Rabbinic Creativity in the Modern Middle East 9781472552556, 9781441165411, 9781441133298

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This Publication was made possible through the generous support of Mr. Romie Tager, QC, and his wife Esther, of London, England.

INTRODUCTION

Over the course of recent centuries, tremendous changes have taken place in human societies and cultures. Most of the accounts of these changes seem to have been written from a Eurocentric perspective. This is true also with regard to portrayals of the Jewish people and Judaism. For at least 2000 years, from biblical times until the end of the first millennium ce, Jews and Judaism existed and developed in the Middle East (including, toward the end of that period, lands in North Africa and Spain ruled by and acculturated to a later Middle Eastern religious culture—Islam). Around the year 1000 ce, Jews were clearly a Middle Eastern and Mediterranean people, concentrated mainly in Islamic lands of the Middle East, North Africa, and Spain, but also in the territories of Christian Byzantium. Although Jewish cultural-religious creativity began to flourish in Northern France and the Rhineland (“Ashkenaz“) in the eleventh century, it was not until 700 years later—sometime in the eighteenth century—that numerical parity was reached between the Yiddish speaking (“Ashkenazic”) Jews of Central and Eastern Europe and the Arabic and Ladino speaking Jews of the Ottoman Empire and North Africa. Thus, for 90% of their historical timeline, Jews and Judaism were completely or mostly Middle Eastern and Mediterranean; yet today they are perceived by many—both Jews and non-Jews—as an Occidental people and culture, and their history and development are presented through Eurocentric eyes. This focus on European Jews and Judaism is especially striking with regard to accounts of the history and development of Jewish religion and culture in modern times. The course of Judaism and Jewish culture in modern times is charted from the eighteenth-century schism between Hassidim and Misnagdim through the Jewish Enlightenment of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries: thence to the appearance of the Reform movement (c. 1810) and the formation of its arch-opponent, the Orthodox movement, thence to secularization, German-Jewish philosophy, Jewish socialism (e.g. the Bund), Zionism, etc. The image of Judaism becomes that of the various Ashkenazic denominations, and the study of Jewish creativity—in theology, philosophy, halakha (Jewish Law), and kabbalah—becomes the study of works produced by Ashkenazic Jews, whether in Europe or in North America. This book, scheduled for publication 30 years after the appearance of

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my first article on rabbinic creativity in the modern Middle East,1 deals with aspects of rabbinic creativity and response to change in modern Iraq, Syria, and Egypt. As such, it is part of my endeavor to rectify the all-tooEurocentric perception of modern Judaism. However, focusing as I do on rabbinic responses to modernity, this work (and many of my other writings) can also provide illumination with regard to an issue that is part of another thread: does European Orthodoxy, as it developed in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, represent the organic, “natural” response of traditional halakhic Judaism to the challenges of modernity? Awareness of accelerated and expanding processes of change and a crisis in the consciousness of continuity with traditional reality created major challenges in the recent two hundred years for Jews who sought to conduct their lives in accordance with Torah. These challenges were especially severe for halakhic scholars, whose responsibility is to define and formulate the behavioral norms and the religious orientation appropriate for Jews to follow in these times. Furthermore, processes of modernization occurred in step with cultural developments such as enlightenment and secularization, some of whose proponents adhered to anti-traditional and anti-clerical ideologies. It was not easy for halakhic scholars to differentiate between their inclination to react vigorously and negatively to these ideologies and their responsibility to respond in a matter-of-fact way, issue by issue, to the wide range of changes wrought by modernity. On the contrary: It was very tempting to tie things together and to regard modern social and cultural developments as integrally related to the threatening worldviews of those who “cast off the yoke of Torah.” Some great rabbis gave in to this temptation and formulated a worldview that identified loyalty to the Torah with loyalty to norms and ways of life that characterized pre-modern Jewish life. This worldview was expressed concisely in the phrase: “The New is forbidden by Torah” (he-Hadash Assur min haTorah). On this view, authentic Jewish continuity would be maintained only to the extent that Jewish society continued to cloister itself from external influences, its members “closed and hidden off in a room within a room”2 as they always had been. As Rabbi Moshe Sofer put it: “It is fully clear to God, that it is impossible for the Israelite People to be different from the rest of the nations, except if they separate themselves completely from them and from their ways.”3 Education especially, Rabbi Sofer declared, must continue as it had in pre-modern times, “in the way we have followed forever, from the days of Moses our teacher (may he rest

“Mishnatam haHilkhatit shel Hakhmei Yisrael beMitzrayyim haModernit” (The Halakhic Teaching of Egyptian Rabbis in Modern Times), Pe’amim 16, 1983, pp. 65–88. 2 Thus Rabbi Moshe Sofer (aka Hatam Sofer) in an impressive sermon that he delivered in 1811, when maskilim sought to establish a modern Jewish school in the city of Pressburg. See: Hatam Sofer – Derashot, vol. 1, Klausenberg/Cluj, 1929, sermon on Beshalah. 3 Ibid. 1

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in peace) until today.”4 The assertion that modes of Jewish life characteristic of pre-enlightenment Ashkenazic Jewish society were simply the continuation of a Judaism unchanged since time immemorial cannot, of course, be regarded as a statement of historical fact: Human societies and cultures are not static entities. Rather, Rabbi Sofer’s words are a rhetorical device presenting Ashkenazic Orthodoxy as nothing but the custodian and protector of the original and only authentic form of Judaism. Jacob Katz, a leading historian and sociologist of Jewish life, critiqued this assertion: The claim of the Orthodox to be no more than the guardians of the pure Judaism of old is a fiction. In fact, Orthodoxy was a method of confronting deviant trends, and of responding to the very same stimuli which produced those trends, albeit with a conscious effort to deny such extrinsic motivations.5 It is not hard to empathize with the feelings of Rabbi Sofer and other great scholars that modern developments threatened the continuity of Judaism. It is also not difficult to understand why they felt called upon to respond as they did, by rejecting change and quarantining Jewish religion and culture in order to protect them from corruptive influence. However, this strategy entailed many severe consequences. One of these was radical curtailment of the degree of discretion that could legitimately be exercised by a halakhic decisor (poseq). At this point, some preliminary remarks are in order. According to the classic rules of the halakhic system, no precedent is formally binding: in principle, a poseq may—if he considers it necessary and appropriate—disregard the decisions of earlier authorities on the matter at hand and rule solely according to his own best construction and application of the original canonic sources.6 That being said, in fact many decisors are on record as stating that they do regard themselves as bound by precedent.7 But even if precedent is considered binding, a poseq’s decision is not necessarily actually determined by precedent. Washofsky8 points to the work of the American legal scholar Karl Llewellyn (1893–1962), who studied hundreds of court decisions and demonstrated that “there is a long list of techniques by which American courts construe the rulings of their Ibid. See: Jacob Katz, “Orthodoxy in Historical Perspective,” Studies in Contemporary Jewry, 2 (1986), pp. 3–17; the quote is taken from pages 4–5. 6 See: Zorach Warhaftig, “Precedent in Jewish Law,” Hanina Ben-Menahem and Neil S. Hecht (eds), Authority, Process and Method; Studies in Jewish Law, Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1998, pp. 1–32; Elon, Jewish Law (third edition), Jerusalem, 1992, pp. 799 ff. 7 Mark Washofsky, “Taking Precedent Seriously: On Halakhah as a Rhetorical Practice,” Walter Jacob and Moshe Zemer (eds), Re-Examining Progressive Halakhah, New York: Berghahn Books, 2002, pp. 1–70. 8 Ibid. 4 5

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predecessors … A judge may decide to follow, restrict, ignore, redirect, or ‘kill’ the holding of a precedent, all with equal legitimacy, by utilizing these techniques.”9 In American law, a judge’s utilization of such techniques or “leeways” is constrained by “social and professional factors,” not the least of which is that a judge must justify his decision in a form that the members of the craft will find acceptable.10 Analogous techniques also exist within halakha; here too, the need to justify decisions in a manner acceptable to other rabbis is a major factor in determining which techniques a poseq will utilize and to which ends.11 We now return to a major consequence of the Ashkenazic Orthodox dictum, “The new is forbidden by the Torah”: it created an atmosphere in which utilization of “leeways” to enable a freer and more creative application of halakha to contemporary social and cultural realities became unacceptable to “members of the craft,” i.e. to Orthodox Ashkenazic rabbis. Under this atmosphere the consensus of rabbinic opinion was such that loyalty to the Torah of Israel was seen to entail discreditation of decisions that seemed different from what had been accepted in the past. An expression of this attitude can be found in a responsum of Rabbi Shmuel Yitzhak Schorr,12 who wrote: With regard to what you asked, if one is allowed to change something from the Shulhan ‘Arukh in accordance with the spirit of the time – certainly there is no question with regard to what has been decided in the Shulhan ‘Arukh according to halakha: Who would be so foolish as to say that it may be changed?! Indeed, God forbid that even the smallest of changes be made, even to rulings based only upon custom … And if you should find some heretics who say otherwise, “the opinion of an imbecile is not an opinion.”13 Bialik’s acquaintance in Eastern Europe with such principled halakhic rigidity may well have been the ground for his well known characterization of halakha: Halakha has an angry face … Strict, severe, hard as steel – strict justice Washofsky’s summary of Llewellyn, ibid., p. 12. This is explicated by Llewellyn in his work The Common Law Tradition: Deciding Appeals, Boston: Little, Brown, 1960, pp. 19–61, in the chapter “Major Steadying Factors in Our Appellate Courts.” I am indebted to Washofsky for this reference. 11 As Avi Sagi and I have shown, the image the decisor has of the peer community of scholars who will be reading his decision is one of the factors that he takes into consideration when formulating that decision. See: Ma'aglei Zehut Yehudit baSifrut haHilkhatit, Tel Aviv: Hakkibutz Hameuchad, 2000, p. 189ff. 12 Rabbi Shmuel Yitzhak Schorr (Galicia, 1839–1902), author of responsa Minhat Shai, was a leading Orthodox poseq during the last third of the nineteenth century. 13 Cited by his son, Abraham Zvi Schorr, in Shevivei E”sh on Shulhan 'Arukh Orah Hayyim and Hoshen Mishpat, Jerusalem, 1935, in his comments on Hilkhot Shabbat (p. 65). 9

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… [it] sets forth its ruling and leaves no room for differentiation: Its yes is Yes, its no is No … fossilized piety, obligation, enslavement …14 Given the success of Ashkenazic Orthodoxy in effectively monopolizing halakhic discourse in nineteenth-century Europe, as well as in twentiethcentury Europe, North America, and (to a large extent) Israel, many believe that the halakhic approach presented above is simply the authentic traditional halakhic approach. But our critical sense might bring us to wonder: Is this truly the only option for halakhic response to modern challenges? Might it not be that this response is but a particular strategy whose internal logic was intrinsically tied to a specific social-religious context? Are halakhic decisors unable to respond to socio-cultural change in a manner not based upon defensiveness and cultural-religious self-segregation? Over and above rectification of the Eurocentric portrayal of modern Judaism that may be achieved by dealing with the halakhic creativity of Middle Eastern rabbis in modern times, this book also contributes to the formulation of answers to the questions raised above, since Middle Eastern rabbis and decisors were not part of internal Jewish-European denominational schisms. If they nevertheless independently adopted an attitude identical or similar to “The new is forbidden by Torah,” this might well be taken as support for the view that such a response is intrinsically natural to halakha. However, if it transpires that Middle Eastern Sephardic-Oriental posqim did not follow such a policy, but rather applied a more open and creative approach, this may indicate that the specific cultural-religious orientation of European halakhic decisors represents but one circumscribed option within a wider range of authentic halakhic responses to sociocultural change.

Middle Eastern Rabbis, 1850–1950 Study of Torah is a core cultural-religious ideal in Jewish tradition. However, this tradition disapproved of individuals who sought Torah knowledge as a vehicle for social status and economic success. Throughout Jewish history, many of those who were recognized by their contemporaries as first-rate Torah scholars made their livelihood from secular occupations such as trade or artisanship. Those who were employed—full or part time—by the community were of extremely different statuses. In large cities an outstanding Torah scholar could strive to be appointed to a senior, high status position such as haRav haKollel (Chief Rabbi of the entire community), as a dayyan (judge) in the Rabbinical court or as head of a From: C. N. Bialik, “Halakhah ve-Aggadah,” Complete Writings of Hayyim Nahman Bialik [Hebrew], Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1949, pp. 207–13.

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yeshiva or a midrash where Torah was taught and studied at an advanced level. Candidacy for such senior positions was often “international”; thus, the Jewish community in Baghdad or Cairo might appoint a well known rabbi from Jerusalem or Aleppo to the position of haRav haKollel, though sometimes an outstanding local rabbi (who perhaps was married to the daughter of one of the community’s dignitaries) might be appointed to such a position. Positions with a lower status, such as rabbi of a neighborhood synagogue, court scribe, ritual slaughterer, or schoolteacher were generally filled by local candidates. Service as rabbinic judges, as rabbis of synagogues, and as heads of midrashim and yeshivot was usually not considered a full time occupation. Communities throughout the Middle East had chosen chief rabbis for themselves for hundreds of years. However, in 1835 the Ottoman Empire decided to accord official recognition and status to a Chief Rabbi of Istanbul, bestowing the title Hakham Bashi. Subsequently, such titles were bestowed upon rabbis of other large cities within the Empire. Official appointments provided those who held them with an additional source of authority; at the same time, this increased the possibility of tensions between these rabbis and other centers of power in the community, whether rabbinic or secular. In any case, due to other processes that had an impact upon these societies during the time under consideration, state recognition of rabbinic leadership did not suffice to provide rabbis with assured status and authority.15 Many years of intensive and in-depth Torah study are required in order to reach a high level of Torah scholarship. Thus, after completing elementary level studies in the kuttab, youths with appropriate qualifications could engage in higher levels of study in a yeshiva or midrash and/or be accepted as the personal student of a well-known rabbi or an outstanding judge. But since during his years of study he would also need to make a living, the opportunities of a young man to devote himself to Torah study were affected by the economic situation of his family and of the community. During the time period under discussion (1850–1950) not only the objective economic situation affected the channeling of the necessary means for funding Torah study; cultural factors also intervened. Thus, for instance, many wealthy parents who in the past might have encouraged their intellectually capable son to pursue Torah studies tended—due to changes brought about by modernity—to prefer that he devote his time to acquiring modern education. Similarly, parents who previously would have seen a young Torah scholar as a prime marital candidate for their daughter (while committing themselves to finance his Torah studies for several years after the wedding) may well have changed their preferences in line with

See e.g. Yaron Harel, Bein Tekhakhim le-Mahpekha (Between Intrigues and Revolution), Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 2007.

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changes in the cultural values of their well-to-do social milieu; promising young men with a modern education were now considered a more attractive match. This and more: The increasing complexity and variety of occupations in the modern era and the need to undergo professional training and specialization made it much more difficult for individuals, no matter how talented, to emulate Torah scholars of earlier generations who earned a livelihood in occupations that required a relatively limited part of their time and intellectual attention and thus could both work and devote significant time to Torah. As an increasing number of schools offered advanced Western studies, and as more professional and cultural opportunities opened before the younger generation, talented young men had many more career alternatives than did their fathers or grandfathers. The fact that many talented youths chose to take advantage of the numerous newly developing career tracks inevitably had an impact on the overall quality of those who turned to higher Torah study. Even the children of the greatest Torah scholars, who in the past would have taken for granted that they follow in their father’s rabbinic path, now frequently preferred other options. While we don’t have records of numbers, it is probable that at any given point during the past two hundred years the overall number of adult Sephardic/Oriental Torah scholars in the entire Middle East never exceeded a thousand. With specific regard to the countries discussed in this book, the Jewish population of Iraq, Syria, and Egypt grew significantly from the middle of the nineteenth century until the massive emigration to Israel and elsewhere in the middle of the twentieth century; yet the absolute numbers of Torah scholars in those countries diminished consistently over these years. Thus, for example, the important “Beit Zilkha” Yeshiva in Baghdad16 had 60 students in 1848, 30 students in 1863, and in 1879—only 20 students. In Aleppo, known for a millennium as an important center of Torah study, efforts were made in the nineteenth century to strengthen the status of Torah scholars, but by 1933 only one yeshiva had survived, with about 20 students—most of whom had no intention of pursuing Torah as a career.17 In the early years of the twentieth century, Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim’on, Chief Rabbi of Cairo, wrote: “This pleasant city [Cairo] is barren of yeshivas of students of the Torah. Aside from the [rabbinical] court of justice and those religious functionaries linked to it—the remaining [people of Jewish learning] could be counted by a mere child.”18 Despite the general decline in the status and number of Torah scholars, Middle Eastern Jewish communities in this period—as in earlier generations—were blessed with a creative and talented cadre of Torah scholars.

Mentioned in Chapter 1, near notes 4–5. On this, see Chapter 4, near note 85. 18 Author’s introduction to Tuv Mitzrayyim, Jerusalem, 1908. 16 17

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These rabbis, and their halakhic and ideational creations, are the subject of this book. The fascinating paths they chose to follow in their meeting with (and response to) the modern world, as they experienced and understood it, illuminate modes of religious thought and cultural-religious creativity that can be of great significance for the present and the future.

Methodology and acknowledgments This book is divided geographically. The first three chapters are devoted to the rabbis of Iraq, the next three to Syrian rabbis, and the latter five to rabbis who were active in Egypt. Sephardic rabbis of the Land of Israel are also, of course, part and parcel of Middle Eastern rabbinical culture. However, to include even a representative discussion of their works and creativity would have entailed doubling the length of this (already not short) book. I hope in the not too far future to be able to publish in English a volume devoted to the writings and religious thought of the many outstanding SephardicOriental rabbis who lived during these times in the Holy Land. Not all of the Torah scholars who lived and acted in Iraq, Syria, and Egypt during the period under consideration are represented in this book, and much research remains to be done on the topic. It is my hope that readers will find the cultural and religious world of Sephardic-Oriental rabbis to be of great interest and richness, that contemporary rabbis and laypersons will derive inspiration from the Sephardic approach, and that additional researchers will become interested in the field. Furthermore, I sincerely hope that non-Jewish readers, especially those from Islamic lands but also other readers worldwide, will come to see aspects of modern Judaism from a non-Eurocentric perspective and to appreciate the creativity of Middle Eastern scholars of halakha who faced changes and challenges very similar to those faced by religious leaders of other faith communities in the modern Middle East. Most of the chapters of this book are based upon, but not identical to, earlier versions that appeared in my work He’iru P’nei haMizrah.19 I find it difficult to translate my own writing into English. The process followed in the current work was, therefore, as follows: first, the multi-talented Israel Sykes translated into English those chapters that had originally been written in Hebrew. I am very grateful to Israel for this crucial step, without which this book could not have appeared. After receiving Israel’s well written translations, I proceeded to invest further work on the chapters, in light of several considerations. As over 10 years had passed since the book appeared in Hebrew, research that had been conducted in the interim (both by others Hakibbutz Hameuchad, Tel Aviv, 2001. Chapter 6 has never before appeared in print, and chapter 7 is based on an article that appeared in Hebrew in Pe’amim, 125–9, 2011. 19

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and by myself) was one obvious factor. Also, my own understanding and interpretation of several matters had changed and developed over the years. In addition, turns of phrase and structuring of arguments that had seemed fine to me in the original Hebrew over a decade ago now seemed awkward, stilted, or otherwise inept. Therefore, I went over each chapter with a fine-toothed comb and reworked it, twice. The same was done for those chapters based on an earlier English source.20 The final version was then handed over to the hands of Laura Major, who contributed her expert editorial skills and to whom I am deeply indebted for the book as it now stands. I take this opportunity to thank Dr. Dror Yinon, Amotz Asa-El, and Rachel Schwartz of the Hartman Institute publication division, as well as Lalle Pursglove of Continuum Publishers, for their very professional assistance and helpfulness over the course of some three years, between my proposal for publication of this book and its actual appearance in print. For over three decades now, my work has been tremendously enhanced by my appointment as a senior research fellow at the Center for Advanced Judaic Studies that is part of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, whose founder, Rabbi Professor David Hartman, a man of vision and courage, named it in honor of his father.21 I have been privileged by the opportunity to conduct research in the unique context of that Institute, in the company of creative and innovative scholars whose feedback and criticism have always been constructive and collegial, and from whose knowledge and insights I have benefited greatly. Special mention in this context is due to my good friend and colleague, Professor Avi Sagi, with whom I have published several works of joint scholarship over the years.22 As this book was being prepared for publication in June 2012, we lost one of the oldest and most beloved of the Institute’s scholars, Yoske Ahituv of Kibbutz ‘Ein Tzurim. His integrity, originality, social consciousness, and personal warmth are already sorely missed by all of us—not least by myself, as our relations had strengthened over recent years. May his memory be a blessing for us all. For more than 10 years I have also been privileged to be a faculty member of Bar Ilan University, affiliated with the Faculty of Law and with various departments within the Faculty of Jewish Studies. This has enabled me to teach a wide range of courses relating to rabbis of the Middle East and North Africa from the sixteenth century to the present, as well as to the history and development of several areas in halakha from antiquity to the present. Thanks to the preparation and teaching of these courses, as well as to the guidance of research students in these fields, my Chapters 5, 6, 8, 10, 11. David’s son, Rabbi Dr. Donniel Hartman, is now capably leading the Institute. 22 Including an earlier book in this series, devoted to the history and development of Jewish Law from ancient times to the present with regard to the acceptance of non-Jews into the Jewish People: Transforming Identity, London: Continuum, 2007. 20 21

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own understanding and comprehension of the sources and of the relevant issues have grown and deepened. The fact that the Law Faculty at Bar Ilan has what is probably the highest concentration in the world of faculty members specializing in Jewish Law has also been of significant importance in facilitating my thinking and research in this area. I take this opportunity to thank my colleagues at Bar Ilan, with special mention to Professor Arie Reich, outgoing Dean of the Law Faculty, and to extend special thanks to major supporters of the faculty’s activities in the field of Jewish Law, Mr. Romie Tager, QC, and his wife Esther, whose support also made possible the translation of this work into English. Finally I would like to thank my wife Avigail Ayala: Our love for each other continues, as it has for many years now, to provide depth, vitality, and color to my life. I also thank and express my love and gratitude to my beloved children Inbal, Yahav, Shalhevet, Shahar, Lavi, and Tchelet, and my granddaughters Ruth, Ayala, and Naomi. May we continue to enjoy many loving years together. This book is dedicated to my parents and teachers, Yitzchak and Ora Zohar, who educated me and raised me to love Judaism while being open to the world, and who exemplify such an approach in their own lives. Now well into their eighties, their love for each other and for life continues to be an inspiration for all who come into contact with them. 'Od yenuvun be-seiva, desheinim ve-ra'ananim yihyu (Ps. 92.15).

