 17–20, 24 French Muslim citizens 24 French Revolution 13–14, 16, 20, 75 French society 3, 17, 19, 21–22, 28 Friends of the Hebrew University 251, 263 Gas chambers ix, xi German Jewry/Jews 38–39, 42, 192 Germany xii, 1, 14, 36–37, 50, 66 Girondinization 17 Globalization 2, 212, 216 Great Synagogue of Tel Aviv 56 Hachomer Hatzair 56, 81 Hadassah 194

Halacha x, 83, 117, 133–36, 139, 141–42, 145, 187, 203, 207, 223, 230, 245, 252 Halachic: European culture 145; norm 117; rules 38 Haredi (see also Ultra-Orthodox) 124, 126–27, 129–30, 144, 152–53, 156,158–59, 167, 169; women 151–52, 155–56, 170 Haskala 211, 216 Hassidism 86, 282; Habad 9 Hebrew Humanism 86, 92 Hebrew intellectual 253 Hebrew Sunday School 187–88 Hebrew University of Jerusalem 8, 248–50, 252–53, 260–63, 265–75 Higher education/learning 151–52, 153–54, 157–58, 162–63, 168, 171, 191, 252 Histadrut 82 Holocaust (see also Shoah) 35–36, 44, 51–52, 58, 65–66, 69–71, 98, 208, 221, 234–35, 237, 240, 244–46, 251, 288–89, 291; denying 23; Museum 35; survivors 203 Holy Land 271 Hungarian Jewry/Jews 4, 43–44 Identity: American Jewish 177; collective 9, 15, 25, 110, 125–26, 132, 238, 275, 279–80; ethnic 27, 214–15; ethnocultural 210; halachic 133–36, 138, 142–43, 148–50; imaginary 222; Israeli 85, 233, 242, 284; Israeli-Jewish 8, 233, 235; Jewish xiii, 5, 7–8, 26, 31, 34–35, 47–49, 60–62, 69, 86, 93, 103, 109, 114–16, 118–20, 133, 136, 138, 143, 149, 150, 175–76, 179, 188, 192, 194–95, 199, 206–7, 209–10, 213, 230, 233, 237, 242, 254, 274, 282, 285, 287; Jewish collective 27, 271, 276; multicultural 108, 118; multiple 19; national identity 15, 85, 87, 92, 213, 235, 283; Orthodox 114; particularistic 13, primordial 76; religious 4, 48, 109, 206, 209–10; secular 94, 103–4, 110, 114, 120; sephardic halachic 146, 149 Ihud 251 Imaginary collectives 25 Immigration to Israel (see also aliyah) 122, 146

index of subjects Individual: autonomy 96; will 103–4 Individualism 13–14, 17, 132, 153, 219 Institut Martin Buber pour l’Etude du Judaïsme 2 Integration 14, 28–30, 37, 40, 182 Intellectuals 6–7, 75–76, 84, 154, 203, 256–57 Intelligentsia 77 Inter-Allied Control Commission 53 Intermarriage 14, 48, 128 International Jewish organizations 55 Islamic fundamentalism 64 Israel 1, 3–5, 13–14, 16, 20, 23–24, 36, 48, 57–58, 60–62, 66–67, 69, 84–85, 91, 102, 121, 123, 125, 130, 133, 136, 146, 154, 171, 183, 204, 214, 216–18, 230–31, 234, 238–39, 242, 246, 252, 279, 284, 286–87, 296 Israeli x, 70, 124, 282, 285; independence 97; Jews 6, 121, 123, 132, 149, 279, 285, 287; society 96–100, 102, 105, 111, 113–15, 120–25, 130, 131, 144, 149, 152, 154, 156–57, 159, 165, 167, 171–72, 246, 283–84 Israeli-Palestinian conflict 66, 70, 85, 88–90,130, 283 Iuliu Maniu’s National Farmers’ Party 50 Jerusalem 61, 76 Jewish: civil servants 18; collective 116, 252; collective will 5, 96, 100–1, 103; education 180, 187, 191–92, 194, 198, 253; Frankfurt School 216; humour 222; national collective 2, 5–6, 9, 75–76, 249; national movement 76, 53; thought 5, 78, 83, 85, 93; nationality 38, 85; renaissance 42; society 114, 179; tradition 46, 104, 117–18, 195, 197, 232, 272, 283; University 253, 255, 257–58, 273–76; world 1–2, 9, 27, 83, 116, 180, 187, 287; worship 8, 223 Jewish Agency 266 Jewish commonwealth (see also Klal Yisrael) 257, 263–64, 268, 275 Jewish Daily Forward 189 Jewish Democratic Committee 52 Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance 197

315

Jewishness x, 5, 14, 34, 37–38, 48–50, 77–78, 83, 126, 132, 207, 209–10, 215, 218, 252, 254, 283–86; versions of 6 Jewry of Muslim lands 138, 143 Joint Distribution Committee 51, 54, 58 Judaism 5–6, 13, 43, 75–76, 78 116, 132, 173–74, 184, 237, 244; American 179, 181–82; biblical 231; and democracy 131; Conservative 83–84, 195–96; ethnocultural 281; French 3, 16; halachic 38, 110, 136, 138; Hungarian 45; Israeli 287; Neolog 44; observant 16, 45; Old World Judaism 176–79, 181–82; Orthodox 39, 44, 152, 176, 179, 197; rabbinic 231; Reform 39, 43, 83–84, 136, 140, 173, 175–76, 178–79, 182, 197; religious 8, 109, 111, 118; secular 109–10; Sephardic 143 Keren ha-Universita 260–62 Keren Hayesod 260–61 Kibbutz 61, 96–97, 214, 238 Klal Yisrael 1, 78–79, 82–84, 101, 103, 248 Knesset 146–47 Labor movement 78–79, 81, 98 Ladies Aid Societies 194 Land of Israel 5, 80–82, 86–89, 111, 145–46, 214, 233, 240–41, 280–81, 283 Liberalism 13, 31, 95, 219; Jewish 287; political 220 Likud 243 Mapai 79, 82, 93, 97–98 Marranos 31 Marxism 15, 77 Medieval Jewry 252 Memory 15, 60; cultural ix–xi, 1–2, 216; Jewish xi–xii; of the Holocaust 35, 60–62, 69 Menorah Journal 173 Messiah xiii, 5 Meta-legal ethic 223 Middle East Conflict 37 Middle Eastern and North African Jewry/Jews 1, 3, 20, 136–37 Midrach 224, 225–27 Mishna 241 Mizrachi 122, 124, 213–14

316

index of subjects

Mobility 168, 170; personal 164–65; secular 157, 160–61, 169; upward 14, 43, women’s 168 Modernity 5–6, 8, 28, 93, 108, 132, 135–38, 142, 151–56, 158–59, 161–63, 166, 168, 170–72, 207, 211, 252, 255, 272–73, 280; European 143; Western 152, 171 Modernization 134, 137–38, 154, 182, 243, 275 Moses Mendelssohn Center 37, 39 Moslem citizens 3 Multicultural 6, 13–14, 17, 19, 22, 30, 105–8, 111, 115, 118, 120, 284; Jewish 116; orientations 48; theoreticians of 15–16 Multiethnic 19 Multiple allegiances 18–19 Multiple modernities 153–54, 156, 159, 162, 168, 171 Muslim countries 13 Nahum Goldmann Diaspora Museum 8, 233–34, 241, 247 Nation 5, 15, 85; state 15, 17–18, 20 National Council of Jewish Women 194 National Organization of Women 194 National Religious Party 213 Nationalism x, 1, 71, 75–77, 80–82, 88, 103, 121, 132, 184, 281–82; secular 183–85, 248; populist 21; post 15 National-religious 155, 158–59, 167, 169 Nation-within-the-nation 17, 25 Nazi xiii, 20, 32, 34, 36, 66, 70, 184, 221, 246, 292, 294 Negation of exile 250–51, 254, 257 Neo-“Ahad Ha"amism” 83 Neo-“Brennerism” 83 Neo-“Dubnowism” 83 Non-European Jewries/Jews ix, 5 Non-Orthodox conversion 287 Non-religious/non-practicing Jews x, 153, 156–59, 161–62, 166–67, 169–70, 252; women 165 Ordination of women rabbis 195 Orienta/Sephardicl Jewry 6, 137, 142, 145–47 ORT 54