1 New horizons: Aspects of the Halakhic creativity of Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh

Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh—A key figure in the development of Rabbinic cultural activity in nineteenth-century Iraq In this chapter we will discuss several aspects of the writings of Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh, whose influence on the cultural-Jewish world of Babylonian Jewry in the nineteenth century was decisive. The source of this influence was his combined work as a writer and educator: In addition to his rabbinic writing and halakhic responsa, Rabbi Somekh was the founder and driving force behind the establishment ex nihilo of a structured institutional framework for training young Torah scholars and for advancing them both as students and as teachers. Rabbi Somekh was born in Baghdad in 1813 to a family that traced its lineage back to Nissi[m] ben Berechiah al-Nahrawani, scholar and poet of late ninth- and early tenth-century Iraq. Rabbi Somekh spent his whole life without leaving Iraq, passing away in Baghdad in 1889 at the age of 76.1 During the second decade of his life he learned directly from one of the greatest Torah scholars of the previous generation, Rabbi Ya’aqov Brabi Yosef Harofeh.2 He went on to spend several years in commerce, but when he was in his mid-twenties (that is, in the second half of the 1830s) he decided to change course and to devote himself to the cultivation and

For more about Rabbi Somekh, see: Avraham Ben Ya'kov, ha-Rav 'Abdallah Somekh, Jerusalem 1949 (Hebrew); Zvi Zohar, “Somekh, 'Abd Allah”, Norman Stillman (ed.), Encyclopedia of Jews in the Islamic World, IV, Leiden, 2010, pp. 401–3. This work will henceforth be cited as EJIW. 2 With regard to Rabbi Harofeh, see: Zvi Zohar, “Jacob ben Joseph ha-Rofe”, EJIW, III, p. 3. 1

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guidance of the top graduates of the Baghdadi Talmud Torah schools, with the express purpose of cultivating the next generation of Torah scholars for Babylonian Jewry. Rabbi Somekh’s educational-cultural initiative had the massive financial backing of Yehezkel ben Reuven Menashe, who had made a fortune in India, and who, upon his return from there in 1855, became a major supporter of many philanthropic and public projects. In 1840 he constructed a beit midrash (study hall; named “Midrash Abu Menashe” after him) and set up a large fund whose income was designated for financing students who learned there. Rabbi Somekh was chosen to head the beit midrash. He accepted candidates from among the best of the graduates of “Midrash Talmud Torah”3 and guided them as they continued to develop in Torah study while they received sustenance from Yehezkel Menashe’s fund. Thanks to this fund, the institution and the hiring of its staff were separate from the usual hierarchy of community rabbinic and scholarly positions (chief rabbi, judges, ritual slaughterers, and the like), affording the scholars and teachers considerably more independence from external intervention by rabbinic and lay leadership than would otherwise have been the case. Over time, the institution became multi-layered as advanced students took on responsibility for the guidance and education of “Yeshivot” of younger students. In 1848 the traveler “Benjamin the Second” visited Baghdad and reported that he found in the Midrash “sixty students being educated to serve as halakhic decisors.”4 Rabbi Somekh continued to head the beit midrash (which in time moved to a larger and more modern building, Midrash Beit Zilkha) until his death in 1889. In an obituary, Rabbi Shlomo Bekhor Hutsin wrote of Somekh: He restored the crown of Torah in Bavel to its ancient glory, after it had been removed for hundreds of years, for he founded a great and spacious beit-midrash, raised up many disciples and imbued Israel with Torah. Almost all scholars and rabbis [currently] in Bavel, Persia, Medea and India studied under him and drank from the well of living water that he created. And our brethren in these lands all refer to him as Istai, i.e., our teacher and master, just as Rabbi Judah the Prince [redactor of the Mishna] was called simply “our teacher.”5 Rabbi 'Abdullah Somekh’s great literary creation was his composition Zivhei Tzedeq on Shulhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah6 and two collections of The public Talmud Torah of the Baghdad community established in 1833, which by 1863 had 1800 boys studying there. 4 Binyamin, Yisrael Ben Yosef, Sefer Mas'ei Yisrael, Lyck, 5619 [1859], p. 46. 5 haTsefirah, 26 Tishrei 5690, p. 891 [my translation, Z. Z.]. 6 Two volumes of the book were first published in Baghdad in 1899. In 1969 another edition 3



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halakhic responsa. The first collection was printed as an appendix at the end of the volumes of Zivhei Tzedeq,7 and the second was published in 1981 under the title Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot.8 With regard to the geographical scope of the communities that addressed halakhic queries to Rabbi Somekh, analysis of the responsa shows that in addition to the many answers sent to India and those written in relation to problems that arose in Baghdad itself, Rabbi Somekh responded to questions written to him from outlying communities in Iraq, from Persia, and even one from “the city of Hong Kong in the land of China.” In other words, the halakhic horizon of authority of the rabbinic leadership of Baghdad in the nineteenth century extended from Iraq eastward. And this is not surprising: With the exception of Persia, which had long since been under the halakhic sway of Babylonia, the individuals and communities posing the questions were former residents of Iraq who had settled in the British colonies in Asia and who, under the auspices of this colonial power and its legal order, had developed a flourishing local and international trade.9

of Zivhei Tzedeq was published in Jerusalem. This edition included considerable additions, including parts of Rabbi Somekh’s work from a manuscript covering chapters 159–66 (relating to laws of financial interest) and chapters 179–87 in Yoreh De'ah. In 1976, Rabbi Elisha Nissim Dangour’s work Gedulot Elishá was published in Jerusalem. The publishers appended to this volume an additional segment of Zivhei Tzedeq, on chapters 177, 178, and the beginning of 179 of Yoreh De'ah. A newly typeset and revised edition of Zivhei Tzedeq, including chapters 1–187, was published in three volumes in Jerusalem, 2003. 7 To the first volume, four responsa on matters of Kashrut were added, and to the second volume 88 responsa were added, mostly relating to matters of daily worship, the yearly ritual cycle and halakhic prohibitions (Orah Hayyim and Yoreh De'ah). 8 This third collection includes Rabbi Somekh’s answers to questions posed to him by his nephew, Yehezkel Yehoshua Gabai, who had emigrated to India and settled there. This collection includes 167 responsa, mostly on matters relating to Orah Hayyim and Yoreh De'ah, but also in matters of family law (Even ha-'Ezer), civil law (Hoshen Mishpat), biblical interpretation, and religious thought. This collection is particularly enlightening with regard to the lives of expatriate Babylonian Jews living in India, and the relations between them and their community of origin. Some of the responsa in this collection were already printed in the 1904 edition, meaning that the publishers of those first collections were in possession of some of Rabbi Somekh’s replies to questions addressed to him from India. On the other hand, with regard to responsa in the first collection not found in Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, it can be hypothesized that they were not addressed to India. 9 On the Jews who emigrated from Iraq and the communities that they established throughout Britain’s Asian colonies, see: Avraham Ben Ya'akov, Yehudei Bavel ba-Tefutzot [Babylonian Jews in the Diaspora], [Hebrew] 1985. About the Iraqi Jews in India during this period, see: Joan G. Roland, Jews in British India: Identity in a Colonial Era, Hanover, 1989. For a critical survey of research on Iraqi Jews in India up to 2007, see: J. G. Roland, “The Baghdadi Jews of India: perspectives on the study and portrayal of a community,” Ranabir Chakravarti, Braj M. Sinha, Shalva Weil (eds), Indo-Judaic Studies in the Twenty-First Century; a View from the Margin, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007, pp. 158–80. About Iraqi Jews in Burma, see: Ruth Fredman Cernea, Almost Englishmen: Baghdadi Jews in British Burma, Lanham: Lexington Press, 2007. About Iraqi Jews in Hong Kong, see: Caroline Plüss, “Baghdadi Jews in Hong Kong: converting cultural, social and economic capital among three transregional

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With regard to the years in which the responsa were written, only some of them bear a date. Of these, the first is from 1856 and the last from 1889, the year of Rabbi Somekh’s death. It is of course possible that some of the undated responsa were composed prior to 1856.

Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh and the changes in the world of Babylonian Jewry inside and outside Iraq Quite a few of the questions discussed by Rabbi Somekh reflect changes in different realms of life encountered by Babylonian Jews in the nineteenth century. Some of these changes took place in Iraq itself. In 1831 Iraq reverted to the de facto control of the central government of the Ottoman Empire, and this empire underwent significant processes of development and change in the nineteenth century – whether because of the Tanzimat reforms or because of the variety of European influences made possible by the Capitulatory treaties. Other types of change took place outside of Iraq and specifically in India and other areas of the British Empire. Because Iraqi emigrants to India continued to see the Babylonian rabbis as the highest religious authority, these rabbis—including Rabbi ‘Abdallah Somekh— became exposed to changes and innovations that were as yet unknown in Baghdad itself, and were asked to provide halakhic guidelines for the maintenance of a proper Jewish life in the context of these changes. What were these innovations to which Rabbi Somekh was exposed, and how did he respond and relate to them? What does this teach us about the nature of his cultural and religious world? These questions are the subject of this chapter. We shall begin our discussion with those responsa in which Rabbi Somekh relates to the most obvious dimension of innovation: Nineteenth-century European technology. Next, we shall go on to consider a dimension of European innovation that was no less influential: Methods of organization and operation of both public services and commerce. We shall then provide an overview of other areas of innovation reflected in Rabbi Somekh’s work, including the increased variety of types of food and drink, the adoption by Iraqi émigrés of European social norms, and the influence of European rabbinic writings upon the cultural world of the Baghdadi rabbinic decisor.

networks,” Global Networks 11, 1 (2011) 82–96 (and earlier articles by the same author). About Iraqi Jews in Shanghai, see: Maisie J. Meyer, “The Sephardi Jewish community of Shanghai and the question of identity,” Roman Malek (ed.), From Kaifeng ... to Shanghai; Jews in China, Nettetal: Steyler Verlag, 2000, pp. 345–73; Chiara Betta, “From Orientals to imagined Britons: Baghdadi Jews in Shanghai,” Modern Asian Studies 37,4 (2003) 999–1023.



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European technology The responsa under consideration relate to technological innovations originating in Europe, including: New modes of transportation (e.g. railroads and steamships) and of communication (e.g. mail and telegraph), gas lighting, and municipal water systems fed by a central pumping unit. It is important to note that these technologies did not in and of themselves arouse halakhic questions: It never occurred to those posing the questions, and certainly not to Rabbi Somekh himself, that the railroad or telegraph or any other innovation might be forbidden just on the basis of its being new. But sometimes these technologies intersected with religious dimensions of traditional Jewish life. In these contexts a decision was required as to whether these technologies were permissible or forbidden. Let us consider two examples of such “technological” questions with which Rabbi Somekh dealt: The question of train travel on Shabbat or religious holidays, and the question of using water from the pipes of the municipal water system for filling a mikveh (pool for ritual purification).

The train The railroad initiated a fundamental change in land-based transportation in the nineteenth century. However, no railways were built during that century in Iraq, so Babylonian Jews did not face halakhic questions arising from the encounter with this technological innovation. Such was not the case in India. There, due to British initiative, an extensive network of tracks was put in place, both between and within cities. It was against this background that Rabbi Somekh received in 1877 the following question from India: Carriages that are powered by steam, that is, that are not pulled by animals, but rather fire is burnt in their engines and they travel on their own on the train track, called “rail”. Teach us, our rabbi, whether it is forbidden for a person to travel on it on Shabbat or on a [religious] holiday. If [one hesitates to allow this] out of concern that they will increase the fire [= in the engine] for the sake of a Jew, there should be no such concern because whenever its time has come they must run it, whether or not anyone is on board. Also with regard to the quantity of fuel burnt, it does not matter whether the train it is full or empty [= of passengers]; it is all the same. And if so, what would make riding the train forbidden on Shabbat?10

10 Zivhei Tzedeq, vol. 2, Orah Hayyim, responsum 23 = Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, responsum 82. The translation of this quote, and of all subsequent quotes, is my own [Z. Z.].

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From the way the question is posed it is readily apparent that the parameters of the railroad relevant to halakhic considerations are not only technical in nature but also relate to the methods of its operation. That train operation is subject to a rigid time schedule, and that every train leaves at its appointed time no matter how many passengers are on board, has a significant impact upon how the halakhic question is formulated. In other words, both for the Iraqi Jew in India, and also—what is even more important for us—for Rabbi ‘Abdallah Somekh, the encounter is not only with European technology, but also with the organizational-rational matrix that characterized its operation. Rabbi Somekh’s answer opens with the statement that he is already acquainted with the existence of trains, as result of his familiarity with contemporary European halakhic literature. In his words: “This matter was discussed by a great rabbi of the previous generation, the great Hatam Sofer of blessed memory … who was asked about these steam carriages.” We meet here with an additional element of change in the world of Babylonian Jews in the nineteenth century, this time in their cultural world: Their exposure to the contemporary world of European Jewry at a rate much closer to “real time” than ever before. This was first and foremost mediated by compositions in the Hebrew language (books and journals) that came from Europe to Baghdad by way of advanced marine transportation and the modern postal service.11 With regard to the matter itself, Rabbi Somekh establishes that the only problem with riding the train on Shabbat is the problem of going beyond the Shabbat limit. Therefore it is forbidden to travel on an intercity train, while travel on a local train (such as between the areas of Kal’a and Byculla in Bombay) is permitted.12 Later on, his relative in India wrote to him that an Ashkenazic rabbi living in India had recently published a book in which he forbade riding a train even within the Shabbat limit13 on the basis of the claim that such travel is an act of a weekday, mundane nature ('uvdin de-hol) incongruous with the holiness of Shabbat. But Rabbi Somekh rejected that rabbi’s halakhic arguments and reaffirmed his permission to ride the local train.14 From another of Rabbi Somekh’s responsa, written in 1880, we learn that this new transportation technology had a significant halakhic For a discussion of the influences of this encounter upon the Torah writings of Babylonian Jewry see the following chapters of this volume. 12 Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, end of responsum 82. The “Shabbat Limit” is an imaginary line 2000 cubits [approx. 1000 meters] from the edge of the place (e.g. town ) where a Jew was when the Sabbath began. According to halakha, s/he may not travel or walk beyond that limit, during that Shabbat. 13 Imrei Shabbat, Rabbi Hayyim Ya'akov ha-Cohen Feinstein, Calcutta, 1874. This book was entirely devoted to clarifying the issue of riding on local trains on Shabbat, with the purpose of preventing Jews in India from doing so. 14 Zivhei Tzedeq vol. 2, Orah Hayyim, responsum 24. 11



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advantage over older means of transportation: Between Kal’a and Byculla in Bombay the train was not the only means of public transportation. There were also: Carriages, pulled by horses, belonging to the government. And every five minutes they had to leave from Kal’a to Byculla, then the second, and the third and so on, uninterrupted day and night. And even if there is no one to take the carriage, it nonetheless must come and go, by order of the government.15 The organizational characteristics of public transportation are thus similar for both the train and for these carriages. But Rabbi Somekh forbids travel on these carriages because they are drawn by horses, and it is forbidden to utilize animals on Shabbat. Thus, the innovation of engine-drawn public transportation provided religiously observant Jews with the opportunity for greater mobility on Shabbat than had been possible in pre-modern times.

Municipal water supply The British government established projects for providing water to the main cities of Bombay and Calcutta. With regard to each of these projects, separately, the question arose whether the water arriving through their pipelines was suitable for filling a mikveh.16 At this point it is important for the reader to be aware of the mikveh’s important socio-religious function for all Jews living according to halakha: during a woman’s menses, she may not engage in sexual relations, and after her menses ends such activity continues to be forbidden by halakha until she immerses herself in a mikveh. Thus, the availability of a mikveh was crucial for the conduct of marital relations, and thus crucial for the ongoing existence of the Jewish community. It is against this background that the question addressed to Rabbi Somekh must be understood. In the following section I shall discuss the more innovative decision formulated by Rabbi Somekh, concerning Calcutta. The halakhic challenge was complicated in this instance by the fact that the water reached the city not only by gravity but also by mechanical means: There is a large building about a day’s distance from Calcutta … that stands on the banks of the Nagna River,17 about 50 amot from the shore.

Hadashot, responsum 100. Concerning Bombay, see: Hadashot, responsum 28. Concerning Calcutta: Zivhei Tzedeq vol. 2, Yoreh De'ah, responsum 22, and: Hadashot, responsum 42. 17 Printed in Hebrew as “Nagna,” obviously a misprint of “Ganga,” i.e. the Ganges river. 15 16

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And in this building is a makina called “machine”18 with two metal pipes that go from the building under the ground and into the river. And by the power of the fire in the aforementioned makina, water is drawn by the aforementioned pipes and passes through the building to a very large pool, and the water then flows from the pool by a large underground pipe to another very large pool in the city of Calcutta.19 The description above relates to the Palta (or Pulta) waterworks, designed to supply Calcutta with large quantities of high quality water drawn from the Hughli river approximately 24 km north of the city as the crow flies:20 Portable water supply to the city of Kolkata started from Palta in 1869 … The works were designed to supply 6,000,000 gallons of filtered water per day to a population estimated at 400,000 persons. 3 50 HP engines at the river bank of Pulta were used to lift the water into large masonry tanks. The water from the Pulta river side to the Tala Tank [in Calcutta] was made through a 42 inch cast iron pipe. … The pipeline from Pulta to Tala was drawn with a fall of about 11.5 inches per mile.21 Thus, after having been raised up to the tanks at Palta, the water continued its flow to Calcutta by force of gravity alone—which stands to reason as Palta is upstream of Calcutta and thus higher. It was thus the first stage of the project, in which the water was mechanically raised against gravity, that posed a halakhic problem with regard to its suitability for use in a mikveh. The reason for that will now be explained.

From immersion in a spring to immersion in water from a municipal pressure system: Purity, nature and technology In order to appreciate the crux of the problem presented to Rabbi Somekh by this question from Calcutta, we must begin with a brief explanation of the halakhic rules related to mikveh. According to the Torah, and as elaborated in halakhic sources since late antiquity, a person who is ritually impure can become pure by immersion of their entire body in an

The questioner first employs the Arabic term “makina,” known to Rabbi Somekh, and then indicates the English term used in India: “machine.” Obviously these are etymologically related. The reference is, of course, to a steam operated pump. 19 Hadashot, responsum 42; Zivhei Tzedeq vol. 2, Yoreh De’ah, responsum 22. 20 The Hughli or Hoogly river is a distributary of the Ganges, forming the westernmost branch of the Ganges delta. 21 This information may be found online on the website of the Kolkatta Metropolitan Water and Sanitation Authority (http://www.kmwsa.gov.in/html/retros.html). The lack of consistency in the spelling of Palta/Pulta is in the original. 18



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appropriate body of water. A mikveh is such a body of water. One of the basic concepts underlying the laws of mikveh is that water can be an agent of purification only if it reaches the mikveh in a “natural” way. The Torah states (Lev. 11.36) that “… a spring (ma’ayan) or a cavity (bor) wherein is a gathering (mikveh) of water shall be pure,” and this was understood by the rabbis of late antiquity as indicating that such water has purificatory qualities. But what characterizes the waters of a spring and of a cavity? This issue was addressed by the Sifra22 commenting on the verse above: Had it been written [only] “a gathering of water shall be pure”, it might be [mistakenly considered] pure even if he filled a mikveh with his shoulder [i.e. by pouring in water that had been carried on a person’s back]. Therefore it says: “a spring”; just as a spring is [filled] from heaven, so too must a mikveh [be filled] from heaven.23 Water that purifies, that is suitable for immersion, is water that reaches its place “from heaven,” i.e. from nature (or from God24). This is in contrast to water brought by a man “on his shoulder,” which cannot be an agent of purification. But the basic metaphor of water that comes, like a spring, “from heaven” turns out to be equivocal because already in the Bible there is reference not only to a “spring” but also to a “cavity” (bor), a term possibly referring not only to a natural depression but also to a cavity excavated by humans for the purpose of collecting water, i.e. a cistern. Thus the text hints at the possibility that human intervention does not necessarily nullify the purifying powers of the water that originates “from heaven.” As Maimonides puts it in his commentary on the Mishna: … We could have said that whenever a person helped in any way in making the mikveh … [I]t would be disqualified, because it is not similar to a spring, if it were not for the fact that we found that the text also compares the mikveh to a cistern, which is a product of the actions of man. Therefore, certain types of human assistance in a mikveh are permissible and other types are forbidden …25

The classic rabbinic halakhic midrash on Leviticus. For an English version, see: SIFRA: An Analytical Translation I–III. Translated by Jacob Neusner. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988. 23 My translation [Z. Z.] follows the plain meaning of the Sifra. For a survey of the various interpretations, see Rabbi Yosef Caro, Beit Yosef on Tur Yoreh De'ah 201 s.v. VeGam Lo Yihyu Sheuvim. 24 In rabbinic parlance, the word “Heaven” is frequently used as referent to God. Therefore, when the Sifra speaks of water that reaches its place “from heaven,” the same phrase might be rendered “from Heaven” and thus also provide a rationale for the waters’ purificatory effect. 25 Maimonides [d. 1204], Commentary on the Mishna, Tractate Mikvaot, 2:7. 22

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Indeed, a significant portion of the laws of mikveh revolves around this question: To what extent, and in what way, is there room for “human assistance” in a mikveh without the water losing its essential characteristic as a source of purity that comes “from heaven”? The classic answer relies upon the fact that water in nature flows from place to place upon the earth’s surface, collecting in occasional hollows and waterholes. Man is therefore permitted to direct this natural surface flow, channeling it to depressions and holes that he has prepared to collect the water. As long as the water flows “by the force of nature” undetached from the earth, the path of its flow can be fashioned by man. The question posed to Rabbi Somekh was therefore the following: Does the water that flows in the pipes of Calcutta’s municipal water system meet the criteria necessary for maintaining its characteristic as a source of purity “from heaven”? Or perhaps the human involvement in this case is such that it changes the status of the water, making it water that comes “by the power of man,” in which case it would have no purifying power? As the questioner described to Rabbi Somekh, Calcutta’s municipal water system received its water by way of a machine that “sucked” the water from the river and pumped it into pressure pipes. As a result, the water ascended until the point at which it could flow by the power of gravity into the reservoir built at a high location just north of Calcutta. From there, the water moved on to the municipal water system, eventually reaching Calcutta’s various neighborhoods. At first glance, this system is based on a clear deviation from the “natural” flow of water since in nature water always flows downward while here there is a human intervention that causes the water to flow upward. It would thus seem difficult to regard such intervention as compatible with the “naturalness” halakhically required for the waters of a mikveh. In the words of Rabbi Somekh: If so, here in our case, where the machine is powered by fire and is the cause of the water entering the metal pipes, then it is “done by man”, for if a man would not light the fire in the aforementioned machine, the machine would not operate and the water would not go into the aforementioned pipes, and if so it is not “from heaven” like a spring, and these waters are unfit for a mikveh.26 Nevertheless, Rabbi Somekh ultimately concludes that water from the Calcutta system may be used to fill a mikveh. He does so by indicating two precedents that serve as links between the ancient reality, in which water was transported to a mikveh by gravity alone, and the new technological reality being discussed. The first precedent is the decision of

Zivhei Tzedeq Part 2, Yoreh De'ah, responsum 22.

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Rabbi Yosef Mitrani,27 who permitted the filling of a mikveh in Amasya, Turkey, with water supplied by a “na'oura,” a giant wheel powered by the flow of a river that elevates water for the purpose of its use (e.g. for irrigation) at adjacent higher sites.28 From this responsum it is clear that the use of mechanical means to elevate water against gravity does not in and of itself make the water unfit for immersion. Therefore, Rabbi Somekh goes on to determine, Rabbi Mitrani’s words can serve as a precedent, indicating that the use of a machine to elevate the water from the river to pipes that carry them to Calcutta is not ipso facto cause for disqualifying such water as “drawn”: In our case the person is not doing it; rather he is lighting a fire, and the wheel turns by the power of the fire. The aforementioned wheel moves the leather (for there is a leather belt that is moved by the wheel and the aforementioned belt turns a smaller wheel that is on the river bank, and by means of this the water is pulled from the river into the aforementioned pipes). And if this is the case, then certainly the transporting of the water cannot be called “by man.” … And this is a proof for which there is no retort. Rabbi Somekh’s stance then is that in principle there is no difference between a mechanical device powered by water and a machine powered by steam. Both are cases of the planned use of non-human energy; despite the human planning and the artificial harnessing of energy for channeling the flow of water to a mikveh, the water in the mikveh does not lose its status as water that arrived “by heaven.” Rabbi Somekh cites another precedent, that of the Rovigo mikveh.29 In that mikveh the water was lifted from a deep well using a device composed of a vertical chain of buckets. One of the reasons given (by Rabbi Moshe Ibn Haviv30) for the fitness of the water in this mikveh is that, when the device is operated, there is an unceasing flow of water from the buckets being lifted (which were not completely sealed) toward the bottom of the well. Because of this, the water at the top of the device could be regarded as continuously linked to the water source below. So too, rules Rabbi Somekh, is the case with regard to the water supplied to Calcutta:

1568 (Safed)–1639 (Istanbul). See Responsa MaHaRiT, 2, Yoreh De'ah 17. For a photo of such a device, see http://www.photographium.com/water-wheel-andaqueduct-hama-syria-1900–1920. And see: A. Y. Hassan and D. Y. Hill, Islamic Technology, an Illustrated History, Cambridge, 1986, pp. 38–40. 29 That is, a mikveh that was built in the town Rovigo in northern Italy. See EJ 14:354, where the controversy of the Rovigo mikveh is also mentioned. 30 1654 (Salonica)–1696 (Jerusalem). His responsum is cited in full in Ginat Veradim, Yoreh De'ah, 4, 4. 27 28

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Here, too, since the aforementioned pipes that carry the water to the houses are continuously linked with the river … without interruption, [i]t is simple … [T]hat this is not “by human hand”. If so, the city of Calcutta can a priori make a mikveh using the aforementioned pipes. By constructing an analogy between the Calcutta water system and pre-modern machinery discussed in precedents from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Rabbi Somekh portrayed a halakhic continuum including different degrees of human involvement in utilizing non-human energy to enable the flow of water to a mikveh: From leading water through canals with the power of gravity, through raising it by use of a water wheel activated by the river flow or by a mechanical device based on a vertical chain of buckets, to the use of steam power to force the water into pressure pipes. On this view, there is no crucial disconnect between human technomechanical invention and nature but rather a gradual continuum: in all these cases, humans harness natural energy to achieve the desired end. Thus new technology, based on a steam pump, can be characterized as providing water whose ritual status is like that of water that arrives “from heaven,” no less fit for filling a mikveh than spring water itself.

Organization and operation When a new technology arrived at the countries under discussion, it was usually experienced by those who encountered it as inseparably bound together with the methods by which it was implemented and operated. As we saw above, this was the case with the train and even for public transportation based on horse-drawn carriages; an outstanding characteristic of both was the fact that they operated according to a fixed timetable, which was followed regardless of the actual number of travelers. Such adherence to schedule was also characteristic of the service lines of the new steam ships that operated between India and Iraq, and the subordination of the movement of the ships to a fixed schedule had an effect upon Rabbi Somekh’s decision with regard to the possibility of performing various commercial activities on Hol Hamo'ed.31 Not only did the ships observe fixed time schedules, they were also subordinated to bureaucratic demands that were no less rigid. Thus, for example, every delivery of goods had to be accompanied by a detailed inventory of its contents, with approval of the “Captain.” Similarly, the ships could be

Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, responsa 15, 20. Hol HaMo'ed is the term for the intermediate days of the week-long festivals of Pessah [Passover] in the spring and Sukkot [Tabernacles] in the fall. On these semi-holy days, some mundane activities are permitted by halakha, and others are forbidden. 31



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loaded and unloaded only on certain days. And it goes without saying that merchandise had to pass through customs offices that followed unbending procedures regarding payment of taxes and withdrawal of goods from customs warehouses. Under British rule, these procedures could not be circumvented by informal negotiation with the authorities, as had been the case with other empires, including the Ottoman. Questions therefore arose, such as: May a Jewish merchant have a gentile clerk perform these actions if the day they need to be done falls on Shabbat?32 In relating to a different issue, Rabbi Somekh describes and expands upon the characteristics of official bureaucracy in his time, and we too shall discuss this in some detail. The issue at hand is the halakhic reliability of information conveyed by telegraph for matters relating to laws of mourning.

Reliability of communication If a person receives a telegram signed by an informant in a distant country, in which he is told about the death of a close relative, must he begin to follow the various ritual behaviors set forth in the halakhic rules for mourners? If the information had arrived directly from that informant, whether person-to-person or in his handwriting, there would be no doubt that the person receiving it would have to perform a ritual tear of his clothing, sit shiva, etc. But can we attribute similar reliability to information arriving by telegram? The question arises both because of the apparent anonymity of the source of the information (Who will guarantee that the person who appears to have signed the telegram is actually the one who sent it?), and also because the telegraph operators (obviously gentiles) are unfit for testimony according to halakha. In a clearly reasoned answer, Rabbi Somekh determines that information arriving by telegram can be regarded as equally reliable as information arriving in the personal handwriting of the person signing the telegram. Rabbi Somekh explains in detail why it is certain that the person who appears to have signed the telegram is in fact the sender, and why it is unreasonable to suspect that the clerk in the telegram office had received a bribe in order to transmit false information. With regard to the identity of the sender, our author writes: It is unthinkable that the person in charge of the telegraph would not investigate the sender’s identity. For he would not write a telegram in the name of any person in the world until he is absolutely sure that the sender is indeed the person named, and he also demands from him proof of identity before writing his name. For were this not the case, people

Hadashot, responsum 19; Zivhei Tzedeq vol. 2, Orah Hayyim, responsa 26 and 96.

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would not be able to survive. For it is an everyday event in every city that money is withdrawn by telegram. And if so, a poor man could come dressed in important clothes, pretending to be a wealthy and well-known gentleman, and he could write a telegram to another city to the partners of that same wealthy man and receive whatever he wanted, thereby earning many thousands of golden dinars. Also, the telegram is used every day to appoint kings and depose them;33 several times it has occurred in our city that our great minister34 has been dismissed by telegram. And if there is any chance that it could be forged, then chaos could result, for some ne’er do well could go to the telegraph office and present himself as a messenger of the king and in that way depose great ministers from their positions. Rather it is simple and known that it is completely impossible to fake a signature on the telegraph, for so was it made secure from the very beginning at the counsel of the great kings. Therefore, the person in charge of the telegraph is obligated, before sending the telegram, to investigate thoroughly until he is convinced that the person is indeed he whom he claims to be. And that being the case, it is as though the Jew signed on the telegram is himself testifying before us.35 In Rabbi Somekh’s opinion, the reliability of the telegraph is proven by the central functions that it fulfills in economic life and in the internal political operations of the Ottoman Empire. Instructions and directives relating to large amounts of money are conveyed by telegraph, and district governors are appointed and dismissed on the basis of telegrammed orders from Istanbul. If people of wealth and political power had not learned from their own experience that they could rely upon information received by telegram, they would not make such regular and extensive use of this means of communication. From this, Rabbi Somekh concludes that one can rely for halakhic matters upon the procedures implemented for verifying the identification of people sending telegrams. Reading his words, we get a sense of the powerful impression that the new invention and its operation made upon the Baghdadi rabbi, at a time when fewer than 10 years had passed since the city had been connected to the imperial telegraphic network.36 Further on, Rabbi Somekh extends his discussion and explains why there is no ground for concern that the clerk in the telegraph office might

Rabbi Somekh here employs the biblical phrase “He removeth kings, and setteth up kings” (Dan. 2.21). There, the expression refers to … God! By using the phrase in the present context, Rabbi Somekh indicates how the telegraph functions politically as a virtual “Deus Ex Machina.” 34 I.e., the Ottoman provincial governor of Baghdad. 35 Hadashot, responsum 26. 36 On the basis of its place in the sequence of responsa in Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, this responsum can be dated at approximately 1868. 33



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take a bribe in order to transmit false information. It turns out that the rabbi’s considerations are based, on the one hand, upon his understanding of the degree to which clerks in the telegraph system were autonomous and independent from the local Ottoman bureaucracy and, on the other hand, upon the strict monitoring imposed upon the clerks by their superiors: The officer in charge of the telegraph … is appointed by the king, and he operates by decree of the king, and even the governor of that district or city cannot control him. And it is an everyday occurrence that he writes even about the city governor; for that is how the telegraph was founded …37 And beyond this … if they find a forgery in a telegram, they judge the clerk very harshly, with great and difficult and bitter punishments, torturing him in unspeakable ways. And this being the case, who would be fool enough to forge a telegram for a bribe? This certainly would be beyond comprehension. … And since this is the case, it is simple that one mourns on the basis of a telegram. The halakhic “kashrut” of the system is thus derived from Rabbi Somekh’s familiarity with the functioning of the telegraph in the economic/political non-Jewish world of the empire, and from his awareness of its special status in the context of the imperial mechanisms of control over the Ottoman bureaucracy.

The gas light, the Ottoman fire-fighting brigade, and Jewish–gentile relations According to halakha, both the lighting and the extinguishing of fire is forbidden on the Sabbath. Only danger to human life—but not concern for material damage to property—is a weighty enough consideration to overrule that prohibition. In 1885 Rabbi Somekh was asked by the community of Bombay if they could hire a gentile caretaker to extinguish the “gaslight” in the synagogue following Friday night prayers. He ruled that they should not do so,38 differing in this from the Rishon le-Tziyyon, Rabbi Refael Meir Panigel, who permitted it.39 One of Rabbi Somekh’s

And indeed one of the purposes of this system was for secret police to transmit reports about—and against—senior functionaries in the government from the districts to the central government in Istanbul. See Shaw, S. J., History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, vol. II, Cambridge, 1977, pp. 120, 228. 38 Hadashot, responsum 134. 39 Rabbi Refael Meir Panigel (1804–93) served as the Rishon le-Tziyyon (Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem) from 1880 until his death. See Moshe David Gaon, Hakhmei ha-Mizrah be-Eretz Israel, vol. 2, Jerusalem, 1938, p. 533. Rabbi Panigel’s responsum to the Bombay community is brought in its entirety in Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, responsum 132. 37

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justifications was that, on the basis of experience with gas lighting in the synagogues of Baghdad, he saw little reason for concern that gas lights were likely to cause fires. It is Rabbi Somekh’s second reason that is of particular interest here. To understand this reason we should explain that Rabbi Panigel permitted the employment of a gentile to extinguish the lights based on a responsum by Ya’akov Poppers, rabbi of Frankfurt (1718–40). Rabbi Poppers had expressed concern that, should a fire break out, the Jews themselves would have to put it out to prevent the fire from spreading to the homes of non-Jews, for should it do so, the gentiles might slander the Jews by claiming that they had set the fire on purpose and might even subsequently physically attack them and endanger their lives.40 Rabbi Somekh denies the relevance of this precedent, claiming that in his time such problems did not exist. With regard to the concern that Jews would be wrongfully accused and harmed if a fire should break out, he writes: At the present time, thank God, Jewish life in exile has been sweetened [nitmatequ ha-galuyyot], especially in the cities of Europe as well as in Turkey. No one will cast libel upon us because of a fire, and no one will raise his voice to claim that we purposely set the fire in order to harm the gentiles. For all have become almost as one people. It deserves emphasis that these positive and optimistic words were not written “for the censor”; they are taken from a private correspondence between Rabbi Somekh and his nephew that was never intended for publication.41 This paragraph thus reflects Rabbi Somekh’s genuine opinion about the changes that had taken place in the relations between Jews and gentiles in advanced societies—in which he included the countries of Europe (including, in our case, British-ruled India) and the Ottoman Empire. In these countries, he said, “the exiles have been sweetened … and we [Jews and gentiles] have become almost as one people.” We have before us an extraordinary testimony expressing the feeling of one of the leading rabbis of Iraq that there had been a two-fold radical change in the situation of Jews in the modern world. The first: The exile had been sweetened; that is, the attitude of those in power toward the Jews had greatly improved. The second: The age-old alienation between gentile

Ya'akov Poppers, responsa Shav Ya'akov, vol. 1, 15. Rabbi Poppers did not originate this concern but rather cited Rabbi Moshe Isserles (d. 1572), who in turn relied upon medieval Ashkenazic authorities. 41 Furthermore: The Rishon le-Tziyyon had determined that it was permissible for Indian Jews to instruct a gentile to turn off the lights, on the basis of the words of those who feared Gentile animosity. Had there been ground to suspect that halakhic decisions were being censored, certainly Rabbi Panigel, who held an official position, would have been more concerned by possibility of disclosure of his position. 40



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and Jew had diminished greatly, to the point that “we have become almost as one people.” These developments are not regarded negatively; rather they are presented as an extremely positive development. Rabbi Somekh thus does not seem to feel threatened by assimilation in the sense of Jews voluntarily (or under pressure) relinquishing their own group identity. This is also in tune with Ottoman policies that sought the strengthening of a joint sense of affiliation to the Ottoman Empire, with each ethnic-religious group maintaining its separate distinction. Rabbi Somekh goes on to point to an additional change in the reality of his time, which influenced his decision: the improvement in the extent and the variety of services provided by the Ottoman government to the urban population, in the context of the Tanzimat policy. Thanks to these improvements, Rabbi Somekh determined that, should a fire indeed break out, not only would the gentiles not accuse the Jews of having set the fire, but neither the Jews nor the urban gentile population would even have to deal with putting it out: For when God forbid there is a fire, the men of valor come quickly with their equipment and put out the fire themselves … And therefore, all of these reasons [to permit extinguishing of the gaslight by a gentile caretaker] are not applicable to our time. The phrase “men of valor” refers to the fire-fighting services that had been established in the Ottoman Empire in the nineteenth century, thanks to which the residents themselves were freed from engaging in ad hoc efforts to extinguish fires.42 Although formally unconnected to the sense of greater closeness mentioned above, both developments stem from the internal “logic” of modern civil society: on the one hand, the move toward a political-territorial group identity, non-dependent on religious affiliation, and, on the other, the assumption by local and national government of an ever-widening range of social responsibilities—fulfilled via a host of bureaucratic agencies. Thus, based upon the confluence of multiple contemporary factors—the relative safety of the new gas light, the radical improvement in the attitude of those in power toward the Jews and in Jewish-gentile relations, and the establishment of professional fire-fighting services by the authorities— Rabbi Somekh ruled that the permission granted by Rabbi Panigel (who had in effect relied upon precedents from the late middle ages) was no longer valid. This ruling illustrates another point worth noting: In contrast to what one might take for granted, positive consideration by a halakhic decisor of the circumstances of modern life does not necessarily lead to a more lenient decision. In the case before us, Rabbi Somekh’s direct positive

Shaw, op.cit., pp. 46, 92.

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evaluation of relevant changes in contemporary reality actually led him to decide more stringently.

Governmental involvement in urban life One characteristic of the modern state is increased involvement of the authorities in overseeing manifold aspects of daily life, including those geared to enhancing the quality of life in major urban centers. In addition to the example discussed above of fire-fighting services established in Baghdad, two more examples of this phenomenon appear in Rabbi Somekh’s writing. One relates to Ottoman public health regulations that forbade contamination of urban public space, as a result of which he made a certain change in the procedures of ritual slaughter.43 The other relates to British governmental involvement in the spatial development of Bombay. Rabbi Somekh writes in 1870: I have heard it said that the city of Bombay is made up of two cities. The inner section is the ancient city called alQal'a, surrounded by a wall … And then they made a different new city outside of alQal'a, named Byculla. That is, they added houses and residences outside of the city, and this area itself became a city. About eight years ago the king removed the city wall, and it all became a single city without a wall. From that day onward many new houses and apartments were added to Byculla until it became a bigger city than alQal'a. This is what we have heard.44 Indeed it is surprising how much detailed information Rabbi Somekh, who never visited India, had about the urban development of Bombay. AlQal'a—Arabic for “fortress”—was named after the fortress built by the English in the seventeenth century to defend the city’s port. In the eighteenth century, British merchants and other wealthy merchants began to build houses inside the fort walls, and it became a residential area. After Britain completed the conquest of India in the nineteenth century, the fortress walls were no longer needed; in fact the opposite was the case, and the walls became a nuisance that hindered urban development. By order of the king, the walls were removed, and building began to expand to the north and the west in the direction of the very same Byculla that Rabbi Somekh mentions. This area began to develop in 1793, after an embankment had been built to protect it from flooding from the sea. Byculla became the most luxurious and prestigious neighborhood of the city; among other things, David Sasson built a magnificent palace there, and he established a synagogue for 43 44

Zivhei Tzedeq, part 1, notes to Yoreh De'ah ch. 12, paragraph 12. Hadashot, responsum 10.



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members of his community. In the 1870s and 1880s, the wealthier classes began to move to other neighborhoods, but at the time that Rabbi Somekh wrote these words, the elite of Bombay—and of the expatriate Iraqi Jews— still lived there.45 And what is the halakhic relevance of this information? Talmudic law established with regard to the festive holiday of Purim that the Scroll of Esther should normally be read on the fourteenth of Adar. However, in any city that had been surrounded by a wall in the days of the biblical Joshua, the Scroll of Esther is to be read on “Shushan Purim,” the fifteenth of Adar. The Iraqi Jewish emigrants to India believed that Bombay might have been surrounded by a wall in biblical times;46 for that reason they used to read the Scroll both on Purim itself, and—because of the doubt—on “Shushan Purim” too. Now, if indeed the Byculla neighborhood had been united with the “ancient” city of Bombay, maybe its Jewish residents were also obligated to read the Scroll on both days of Purim? After careful consideration, Rabbi Somekh decided, on the basis of additional testimonies that had reached him from India, that geographical, administrative, and demographic data indicated that the urban unification had not yet been completed.47 Therefore the residents of Byculla should not change their custom but rather continue to read the Scroll of Esther on the fourteenth of Adar.48

Innovations in finance and credit The final area of change that we shall discuss in this section dealing with new modes of organization and operation concerns issues of finance and credit. We shall point to changes in these areas reflected in Rabbi Somekh’s writing and demonstrate their presence in his awareness and their place in his halakhic considerations. The check drawn on a bank (as opposed to a personal promissory note) appears in a number of questions directed to Rabbi Somekh, apparently in the years 1873/4. In the questions is a description of how money can be For information on Bombay’s urban development, see: Chaudhari, K. K., History of Bombay, Bombay, 1987; Desai, Anita, Baumgartner’s Bombay, London: Penguin, 1988; about the homes of the Jews in the alQal'a and Byculla neighborhoods see Ben Ya'akov, above note 9, ch. 4. 46 All available evidence indicates that the wall around the Bombay Castle precinct was in fact built not before the seventeenth century. The fact that expatriate Baghdadi Jews could imagine that it had been there for three millennia can teach us something about their sense of India’s great antiquity as well as about their lack of knowledge of local history. 47 In addition, Rabbi Somekh maintained that, even if a continuum between the neighborhoods would ultimately be formed, Byculla would not lose its halakhic autonomy vs. alQal'a since it was larger and more important that the ancient area and not the opposite. 48 Hadashot, responsum 10. 45

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withdrawn from a bank by use of a “check” [the English word transliterated in Hebrew letters] and how the check can be turned over to another person by endorsing it with a signature on the back. It turns out that in a manner analogous to the issues discussed above, it was not the use of checks per se that raised halakhic questions but rather the organizational matrix within which financial institutions—i.e. banks—operated. Banks were open six days a week, including Saturday, closing two hours before dark. The banks were closed on Sunday, “which is their [the Christians’] holiday.”49 Is it permissible for a Jew to sign the back of a check he received just prior to Shabbat and to authorize a non-Jewish clerk to withdraw the money from his account on Shabbat so that on Sunday (when the banks were closed) the funds would be in the Jew’s hands?50 Could one on a Friday afternoon endorse a check for the benefit of a non-Jew even though he is likely to withdraw the money on Shabbat?51 If this endorsement was done so as to provide a loan to that non-Jew, and he withdraws the money on Shabbat, is the Jew allowed to take interest also for the first day of the loan?52 Another question dating from 1889 and relating to a personal promissory note concerned a Jewish merchant living in Baghdad who sold merchandise he had received from his colleague in Bombay. The time had come to transfer the funds to his colleague; the post was about to go out—but it was Hol Hamo'ed. Was it permissible for him to pay cash for the purchase of a personal promissory note from a person of wealth and send it by post to Bombay? The purchase and sale of real merchandise was forbidden on Hol Hamo'ed, because the need to be precise in the details of such a transaction were seen as creating a profane and bothersome mindset antithetical to a proper holiday spirit. Prima facie, this would not seem to apply to a simple transfer of money. But, in fact, Rabbi Somekh forbade such a transaction, arguing that in modern times purchasing a promissory note had become very complicated: Because at the present time the characteristics of regular commerce apply to it [the promissory note], and it is similar to merchandise about which one needs to be precise in considering its value. This is because the value of such a note rises and falls, and one must also be precise and investigate if the person selling [the note] is a person of serious means or not. Therefore we cannot permit buying [a personal promissory note] on Hol Hamo'ed.53 He is apparently referring to advances in the complexity of daily calculations Hadashot, Ibid. 51 Hadashot, 52 Hadashot, 53 Hadashot, 49

responsum 59.

50

responsum 57. responsum 58. responsum 163.



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of the rates of exchange of different currencies and interest rates, and the methods of calculating discount rates of bills, characteristic of the modern financial system. Therefore, “in this time,” buying a personal promissory note was no longer the simple transaction it had once been; rather, it was no less complex than any other commercial transaction and therefore too mundane to be executed on a holiday.

Expanded horizons and enriched information One who reads Rabbi Somekh’s halakhic works cannot but be impressed with the natural and human richness of the world he came to know of. Not a little of this variety can be attributed to developments in the links between Baghdad and other countries and especially in the links with the Jews of those countries. Because of these changes, Rabbi Somekh was exposed to phenomena and behaviors that were new to him, and with regard to some of them he was asked to fashion an appropriate halakhic response or directive. Thus, Rabbi Somekh became cognizant of the phenomenon of the monsoon, when more than once the dense clouds prevented the Jews of Bombay from observing the “blessing of the moon” in the month of Av, when it is customary to refrain from performing this joyous ritual until after the tenth of Av. The first time that he was asked about this, around 1868, Rabbi Somekh determined that “[S]ince we have not seen or heard of any custom or any country in which the moon is blessed before the ninth of Av, certainly this should not be done.”54 But a number of years later, after reading a decision written on this matter by his younger peer Rabbi Yosef Hayyim,55 Rabbi Somekh changed his mind. Even though there was almost no precedent, Ashkenazic or Sephardic, that permitted blessing the moon prior to the ninth of Av, the Rabbi decided that Bombay’s unique climate, relative to those of the rest of the world’s Jewish communities, justified a decision to permit this to be done. In this decision, Rabbi Somekh and Rabbi Hayyim ruled against almost all known halakhic precedent and were able to rely only upon a singular ruling by Rabbi Israel Bruna—a fifteenthcentury Ashkenazic decisor.56 Rabbi Somekh was also asked to solve halakhic questions originating in the tremendous varieties of food and drink that were available to the Jews in India—whether because of the size of the Indian subcontinent and its many Hadashot, responsum 25. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim (1835–1909) is considered to be the greatest rabbinic scholar of Iraq since the eleventh century. His responsum on this topic was subsequently published in Responsa Rav-Pe’alim, vol. 2, Orah Hayyim, responsum 38. 56 Hadashot, responsa 25, 148. 54 55

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different regional climates or because of the improvements in the speed and profitability of transport that increased the variety of imported produce. In this context, Rabbi Somekh was asked questions about cucumbers that came from Sudan or from Poona (not far from Bombay), apples that came from Kabul or Kashmir, preserved olives that came from London and alcoholic drinks of various kinds that came from Europe. These included English and French Brandy, Sherry, Claret, Portbeach, Gin, Stout, Porter and Champagne. Rabbi Somekh received information about these different kinds of alcoholic beverages—with which he was unfamiliar—from Rabbi Adler, Chief Rabbi of England, who visited in Baghdad on Purim 1875.57

Social norms The Iraqi Jews who came to India did not seek to mix with the indigenous populace, whether the Indian non-Jews or the veteran Jewish community. Rather, they sought to follow the mores and lifestyle of those who clearly formed the subcontinent’s upper strata at that time, i.e. the British. This was clearly noted by the traveler Ya'akov Sapir, who wrote the following after visiting the Jewish communities of India in 1860: The Jews here, even though they were born in Asian countries, have taken upon themselves all of the European customs to the utmost. Their residences and the layout of their apartments – beds, tables and chairs – all of great magnificence and splendor; their food and drink; their manner when sitting, rising and walking; the way they raise and educate their sons and daughters and all their behaviors are similar to those of wealthy and noble Europeans.58 Rabbi Somekh’s writings do not of course provide systematic information about the European social norms and mannerisms that Iraqi Jews in India took upon themselves, but a number of details reflected in the responsa are revealing with regard both to the lives of Iraqi Jews in India and to the nature of the rabbi’s response.

European ways of eating Rabbi Somekh was sent a question from India about the knives used by diners in the course of a meal, that were made of two parts: a blade and a Hadashot, responsa 60, 131, 83 (=Zivhei Tzedeq, vol. 2, Yoreh De'ah, responsum 7), 87. Ya'akov Sapir, Even Sapir, Part 2, Magenza/Mainz, 1877, pp. 54–5, p. 25. The tendency and aspiration of Iraqi Jews in the British Empire to be accepted as Europeans has been noted by researchers in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. See the works cited in this chapter, note 9.

57 58



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handle. The question was whether, and under what conditions, it would be permissible to use such knives on Passover if they had been used for eating hametz (leavened food) during the year.59 According to halakha, most utensils used during the year can be treated so as to enable their use on Passover. The specific treatment required depends inter alia on the manner of their normal use throughout the year. Rabbi Somekh explains that the knives under discussion are not actually used in fire; rather [at most] they come into contact with boiling liquids: “For it is the way of Europeans that when they eat their meal they use knives to cut the meat when it is very hot, and then they eat it; and the questioner asks about these knives …” Similarly, the rabbi adds, it is known that it is accepted among Europeans that food is not served to the diners in the same utensil in which it was cooked on the fire; rather, “first they empty the pot, pouring the cooked food into a bowl, and then serve it in the bowl to the people sitting at the table.” The treatment these knives require in order to be used on Passover depends upon how hot the food normally is when it is actually cut. If it is extremely hot then the knives need to be immersed in boiling water in order to be made kosher for Passover; if it is less hot, it is enough to stick the knives in the ground ten times. But how could Rabbi Somekh, who is in Baghdad, obtain such information, which is critical to his decision, when—as he himself testifies—“there are no knives like this in our city?!” In other words, in his time the Jews of Baghdad did not eat with cutlery as did Europeans but rather by hand—in strict accordance with the traditional norms of cultured Iraqi society. Rabbi Somekh found a way to overcome the information gap with regard to table customs that had developed between the Jews in Iraq and their expatriate Anglicized brothers in India by interrogating Jews who were able to observe the table norms of Europeans [Christians] living in Baghdad: We then asked about the Europeans in our city, for they always cut the meat when they eat it. And we asked the Jews who were used to spending time with them, and they told us that the Europeans do not cut the meat with a knife when it is so hot that “the hand recoils from it”; rather they empty the cooked food from vessel to vessel until it cools off, and then they cut it with a knife to eat it … [and Rabbi Somekh concludes] if this is indeed the case, these knives do not need to be immersed in boiling water [in order to be used on Passover]. Thus Rabbi Somekh learned about the customs of (non-Jewish!) Europeans living in Baghdad by way of local Jews accustomed to spending time in

According to halakha, leavened foods (and anything pertaining to them) are absolutely forbidden during the Passover holiday. Zivhei Tzedeq vol. 2, Yoreh De'ah, responsum 6 (Hadashot, responsum 73). 59

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their company—apparently translators of Consuls or of foreign merchants. Thanks to their report, he succeeded in solving a halakhic question that originated in the adoption of European table manners by Jews from his city who had emigrated to India and taken on the manners of colonial society.