Orthodox 7, 29, 31, 44, 82–84, 123, 140, 143, 151, 154 156, 161, 166–67, 170, 175, 198, 210, 281, 287; American 154, 198; European 136, 140, 142; modern 152–53, 155, 281; women 155, 159, 162, 165 OSE 54 Palestinian 20, 70, 91, 98, 217; movement 218 Parousia of Christianity xiii Particularism 16, 28 Patrascanu Act 52 Pen’s National Front 22 People’s Party 79 Philanthropy 185, 194 Philo-semitic 23 Pluralism 105–7, 111–12, 115–16, 118, 284, 288 Pogroms xiii Post World War I treaties 44 Post-war generation 31 Pro-Communist Jewish Democratic Committee 53 Pro-Israel organizations 34 Promised Land 280 Public sphere 14, 16, 19, 21, 23–25, 29, 165, 187 Rabbinical Assembly 195 Rapport de la Commission nationale consultative des drois de l’homme 67 Rational will 93–94, 101; collective 104 Rationalism 15 Reconstructionist movement 178, 195, 197 Red Army 50 Reform movement 7, 174–76, 178, 180–83, 195; rabbi 7 Religion ix, 5–6, 30, 38, 60, 75–77, 79, 80–82, 104, 111, 119, 123, 132, 151, 153–54, 158, 171, 177, 183, 185, 188, 193, 195, 204–5, 217; and community 85–86, 90–92, 296; and conversion 38; and education 136; and modernity 153; and nationalism 283; and politics 217; and secular tensions/cleavage 105, 113, 121, 125, 131; and state 13 Religiosity 43, 85, 111, 118–19,

index of subjects 121–27, 129, 132, 153, 155, 162, 164, 168–69, 223 Religious Jews 7, 46, 83, 109, 125–28, 130, 132, 157, 167, 170 Renaissance 219–20 Republican: contract 14, 18, 22, 25; emancipation 24; meritocracy 14; model 17 Righteous Among the Nations xiii, 60, 61, 69 Rights discourse 105–8, 111–13, 120 Romanian Jewry/Jews 4, 50–51, 53, 57; Union of 51–54 Romanian Workers’ Party 51, 55 Russian Jewry 1, 3, 9, 36, 38–41, 214, 263, 279, 283 Russian Jewry/Jews: immigration 36–37; influx into Germany 3, 40–41 Russian language media 40 Sabbath x, xi, xiii, 47, 181–82 Salvation 5 Secular 6, 101, 123–26, 128–32, 151; education 151,191; Jews 109, 111–12, 114, 119; thought 100, Secularism/secularization 4, 8, 14, 34, 44, 46–48, 75, 83, 97, 101, 109, 111–12, 118–19, 122, 127, 134, 143, 153, 173, 175, 203–6, 211, 217–18, 220, 223, 244, 281 Sephardic 31–33; rabbis 137, 139, 146 Shabbatean movement 32 Shari’a 138 Shas 6, 133, 143–44, 147–49, 283 Shoah (see also Holocaust) ix, xi–xiii, 3–4, 9, 31, 33–34, 289, 291–99 Shulhan Arukh 146 Singularity 9, 65, 286; of the Jewish people 86 Six Day War 62, 242 Social mobility 156, 191 Socialism 95–96, 138; movement 33 Socialization 127, 149 Society of Friends 269–70, 273–74 Solidarity 25, 115–16, 252, 280; ethnic 274 South African Jewry 270 Sovereignty 93–94, 98, 100, 119; and identity 104; and Jewish xii , 5, 103, 287; political 5 State Jews 18 State of Israel x, 5, 7–8, 20, 25, 34,

317

57, 84–85, 89, 91–93, 96, 101, 103, 109, 143, 148, 182, 184–85, 208, 213–15, 218, 230–33, 237, 239, 244–45, 274, 281, 284, 287–88 Synagogue 4, 20, 23, 36, 42, 46, 55, 58, 66, 69, 185, 188, 193, 198, 240, 281 Talmud 110, 198, 205, 227–28, 241; and rabbinical culture 211; narratives 8 Tefillah (prayer) groups 197 Tel Aviv University 236, 245 Tikun olam 7, 35, 199 Titel Petrescu’s Socialist Party 50 Toleration 105–7, 112–13, 118 Torah 87, 114, 116, 133, 135–36, 139–41, 147–49, 185, 205, 210, 224, 227–29, 281; studies 6; Torah world 143–44 Tradition 6, 28, 43, 47, 110, 119, 123, 127–28, 132, 151, 154, 156, 158–59, 161–62, 171–72, 247; and modernity 219 Ultra-Orthodox 6, 109, 114, 123, 125, 128, 131–32, 151, 156, 166, 170, 210, 281; community 114; Israeli 151–52, 283; Jewry/Jews 282, 285; women 6, 155, 159, 161–62, 167–68, 171 Union of Progressive Jews in Germany 39 Values 15; universalistic 7 Vichy era/regime 20, 26, 68 Voluntarism 93–94, 98–100, 251 Wailing Wall 82 Warsaw ghetto 65, 292–93 Waves of immigration 19 West European Jewry 137 Women: American Jewish 7, 186; and Jewish education 194; commission on the status of 194; and suffrage 190 World Jewish Agency 8 World Jewish Congress 36, 51, 235 World Jewry 2, 8 World War I 75, 137, 178, 189, 191, 253, 273 World War II 31–33, 35, 50, 62, 246 World Zionist Organization 233, 260, 265