Social mores—and the holiness of Shabbat Halakha differentiates the “private domain” from the “public domain”. On shabbat it is forbidden by Torah law to move any object from one of these domains to the other or to carry any object in the public domain for more than four cubits (about two meters). In order for an urban area to be considered a “public domain,” it must be more than 16 cubits (some eight meters) wide. According to traditional Sephardic halakha, this condition alone suffices to define any public urban area as “public domain.” In addition, the rabbis of late antiquity assigned to certain areas an intermediate status; for obscure reasons, such an area is called “carmelit.” Moving objects from another domain into a carmelit and vice versa is forbidden, but only by rabbinical ruling, and even this constraint can be overcome by the creation of a symbolic peripheral marker (eruv) around a certain area. However, there was no eruv in Bombay because the consensus of Sephardic rabbis was that the streets of Bombay were not carmelit but complete public domain.60 Several colonial mannerisms that had been adopted by the expatriate Baghdadi Jews in India conflicted to some extent with these aspects of halakha. Thus, for example, it would not occur to a well-dressed European man to leave his home without a handkerchief elegantly peeking out of his pocket. Rabbi Somekh’s nephew in India turned to him, asking if he could possibly be allowed to go out on Shabbat with such a handkerchief even though Bombay had no eruv. He suggested to the rabbi that it would be proper to permit it based on the halakhic value of kvod hab'riyot (preservation of human dignity).61 However, Rabbi Somekh explained to him that the value of kvod hab'riyot could not override a clear Torah prohibition. Rabbi Somekh’s nephew was a man of religious conscience and did not want to make a ruling on his own without consulting a rabbi. But many of the members of the community just went ahead and carried the handkerchief without asking. Rabbi Eliyahu Mani, who visited Bombay around 1880,62 reported to his friend Rabbi Somekh with considerable dismay about the custom adopted by the Jews of the city:

This will be discussed more extensively in Chapter 3. Zivhei Tzedeq vol. 2, Orah Hayyim, responsum 22 (Hadashot, responsum 85); the question is from the year 1877. 62 For more about Rabbi Eliyahu Mani, see: Avraham Ben Ya'akov, Yehudei Bavel be-Eretz Israel [The Babylonian Jews in Israel], Jerusalem, 1980, pp. 69–84. We learn from this responsum that his visit to India was around the year 1880; the date of the responsum is 60 61



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Let me tell you, I saw that the Jews of Bombay each carry a parasol – without which it is impossible to walk the streets there for even one minute – and they carry parasols on shabbat and convey them more than four cubits in the public domain. They also carry with them a snuffbox and a handkerchief, which is forbidden by all opinions.63 In light of this reality, Rabbi Mani found a way to enable the Jews of Bombay to circumvent the radically negative halakhic consequences of carrying objects in the public domain on Shabbat, and Rabbi Somekh too acknowledged the rationale of Mani’s decision.64

Paying social visits as a couple In the Muslim countries social visits were usually single-gender: Men visited their men friends, and women—their women friends. This was of course not the way of British society. And so, just as members of the Iraqi Jewish community in India could be seen on Shabbat with a handkerchief, a parasol, and a box of snuff, so too could Iraqi Jewish couples be seen on weekdays sitting together in their horse-drawn carriage on their way to a social visit or just to take in the sights and fresh air. According to halakha, firm rules of physical separation apply to a couple, during and just after the woman’s menses. The question addressed to Rabbi Somekh was whether a husband and wife were allowed to engage in the activity described above during the period of separation. Rabbi Somekh ruled that they should not sit right next to each other during that period. Either the husband should “sit outside, on the edge of the carriage where the horse driver sits,” or a third person should sit in the carriage, between the husband and wife.65 It is worth noting that he does not even suggest the possibility that going out to a mixed social activity in which both men and women participate is contrary to Torah and halakha.

Changes in marriage customs After the marriage ceremony conducted under the huppah (wedding canopy), the bride and groom were led to a private room. In antiquity, and in many Jewish communities throughout the ages, the couple were expected at this time to engage in be’ilat mitzvah (the first conjugal intercourse). This event was considered by folk culture to be of great importance. In many Tishrei 1881 and not 1886 as was accidentally printed. Unfortunately, I found no mention of this visit in the writings of Ben Ya'akov. 63 Hadashot, responsum 99. 64 For a detailed analysis of this matter, see Chapter 3. 65 Hadashot, responsum 29, dated 1867; and cf. responsa Rav Pe'alim, vol. 3, responsum 17.

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communities it was common that a considerable crowd waited anxiously outside the bride and groom’s room, and after the couple signified that they were once again properly attired, the representatives of the families would burst in to verify that the bride had been a virgin.66 But a new custom developed among young Iraqi Jews getting married in India, a custom that threatened to undermine this ancient norm—the custom for the newlyweds to set out on a “honeymoon” immediately after the wedding: In one city they do the following: the groom betroths the bride, then they make a meal with the seven blessings, after which the bride and groom go on their own to a different place an hour or two away, and they perform be'ilat mitzvah there with no man or woman waiting outside to see if there is virgin blood. May they do this a priori? Teach us our rabbi, and may your merit be doubled by heaven.67 Rabbi Somekh replied that he saw no problem with this behavior despite its being very different from Baghdadi custom. He wrote that we are told already in the Talmud (Ketubot 12) that there were communities in which witnesses were stationed outside in order to obtain evidence of the bride’s virginity and other places where this was not practiced. In Baghdad, he says, it is the custom to have people waiting outside the room: Until today in our city Baghdad the custom is to bring in a woman at the time of be'ilat mitzvah, and that woman is called mushti, and she carefully checks the bride and groom [before the act] to ensure that they make no deceptions. … [afterwards] they immediately view the sheet with the virgin blood to prevent anyone speaking unfavorably of the bride.68 [But, the rabbi adds,] there are places where this is not done. … And that was the custom in the Galilee. [And he summarizes:] Let us go back to the issue at hand: that this custom described in the question, the custom of that city in which after the wedding and the festive meal the bride and groom go alone to a different place and perform the first intercourse without anyone else present – this is an ancient custom, the custom of the people of Galilee, as is written in the Talmud …69

66 With regard to be'ilat mitzvah and the rituals that accompanied it in the Jewish community in Baghdad, see: Avraham Ben Ya'akov, Minhagei Yehudei Bavel [The Customs of Babylonian Jews], Jerusalem 5753/1993, vol. 2, pp. 160–5. 67 Zivhei Tzedeq vol. 2, Even ha-'Ezer, responsum 5 (Hadashot, responsum 77); the answer is from the year 1874. 68 About the “institution” of the mushti see: Ben Ya'akov (note 66), pp. 161–3. 69 Zivhei Tzedeq, ibid.



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Even though the custom about which he is asked is in contradiction to accepted practice in Baghdad, Rabbi Somekh does not try to change it. In fact the opposite is the case: He gives this custom full support and even validates it as being in consonance with the custom of the people of the Galilee during the period of the Mishna—even though those posing the question were people who had emigrated from Babylonia to India, and the rabbi knew full well that there was no actual historical continuity between them and the people of the Galilee. Furthermore, while the ancient sources do note that in the Galilee be'ilat mitzvah was performed without any witnesses, this was not because the couple went away on a honeymoon but for another reason entirely: the familiarity between betrothed Galilean couples was such that they very well may have had intimate relations even before the marriage ceremony and therefore could not be expected to produce a blood-stained sheet! Rabbi Somekh knew full well that empirically the custom he was being asked about had no Jewish roots. This was also the case with regard to those posing the question, who were of Baghdadi origin and thus aware of the disparity between the praxis of the young honeymooners and what they (or their families) had done “in the old country.” By validating this newly accepted norm now current among Iraqi Jews in India, and by providing it with a pedigree going back to the most ancient rabbinic compendium of halakha, Rabbi Somekh enabled members of his community in Bombay to maintain a balanced perspective on the nature of commitment to Jewish normative tradition. Not every deviance from the customs of Baghdad need be halakhically invalid or inappropriate, and it is possible to distinguish between matters of primary and secondary importance in Jewish life. Rabbi Somekh’s flexibility on matters of custom did not however mean that he was open to all changes. This is evident from his response to a question from India concerning the celebratory week following a Jewish wedding. The seven days after the wedding are known as shiv'at yemei ha-mishteh (the seven days of feasts). Since antiquity, festive meals have been hosted on these days in honor of the bride and groom, with the “seven blessings of marriage” added joyfully and ceremoniously at the conclusion of the grace recited after each meal.70 In India, however, this custom seems to have frequently been honored in the breach, as reflected in the following query: In one city it was their custom that on the first night after the groom performs the marriage, there is a first festive meal where the seven blessings are recited at the end of the grace after meals. And they do so specifically on the first night. But on the remaining seven days they

For a description of the customs and the ambience of those days in the traditional Baghdad community, see Ben Ya'akov, ibid., pp. 153–9. 70

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neither make a festive meal nor do they say the seven blessings … at all. And now they are asking if they may do so, or if they are required to conduct a festive meal followed by the seven blessings on all seven days. … Teach us our rabbi, and may your merit be doubled by heaven.71 With regard to this question, Rabbi Somekh was less lenient. He indeed determines that by the letter of the law there is no obligation to hold festive meals during the week after the wedding; indeed, there is no formal obligation even to have a meal at the wedding itself! Therefore, if the groom and bride and their relatives choose to forego these meals, this is permissible. However, he emphasizes, it is not suitable to do so: It is a highly worthy commandment that on each of the seven days following the wedding he should have a festive meal both during the daytime and at night, and he should say the seven blessings each day and each night … and this is our custom in Baghdad … and it should not be changed.

Conclusion In this chapter we discussed numerous issues dealt with in the halakhic compositions of Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh, the pre-eminent Baghdadi rabbinic leader in the half century ending in 1889 and the master teacher of all the Babylonian scholars who became rabbis during those years. With regard to a variety of issues—including examples from technology, methods of organization and operation, the world of nature, types of food and drink, and the world of social norms—we were able to see how his perception of reality developed as a result of his coming into contact with new information and with the changes of the times. We saw that some of this information and these changes originated in Iraq itself, but in a significant portion of the cases they originated in Jewish communities outside of Iraq—first and foremost among Baghdadi Jews who had emigrated to India—and in European Jewry of the nineteenth century. Advances in communication and transportation, together with the demographic phenomenon of emigration, significantly expanded the horizons of this astute and intellectually curious Torah scholar who himself never traveled beyond the borders of the land of his birth. Just as Rabbi Somekh’s openness to these new horizons is noteworthy, so is the quality of his responses. His rootedness in Baghdad and his deep commitment to the halakhic tradition do not lead him to categorically negate change of Baghdad’s customs. This matter is particularly Hadashot, responsum 95; the question is from the year 1881.

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conspicuous with regard to his reactions to changes in social norms: It can be said that Rabbi Somekh’s decisions in this area reveal an enlightened policy intended to enable ‘his’ expatriate brothers and sisters in India to live their lives in accordance with Torah while at the same time adopting many of the manners and norms of the Anglicized social world in which they participated with enthusiasm.. In this chapter, which dealt with a variety of issues in which Rabbi Somekh showed an openness to the broader world of his time, we deliberately minimized the discussion of one aspect of this openness—his openness to the world of the Torah scholarship of the Jews of Europe, or, in other words, to Ashkenazic halakhic literature. This issue was avoided in the current chapter so as to give it the fuller attention it deserves. The next chapter is therefore dedicated to a discussion of the effects of exposure to Ashkenazic halakhic literature upon the writings of rabbinic scholars of Baghdad in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

2 Iraqi Rabbis and Ashkenazic Halakhic literature

In the previous chapter I presented various aspects of Rabbi ‘Abdallah Somekh’s world. I discussed new horizons opened for him by novel historical and cultural developments, horizons that were reflected in his halakhic writings and that had an impact upon them in a variety of ways. Toward the end of the chapter, I pointed out that one extremely important issue remained: The influence of the culture of European rabbinic scholarship upon Rabbi Somekh’s own Torah world. In this chapter I shall address this question and others, and discuss how Ashkenazic halakhic literature was regarded by leading Iraqi halakhic scholars. I shall lay the groundwork for this discussion by posing the following questions: What are the meaning(s) of the term “a Sephardic halakhic decisor”? And in what sense can that term be attributed to Iraqi rabbis in recent centuries?

What is “Sephardic Halakhic decision making”? Between genetic descent and cultural identity One way of defining a person as a Sephardic decisor would be by applying a genetic criterion, i.e. any descendent of the Jews expelled from Spain [= Sepharad] who writes in a Torah-halakhic genre is a Sephardic decisor. But we can reject this proposal out of hand by performing a simple thought experiment: Let us imagine a man of impeccable Sephardic descent, who identifies with and joins the Habad movement (for example), learns in their Torah academies, internalizes their ways of life and halakhic traditions and writes halakhic texts in the spirit of that movement. It would be absurd to argue that this person’s genetic descent from a Spanish family would be enough to characterize him as a Sephardic decisor.

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Indeed, not only is being a descendent of the Spanish exiles not a sufficient condition for being a Sephardic decisor, it is not even an essential condition. Sephardic culture had a great influence upon Jewish communities in the Balkans and in Islamic countries, whether as a direct result of the exiles who settled in many of these realms or because of the indirect influence of Sephardic culture even upon communities in which exiles did not actually settle.1 As a result, many rabbinic scholars perceived as Sephardic and who define(d) themselves as Sephardic are/ were not descendents of families exiled from the Iberian peninsula. The rabbis of Babylonian Jewry in the modern era are a fine example of this phenomenon. The Jews of Iraq and, for our purposes here, of Baghdad are not Sephardic by genetic descent. The waves of Spanish exiles barely reached Iraq. The Jews of Iraq in the modern era saw themselves first and foremost as direct descendents of the great Jewish population inhabiting Iraq in the Geonic era, a population descended from the Babylonian community of Talmudic times, whose forefathers had settled in Babylonian Mesopotamia in the sixth century bce after being exiled from Judea at the time of the destruction of the first temple. Indeed, since then and down to the present, the Jews of Iraq call themselves “Yehudei Bavel [Jews of Babylonia]”, thus stressing their ancient roots in Mesopotamia.2 The Geonic era ended in the mid-eleventh century, after which Baghdad declined as a center of Torah study, remaining in decline for hundreds of years. A certain turnabout took place when Rabbi Tzedaqa Hutsin from Aleppo was appointed as Chief Rabbi of Baghdad in 1743. From this point onward, the world of Torah study in Babylonia was once again on the ascent. However, an even more significant turning point occurred almost a century later—several years after the renewal of direct Ottoman control of

For a brief presentation of this process, see, for example: Daniel J. Elazar, The Other Jews: The Sephardim Today, New York: Basic Books, 1989, especially p. 14ff. 2 Many Baghdadi rabbinical leaders in recent generations proudly regarded themselves as descendants of such old, local families. This self-identification as part of a 2500-year-old local community received an interesting twist after the First World War: Several prominent leaders of Iraqi Jewry and many Iraqi-Jewish writers, poets, journalists and social activists came to identify themselves as full participants in the renaissance of the ancient Iraqi nation and its Arabic culture. This phenomenon has been extensively researched and analyzed, most prominently by Reuven Snir. He has published a major work in Hebrew, 'Arviyyut, Yahadut, Tziyyonut: maavaq zehuyot bi-yetziratam shel yehudei 'iraq [Arabness, Jewishness, Zionism—a clash of identities in the literature of Iraqi Jews], Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 2005. An example of his numerous publications in English on this issue is: Reuven Snir, “‘My Adherence to the Creed of Moses Has Not Diminished My Love for Muhammad’s Nation’: The Emergence and Demise of Iraqi Jewish Literary Modern Culture”, The Jewish Quarterly Review, Vol. 98, No. 1 (Winter 2008), pp. 62–87. For a discussion of the political aspects of Iraqi-Jewish identity in the twentieth century, see: Nissim Kazzaz, haYehudim b-'Iraq baMea ha'Esrim, Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 5751 (1990/1), especially pp. 54–73. 1



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Iraq in 1831—when Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh decided to establish a Torah academy and to train young and talented Torah scholars for rabbinical and teaching positions.We elaborated upon this academy and its impact in the previous chapter. Rabbi Somekh was a key figure in the creation of the Baghdadi/ Babylonian Torah tradition in the modern era, and this is how he is perceived in the traditions of the city’s Jews and rabbis. His approach to halakha and his halakhic writings are therefore considered canonical for the Babylonian halakhic tradition in recent centuries.3 A second rabbi who left his mark on Iraqi Jewry beginning in the second half of the nineteenth century, and who is considered an authoritative halakhic decisor, not only by Iraqi Jews but also by several communities of Jews from Muslim countries, was Rabbi Yosef Hayyim. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim (1834–1909), grandson of Rabbi Moshe Hayyim (Chief Rabbi of Baghdad at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth centuries), was an extraordinary and unique spiritual figure. He was a person of rare intellectual talents, including a phenomenal memory and eloquence in both speech and writing, who took an interest in all branches of Torah scholarship. For those acquainted with great Ashkenazic rabbis of modern times, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim may be characterized as combining within himself outstanding qualities of both the Gaon of Vilna and the Maggid of Dubno: On the one hand, he was extraordinarily devoted to study and in full command of all genres of rabbinic literature, and on the other, he was directly engaged in efforts to bring the Torah to the broad public by delivering public discourses and by composing texts specifically oriented toward a lay readership. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim differed from Rabbi Somekh in that he was not directly involved in the world of the beit midrash. With the exception of a few years following his bar mitzvah, during which he learned in Rabbi Somekh’s yeshiva, he was an autodidact who had no direct disciples—though he was greatly admired by those who knew him or met him and maintained ongoing written contact with the scholars of the beit midrash. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim wrote tens of books, but his two most important halakhic compositions were undoubtedly Ben Ish Hai and Rav Pe'alim:

Ben Ish Hai:  In contrast to the practice of previous rabbis in Baghdad who delivered Shabbat sermons based on aggadic sources, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim decided to introduce halakhic issues into his weekly public sermons. In an original and (to the best of my knowledge) unprecedented move, he decided that, instead of relating his sermons to halakhic issues appearing in the weekly Torah reading, he would first decide upon a halakhic topic that he

See Chapter 1 for a brief delineation of his published works.

3

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wished to teach and then find a way to rhetorically link that topic to the weekly Torah portion. Furthermore, he decided not to choose each halakhic topic on an ad hoc basis but rather began by formulating a comprehensive curriculum of essential halakhic issues with practical relevance for his listening public (primarily taken from the laws of the yearly cycle, Orah Hayyim, and the laws of what is forbidden and permitted, Yoreh De'ah). He then divided this material into about one hundred units to be taught over one hundred Sabbaths or approximately two years.4 Rabbi Yosef Hayyim would open his weekly sermon by creating a rhetorical link between the weekly portion and the halakhic issue that he wished to discuss, and then proceed to teach the halakhic material. He presented his topics succinctly but clearly, placing an emphasis on practical halakha with a minimal quoting of sources.5 This text became authoritative not only for the Jews of Baghdad but also for many Jewish communities in the Middle East, and is held in high esteem by both the general public and rabbinic scholars until this very day.6

Rav Pe'alim: This is a four-volume anthology of responsa that contains hundreds of Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s replies to questions in all realms of halakha posed to him from around the world. At the end of each of these four volumes is a separate section entitled “Sod Yesharim,” in which the rabbi relates to questions on Kabbalistic and conceptual topics.7 Returning now to the issue of Sephardic ancestry, neither Rabbi ‘Abdallah Somekh nor Rabbi Yosef Hayyim were descendents of families who had been expelled from Spain. Rabbi Somekh was descended from a family tracing its roots to Rabbi Nissi[m] ben Berechiah al Naharawani of the Sura academy in tenth-century Iraq,8 while Rabbi Yosef Hayyim came from an old local Babylonian family that was unrelated to the Spanish For this reason, his text Ben Ish Hai is divided into two cycles of sermons. For example, there is a sermon on “Parashat Bereishit—first year” and “Parashat Bereishit—second year” and so on. 5 Since the publication of HeIru P'nei haMizrah (the Hebrew version of this book), an in-depth study of the halakhic methodology of Ben Ish Hai was conducted by Sh'muel Mondani and presented as his Ph.D. thesis at Bar Ilan university. See: Sh'muel Mondani, haRav Yosef Hayyim uMishnato haHilkhatit kefi she-Hi mishtaqefet b' Ben Ish Hai, Bar Ilan University, 2005. His conclusions support my earlier findings on this issue, presented in the current chapter. 6 Significantly, Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef, currently (2012) the undisputed doyen of Sephardic halakhists and who in many cases does not accept specific rulings of Ben Ish Hai, has devoted a multi-volume work to an analysis and discussion of Ben Ish Hai. See: Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef, Halikhot 'Olam, 8 vols, Jerusalem, 5758–62 (1998–2002). 7 On other works by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim, see: Avraham Ben Ya'akov, Otzar hashirim hahiburim vehaderashot vesipurei hama'asiot shel haRav Yosef Hayyim z''l, Jerusalem: Makhon Haktav, 5754 (1994), pp. 128–238. 8 As noted in Chapter 1. 4



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exiles. None the less, they both they saw themselves and the Jews of Iraq as Sepharadim. Explicit testimony to this can be found in their halakhic writing. Thus Rabbi Yosef Hayyim writes in Ben Ish Hai:9 “We Sepharadim cling to Maran.”10 This general principle had weighty practical implications for Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s halakhic decisions. One example pertains to his ruling with regard to guidelines for proper behavior on Shabbat. As we noted in the previous chapter,11 halakha differentiates the “private domain” from the “public domain” (reshut ha-rabbim). On Shabbat it is forbidden by Torah law to move any object from one of these domains to the other or to carry any object in an area defined as “public domain” for more than four cubits (about two meters). The choice of a more lenient or more stringent halakhic definition of “public domain” thus has very significant practical implications for observant Jews. Rabbi Yosef Caro was perceived as having taken a relatively stringent stance on this question, holding that any public space (such as a city street) wider than sixteen ama (about eight meters) should be considered public domain. In contrast, a halakhic tradition widely accepted by Ashkenazic rabbis holds that such status cannot be determined by width alone and that, to be defined as “public domain,” an additional criterion must be met—that rabbim (many people) pass through that public space every day, with rabbim defined as the number of the Children of Israel who participated in the Exodus from Egypt, 600,000 people. Clearly, many streets and squares in modern cities considered public domain on the basis of breadth alone (as per Rabbi Yosef Caro) would not be considered so by the alternate view, since 600,000 persons do not pass there daily. The community of Iraqi Jews living in Bombay12 consulted on this matter with Rabbi Yosef Hayyim. He replied that at that time many of the roads in Bombay exceeded sixteen ama, and therefore they were defined as public domain in accordance with Rabbi Yosef Caro’s decision. According to him, the Jews of Iraq had accepted upon themselves the halakhic decisions of Rabbi Yosef Caro, and since members of the community in Bombay were originally from Iraq, they were similarly obligated.13 Rabbi Yosef Hayyim also took advantage of the opportunity to argue against recent Ashkenazic rabbis who defined the public domain more narrowly.

First year, Parshat Devarim. “Maran” is the name that Sephardic halakhic scholars gave to Rabbi Yosef Caro, author of Beit Yosef and Shulhan 'Arukh. 11 Under section heading “Social Mores – and the Holiness of Shabbat” (p. 34). 12 The settlement of Iraqi Jews in India was described in Chapter 1. 13 Responsa Rav Pe'alim, part 1, responsum 22. In general, Rabbi Somekh held an identical position with regard to reshut harabim. See Chapter 3 for a description of his interchange with Rabbi Eliyahu Mani on this matter. 9

10

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Rabbi ‘Abdallah Somekh similarly expressed his commitment to Rabbi Yosef Caro’s halakhic decisions. Thus, for example, he writes that he has been informed that Jews in Baghdad who make their living selling eggs have been telling their customers that if they open an egg and find blood in the yolk, they may throw away the blood and eat the rest; only if the blood is found in the white of the egg must the entire egg be discarded. Rabbi Somekh writes that indeed there are such opinions in halakha, but they contradict the stance of Rabbi Yosef Caro: It is very surprising, for on what basis do they act contrary to Maran of blessed memory (Rabbi Yosef Caro) whose instruction we have taken upon ourselves? Therefore this ruling is a mistake, and no-one [in Baghdad] was ever accustomed to act in this way. A mistaken student ascribes his mistake to his teacher, and what they say is untrue.14 Thus it is clear that the rabbinic leaders of Iraq see themselves as being particularly committed to the Sephardic halakhic tradition, and especially to that of Rabbi Yosef Caro. Does that entail disassociating themselves from positions originating in Ashkenazic halakhic literature? To focus the question, I shall propose two hypothetical alternatives, each of which might characterize the attitude of a Sephardic decisor to Ashkenazic halakhic literature: 1 The literary and traditional sources relied upon by the posek are almost entirely Sephardic, and he is not aware, or only slightly aware, of the Ashkenazic literature of recent generations. 2 The posek has access to both Sephardic and Ashkenazic literary sources, but he systematically prefers the decisions of Sephardic rabbis to those of Ashkenazic rabbis. With regard to the first alternative, I have already noted in the previous chapter that Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh was aware of the rabbinic literature authored by Ashkenazic rabbinic scholars in the generations proximate to his. As an additional illustration of this fact, I shall note that in the course of his deliberations in Zivhei Tzedeq he quotes tens of books written by Ashkenazic rabbis of recent centuries. Indeed, a sampling of Zivhei Tzedeq demonstrates that Rabbi Somekh quite consistently cites more Ashkenazic halakhic sources than Sephardic ones:

Zivhei Tzedeq, on Yoreh De'ah, chapter 64:5. For similar rulings by Rabbi Somekh, see for example ibid., chapter 17:17 and 17:23.

14



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Rabbinic Authorities Quoted Chapter in Zivhei Tzedeq:

Ashkenazic sources cited:

Sephardic sources cited:

   1 (paragraphs 1, 2, 3) 19

15

 16

15

11

 68

13

6

121

19

6

Turning to Rabbi Yosef Hayyim, let us now examine his awareness of Ashkenazic halakhic literature, as revealed in his most famous work, Ben Ish Hai. In this case it is more difficult to identify sources, as most of the chapters present his halakhic ruling without citing a source or with a very general reference to “rabbis of recent centuries” (ahronim). If we focus upon those sources that he does cite specifically, we see that they can be divided into two sub-categories: 1 Rabbi Yosef Hayyim consciously employs Kabbalistic considerations in the construction of his halakhic rulings.15 The Kabbalistic works that he quotes are overwhelmingly of Sephardic origin.16 2 In contrast, the “conventional” halakhic sources quoted by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim reflect an eclectic approach: In his composition Ben Ish Hai he refers to Sephardic sources, with a special emphasis on the works of Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai,17 alongside recent Ashkenazic sources, such as Shulhan 'Arukh Rabeinu Zalman18 and works of responsa such as Panim Meirot19, SheilatYa'vetz,20 Hatam

15 That the book Ben Ish Hai is very well known, even among many Ashkenazim, may have contributed to the impression that Sephardic halakhic writing in general is prone to routine integration of Kabbalistic and halakhic sources. However, this does not seem to me to be the case with regard to most halakhic scholars in Muslim countries in recent generations. Rather, only a minority do so—among whom Rabbi Yosef Hayyim is certainly the most conspicuous. 16 For example: The Hesed LeAvraham Siddur by Rabbi Avraham bar Shalom Tubiyana (Mantova, 5583/1783); Iggerot haRM''Z by Rabbi Moshe Zacut (Livorno 5580/1780); Torat Hakham by Rabbi Hayyim de la Rosa (Salonica 5608/1848); Siddur HaRaSha''Sh by Rabbi Shalom Shar'abi (still in manuscript when Ben Ish Hai was published!), etc. 17 Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai (d. 1806) was the greatest Sephardic rabbi of the eighteenth century and authored tens of works in all genres of traditional rabbinic writing. The classic work on Azulai is Meir Benayahu, Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, Jerusalem, 1959. 18 Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lyady, Shulhan 'Arukh, 6 vols, Kopys, 1821 (and many subsequent editions). The author was the founder of the Habad Hassidic movement. 19 Rabbi Meir Eisenstadt, Panim Meirot, 3 vols, 1833–8. 20 Rabbi Ya'akov Emden, Sheilat Ya'vetz, 2 vols, Altona, 1839–59.

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Sofer,21 and K’tav Sofer.22 Quantitatively it seems that in Ben Ish Hai there is a balance between citations from Sephardic and Ashkenazic halakhic material. It emerges then that rabbinic leaders in Babylonia in recent generations do not fit the first alternative characterization of “Sephardic” presented above: They are not unfamiliar with Ashkenazic halakhic literature, and they do not ignore it. Let us move, then, on to the second alternative: Do we find among these Babylonian rabbinic authors a systematic preference for Sephardic/Eastern sources over Ashkenazic sources? Upon examining their writings, it becomes clear that they were definitely aware of the Ashkenazic–Sephardic division as representing two distinct categories of halakhic authors. They do not, however, have a systematic preference for deciding in accordance with positions advocated by Sephardic authors rather than positions advocated by Ashkenazic rabbis. The next section of this chapter will be devoted to presenting sources that illustrate and support this assertion.

Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh 1. Which knife is kosher for ritual slaughter? According to halakha, the blade of a slaughtering knife must be smooth without blemish; an animal slaughtered by a blemished knife is not kosher for eating.23 There are different terms used in halakhic literature to describe the quality of sensation one experiences when checking the blade of the slaughtering knife. One of these sensations is referred to as kemag'a rosh ha-shibolet (“like the touch of the head of an ear of grain”). Rabbi Yosef Caro determined that “a sharp knife that has been sharpened but is not smooth, instead its touch being like the touch of the head of an ear of grain … can be used for ritual slaughter.”24 In relating to this ruling, Rabbi Somekh writes that, even though Maran permitted slaughtering with a knife whose touch is like the touch of the head of an ear of grain, Rabbi Moshe Isserles wrote in reference to this that one should not use such a knife because “we are not well-versed in this.”25 Rabbi Somekh adds that many Rabbi Moshe Sofer, responsa Hatam Sofer, 7 vols, Pressburg, 1841–65 (and many subsequent editions). 22 Rabbi Avraham Sofer, responsa K'tav Sofer, 6 vols, Pressburg et al., 1873–94. 23 See: Shulhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah ch. 18. 24 Ibid., section 6. 25 Rabbi Isserles, called the Rem"a by the Jews of Ashkenaz and Mora"m by Sephardic halakhic scholars, was a great Eastern European halakhic scholar in the sixteenth century, and his comments on the Shulhan 'Arukh represent the classic Ashkenazi halakhic tradition. 21



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scholars writing in recent centuries supported this position of Rabbi Isserles. Among them, he mentions Rasha"l, Prisha, and Kreiti26 as well as Pri Toar, Torat Zevah, Shulhan Gavoha, and Zevah Todah.27 Rabbi Somekh sums up: The conclusion from all of the above is that all of these great rabbis agreed that we are not well-versed in the matter – both Sephardic rabbis and Ashkenazic rabbis, for the pious rabbi Pri Toar and those with him are Sephardic, while the Kreiti … and those with them are Ashkenazic … If so, it is completely certain that anyone who does or permits this is feeding Jews non-kosher food.28 We should pay close attention to these words. They do not object directly to Maran’s decision, but they in fact nullify it by establishing that “we are not well-versed.” Rabbi Somekh presents the matter as though he were referring to a diachronic change: Once, in the days of Maran, they were well-versed, but now we are not. This, however, is a rhetorical device: There was no such change, since the Rema lived in the same generation as Maran, and he is the source of the determination that “we are not well-versed.” The disagreement is therefore “synchronous” between Maran and Rema, with the Rema explicitly representing an Ashkenazic tradition. Indeed, an earlier Ashkenazic work, the Agur,29 wrote that “[I]n Ashkenaz it is customary not to slaughter with a knife that is similar to the head of an ear of corn because we are not well-versed in the matter.” These words of the Agur were quoted by Rabbi Yosef Caro, but he decided against them, instead deliberately ruling in accordance with mainstream Talmudic and medieval authorities who permitted using such a knife. It turns out, then, that Rabbi Somekh actually ruled in accordance with an Ashkenazic position rejected by Maran. This more stringent attitude was not followed by all non-Ashkenazic scholars of recent centuries,30 but our author is certainly not the first of the non-Ashkenazic authors who leaned toward this opinion.31 In any case, the

26 All of these are Ashkenazic: Rasha"l, Rabbi Shlomo Luria, Poland, sixteenth century; Prisha, Rabbi Yehoshua Falk Katz, Poland, 1555–1614; Kreiti, Rabbi Yehonatan Eybeschuetz, central and western Europe, (d. 1764). 27 All these are the works of Sephardic authors: Pri Toar, Rabbi Hayyim ben-'Attar, Morocco and the land of Israel, eighteenth century; Torat haZevah, Rabbi Hayyim David ben Yosef Hazan, Izmir and Jerusalem, nineteenth century; Shulhan Gavoha, Rabbi Yosef Molkho, Ottoman Empire, eighteenth century; Zevah Toda, Rabbi Yihya Saleh, Yemen, early eighteenth century. 28 Zivhei Tzedeq, ch. 18, paragraphs 16–17. 29 Landau, Ya'akov, Agur, Napoli, 5250/1490. 30 See, for example: Rabbi Moshe bar Yosef Ventura in Yemin Moshe, Mantua 1724. 31 However, with regard to some of the Sephardic sources that he cites, I am not certain that they in fact held the stringent position that he attributed to them (see: Zevah Todah ad loc., Torat Zevah ad loc.)

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declaration that “it is completely certain that anyone who does or permits this is feeding Jews non-kosher food”—is formulated particularly sharply,32 and this is not the only time that Rabbi Somekh expresses himself in such a manner about someone who in fact would be behaving in accordance with Maran’s position.33

2. Is an animal slaughtered by a woman kosher? The first paragraph of the first section in Shulhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah begins: “Anyone can perform a ritual slaughter a priori, even women …” About this, the Rema comments: “Some say that women should not be allowed to perform ritual slaughter, for it has become the custom for them not to do so. And this is the minhag [custom]— that women do not perform ritual slaughter.” Rabbi Yosef Caro was familiar with this opinion, whose source was in Agur, but he explicitly rejected it in Beit Yosef ad loc. None the less Rabbi Somekh writes that there are different approaches to the issue: [Rabbi Hizqiya da-Silva wrote that] by law women are fit to perform ritual slaughter, but it has become the custom for them not to do so. Most recent scholars agreed with this. But there are locales where women do perform ritual slaughter. The Birkei Yosef34 wrote of places where women are ordained to perform ritual slaughter. Each place has its custom. And our custom here in Baghdad is that women do not perform ritual slaughter. And we have never heard that women have done so in our city or in any of its surroundings.35 At this point our author does not seem to be contradicting Maran but rather to be noting that in fact Baghdadi custom is different from the a priori permission accorded by the Shulhan 'Arukh. His words in the next section, however, cast a different light on his approach: Thus, for example, among the Sephardic scholars who prohibit ritual slaughter with such a knife, the opinion also appears that if someone nevertheless does so, his slaughter should not be deemed unfit after the fact (see: Shulhan Gavoha ad loc.). 33 Thus Maran permitted under certain conditions the use for ritual slaughter of a knife whose sharpness is characterized as “mesukhsekhet,” while Rabbi Somekh writes: “Since he [Rema] writes there that ‘we are not well versed,’ how much more so is the case for us, orphans of orphans! Therefore our custom is to rule that any animal slaughtered with a knife that is mesukhsekhet is non-kosher. And whoever is lenient in this matter is feeding non-kosher food to Jews” (Zivhei Tzedeq, ibid., ch. 18:14). On this issue too our author takes a more radical stance than quite a few Sephardic rabbis of recent centuries with whose work he was acquainted (see: Torat Zevah ad loc., Zevah Todah ad loc.). 34 A work on the Shulhan 'Arukh, authored by Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai (about whom, see note 20). 35 Zivhei Tzedeq, ch. 1, paragraph 1. 32



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If it should happen that she performed ritual slaughter when on her own in a place where it is normal for persons without formal authorization to slaughter, an examination needs to be done to see if she is an expert [in the relevant halakhic laws], and [if she is expert, and furthermore] says “I am certain that I did not faint,”36 then her slaughter is kosher. But if she is not present for us to interrogate her, then her slaughter is unfit because … she deviated from custom.37 Here the author does not claim that according to Baghdadi custom slaughter performed by a woman is non-kosher; apparently there was no local custom on this matter. Rather, he relies upon Alexander Sender Schor (d. 1737), an important eighteenth-century Ashkenazic rabbi, who ruled that unless the woman who had slaughtered was available for interrogation, the meat was totally non-kosher.38 By doing so, Rabbi Somekh adopted a position opposed to many Sephardic halakhic decisors of recent centuries, such as that of Rabbi Hayyim ben ‘Attar, who wrote unhesitatingly (in Pri Toar ad loc.) that if a woman performs ritual slaughter, after the fact the meat is permissible.39 The bottom line here then is that, while Maran permitted a woman to perform ritual slaughter a priori, Rabbi Somekh relies upon a later Ashkenazic stringency that disqualifies her even after the fact unless the woman is interrogated and meets specific conditions.40

3. Is it permissible to identify a bird as kosher on the basis of physiological signs? The Talmud and the Posqim describe physical signs by which a bird can be identified as “pure”; these signs are delineated in Shulhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah chapter 82 as information that can provide practical guidance. But the Rema commented: And there are those who say that one should not depend even upon that, and one should eat no bird unless he has received as tradition The possibility that a person not used to slaughtering animals might faint during the process is raised already by the Talmud (Hullin 3b). 37 Zivhei Tzedeq, ibid., paragraph 2. 38 Simla Hadasha on the Shulkhan 'Arukh ad loc. at note 13. 39 And compare also: Zevah Todah and 'Erekh Hashulhan ad loc. 40 It is interesting to note that the primary earliest source for the absolute prohibition on ritual slaughtering by a woman is the early medieval text Hilkhot Eretz Yisrael, which disqualifies women as slaughterers on the basis that “they are light-minded.” The Tosfot and the rest of the medieval authorities (Rishonim) disagreed with this stance and showed that it is incongruent with the Babylonian Talmud. Thus the “Babylonian” Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh is in fact deciding in accordance with Hilkhot Eretz Yisrael, in opposition to the Babylonian Talmud, the Rishonim, and Maran. And compare Rabbi Joel Sirkes in his commentary Bayyit Hadash on Tur Yoreh De'ah ch. 1, s.v. u-le-'inyan halakha. 36

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that it is pure. And this is what is customary, and it should not be changed.41 In other words, while under certain conditions Rabbi Yosef Caro permits reliance upon these signs for the purpose of eating a hitherto halakhically unknown species of fowl, Rema forbids it. Rabbi Somekh writes on this matter: We too, orphans of orphans, can rely only upon the words of Rema that even for these [that seem to meet the physiological criteria of a kosher fowl] we can only rely on tradition. However, in times of stress (she’at ha-d'haq) one can rely upon Maran and Pri Hadash and Knesset haGedola and permit [the consumption of such fowl].42 In other words, the Sephardic halakhic tradition as represented by the greatest Sephardic rabbis—Yosef Caro, Hizqiya da-Silva, and Hayyim Benveniste—is granted the status of an opinion that can be relied upon only in times of stress while normally the approach of Rema is to be followed.43 There are two issues at hand here. One is that Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh’s decision is in clear opposition to that of the Shulhan 'Arukh, though he does not engage Maran in direct argument. The second issue is that the halakhic approach that he does adopt follows an old Ashkenazic tradition that Maran knew—and rejected. Interesting evidence of a “real time” response of Baghdad’s rabbis to a new Ashkenazic ruling of which they became aware is found in a different section of Zivhei Tzedeq.44 According to halakha, if there is even the slightest nick on the edge of the knife’s blade, the knife may not be used for slaughtering until the nick is removed. But what if the knife was checked before the slaughter and was found to be completely smooth—but then after the slaughter a slight blemish was discovered? Rabbi Somekh writes that, in such a case, the custom in Baghdad was that the blade should be rubbed at that place on a hand or a piece of cloth, and if the blemish disappeared the slaughter was in retrospect deemed kosher as the blemish was deemed to have been formed after the ritual act. Later they received a copy

Rema on Shulkhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah ch. 82, paragraph 3. Zivhei Tzedeq, ch. 82, paragraph 24. Pri Hadash was written by Rabbi Hizqiya da Silva, Jerusalem, seventeenth century; Knesset Hagedolah was written by Rabbi Hayyim Benvenisti, Salonica, Istanbul, and Izmir, seventeenth century. 43 This is quite different from the approach of Rabbi Hizqiya da Silva (in his Pri Hadash ad loc.), who directly and strongly rejected the Rema’s approach and ruled that there was no reason at all to be hesitant about applying the signs of purity for identifying birds as kosher. 44 Ch. 18, paragraph 19. 41 42



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of the book Hokhmat Adam,45 and the ritual slaughterers of Baghdad noted that he opposed this custom. So: [A]ll of the rabbis and ritual slaughterers of our city got together about six years ago with the intention of putting an end to the practice of rubbing. This was after they had performed an experiment: they intentionally made a small nick on the edge of the blade, and then rubbed it strongly – and the blemish disappeared.46 But afterwards we saw that this was “an edict that could not be endured by the public.” We therefore convened together and reached the following rule: “rubbing is permissible, but only gently.” And all depends upon the judgment of the person examining the knife and the fear of God that is upon him. In other words, after an empirical test showed that there was a basis for Rabbi Danziger’s more stringent approach, the city’s rabbis and ritual slaughterers decided to change their accepted custom. However, when they realized that this new rule imposed an unreasonable burden on the ritual slaughterers, they altered the initial radical change and rendered it more moderate. This seems to be a fine example of Sephardic flexibility: on the one hand, the rabbis were open to changing their praxis on the basis of new information; On the other hand, praxis was given significant weight and led to moderation of the new rule. In any case, the examples discussed above have given us a good sense of the ways in which Ashkenazic sources are present in Rabbi Somekh’s writing. In the next section, we shall focus on the presence of Ashkenazic halakhic literature in the writing of other Babylonian rabbinic leaders, the first of whom will be Rabbi Yosef Hayyim.

Rabbi Yosef Hayyim As I have already mentioned, most of the halakhot in the book Ben Ish Hai are presented without indication of their sources. But it is impossible to evaluate the influence of Ashkenazic halakhic literature upon Rabbi Yosef Hayyim without identifying his sources. I shall therefore do this for a sample of his writing, taken from the “laws of the ninth of Av,” presented by Rabbi Hayyim in Ben Ish Hai—the first year, Parshat Devarim. The ninth of the month of Av is a day of fasting and mourning in memory of several traumatic historical events that took place at this time

Authored by the Ashkenazic halakhic scholar Avraham Danzig, 1748–1820, this work first appeared in 1815 and was subsequently reprinted many times. 46 This demonstrated that their customary procedure could not convincingly indicate that the blemish had not been there before the ritual slaughter. 45

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of year, including the destruction of both the first and the second temples. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim divides his statement of the halakhot concerning this day into 28 paragraphs. It can be seen that the order and subject matter of these paragraphs parallels the order and content of Shulhan ‘Arukh Orah Hayyim: Ben Ish Hai Shulhan 'Arukh Year 1, Devarim Orah Hayyim Paragraph Chapter 1–17 551 18–20 552 21–5 554/5 26–7 557 28 558 (?) If we focus on paragraphs 1–17, which include Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s halakhic decisions relating to the issues discussed in Orah Hayyim chapter 551, we will find that not everything mentioned in chapter 551 is mentioned by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim. This is not surprising, as Ben Ish Hai is intended to be a digest of the main laws. What is interesting is that Rabbi Yosef Hayyim does not create that digest only by leaving out the less crucial parts of chapter 551 but also by adding halakhot that do not appear in the Shulhan 'Arukh. I shall now present several sections of this chapter from Ben Ish Hai, and I will mark with a star those additions not found in the Shulhan 'Arukh and whose source is in an Ashkenazic text: Ben Ish Hai, first year, Parshat Devarim, paragraph 2 “One should minimize commercial activity beginning with the new moon and until the ninth of Av (Shulhan 'Arukh)” … but if failure to carry out a transaction will cause “loss,” even if only in the sense that the transaction will be more expensive later on, the prohibition does not apply (Pri Megadim). Ibid., paragraph 3 One should minimize construction activity associated with joyful matters (Shulhan 'Arukh), but if he has already begun to build it he may continue; and if the building is needed – it is permissible (*Turei Zahav) … And even if it is being done by a gentile under general contract, it is best to be careful; but if the contract has already been signed, then, if it is possible to appease him with a small gift so that he will wait until after the ninth of Av, that is the right thing to do (*Magen Avraham in the name of the *Maharil), but if it is a synagogue it can be built even on the eve of the ninth of Av (*Magen Avraham based on his own logic).



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And even painting and decorating [a synagogue] is permitted, for it is “for the purpose of a mitzvah.” The whole matter of permitting activities during this period of mourning if they are for the purpose of a mitzvah is cited in the glossa of Rema in the name of RaN and is not in the Shulhan 'Arukh itself. Ibid., paragraph 4: “Even though the law itself forbids holding weddings only from the new moon until the ninth of Av (Shulhan 'Arukh), none the less the custom is to forbid them from the seventeenth of Tamuz” (*glossa of the Rema in the name of Minhagim).47 Ibid., paragraph 5: It is forbidden to have dancing from the seventeenth of Tamuz until after the ninth of Av (*Magen Avraham in his own name). And it is proper to instruct Jewish musicians not to play for gentiles, but to avoid animosity, or if the musician has nothing to eat, he may play for the gentile for a wage. And this applies after the seventeenth of Tamuz, but from the new moon until the ninth of Av they should completely refrain from playing. And the same is the law with regard to the [fast day of the] seventeenth of Tamuz itself; under no circumstances should they go [to perform for gentiles], and those who go for their wage will see no positive result from that activity. And similarly one needs to be careful not to hold dances on the night [preceding the fast day] of the tenth of Tevet (*Eshel Avraham in the name of *Eliya Raba). Ibid., paragraph 8: From the beginning of the week in which the ninth of Av falls, it is forbidden by law to wear new clothes, and even new shoes may not be worn in this week (Shulhan 'Arukh, paragraph 6), and by custom all this is forbidden from the new moon onwards (*Rema on this paragraph).

Rav Isserles relates to this as an Ashkenazi custom; our author brings this custom as a “custom of the world.” Rav Yosef Hayyim notes that Baghdadi custom is to refrain from performing weddings beginning from the seventeenth of Tamuz but to perform betrothals (erusin) until the new moon, after which one is to withhold from both erusin and matchmaking. However, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim adds that Rabbi Benveniste, in his composition Sh’yarei Knesset Hagedolah (ch. 551, Hagahot haTur, note 5), wrote that there are those who refrain from erusin already from the seventeenth of Tamuz; Rabbi Yosef Hayyim determines that this is indeed the right thing to do. 47

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Analysis of this chapter in Ben Ish Hai thus demonstrates that a significant portion of the unreferenced laws in Ben Ish Hai, including those characterized as “custom,” draws directly upon classic Ashkenazic commentaries on the Shulhan ‘Arukh; these laws and customs are presented as unequivocal normative requirements even when they significantly diverge from the positions of Maran and even when they differ from current praxis in Baghdad.

Attitudes of other Iraqi Halakhic scholars toward Ashkenazic Halakhic sources Baghdad of the nineteenth century was home to many illustrious Torah scholars in addition to Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh and Rabbi Yosef Hayyim. Below I shall present several examples reflecting the presence of Ashkenazic halakhic literature in their writing.

Rabbi Shlomo Bekhor Hutsin Rabbi Shlomo Bekhor Hutsin48 was among the greatest of Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh’s students and among the most important of the Babylonian rabbis of the nineteenth century. In the next chapter I shall discuss some of the characteristics of his world view and writings. Here I shall relate to the presence of Ashkenazic Torah literature in the books that he published. In 1887 he published the “Minha and Ma'ariv prayer book according to the custom of the holy community of Baghdad, including a number of laws necessary for prayer.” In this book Rabbi Hutsin cites decisions and positions of Ashkenazic rabbis from recent generations, presenting them as valid for Babylonian Jewry. Thus in the laws of Minha he quotes from Kitzur Shulhan 'Arukh section 69; in other places he quotes additional Ashkenazic texts such as Baer Heitev and Eliya Raba. In the prayer book for Rosh Hashana, which he published under the title Sefer Hayyim Tovim,49 and in which he included “laws necessary for every man,” he quotes inter alia from Shulkhan 'Arukh Rabeinu Zalman, the core halakhic text of Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lyady, founder of the Habad Hassidic sect.