318

index of subjects

XI Zionist Congress 255, 259 Yad Vashem 69 Yeshiva 6, 144, 147, 150, 152, 155, 187 Yiddish 32, 60, 188, 190, 282; press 190–93; ghettoes 192 Yishuv 81, 93, 99, 240, 246, 251, 254, 264, 269 Yom Kippur 4, 57; war 58, 242 Zionism 4, 6, 55, 57, 60, 69, 88–90,

92, 101–3, 110, 114, 123, 136, 138, 149, 173–74, 180, 182–85, 213, 215–16, 234–35, 238–39, 241–42, 245, 247–50, 253, 258, 263, 281–82 Zionist 54–56, 76, 84; Labor Movement 93, 95–96, 258–59; movement 81, 109, 111–12, 248–51, 253–58, 260–62, 264; Organization 51–55, 260; thinkers 15, 85; Youth movements 57 Zionist Organization of America (ZOA) 271

INDEX OF NAMES Abicht, L. 3, 31 Adler, S. 264 Antin, M. 191 Antonescu 51 Aran, Z. 242 Artzi, I. 56 Bareli, A. 5, 93 Bayle, P. 217 Begin, M. 214 Ben-Chaim Rafael, L. 6, 151 Ben-Gurion, D. 8, 89–90, 92, 98, 203–6, 215, 232–35, 237, 242 Ben-Rafael, E. 1, 9, 203, 206–7, 279 Bentwich, N. 265 Benveniste, M. 56 Berdichevsky, M. Y. 77–78, 83 Bergman, H. 263 Bergson, H. L. 261 Berkovits, E. 298–99 Berlin, I. 106, 235 Birnbaum, P. 3, 13 Bodnaras, E. 50 Bonaparte, N. 14, 33 Bratianu, C. I. 53 Brenner, J. H. 77–78, 81–83, 259 Bruggen, C. 33 Buber, M. 5, 86–92, 232, 255 Caro, Y. 145–46, 149 Ceausescu, N. 51 Charpentier, P. 57 Cherrick, B. 270 Chisinevschi, I. 55 Clermont-Tonnerre 213 Cohen, E. E. 173 Cohen, S. M. 196 Cohen, U. 8, 248 Cwajgenbaum, S. 67 Daniel, J. 209, 217 Dinur, B. 76, 248 Dorian, D. 59 Dubnow, S. 77, 79–80, 82–83, 243, 257 Dulgheru 54 Dumont 280

Eder, D. 266, 270 Eickleman, D. F. 154 Einstein, A. 261, 267, 273 Eisenhower, D. 56 Elam, Y. 260 Eliachar, Y. S. 149 Elyashberg, M. 80–81 Elyashberg, Y. 80 Ezer, B. 90 Fackenheim, E. xi, 296–99 Feiwel, B. 255 Filderman 53–54 Finkielkraut, A. 65, 69, 208, 217, 221 Fischer, J. 65 Fodor, A. 264 Forrester, V. 66 Frankel, J. 77 Friedan, B. 194 Friedmann, G. 208 Gamoran, E. 180 Geertz, C. 274 Gergely, T. ix, 1–2, 9, 289 Gheorghiu Dej, G. 50–51, 54–55 Ginsberg, S. 261 Glöckner, O. 3, 36 Goldberg, I. L. 256 Goldmann, N. 8, 233–38, 242, 244 Goldziher, I. 261 Gordon, A. D. 81–82, 259 Gorny, Y. 1, 5, 75 Gratz, R. 186–88 Greenberg, B. 198 Groza, P. 51 Grüber, H. 295–296 Ha"am, A. 78–83, 110, 184, 253, 258–59 Haarscher, G. 7, 203 Habermas, J. 15 HaLevi, D. 141–42 Hayyim 141 Hazan, E. 139, 142 Hazaz, H. 110 Heijermans, H. 33 Heller, M. 181–82, 272