1843–92. For a brief biography, see: Zvi Zohar, “Husin Family,” EJIW, vol. 3, p. 491. For more information, see: idem., “haYetzira haHilkhatit shel Hakhmei Bavel,” Pe’amim 86–7, 2001, pp. 4–50, at pp. 28–31; Lev Hakak has devoted an entire study to Hutsin’s work, Iggerot ha-Rav Shelomo Bekhor Hutsin, Tel Aviv, 2005. Hakak also discusses Hutsin at length in his important work: The Emergence of Modern Hebrew Literature in Babylon from 1735–1950, West Lafayette: Purdue University Press, 2009. 49 Baghdad, self-published. Part 1: 1891, Part 2: 1892. 48



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Rabbi Elisha' ben Nissim ben Sasson Dangour Rabbi Dangour50 was a leading disciple of Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh. In 1880 he was appointed to be the Hakham Bashi of Baghdad and the head of the rabbinic court.51 His major halakhic work was the book Gedulot Elisha (Jerusalem 1976), which includes glossa, commentaries, and halakhic decisions on many of the chapters of the Shulhan 'Arukh Orah Hayyim and Yoreh De’ah. In his glossa and discussions it is noticeable that he relates to the specific reality of the Baghdad community and to its characteristic customs. However, his familiarity with contemporary Ashkenazic halakhic literature sometimes made it difficult for him to explain Baghdadi traditions that were out of line with trends in Ashkenazic halakhic decisions. Thus with regard to the laws of the ninth of Av, (ch. 551, paragraphs 14–16), he first quotes many opinions from Ashkenazic literature according to which there is a general prohibition of dancing from the seventeenth of Tamuz onward. If so, he asks, why is it the custom in Baghdad that both before and after the new moon of Av, when holding festive meals on Friday night for the birth of a boy and also on the night preceding the circumcision, musical instruments are brought to bring joy to the hearts of invited guests? And similarly, upon leaving the synagogue on the morning of a circumcision, there is “dancing with musical instruments.” Rav Dangour struggled greatly with this issue; the mere fact of his deliberations is evidence that it never occurred to him to resolve the problem by determining that the Ashkenazic rulings were binding only upon Ashkenazic Jews and that they had no authority at all for the Jews of Baghdad. In the end Rabbi Dangour finds a way to justify the Baghdadi custom after the fact but recommends that his readers not follow it and instead be more stringent—i.e. they should follow the opinion of the (Ashkenazic) books that he quotes. We therefore have additional evidence of the openness of a late nineteenth-century Baghdadi rabbinical leader to the influence of European halakhic literature. In another case, Rabbi Dangour relies upon the opinion of an Ashkenazic halakhic scholar—in opposition to the opinion of Rabbi Yosef Caro—and in the direction of leniency! Rabbi Yosef Caro ruled that it was forbidden on Shabbat to clap hands when singing, but in Baghdad it was customary to do so on Friday night festivities held in anticipation of a circumcision scheduled for the following day. Rabbi Dangour explains that those who

Died in 1895. For more about him, see: Zvi Zohar, “haYetzira haHilkhatit shel Hakhmei Bavel” at pp. 26–8. 51 Several years later a bitter conflict erupted over his continued tenure; this conflict reflected and focused many intra-communal tensions that were not at all related to the manifest issue. For an extensive discussion of this, see: Yaron Harel, Bein Tekhakhim le-Mahpekha (Between Intrigues and Revolution), Jerusalem, Ben Zvi Institute, 2007, pp. 84–113; Ben Ya'akov, Yehudei Bavel miSof Tequfat haGeonim 'ad Yameinu, Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1979, pp. 164–8. 50

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do so “have upon whom to rely, as Rabbi Moshe Isserles wrote in his gloss to this text.”52

Rabbi Yehezqel 'Ezra Rahamim Rabbi Y. E. Rahamim53 was born in Baghdad and immigrated to Jerusalem in 1904 in order to study Kabbalah.54 One of his most important compositions was ‘Atzei haYa’ar (Baghdad 1911), which includes comments and new interpretations on Shulhan 'Arukh Orah Hayyim chapters 1–32. Rabbi Rahamim quotes extensively from halakhic responsa, ethical tractates (musar) and Kabbalistic texts. Analysis of the texts that he quotes shows how familiar he was with the Ashkenazic halakhic literature and the degree to which he was influenced by it. As an illustration, we note that 15 of the 24 books of post sixteenth-century rabbinic scholarship that he quotes in his comments on Orah Hayyim chapter 10 were written by Ashkenazic halakhic authorities.55

Rabbi 'Ezra-Sasson ben Reuven Dangour Rabbi 'Ezra Reuven Dangour56 studied in the “Beit Zilkha” Yeshiva and was the youngest of Rabbi ‘Abdallah Somekh’s students. He filled numerous public-religious positions in Baghdad, such as head of the ritual slaughterers, gabbai and cantor of the Great Synagogue, etc. Toward the end of his life, in the years 1923–8, he served as Hakham Bashi of Baghdad. In 1904 Rabbi Dangour set up a printing house in Baghdad where he published many books. He himself wrote a number of different books, but most of them remained in manuscript form.57 Some of the books he edited and published in his printing house included halakhic material. One of these was Kippur Tamim (Baghdad 1935): “High Holiday Prayer Book for Yom Kippur according to Sephardic Customs and the Customs of the Holy Community of Baghdad and its Environs.” The book contains many instructions that relate to halakha and to minhagim customary in Baghdad, See Gedulot Elisha on Orah Hayyim. 1876–1908. For more about him, see Zohar, note 50, at pp. 45–6. 54 His younger brother, Yitzhak Nissim, was chosen in 1955 to be the Chief Sephardic Rabbi of Israel. 55 Here is the complete list, with a star (*) designating books known to have been written by an Ashkenazic rabbi: Eliyahu Raba*; Bayit Hadash*; Birkat haZevah*; Darkei haHayyim*; Huqei Hayyim*; Hayyei Adam*; Helqo shel Yedid; Turei Zahav*; Yad haQetana*; Yafe Lalev Part 1; Yeshu'ot Ya'akov*; Kesef Mishneh; Lev Hayyim; Levush*; Magen Avraham*; Solet Belula*; Ma'aseh Roqeah (on the Rambam); ‘Iqarei Hada"t; Pnei Yitzhaq; Pri Tzaddiq; Pithei Olam*; Qitzur Shulhan 'Arukh*; Shulhan 'Arukh Rabeinu Zalman*; Shulhan Gavoha. 56 1848–1930. 57 See: Ben Ya'akov, ibid., pp. 173–4. 52 53



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as well as explanations of the prayer service and the like. Sometimes the author introduces information about other customs that he recommends. Thus, for example, he writes about lighting candles for Yom Kippur: It is customary for women in Ashkenaz on the ninth of Tishrei to set up the wicks of the candles of Yom Kippur and of the candles to be lit in the synagogue. For that day is the first day of the consecration of the temple. And it is a beautiful custom.58 In other words, Rabbi Dangour recommends to Baghdadi women that they adopt this custom, which until that time had been unknown in Baghdad and which he undoubtedly encountered upon reading a European rabbinic work. And he sees no reason for concern that doing so would diminish in any way the Sephardic nature of the Jewish women who follow the traditions of Baghdad.

Summary We opened this chapter with questions about the meaning of Sephardic halakhic identity as revealed in the cultural-religious worlds of modern rabbinic scholars in Baghdad when Torah learning there was at its height, and we saw that these rabbis unequivocally identified themselves as Sepharadim. At the same time, we saw that this identity did not obligate them, in their opinion, to close themselves off from the halakhic opinions of European Ashkenazic halakhic scholars. In fact, they frequently quoted the opinions of Ashkenazic rabbis and, what is more, they often decided in accordance with Ashkenazic opinions. Sometimes these decisions supported already accepted norms in Baghdad but were opposed to the position taken in the Shulhan 'Arukh. In other cases, in addition to their being different from Maran’s decisions, they were also innovations relative to what had until then been accepted praxis in Baghdad. Thus it emerges that neither of the hypothetical alternatives we suggested above in an effort to characterize the attitude of Sephardic halakhic scholars toward Ashkenazic halakha holds true for the rabbis of Iraq: They were neither unaware of the Ashkenazic halakhic writings of recent generations, nor did they systematically prefer traditional Sephardic halakhic positions over Ashkenazic sources. Could it therefore be possible that they are not “really” Sepharadim? Logically there is no way to disprove such a statement, but it would be absurd to agree with it. Was not Rabbi Yosef Hayyim, author of Ben Ish Hai, one of the cornerstones in the forging of Sephardic cultural-religious Page 12b.

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identity in recent generations? And if this is the case, can we seriously propose to negate the Sephardic identity of his teacher and colleague Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh and of the greatest of their colleagues and students? Indeed, how did we even reach a point in which we might countenance such an absurd possibility? It was only because we hypothesized that Sephardic tradition be defined as a cultural-religious tradition that constructs its identity by negating the Ashkenazic cultural-religious world. In light of our findings, perhaps it would make more sense if, rather than negating the Sephardic identity of rabbinic leaders who fail to meet this criterion, we negated the criterion itself? If we indeed negate this criterion we could propose for discussion, without any a priori hypotheses, the question: What is the nature of the relationship between the halakhic ethos of Sephardic halakhic scholars in recent generations and the EuropeanAshkenazic halakhic world? And beyond this: Are there alternate criteria that can be found in the writings of Middle Eastern halakhic scholars that can be more useful in typifying their Sephardic identity? These questions will occupy us in different forms and aspects throughout the following chapters. In the next chapter we shall attempt to provide a partial answer based on the views of some of the leading Jewish scholars in Iraq.

3 The Sephardic Halakhic ethos according to Iraqi Rabbinic leaders

Introduction In the previous chapter we saw that the Babylonian rabbis indeed identified themselves as Sephardic, but this identification did not prevent them from making halakhic decisions that followed Ashkenazic sources—even when these were in conflict with Rabbi Yosef Caro’s stance—when in their opinion such a decision was appropriate. What sense can we make of a situation in which outstanding decisors appear to prefer “outside” approaches and normative stances over those of their own tradition? One possible answer could be that this is an example of cultural “assimilation”: The rabbinic leaders in Iraq were exposed to European Jewish influence, causing them to lose their authentic original identity. If we take that track, we can go on to claim that the infiltration of European Jewish culture to nineteenth-century Iraq/Babylonia was just another aspect of a broader cultural phenomenon during that period of increased European cultural influence upon the Middle East. If, however, we look beyond the context of the nineteenth century at changes in Jewish halakhic culture over the generations, it is clear that, even if the rabbis of Iraq indeed internalized some Ashkenazic Jewish elements, this phenomenon was not unique to that century: The phenomenon of one Jewish center influencing another is not specifically modern. In fact, during the period of the Geonim,1 the Babylonian Jewish community itself was the source from which a “local” Jewish cultural product—the Babylonian Talmud—was disseminated, eventually having an overwhelming impact on almost the entire Jewish world.

1

From mid-seventh to mid-eleventh century ce

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About five centuries after the conclusion of the Geonic era, we see a similar phenomenon, whose source this time is in the far west: Sephardic culture spread out from the Iberian Peninsula—in large part (but not exclusively) as a result of the 1492 expulsion—and had a transformative impact upon other Jewish cultural traditions that had preserved a distinctive Jewish culture for hundreds of years, such as the “Toshavim” in North Africa, the “Romaniots” in the Balkans and Anatolia and the “Musta'arabim” in the Arabic speaking countries of the Middle East. Perhaps then we can speak of a similar phenomenon taking place since the nineteenth century and continuing to the present time: The spread of Ashkenazic rabbinic culture far beyond its locus of origin in Eastern and Central Europe and its influence inter alia upon the worldview and praxis of Sephardic Jewry. There are some who claim that an openness to Ashkenazic rabbinic culture is antithetical to a proper Sephardic commitment, according to which a “true” Sephardic decisor should reject out of hand any Torah work produced outside of the Sephardic sphere—regardless of its content or qualities. But if this had been their notion of the proper Sephardic stance, how could the Baghdadi Torah scholars have exposed themselves to Ashkenazic literature? Clearly, the rabbis of Iraq did not subscribe to a vision of Sephardic commitment entailing a closed discourse limited to Sephardic authors. Rather, they recognized the existence of a worldwide Jewish Torah culture—beyond the ethnic Babylonian or Sephardic culture— in which they participated as equals. At the same time, they also maintained a distinct sense of Sephardic religious-cultural identity antithetic to assimilation into Ashkenazic religiosity. At this point it may be useful to suggest a distinction between two types of reception of Ashkenazic rabbinic culture by Jews of Sephardic/Eastern origin.2 One type involves full or nearly full assimilation into Ashkenazic religious culture. An example of this would be a Jew of Sephardic origin who studied for many years in a yeshiva with strong Ashkenazic characteristics (whether Lithuanian or Hassidic) that re-formed his religious and cultural world. Such a person‘s Jewish-religious world is filled with European content, and to a great extent he has been assimilated into this dominant, powerful culture. This was a transformation experienced, for example, by many young men of Moroccan descent who were sent to learn in Haredi yeshivot established after the Holocaust in France and other countries.3

I am presenting two “ideal types” for heuristic methodological reasons and am well aware that reality is much more complex. 3 On this, see Ya'akov Lupo, Hatzalat Yahadut Maraqa la-Torah – haHashpa'a haAshkenazit 'al 'Olam haTorah beMaroqo, Masters degree thesis, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1997. The main points of his findings are included in his article: “Hatzalat Yahadut Maraqa la-Torah – Hotzaat Talmidim miMaroqo leYeshivot Litaiot ahar haShoa,” Pe'amim 80, summer 5759 (1989/1990), pp. 112–28. His Ph.D. thesis, written in France, was published as: Yaacov 2



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A second type of reception is more limited and critical. A fine example of this type would be a Sephardic rabbi, deeply rooted in Sephardic halakhic sources and culture, who comes into contact with Ashkenazic rabbinic literature and reads it critically. He approaches the texts with an openness to “hear the truth from he who says it” and with an awareness that the different communities that comprise the Jewish people throughout the world share a common cultural Jewish foundation. The leading Baghdadi halakhic scholars of the nineteenth century are of this second type. And what is more, in their cultural world this very type of openness was considered to express an important aspect of Sephardic identity. The rest of this chapter will expand upon and illustrate this claim. I open with a discussion of Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s Sephardic halakhic ethos, as expressed in his introduction to the first volume of his collected responsa Rav Pe'alim. Afterwards I present Rabbi Shlomo Bekhor Hutsin’s cultural enterprise, in which he served in effect as an agent of European Jewish religious and secular Hebraic culture among Iraq’s halakhic scholars. I then discuss Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh’s use of the scientific-maskilic work Diqduqei Sofrim, and conclude with a number of instructive examples of instances in which Iraqi halakhic scholars deviated from the rulings of Maran in order to better serve the moral and religious wellbeing of the community. Taken together, these analyses illustrate characteristics of a “Sephardic” religio-cultural ethos more complex than a mere “obligation to rule in accordance with Maran.”

Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s Guidelines for a Sephardic ethos of Halakhic endeavor Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s main collection of responsa is “Rav Pe'alim.”4 In the introduction to the first volume of this work, the author discusses a number of characteristics of the creativity of halakhic scholars active in the centuries after the Shulhan 'Arukh, a timeframe he captions as the period of “ba'alei teshuvot and ba'alei asufot” (authors of responsa and authors of anthologies).5 In the course of his discussion, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim outlines alternate modes in which halakhic decisions can be made, and he makes clear which of these alternatives is to be regarded as preferable. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim first distinguishes between posqim (decisors) who make halakhic decisions by choosing from among alternatives already Loupo, Métamorphose ultra-orthodoxe chez les juifs du Maroc: Comment les séfarades sont devenus achkénazes, Paris: Harmattan, 2006. 4 See Chapter 2, near note 7. 5 Responsa Rav Pe'alim, vol. 1, Jerusalem 5661 (1900/1), “Opening of the book with the help of God,” first page.

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extant in halakhic literature and determining which alternative is relevant for the issue at hand, and those decisors who, when delving into a halakhic question, innovate and break new ground in the understanding of the relevant issues, basing a novel decision upon these innovative interpretations: There are two types of ba'alei teshuvot (authors of responsa). There is the type that upon being asked a question or inquiry goes into the room of that matter. There he sees a table set and prepared before him, with bowls filled with cooked food and fine fruit; one indicates “decide this way” and the other indicates “decide that way”. And with what he gathered and collected from that set table, he writes his answer to the question or inquiry. And certainly wisdom is required to make a pure and clean choice from the set table, taking only that which is fitting and pertinent to the question, refraining from inappropriate application of the material. But such a person is called “hakim” (clever); he is not called “rav” (master). And there is the type that is asked a question or an inquiry, and he pillages the depths of that matter, and from the room of that matter he opens new ways and paths through which to go to other rooms, east, west, north, and south. And wherever he goes, he climbs up and down, ties and unties, brings in and lets out. And from all these he writes a full, clear and clean answer, passing it through thirteen sieves. This one is called not only “clever” but also “master”, and about him it is said “Many daughters have done valiantly, but thou excellest them all” (Prov. 31.29). The first respondent relates to halakhic literature as a treasure-house of precedents that comprise the entire range of possible halakhic answers to the question being discussed. In order to answer a question posed to him, the respondent needs to proceed through two stages: First, he must correctly identify the inventory of answers relevant to the issue at hand; second, he must decide which of these answers is most suitable. The second respondent relates to existing halakhic literature as a cultural-intellectual field whose possible meanings are not exhausted by the existing inventory of precedents and discussions. Discussion of a halakhic question provides this respondent with an opportunity to develop new meanings in the field of halakhic discourse by looking freshly at each of the relevant halakhic issues and matters and by making new connections between them. In this way he arrives at an original perspective on the issue under discussion, enabling him to make a decision that is not a pointer to an already existing precedent but is an original contribution that innovatively enriches the halakhic world. It is clear from Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s words that he holds this innovative and original decisor in the highest regard: While a decisor of the first



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kind “has done valiantly,” the second type “excellest them all,” and his rank is thus much higher. From what we have said thus far it would seem that innovation and originality are more important than familiarity with the opinions already extant in Torah literature throughout the ages. But our author goes on to say that this is a misleading dichotomy. He presents another way to distinguish between different types of halakhic scholars: There is a second way to divide respondents into two types. And that is: There is the one who upon being asked a question on one matter is quick to knock upon the doors of the books of all other respondents – the earlier ones, the later ones, and the most recent ones, from the smallest till the greatest until his own time, including even books whose authors are still alive. And his purpose is to search thoroughly to see and to know everything that any halakhic scholar had to say about the matter about which he was asked. And behold, how good and pleasant is this path. On the one hand, if he should find someone who engaged this issue and with whom he is in agreement, he will be able to make his decision both on the basis of his own opinion and on the basis of this other rabbi, and this then is not a case of dan yehidi (“alone in judgment”). On the other hand, since every interpretive attempt leads to at least a modicum of innovation, it is not unreasonable that he will find in the books of such authors some logical argument or some analytical differentiation or some evidence or proof from the words of the early scholars (Rishonim) or from the Talmud that he himself did not know or recognize or was not sensitive to – even though he himself might be a great and brilliant and outstanding halakhic scholar with extensive experience in the “wars of Torah”, and even though he may be ten times more erudite than the halakhic scholar who wrote that book. And this is the way of the Sephardic halakhic scholars in their halakhic decisions: To search through all of the books they can access – of the earlier scholars, the later ones and the most recent ones – in order to clarify the halakha in their responsa. And about them it is said: “Let thy springs be dispersed abroad”.6 This first type of halakhic decisor studies the works of others not because he is subordinate to their authority, but because he takes interest in the entire realm of halakha per se. He therefore wishes to familiarize himself with the opinions of halakhic scholars from the recent past or of his own time, even if their status is lower than his own. A scholar of this type has two reasons for wanting to know the complete spectrum of opinion found in halakhic literature. The first is relevant to the halakhic decision he has been asked to

6

Introduction, ibid.

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make. If a decisor arrives at an answer that differs from those who preceded him, he is allowed to decide on the basis of his own judgment, but none the less it is preferable that he find within the field of Torah literature at least one additional opinion that matches his own. Notice the assumption hidden in these words: The decisor is not bound by the “majority opinion” of the halakhic scholars who preceded him, nor is he even obligated to decide in accordance with a recognized minority opinion. In principle, a halakhic scholar is allowed to decide on the basis of his personal best judgment even when no other halakhic opinion agrees with him. But Rabbi Yosef Hayyim advises strongly against reaching that point, recommending instead that the decisor identify at least one other halakhic scholar who agrees with his own unconventional opinion. Our author ties this preference for locating at least one opinion in agreement with one’s own to a statement attributed to Rabbi Ishma'el, son of Rabbi Yossi: “Do not be a single judge, for only One judges as ‘single judge’.”7 In the original, these words refer to the context of a courtroom: While formally an outstanding and authoritative halakhic scholar is allowed to sit in judgment as a panel of one, Rabbi Ishma'el advises that it is not appropriate for anyone to do so: only God is worthy of judging alone. Instead, court cases should be heard by a panel of three judges sitting together.8 Rabbi Yosef Hayyim transposes this advice to a different context—that of a decisor asked to respond to a halakhic question. The normal situation is that a decisor is asked a question as an individual and responds as an individual, and Rabbi Ishma'el’s words did not refer to this context of decision-making. But our author derives from Rabbi Ishma’el a general principle: it is always better to make halakhic decisions in a collegial context and, with this in mind, a decisor should regard all halakhic scholars throughout the generations as potential colleagues in rendering the best response to the issue he is currently being asked to address. As we saw above, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim holds that a rabbi who makes a halakhic decision is not bound by a majority of relevant precedents: He may rule in accordance with a minority view if he sees fit to do so. Furthermore, if his own best understanding of the halakha leads him to formulate a decision completely without precedent, he may in good faith rule according to the halakhic truth as he sees it. However, our author recommends that the decisor should strive to avoid placing himself in such a position but should rather be able to cite at least one additional “colleague” who holds as he does. The ability to cite such a colleague depends upon the decisor’s breadth of knowledge: the more he expands the horizons of Mishnah, Pirqei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers), ch. 4, mishnah 8. The first mishnah in tractate Sanhedrin determines: “In civil cases three judges are needed.” But in the Talmudic discussion of this Mishnah it is decided that a rabbi who is “a publicly recognized expert” or a rabbi whose ruling all the parties to the conflict agree to accept is permitted to judge alone (Sanhedrin 5a). 7 8



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his acquaintance with the wealth of Torah literature, the easier it will be for him to decide according to his own judgment—even if his decision is contrary to the decisions of most halakhic scholars—since he will be able to point to at least one other halakhic scholar, who lived sometime and somewhere during the course of halakhic history, who shares his opinion. A second reason for taking an interest in the full range of opinions in the halakhic literature is not necessarily related to the need to make a decision on a particular issue but relates instead to a decisor’s own intellectual enrichment. No person, no matter how intelligent and original, can from his own internal resources alone arrive at all of the potential interpretative and analytical possibilities inherent in the halakhic sources throughout the ages. Since every person has his own individual intellectual perspective, it is quite possible, and even likely, that a halakhic scholar of lower standing might arrive at interesting insights that hadn’t occurred to a more accomplished rabbi. Therefore it is both proper and worthwhile for a halakhic scholar to read whatever he can, without limiting himself to the study of the words of those whom he views as greater and more authoritative than himself. Acquaintance with the full range of voices within Torah literature is actually likely to promote any halakhic scholar’s own creativity and originality. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim notes that this approach—“To survey and search through all of the books of the earlier ones, the later ones, and the most recent ones, to the greatest extent they can, in order to clarify the halakha in their responses”—is the “way of the Sephardic halakhic scholars in their halakhic decisions.” To these halakhic scholars our author applies the phrase: “Let thy springs be dispersed abroad.” By citing this phrase, Rabbi Hayyim is alluding to the students of Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai who are mentioned in Ethics of the Fathers (chapter 2.8). His two greatest students were Rabbi Eli'ezer ben Hyrcanus and Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh: [Rabbi Yohanan] used to say: “If all the sages of Israel were to be in one cup of a balance-scale, and Eli'ezer ben Hyrcanus was in the other, he would outweigh them all”. Abba Shaul said in his name: “If all the sages of Israel were to be in one cup of a balance-scale, Eli'ezer ben Hyrcanus included, and El'azar ben 'Arakh were in the other, he would outweigh them all”. And what were the virtues of these great rabbis? Rabbi Eli'ezer ben Hyrcanus was “a cemented cistern that loses not a drop,” and Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh was “an ever-increasing wellspring.” And in the language of the expanded version in Avot deRabi Natan: Rabban Yohanan the son of Zakkai had five disciples. To each one he gave a name. He would recount their praises: Rabbi Eli'ezer the son of Hyrcanus is “a cemented cistern that loses not a drop, a tarred jar that

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preserves its wine” … Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh is “as a flowing river and an ever-increasing wellspring, whose waters gain speed and break forth, fulfilling that which is said” [Prov. 5, 16]: “Let thy springs be dispersed abroad, and courses of water in the streets”.9 Rabi Eli'ezer ben Hyrcanus is similar to the first type of halakhic scholar described by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim, the one who knows the entire inventory of opinions in the halakhic literature prior to his own time and who draws upon this inventory to respond to questions posed to him. And indeed Rabbi Eli'ezer was described in this way: Our rabbis have taught: It happened that Rabbi Eli'ezer passed the Shabbat in the Upper Galilee, and they asked him for thirty decisions in the laws of Sukkah. Of twelve of these he said “I heard them”. Of eighteen he said “I have not heard”. They said to him: “Are all your words only accounts of what you have heard”? He said to them: “During all my life … I have never said a thing that I did not hear from my teachers”.10 Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh is reminiscent of the second type of halakhic scholar characterized by Yosef Hayyim, one who is creative and original. And thus is told of Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh, in illustration of the words of the Mishnah: “One should not discuss … the topic of the [heavenly] chariot (ma'aseh merkava) even with one individual unless he was a wise man able to comprehend it by his own insight”:11 It happened that Rabban [our master] Yohanan ben Zakkai was riding on a donkey and Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh was guiding the donkey from behind. Rabbi El'azar said to Rabban Yohanan: “Master, teach me a chapter of the [topic of the] heavenly chariot”. Rabban Yohanan said to him: “Haven’t I already told you from the beginning that one should not discuss the chariot with even one individual unless he was a wise man able to comprehend it by his own insight!?” Rabbi El'azar said to him: “If so, I will now lecture before you”. Rabban Yohanan said: “Go ahead”. Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh began to explicate the [topic of the] heavenly chariot. Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai got off his donkey, wrapped himself in his Tallit, and they sat together on a stone under an olive tree. And he lectured before him. Rabban Yohanan then stood up and kissed him on his head and said: “Blessed is the Lord God of Israel, who gave a son to our father Abraham who knows how to understand Avot deRabi Natan, ch. 14, Mishnah 3. Babylonian Talmud, Sukkah, 28a. 11 Tractate Hagiga, ch. 2, mishna 1. The term “Heavenly Chariot” refers to a field of esoteric knowledge relating to God. 9

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and interpret the glory of his Father in Heaven. … Happy are you our father Abraham that El'azar ben 'Arakh, who knows how to understand and interpret the glory of his father in heaven, came out from your loins”.12 Discourse on the topic of the heavenly chariot is paradigmatic of an activity in which a student is supposed to comprehend on his own matters on which he has never received information from anyone. Rabbi El'azar ben 'Arakh, described by his teacher as “an ever-increasing wellspring … may your springs be dispersed abroad,” is the classic example of such an original sage. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim employs this very phrase to describe the ideal decisor, whom he identifies with Sephardic halakhic scholars who combine a command of the entire field of halakhic discourse with originality and inventiveness. In contrast to this figure, he writes, there is another type of halakhist: … whose way is not to search through the books of the later sages (ahronim) on every matter that comes before them; rather they turn only to the words of the earlier sages (rishonim), and then they write what seems to them right in light of their own logic and judgment. To fulfill that which is said: “When thou sittest to eat with a ruler, consider well him that is before thee” (Prov. 23, 1).13 And this is the way usually taken by great Ashkenazic rabbis.14 The Ashkenazic rabbis usually ignore all that was written by “later” halakhic scholars, i.e. everything written after Rabbi Yosef Caro’s sixteenthcentury Shulhan ‘Arukh. This is because, according to Ashkenazic halakhic tradition, a decisor in the present is required to be obedient and submissive only toward the early scholars and not toward the later ones. Since they are not obligated to follow the opinions of those scholars who lived after the sixteenth century, Ashkenazic halakhic scholars see themselves as exempt from having to relate to these opinions and thus feel free to decide

Tosefta Hagiga, Lieberman edition, chapters 2, 1. The verse that Rabbi Yosef Hayyim quotes from Proverbs has been interpreted in different ways in Torah literature over the generations. I haven’t found an interpretation that fully fits its use in the current context. The closest fit seems to be with Hulin 6a, where the Talmud interprets the verse to refer to a student who sits to discuss Torah with his master (“ruler”); the student should be very careful in formulating his words because of the honor and respect he must demonstrate toward the master. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s words seem to be based on the spirit of that interpretation, i.e. he attributes to the Ashkenazic tradition the view that a decisor of the present time needs to demonstrate consideration and respect only toward those who “rule over” him; they are those scholars who are “before him” and are thus his “masters.” Such is the case only with regard to the “earlier” scholars (Rishonim). 14 Rav Pe'alim, Introduction, ibid. 12 13

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according to their own understanding, as long as this does not contradict the earlier scholars.15 Rabbi Yosef Hayyim strongly criticizes this approach of the Ashkenazic halakhic scholars, and he writes: I say, after a thousand pardons from the honor of their Torah: What they do is not a good thing.16 For a great rule in Torah is that “Torah can only be purchased in company”.17 And that is why scholars are called ba'alei asufot.18 And you will always find that the great ones need the small ones. As the great Tana said: “I learned much Torah from my teachers, more from my friends, and from my students I learned most of all”.19 In the beginning of this section Rabbi Yosef Hayyim returns to another aspect of the subject he had raised before: Torah activity as participation in a community of discourse. Earlier he related to this in the context of making halakhic decisions (“Don’t be a lone judge”). Here the emphasis is upon the intellectual stimulation derived from involvement in such a community. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim emphasizes that he is not referring to some elite group of exceptional individuals who should take an interest in what each other has to say but to a broad community including great experts in Torah, rank and file Torah scholars, as well as students. And what are the implications of such an approach for a halakhic decisor in the present? Our author writes: Therefore, if the author of the book is a “later” scholar, and the decisor who is preparing to answer the question posed to him is a great halakhic scholar and an outstanding rabbi, why should he not take an interest

A striking example of an Ashkenazi rabbi who advocated this type of approach was Rabbi Moshe Feinstein. In his introduction to his work of responsa Iggerot Moshe, Orah Hayyim, Volume 1 (New York 5719 (1958/9)) he declares, “the truth that should be followed by a decisor is what seems right to him after he has worked tirelessly to clarify the halakha on the basis of the Talmud and Posqim.” That is, the scholar must study the Talmud and the codes (such as Mishneh Torah, Arba'a Turim and Shulhan 'Arukh) and rule on the basis of what is written there. If so, the decisor has no need, and thus no impetus, to take any interest in the responsa of later sages. And indeed, Rabbi Feinstein quotes responsa of “later” scholars very sparingly. 16 Hebrew: Lo tov haDavar asher 'asu. This points the reader to Jethro’s critique of Moses: Lo tov haDavar asher ata 'ose (Exod. 18.14). And what was Jethro criticizing? Moses sitting in judgment alone without involving a broad body of judges … 17 Berakhot 63b. As Rabbi Menahem Hameiri comments ad loc.: “A person should always study Torah with a companion; for a person has no analytic sharpness without a companion to awaken it.” 18 See Tosefta Sotah (Lieberman edition, chapters 7, 9): “Ba'alei Asufot—these are Torah scholars who sit gathered together.” 19 Makkot 10a. This statement is attributed to Rabbi Yehudah Hanassi (Judah the Prince). 15



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in what this author wrote concerning the same matter as the question, whether out of his own logic or out of what he gathered and collected from the earlier and later scholars on that matter? Could it not be that that author came up with something new or a new deduction that had escaped the attention of this outstanding rabbi? And if this outstanding rabbi were to look at this author’s words and not find anything new, what would he have lost by this viewing? In any case, thanks to this perusal his understanding of the issue at hand would increase. Rabbi Yohanan himself looked forward to being challenged by his students so that his understanding would improve, and he preferred such students to another student who would say “here is a tana who supports you”.20 And here too, if he should find some mistake in the words of that author, then all the more so his understanding would increase (ibid.) As he did earlier with other sources, so too in the matter at hand Rabbi Yosef Hayyim takes the words of the sources that praise participation in a community of discourse and applies them to a new context. While the quoted texts refer to scholars who meet face to face, learning and discussing together, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim applies this to a community created by the study of texts written by scholars who are not in each other’s presence. Rather, some of them lived in other generations, while others live in the present time but in distant lands. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s opinion is that the more a person learns from sources and texts, even those written by authors who are not world-class, the more he will enrich his intellectual horizons and his insights into the sources under discussion. Therefore, Ashkenazic halakhic scholars are mistaken when they ignore this extensive literature and take an interest only in the words of those halakhic scholars who lived and worked in the “early” periods. It emerges that, according to these very criteria, characteristic (in Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s opinion) of the Sephardic halakhic ethos, it is fitting for a halakhic scholar to obtain all rabbinic works of whatever authorship, to read them and to get as much enrichment out of them as is possible. Therefore, it would actually be antithetical to the essence of the Sephardic ethos for a Sephardic scholar to limit himself to reading only halakhic literature Rabbi Yosef Hayyim here refers to a famous story related in the Babylonian Talmud (Bava Metzia 94a) with regard to Rabbi Yohanan and his student/colleague Reish Laqish. Reish Laqish was a tough intellectual opponent and was accustomed to challenging him with many tough questions when they learned together. Following a serious disagreement between them, Reish Laqish died, and Rabbi Yohanan was left without a study partner. An attempt to have the star student El'azar ben Pedat fill in for the deceased Reish Laqish proved greatly frustrating for Rabbi Yohanan, for whenever he proposed an interpretation of the matter under discussion, El'azar ben Pedat would immediately quote many sources supporting that view. Rabbi Yohanan complained bitterly about this and declared how much he preferred Reish Laqish’s attacks because as a result of these challenges his learning became sharper and deeper. 20

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written by Sephardic authors while deliberately ignoring Ashkenazic Torah literature. And indeed, as we saw already in earlier chapters, Iraqi halakhic scholars did not refrain from relating to Ashkenazic rabbinic culture but rather quoted many texts composed by Ashkenazic scholars. Access to this literature was greatly facilitated by the enterprise of a single person, Rabbi Shlomo Hutsin.

Rabbi Shlomo Hutsin as a cultural agent of Jewish-European Hebrew and Torah literature Rabbi Shlomo Bekhor Hutsin was born in Baghdad in 1843 and died there at the age of 50, never having left the country in which he was born. He was among the greatest of Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh’s students and among the most important of nineteenth-century Iraqi rabbinic scholars, both because of the variety of books that he published and because of the critical role that he played in making the European Jewish cultural world accessible to the rabbis of Baghdad. From approximately 1867 onward he systematically imported to Iraq Jewish books printed in Europe. The great variety of books he imported is reflected in an advertisement from 1872, where he wrote: I faithfully make known in the tribes of Israel that I the undersigned have established here in Baghdad in the land of Babylonia a store for different kinds of Hebrew books: Bibles and Pentateuchs, prayer books and holiday prayer books, books of ethics and moral instruction, books of wisdom and history, and books of Talmud and its commentaries and legal decisions …21 It is noteworthy that alongside Torah literature he also imported “books of wisdom and history”—works on science and history printed in Hebrew. And indeed he is described by one of the rabbis of his generation as one to whom “wisdom and science are given.”22 In addition to this activity, Rabbi Hutsin was the Baghdad correspondent for European Jewish journals such as haMelitz, haHavatzelet, haTzefira, haMaggid, and haLevanon, as well as the correspondent of Jewish journals published in India, including Mevaser, Perah, and haDover. He published tens of articles in these journals on topics such as the past and present history of the Jewish people, Jewish

The advertisement is quoted in Avraham Ben Ya'akov, Yehudei Bavel miSof Tequfat haGeonim 'ad Yameinu, Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1979, p. 203, note 27 (in Hebrew). 22 Ibid., end of note 25. 21



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literature, halakha, and more.23 He founded a printing house in Baghdad and even initiated the publication of a local Jewish newspaper in Hebrew and Arabic though he was unable to implement this project because the government did not provide the necessary license.24 And last but not least, Rabbi Shlomo Hutsin was appointed the Baghdad representative of the Meqitzei Nirdamim Society, and with his encouragement 21 scholars and wealthy men from Baghdad signed up as members of this society.25 One of these was none other than Rabbi Yosef Hayyim himself.26 Having analyzed Rabbi Hayyim’s advocacy of a Sephardic intellectual ethos of reading every rabbinic composition one is able to access, his subscription to Mekitzei Nirdamim should not surprise us. Indeed, Rabbi Hutsin’s activity of importing European Jewish literature to Baghdad can now be perceived as an instrument facilitating the realization of this ethos.27 In the following sections of this chapter I shall discuss several more examples that illustrate ways in which Baghdadi rabbis realized the Sephardic ethos described by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim. First, I shall bring an example from the realm of theoretical (non-applied) rabbinics, and I shall then move on to a discussion of taqqanot (regulations). Finally, I shall present a halakhic discussion between two of the greatest of the Babylonian halakhic scholars that reflects how an awareness of Ashkenazic halakhic content can enable a practical decision in tune with the Sephardic ethos.

Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh and Diqduqei Sofrim In previous chapters we related in a variety of contexts Rabbi Somekh’s Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, which is based on the extensive correspondence that he carried on with his nephew in India.28 This correspondence included not only discussions of applied halakha but also of issues of interpretation and of Torah study for its own sake. Thus, a question that arrived from India in 1879 related to the understanding of a complex Talmudic text in tractate Ta'anit. Rabbi Somekh responds at length and inter alia has great difficulty in understanding the comments of Rashi ad loc. that don’t

For Rabbi Hutsin’s activities as a journalist and for an anthology of his articles, see: Lev Hakak, Iggerot ha-Rav Shelomo Bekhor Hutsin, Tel Aviv, 2005. 24 Ben Ya'akov, ibid., p. 203. On his activity as a publisher, see also: Avraham Ya'ari, ha-Defus ha-'Ivri be-Artzot ha-Mizrah, section 2, pp. 102–4. 25 The Meqitzei Nirdamim society was founded in 1862 with the goal of publishing scientific editions of Hebrew works from the medieval period. 26 Ben Ya'akov, ibid., p. 202. 27 For more on the general cultural matrix in which Rabbi Hutsin was active, see the important work by Lev Hakak The Emergence of Modern Hebrew Literature in Babylon from 1735–1950, West Lafayette: Purdue University Press, 2009. 28 See Chapter 1, note 8. 23

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seem congruent with the language of the Talmudic text. After formulating a tenuous attempt to make sense of Rashi’s comments to the printed Talmudic text, he reveals to his student in Bombay that this strained interpretation is actually unnecessary: We have received a copy of a recently printed work entitled Diqduqei Soferim, written by Refael Natan Neta ben Rav Shlomo Zalkind, may the Merciful One preserve and save him, who is still alive in Ashkenaz, may God extend his days and years.29 He was fortunate to enter the Bavarian Royal Library, located in Munich, and there to discover a great find – a manuscript of the Babylonian Talmud dating to the year 5150,30 and it has a number of textual formulations that differ from those of the printed Talmud in our possession. And many Talmudic discussions that are severely problematic [according to the text as printed] can be easily resolved on the basis of this manuscript.31 Rabbi Somekh goes on to describe how Diqduqei Soferim is set typographically and for which parts of the Talmud he has already received volumes of the book. Afterwards he goes on to write about the issue in Ta'anit under discussion: And now we saw [in Diqduqei Soferim] the text of the aforementioned section [in tractate Ta'anit], and we found that the wording is not like that of our wording but [and here Rabbi Somekh quotes the text of the Munich manuscript as given in Diqduqei Soferim]. And if so, we could say that Rashi’s version [of the Talmudic text] was like the version of that Talmud … and Rashi’s language will be seen as sound. And the aforementioned Rabbi [Refael Natan] wrote in his commentary that the text in the Yerushalmi is like that of the manuscript, and we too opened the Jerusalem Talmud and saw that such indeed is the version in Ta'anit in the Jerusalem Talmud … Two comments are in order with regard to Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh’s words. First of all, the book Diqduqei Soferim was published volume by volume as the author progressed in his work on the Munich manuscript. The volume on tractate Ta'anit was published in 1870; we noted that the responsum quoted above was written in 1879. Thus we see that less than

Refael Natan Nata Rabbinovicz (1835–88) devoted the major portion of his scholarly life to the creation and publication of Diqduqei Soferim, publishing 15 volumes between 1867 and 1886. The work is devoted to the presentation and analysis of textual variants in the Babylonian Talmud based upon the fourteenth-century manuscript located in the Munich library and complemented by a variety of additional sources. 30 The year 5150 of the Hebrew calendar corresponds to 1390 ce. 31 Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, responsum 140. 29



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10 years after this innovative book first appeared, it had found its way from distant Europe to Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh’s library and had become an integral part of his scholarly world. He uses it to resolve difficulties in the language of the classical Talmudic commentaries and as a result is led to compare between texts in the Babylonian Talmud and Jerusalem Talmud. There is little doubt that access to this work was made possible thanks to Rabbi Shlomo Hutsin’s enterprise. Our second comment is that access alone cannot explain Rabbi Somekh’s positive attitude, since an openness to scientific-textual work based on manuscripts cannot be taken for granted in the rabbinic world. If we look at what happened in Europe itself, we find that the book Diqduqei Soferim, a tremendous and exceedingly important work by a prominent rabbinic researcher, indeed received the approval of several contemporary rabbis, but it was never accepted into the world of the Eastern European yeshivot (academies of advanced Talmudic study). Ya'akov Spiegel wrote of this: In Lithuania, Galicia and the other places in which those engaged in Torah study opposed all “external” methods, they continued to learn in the old format, not taking into consideration the new modes of inquiry that began to take hold in the world of science. Thus the avoidance of the book [Diqduqei Soferim] was not due to some technical lack of erudition; rather, there was a principled resistance to change in the methodology of study, especially when the change came by way of external agents not identified with traditional Judaism … The fact that the book was “adopted” by those engaged in Wissenschaft des Judentums … [makes it possible] to understand why it was rejected by the Yeshiva world.32 As we have seen, Rabbi Somekh did not consider Diqduqei Soferim to be an “external” phenomenon, and he was not concerned about links with the world of the Haskalah. Quite the opposite: He praises the book Diqduqei Soferim and calls is author “Our honorable teacher the rabbi … may the Merciful One preserve and save him,” and blesses him “may God lengthen his days and years.” This approach is congruent with a cultural reality in which one of the leading rabbis of Baghdad imports “books of wisdom and history” alongside classic Torah literature and in which the rabbis of the city become members of the Mekitzei Nirdamim Society, a venture with a clear Haskalah character.33

Ya'akov S. Spiegel, 'Amudim be-Toledot ha-Sefer ha-'Ivri, Ramat Gan, Bar Ilan University, 5756 (1995/6), pp. 471–2. Wissenschaft des Judentums was a nineteenth-century intellectual movement devoted to critical investigation of Jewish literature and culture, including rabbinic literature, using scientific methods to analyze Judaic texts and traditions. 33 In this context one can understand Rabbi Somekh and Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s positive approach to the establishment in Baghdad of schools for Jewish children whose curriculum combined Torah studies with general studies. Thus Rabbi Somekh refused to agree to the 32

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Rabbi Somekh’s openness to this innovative work and to its integration in the studies in the beit midrash is congruent with the basic Sephardic ethos, formulated by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim: To become acquainted with the entire corpus of Judaic sources (including the very latest works), to relate to it respectfully and to formulate an independent position that is not enslaved to precedent. We shall now move from the beit midrash (study hall) to the beit din (rabbinic court) and examine two takkanot (regulations) enacted by the Baghdad rabbinic court that may be seen as reflecting the Sephardic ethos outlined above.

Regulations The rabbinic court of the Baghdad community continued in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to enact regulations for the public wellbeing.34 One of these regulations was enacted in 1913, and it concerned men who refused to support their wives on the basis of the claim that they were unemployed. According to Talmudic law, a husband is obligated to provide his wife with sustenance, and if he refuses to do so the court is entitled to confiscate his property and sell it, using the proceeds to support his wife. If, however, the husband has no property and has no income because he is unemployed, the court is unable to support the wife from his property or income. In this situation the wife has the option of asking the court to compel him to divorce her, and the court must accede to this request. If the woman does not want a divorce, and the husband has no income, what can the court do? Leading rabbinic scholars in the twelfth century differed with regard to this question. Rabbi Eliyahu ben Yehudah of Paris35 thought that in such a case

demand of the ultra-Orthodox rabbi Akiva Yosef Shlezinger to prevent the establishment of an Alliance School in Baghdad, and he also sent one of his children to study there (Ben-Ya'akov, Toledot haRav 'Abdallah Somekh, Jerusalem, 5709 (1948/9). Similarly, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim expressed enthusiastic support for the establishment of a modern and spacious school where students would learn Torah studies and general studies together, and praised the Alliance Israelite Universelle for establishing such an institution in Baghdad (Yosef Hayyim, Imrei Bina, vol. 1, Jerusalem, 5746 (1985/6), pp. 233–43). For more on Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s position regarding secular studies, see: Shaul Regev, “ha-Yahas la-Haskala be-Qerev ha-Rabbanim be-Bavel: R' Yosef Hayyim ve-R' Shim'on Agassi,” Mehqarim be-Toledot Yehudei Bavel u-v-Tarbutam, Or Yehuda, 5762, pp. 97–118. 34 On the contrast between Jewish communities in Islamic countries and Ashkenazi communities in the modern era, with regard to the continued existence in Islamic countries of “Jewish law” as “live and applied law,” see: Menahem Elon, ha-Mishpat ha-Ivri, p. 1326. 35 This is Rabbi Eliyahu ben Yehudah from Paris, who lived in the first half of the twelfth century. See A. E. Urbach, Ba'alei ha-Tosafot, Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 5728 (1967/8), p. 106.



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a man must find employment even as a teacher of very small children or as a simple laborer in order to support his wife.36 However, Rabbi Ya'akov ben Meir (France, twelfth century) and Rabbi Meir Halevy Abulafia (Spain, end of twelfth and beginning of thirteenth centuries) rejected this position.37 In the Shulhan 'Arukh Rabbi Yosef Caro ruled according to the two latter scholars without even mentioning Rabbi Eliyahu’s alternate opinion.38 Rabbi Moshe Isserles in his gloss ad loc. added: “And there are also those who say that the husband should hire himself out as a worker and support his wife,”39 but he doesn’t establish this as obligatory. The only context in which this view is known to have been implemented is thirteenth-century France, of which Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg reports: “I saw that our rabbis in France apply the ruling of our Rabbi Eliyahu of blessed memory.”40 Since Rabbi Caro ruled against Rabbi Eliyahu’s position, halakhic praxis was to refrain from forcing unemployed husbands to work. However, this had significant negative consequences. In 1913 the rabbis in Baghdad took note of a phenomenon that was causing harm to many women: We have seen a number of men who do not want to support their wives and therefore sit idly even though they are able to do some work and thus earn money. Nevertheless, so as not to be obligated to support their wives, they sit idly.41 According to Rabbi Yosef Caro, these women have no recourse except to demand a divorce. But rabbis of Baghdad write that they decided to change this situation: Even though we are dependent upon the Table of Maran [obligated to decide in accordance with Rabbi Caro’s Shulhan 'Arukh] … Nevertheless, for the sake of the wellbeing of the daughters of Israel, we the rabbis and halakhic scholars of Baghdad have convened, and we have unanimously and wholeheartedly enacted a valid and authoritative regulation that if a woman comes to a rabbinic court and claims that her husband left her and does not support her, and her husband claims that he has no business or employment through which to support her, but in truth there are witnesses who testified before the court that the husband can do some work and earn money to support his wife, and in the views of the judges this work or business is in accordance with that husband’s honor and not

Tosafot on Ketubot 63a s.v. be-Omer Eini Zan. For the positions of these three rabbis, see Tur Even Ha'ezer, ch. 70. 38 See: Shulhan 'Arukh, Even Ha'ezer, cha. 70 paragraph 3, ch. 154 paragraph 3. 39 Gloss of Rema to Shulhan 'Arukh Even Ha'ezer, ch. 70 paragraph 3. 40 Rabbi Meir’s responsum on this issue is included in Teshuvot Maimoniot le-Hilkhot Ishut, responsum 31. 41 Responsa Ma'aseh Beit Din, Jerusalem: Ahavat Shalom Publications, 5748 (1987/8), p. 156. 36 37

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degrading, and nevertheless the husband sits idly and does not want to do any work or labor so as not to be obligated to support his wife – then, the honorable court can, in accordance with this regulation, obligate the man to support his wife to whatever extent they see fit.42 In other words, when it becomes clear to the court that the man lacking in means is able to work but deliberately avoids doing so in order to free himself of the obligation of supporting his wife, the judges can none the less obligate him to pay for her support, thereby effectively forcing him to work. The Baghdadi rabbis legislated this enactment although it meant ruling against Rabbi Caro, to whose authority they considered themselves as under general obligation to submit. Although in principle a regulation is not an interpretive but a positive law and may be enacted in total disregard of both halakhic precedent and praxis, the rabbis of Baghdad gain confidence and moral support by being able to point out that they are not alone in this view. They do so by citing Rema’s gloss,43 a gloss that reflects the minority view of Rabbi Eliyahu. This is analogous to the course of action advocated by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim to try to avoid a situation where one relies upon oneself alone (dan yehidi) even when one is convinced that the ruling is substantively correct. Rather, one should do one’s utmost to identify in the broad field of halakhic literature at least one additional scholar holding such a view. In the case at hand, the additional scholar was found in the figure of a twelfth-century Ashkenazic rabbi to whom the rabbis of Baghdad related while pointedly differing from the position of the Shulhan 'Arukh. This is not the only legislation enacted by the rabbis of Baghdad in opposition to a position of Rabbi Yosef Caro. Already in 1877 a regulation was enacted to prevent a husband from being able to sell items belonging to his wife’s dowry: We the scholars and the rich and prominent leaders of the community of Baghdad … have arisen and stand strong in order to benefit the wellbeing of the daughters of Israel and to prevent dispute among our people and [have enacted] in total agreement: That if a man should entice his wife and take anything from her dowry and sell it to others, then she has the right and the power to demand to receive their price from his hands. And if he should refuse to do so, then any rabbinic court has the power and authority to take from his mouth the thing that he has swallowed in any way they can, whether by expelling him or ostracizing him or banning him from the community of Israel or by compelling and forcing him by the courts of the gentiles. … And even though this is the opposite of 42 Ibid., The takanah was signed by 17 of Baghdad’s leading rabbis, and it was ratified by the Hakham Bashi Avraham Moshe Hillel (see Ben Ya'akov, note 21, p. 171) and by Rabbi Ya'akov, son of Yosef Hayyim (see ibid., p. 200). 43 Cf. note 39, above.