320

index of names

Hertzberg, A. 35 Herzl, T. 213 Hess, M. 213 Hitler, A. xi, 70, 270, 295 Hochhuth, R. 221 Hurwitz, H. 173 Hyman, P. E. 194 Iampolschi, A. 56 Iancu, C. 4, 50 Israel de Haan, J. 33 Issac, J. 208 Jabotinsky, V. 257–58 Jasper, W. 3, 36 Kallen, H. M. 173 Kaplan, M. 178, 180, 195 Karelitz, A. (Hazon Ish) 109 Kattan, E. 62 Katznelson, B. 78–79, 81–83 Kepel, G. 220 Kessler, J. 37 Kierkegaard, S. 117 Konopnicki, M. 4, 60 Kook, A. 109 Korczak, J. 292 Kovács, A. 4, 43 Kovner, A. 236–38, 239–242, 44–46 Krygier, R. 8, 223 Kymlicka, W. 15 Landau, E. 261 Lavi-Löwenstein, T. 55 Le Pen, J. 24 Leibowitz, Y. 117 Levinas, E. 106 Lévy, B. 65 Lévy, B. H. 65 Locke, J. 217 Lörrach 36 Magnes, J. L. 256, 260, 262–64, 266, 268 Maimonides 118, 139, 141, 149, 290 Marcuse, H. 216 Mark, A. 56 Marshall, L. 261, 263 Marty, E. 64, 66 Marx, K. 104 Meir, Y. 149 Meyer, D. 8, 230 Michael 50–51 Micle, T. 54

Mittwoch, E. 261 Morgenstern, J. 181–82 Nacht, H. 56 Nasreen, T. 221 Neher, A. 71 Ornstein, K. 56 Ornstein, L. S. 261 Patrascanu, L. 50, 52 Pauker, A. 53 Peres, Y. 6, 121 Pinsker, L. 101, 213 Pinto, D. 1 Pius XII 221 Polak, H. 33 Porat, D. 8, 233 Priesand, S. 195 Querido, I.

33

Rabbi of Mezerich 238 Radescu 51 Ratzabi, S. 5, 85 Rawls, J. 219 Raz, J. 105 Reinharz, J. 255 Ringlet, G. 220 Rosen, M. 58 Rosen-Zvi A. 120 Rotenstreich, N. 5, 93–104 Rothschild, B. E. 256 Rubenstein, R. L. xii, 293–96, 298–99 Safran, A. 52–53, 58 Sagi, A. 5, 105 Samet 142 Samuel, H. 270 Sanatescu 51 Sartre, J. P. 207 Schapira, Z. H. 254 Schein, E. 56 Schocken, S. Z. 263 Schoeps, J. H. 3, 36 Scholem, G. 243, 262 Schorsch, I. 244 Schreiber, J. P. 3, 27 Schulman, S. 183 Schuman, R. 57 Schwerin 36 Shiff, O. 7 Shor, S. Y. 135

index of names Sibony, D. 67 Silberstein, L. J. 88 Silver, A. H. 7, 173–75, 177–80, 182–85 Simonnet, D. 69 Smith, A. 252 Smith, B. 280 Sokolow, N. 253, 266 Stalin, J. 51 Stauber, R. 66

321

Vromen, S. 7, 186

Taguieff, P. A. 70 Tal, U. 245 Taylor 108 Taylor, C. 15, 211 Tocqueville, A. 186

Wallenberg, R. xiii Warburg, F. 263, 270–72 Waxman 285 Weisgal, M. W. 271 Weizmann, C. 255–58, 260–63, 265–66, 270 Wertheim, A. C. 33 Wieviorka, M. 63–64 William, I. 33 Winock, M. 68 Wise, I. M. 181–82 Wittgenstein, L. 203, 286, 288 Wittrock, B. 153 Wolffsohn, D. 256

Uzziel, M. H. 140–41, 149

Yosef, O.

Vadim, C. 59 Vinte, I. 54

Zissu, A. L. 56 Zohar, Z. 6, 133

6, 144–45, 148