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what Maran of blessed memory ruled in his pure table, nonetheless we have accepted this [enactment] upon ourselves and our children after us as equivalent to a law given to Moses on Sinai, and no person, whether rich or medium or poor, may open his mouth or voice opposition to this regulation, for it is for the benefit and well-being of our people.44 The Baghdad rabbis do not pinpoint the specific law in the Shulhan 'Arukh that their regulation contradicts. They are apparently referring to the ruling that a man is not allowed to sell objects from his wife’s dowry, but “if he sold them or mortgaged them, what he did is done.”45 Others hold that such a sale or mortgage should be annulled, but if the husband testifies under oath “that he did what he did with her permission,” he is to be believed.46 Only one quite peripheral opinion held that the burden of proof that “he did it with her permission” rests on the husband.47 In the case before us the Baghdad rabbis took an even more forceful stance, determining that even if the wife explicitly gave her permission, we will accept her statement that she was “enticed” to do so. The sale will not be annulled, but the husband will get no benefit from his devious action because he will be forced to hand over the item’s value to his wife. Here, too, the Baghdadi rabbis and leaders declare explicitly that they are enacting a regulation that is in total contradiction to Maran’s position, and nevertheless it has the validity of “a law given to Moses on Sinai,” and no one can object to it “because it is for the benefit and wellbeing of our people.” Both of the regulations discussed are responses to a tension between two important values that was felt by the rabbinic leadership of Baghdad. On the one hand, as Sephardic halakhic authorities, they recognized an obligation to subordinate themselves to Maran’s decisions. On the other hand, as communal rabbinic leaders, they felt a deep commitment to the public weal—“the wellbeing of the daughters of Israel” or “the benefit and wellbeing of our people.” In both cases, they decided that their commitment to the public trumps their commitment to Maran, and this value-based choice is expressed in the regulations they enacted. Thus a Sephardic halakhic ethos that has high regard for Rabbi Caro can nevertheless support a halakhic decision that directly contradicts one of Caro’s rulings, holding other values to be more important. From a formal, legal perspective there is an important difference between an enactment and a halakhic ruling. An enactment does not claim to interpret and apply the existing legal tradition but is instead an act of

Responsa Ma'aseh Beit Din (note 41, above), p. 155. Emphases mine (Z. Z.). Shulhan 'Arukh, Even Ha'ezer, ch. 90, paragraph 14. 46 Glossa of Rema, ad loc. 47 This seems to be the view of Rabbi Moshe Lima (Lithuania, first half of the seventeenth century) in his work Helqat Mehoqeq on Shulhan 'Arukh, ad loc., note 46. He relies upon an anonymous manuscript quoted in Rabbi Caro’s Beit Yosef ad loc. 44 45

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legislation that establishes alternate norms through the authority of a legislative body. It might thus be claimed that the two enactments discussed above express an ethos of legislation and not an ethos of halakhic ruling. Perhaps Iraqi rabbis felt that it was permissible for them to legislate regulations that were contrary to Maran’s stance but that it was totally forbidden for a Sephardic decisor to formulate a halakhic ruling that deviated from Caro’s position. However, to the best of my knowledge, Iraqi rabbis did not accept this distinction. As an illustration of this point, let us consider a halakhic discussion that took place between Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh and Rabbi Eliyahu Suleiman Mani in the early 1880s.

On “Reshut ha-Rabim” in India: The Halakhic conversation between Rabbi Eliyahu Mani and Rabbi 'Abdallah Somekh In the previous chapter we discussed the fact that halakhic scholars in Iraq identified themselves as Sephardic decisors. One of the examples cited to prove this was Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s decision regarding the definition of “reshut ha-rabbim” (public domain) that was relevant for Iraqi Jews who had settled in India. He ruled that, since they originated in Iraq, and since Iraqi Jews were committed to follow Rabbi Yosef Caro, this commitment devolved also upon those in India. As we noted in the previous chapters, Rabbi Caro’s stance was that since the streets in India were wider than 16 ama, they are indeed “public domain.” The upshot of this ruling was that it was forbidden for Jews living in India to convey any object on Shabbat through the streets: They could not take anything from their house to the street or carry anything on the street or bring any objects other than the clothing they were wearing from the street into their house. Thus, for example, a Jew who leaves his house to go to synagogue cannot take his prayer shawl, a key, a prayer book, or a Bar Mitzvah gift; someone going to visit a friend cannot bring a gift, and so on. This is the halakhic decision required by the Sephardic halakhic tradition, and this was indeed the answer given by the great halakhic scholars of Baghdad when the question was posed to them. In the previous chapter we discussed Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s opinion.48 Rabbi Somekh also supported this position. Thus, for example, he was asked in 1877 if it was permissible for Jews in India to leave their homes on Shabbat when carrying in their pockets a handkerchief “used for cleaning the hands and the nose on Shabbat,”49 and he wrote: Near notes 11, 12. Zivhei Tzedeq, Orah Hayyim, responsum 22; also printed in Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot,

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Maran of blessed memory wrote in [Shulhan ‘Arukh Orah Hayyim] chapter 345 paragraph 7, as follows: What is reshut ha-rabbim? Streets and markets that are sixteen ama etc. And there are those who say that any place in which 600,000 do not pass through every day is not a reshut ha-rabbim. This is what he says; read it there. And since Maran wrote the first opinion without attribution, and the second opinion in the name of “there are those who say”, it means that he thinks that even if 600,000 people do not pass through, if the road is sixteen ama, it is termed reshut ha-rabim. And this is what our master Hayyim Yosef David Azulai wrote in Birkei Yosef ad loc. [on Shulhan 'Arukh ch. 345] note 2, and in his work Mahziq Berakha ad loc., note 5. And this being the case, the streets of Bombay, which are wider than sixteen ama, are called reshut ha-rabbim. And Maimonides, of blessed memory, also wrote so.50 Rabbi Somekh took a similar position when he was asked about the use of a palki (palanquin): Is it permissible for a Jew be transported through the streets on Shabbat by palanquin if the porters are gentiles? He replied that this was forbidden because: [I]t is forbidden by Torah law to take the chair from the reshut ha-yahid (private domain) to the reshut ha-rabbim (public domain), and it is also forbidden to transport it for a distance of four ama in the public domain. … For your roads are wider than sixteen ama and are therefore considered reshut ha-rabbim, as decided by Maran.51 Furthermore, “[E]verything that is forbidden for a Jew to do [on Shabbat], it is forbidden to ask a gentile to do so for the Jew’s benefit” (ibid.). This prohibition of “asking a gentile” may not apply if the action to be performed is prohibited only by rabbinic law (derabanan), but since in the case at hand this prohibition derives from Torah law, it is not permissible to ask a gentile to perform the act for the Jew’s sake. In light of all the above, Rabbi Somekh was surprised when his nephew wrote to him from Bombay: … when Rabbi Eliyahu Mani was in Bombay, he permitted transporting

responsum 85. This responsum was already mentioned in Chapter 1, near note 61. 50 Ibid. 51 Zivhei Tzedeq, Orah Hayyim, responsum 25. A similar question was already posed by the Jews of Bombay in the 1840s to the Rishon le-Tziyyon (Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem) Hayyim Avraham Gaguin (1787–1848), and he too responded negatively because of the problem of reshut ha-rabbim on Shabbat. See Responsa Yismah Lev, Orah Hayyim, responsum 4.

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objects [on Shabbat, from one domain to another] by a gentile [for the sake of a Jew]. And he also permitted sitting in a palki [and being carried from place to place on Shabbat] by a gentile, saying that our streets … which are sixteen ama wide, are considered carmelit.52 Rabbi Somekh found this report hard to believe. For, he wrote to his nephew, only recently Rabbi Yosef Hayyim had published a detailed halakhic responsum in which he once again upheld the traditional Sephardic definition, according to which any urban thoroughfare broader than 16 ama is considered public domain. Rabbi Hayyim had noted that this is the most accepted and reasonable reading of the Shulhan 'Arukh, and that the greatest rabbis who lived after Maran – Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, Hayyim Benvenste, and the author of the book Tosefet Shabbat—interpret it in the same way. It is true that there were a number of recent scholars, including Rabbi Yehiel Mikhal Epstein in his work 'Arukh ha-Shulhan, who were of the opinion that Rabbi Caro’s stance could be interpreted differently. However, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim concluded, there is no doubt that more weight should be given to the three Torah scholars cited above who interpreted Caro more stringently because they were recognized as very great scholars. Consequently, transporting objects on Shabbat through the public domain by means of a gentile should be regarded as forbidden by Torah. Therefore, “those who do so should annul their custom and not act in such a manner.”53 Moreover, Rabbi Somekh was Rabbi Mani’s teacher. Rabbi Eliyahu Suleiman Mani was born in Baghdad in 1818, studied in Beit Zilkha, and was one of Rabbi Somekh’s most important students. In 1856 he emigrated to Eretz Israel and lived for two years in Jerusalem. He then moved to Hebron, where he was appointed Chief Rabbi in 1865, a post he held until his death in 1899. In addition to his erudition in Talmud, Rabbi Mani was deeply engaged in Kabbalah and was known for his ascetic piety. Rabbi Somekh knew him personally to be an outstanding and God-fearing scholar and Kabbalist. How could it be possible that he would permit what everyone knew had been forbidden by the greatest Sephardic authorities, including Rabbis Yosef Caro and Hayyim Yosef David Azulai?! Fortunately Rabbi Somekh was provided an opportunity to clarify the answer to his questions in person. On his way back from India to Eretz Israel Rabbi Mani passed through Baghdad, and he and Rabbi Somekh

Zivhei Tzedeq ha-Hadashot, responsum 99. Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s responsum discussed here was printed in his work of responsa Rav Brakhot, Livorno, 5628 (1867/8), p. 151a. The three great scholars referred to are: Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai (Jerusalem 1727 – Livorno 1806), arguably the greatest Sephardic rabbi of the eighteenth century; Rabbi Hayyim Benveniste, among the greatest Torah scholars of Turkey in the seventeenth century; the author of Tosefet Shabbat is Rabbi Refael Meizlisch, Europe, eighteenth century. 52 53



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were able to discuss the issue face to face. Rabbi Somekh reported their discussion to his nephew in India, writing: And now I shall write you of the discussion with my dear friend the aforementioned rabbi [Rabbi Eliyahu Mani] … first I asked him: Is it true what I heard about the esteemed rabbi that you have allowed being carried in a palanquin by a gentile and the carrying of objects by a gentile? And he [Rabbi Mani] answered: This is true, and I will not deny it. I allowed the Jews of Bombay these things. The scholarly Rabbi Moshe Pardo54 (may God protect and save him), who was a member of the Jerusalem rabbinical court under Rabbi Avraham Ashkenazi55 (may God protect and save him) and is now rabbi in Alexandria, wrote a long halakhic decision on this and allowed the palanquin and the carrying of objects by a gentile. He wrote that this is the tradition in all European cities, based on the “some say” opinion mentioned by our master Rabbi Caro in Shulhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah chapter 345 that roads where less than 600,000 people pass every day are not “public domain”. Moreover, it could be said that our master Caro concurs with this. Thus Rabbi Pardo allowed these two things and wrote a long decision on this, which is printed in his book. Rabbi Mani thus explains to Rabbi Somekh that his permission is based upon a long halakhic answer that recently appeared in the book of their contemporary, Rabbi Moshe Pardo. He reminds Rabbi Somekh that Rabbi Pardo is not an anonymous author but is rather a known figure: He was a Born in Jerusalem around the year 1810, he was a dayan in Jerusalem and in 1871, having returned from a fundraising trip to North Africa, was appointed rabbi of Alexandria in Egypt, a post he filled until his death in 1888. His rabbinic writings include: Horaa deBeit Din [Rulings of the Court], Izmir 1872, on the laws of divorce (gittin); Tzedeq uMishpat [Justice and Law], Izmir 1874, novellae and commentary on the Shulhan 'Arukh Hoshen Mishpat; and Sh’mo Moshe, Izmir 1874, responsa. See further about him in Zohar, Halakha u-Modernizatsia, pp. 171–2; Moshe David Gaon, Hakhmei Hamizrah B’Eretz Yisrael [The Scholars of the East in the Land of Israel], vol. 2, Jerusalem, 1938, pp. 541–2; Arie Leib Frumkin, Sefer Toledot Hahmei Yerushalayim [The History of the Rabbinic Scholars of Jerusalem], vol. 3, Jerusalem, 1930, p. 312; Yosef Hayyim Illouz, Tov Roi, p. 93 (this work was first printed in: David Laniado, Liqutei David, Jerusalem, 1977). 55 Turkey 1811–Jerusalem 1880. When he was nine, his parents moved to Jerusalem, where he received an excellent education and filled several rabbinic posts culminating in his appointment as Rishon le-Tziyyon (Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem) in 1869. See: Gaon, ibid., pp. 121–2; Frumkin, ibid., p. 283 (note); Sh'elot uTeshuvot mahaR"A Ashkenazi, Jerusalem, 1991, pp. 15–34. 54

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judge in Jerusalem under the Rishon le-Tziyyon Avraham Ashkenazi and was currently serving as the rabbi of the important community of Alexandria in Egypt. The basis for Rabbi Pardo’s innovative decision was two-fold: First, he relied upon the opinion in the Shulhan 'Arukh attributed to “there are those who say,” according to which a necessary condition for defining a place as reshut ha-rabbim was that 600,000 people pass through each day; second, there were those who thought that the fact that Maran cited this opinion last under the title “there are those who say” does not necessarily mean that he himself decided in accordance with the first opinion. Rabbi Somekh writes to his nephew that he did not accept these arguments: We replied: We know you as one who takes halakhic decision-making very seriously. How is it then that you went against the opinion of the three great rabbis who wrote that our master [Rabbi Caro] considers such roads “public domain”?! How did you follow the decision of Rabbi Pardo against the opinion of our teacher and Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai of blessed memory, who expressly forbade traveling in a palanquin on Shabbat?! Rabbi Somekh says that he knows Rabbi Mani to be a person who is yere horaah, i.e. one who makes decisions only after a great deal of deliberation and with extreme care. In the case before us he made a decision regarding an action that three of the most senior halakhic authorities consider to be strictly forbidden by the Torah, while the more permissive alternate view was held by only one rabbi of no special status, who thought that the roads of Bombay were not “public domain” but were carmelit and therefore forbidden merely by rabbinic law. Wise and careful halakhic consideration should have to led Rabbi Mani to give more weight to the stance of the three senior rabbis; by conventional halakhic considerations Rabbi Mani’s decision made no sense at all. At this point, the discussion took an unexpected turn, for Rabbi Mani responded that he too recognized that his decision was unconventional—but nevertheless correct. Here is what he replied to Rabbi Somekh: Once again your honor is repeating to me your [formal] criticism of my decision? Now, hear my words and you will admit that truth is on my side: I saw that the Jews of Bombay each carry a parasol – without which it is impossible to walk the roads there for even one minute – and they all carry parasols on shabbat more than four ama in the public thoroughfares. They also carry with them snuff and handkerchiefs, which is forbidden by all opinions. If we rule that these roads are “public domain”, then Bombay Jews would be actively breaking a rule for which the Torah punishment is death by stoning … Therefore I relied on Rabbi



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Pardo, may God protect and save him, and on the European custom, and allowed them [travel by] the palanquin and the carrying [of objects for them] by a gentile; since if we declare these roads carmelit, this is allowed. Rabbi Mani understands that Rabbi Somekh sees their discussion as a learned negotiation concerning the relative validity of different interpretations of Maran’s stance on the definition of reshut ha-rabbim. Rabbi Mani clarifies to Rabbi Somekh that he is well aware of the relevant sources and fully agrees that on the interpretive level Rabbi Somekh’s position is correct. But, Rabbi Mani continues passionately, that is not the only relevant consideration. Rabbi Somekh lacks essential information that is of extreme importance for deciding which definition of reshut ha-rabbim should be applied in Bombay, and this information is what is actually happening “in real life.” I was in Bombay, Rabbi Mani says, and the social-religious reality is that on Shabbat the Jews of Bombay leave their homes, go out to the streets, and walk in the street holding a parasol and carrying a handkerchief and other objects. If they could not walk in the shade of the parasol, the Jews would not leave their homes on Shabbat, for the hot sun in India would make this impossible. But it does not even occur to these Jews to stay at home for all of Shabbat, neither going to synagogue nor visiting family and friends, just as it doesn’t occur to them to leave these essential objects behind at home. Rabbi Mani admits that from an academic, exegetical perspective, the correct conclusion is indeed that a street should be considered “public domain” if it is 16 ama or more in width. But the real-life implications of this decision for the reality before us would be that all of the Jews of Bombay, who every Shabbat carry many objects in the broad streets of Bombay, would committing a transgression so severe that its punishment under original Torah law would be stoning.56 This decision would therefore have terrible human and religious consequences as it would mean that all of the Jews of Bombay would be committing many sins of extreme religious severity just by the routine performance of activities each and every Shabbat! Rabbi Mani argued that a halakhic decision with such consequences would be in direct conflict with a decisor’s responsibility

I will remind readers that already in late antiquity the great rabbis of the Mishnaic period determined that the death penalties explicated in the Torah could not be implemented—even by the highest court, the Sanhedrin sitting in the Chamber of Hewn Stones on the Temple Mount—for rules of evidence were defined in such a way as to prevent (or almost prevent) imposing a death sentence (see: tractate Makkot, ch. 1, mishnah 10; Babylonian Talmud, Makkot 7a). Following the destruction of the Temple in the year 70 of the common era, these punishments became totally non-applicable. Thus, characterizing a transgression as “deserving stoning” is essentially a way to note the extreme severity of the transgression in the eyes of the Torah. 56

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for the public weal—i.e. in the current context, his responsibility for the public’s status in the eyes of God and in its own eyes. Therefore the exegetical preferability of the conventional, more severe approach must not be considered as an overriding factor. Rather, it is the decisor’s obligation to make a heroic effort to arrive at an alternate decision, one that would be acceptable from a public and moral perspective. Rabbi Mani was aware of only one responsum in which a Sephardic decisor determined that a thoroughfare with a width of 16 ama was not to be considered “public domain.” That was the long decision written by Rabbi Moshe Pardo. Rabbi Pardo’s status in the rabbinic world was indeed lower than that of the three great rabbis and others who held the generally accepted stance. But only Rabbi Pardo’s approach could make possible an acceptable solution to the conduct of Jewish life in Bombay on Shabbat. Inter alia, this approach had long since been accepted by the Ashkenazic Jews of Europe. Rabbi Mani’s halakhic conclusion regarding Bombay was thus that it was necessary to decide in direct contrast to the accepted Sephardic viewpoint and to do so in accordance with Rabbi Pardo’s lone opinion, which was identical, as noted, to the Askenazi tradition. Rabbi Mani’s halakhic stance in this issue is thus congruent with Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s characterization of Sephardic halakhic decision-making: In the face of the reality of Jewish praxis in Bombay, he understood that it was imperative to find an alternative to the traditional Sephardic ruling on “public domain.” His command of a broad spectrum of halakhic creativity, including that of contemporary rabbis of no special prominence, such as Rabbi Moshe Pardo, enabled him to become cognizant of the latter’s unconventional decision. Rabbi Mani related to this decision not as a source of authority, for Rabbi Pardo was simply a rabbinic peer. Rather, he regarded Mani as a partner to the appropriate position in the sense of “don’t be a lone judge,” and he did not consider such a decision impossible because of an obligation to subordinate himself to Maran. There is an essential similarity between Rabbi Mani’s halakhic stance and the two enactments of the Baghdad rabbinic leadership discussed earlier; both he and those rabbis held the clear conviction that a decisor’s commitment to the public weal must take priority over a commitment to convention and precedent—including the general Sephardic commitment to rule in accordance with Maran.

Summary Is it possible to characterize the Sephardic halakhic ethos without placing stress on commitment to rule in accordance with Maran? In this chapter I have argued that analysis of the primary sources indeed leads to a positive



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response to that question: Commitment to Maran is not the exclusive, nor even the primary essential characteristic of Sephardic decision-making, as understood by leading Baghdadi rabbis. These rabbis maintained that there are values that take precedence over loyalty to Maran and that a Sephardic halakhic decisor may—and should—recognize these values and apply them. He should be prepared to do so even if this leads him to formulate a halakhic decision totally without precedent although a halakhic decision supported by the opinion of at least one additional halakhic scholar was highly preferable. A crucial means to enable such decision-making is acquaintance with the entire spectrum of halakhic literature from earliest times to the present, including, as a matter of course, Ashkenazic halakhic writing. As Rabbi Yosef Hayyim noted, such acquaintance makes possible exposure to a variety of halakhic opinions, exposure to “something new, or a new deduction that had escaped the attention” of the current decisor and an increased depth of understanding of the issues under discussion (“for thanks to this perusal, his understanding of the issue at hand would increase”). This ethos was shared by the mainstream of Sephardi halakhic scholars and finds expression in varied and original halakhic decisions in which Torah values—not necessarily steadfast adherence to formal rules of decisionmaking—are a guiding light. Throughout this book one can find Sephardic halakhic scholars of recent times who formulate original halakhic positions that are at one and the same time grounded in the sources and creatively responsive to current developments in accordance with the highest values of Torah. However, if there was any school of Middle Eastern halakhic scholars in recent generations that seems prima facie to have followed another path, this was the school of rabbis of Aleppo (Syria). It is to them that we turn our attention in the following chapter.

4 Rabbinic scholars of Aleppo in the modern era: Conservatism as a core cultural-religious value

Tight-knit communities of Jews originally from Aleppo, Syria, live today in a number of the large cities in the western hemisphere—including New York, Mexico City, and Buenos Aires. When their spokespeople describe their community’s past they typically emphasize with pride and certainty that the Aleppo community (from which their forefathers emigrated in the end of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth century) was a particularly “holy community,” one that defended its traditions and beliefs against modern influences that already then had spread among other Middle Eastern communities.1 Mr. Eli Penso, director of the AIU (Alliance Israelite Universelle) institutions in Beirut, provided an alternative perspective on the attitude of the Aleppo community to tradition and modernity. In a report he sent to the president of the AIU early in the summer of 1938, Penso described the situation of Aleppo’s Jews in the following way: The city of Aleppo, which borders on the desert and the approach to which is exceedingly difficult, lacked the opportunity (in contrast to its sister cities in Syria and Lebanon) to be exposed to the treasures of European culture. The dearth of connection to the West delayed the mental and normative development of her residents. Most of our Jewish brothers have been closed off there for hundreds of years in their miserable ghetto, and they close their doors and windows to keep out the

For examples in which the Aleppo community was portrayed in this way see: Cohen, A., “Halab 'Ir shel Torah veHokhma baMeah haTesh'a 'Esre uvReishit haMeah ha'Esrim,” ba-Ma'arakha 253 (1982), pp. 16–17 (Hebrew); Sutton, J. A., Aleppo in Flatbush, NY 1979. 1

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new winds constantly blowing for the renewal of humanity. A European Jew does not feel extremely strange among [the Jews of] Beirut or even of Damascus; in contrast, he feels alienated from the mentality of Aleppo’s Jews, for they have remained extremely tied to the habits and customs of their forefathers. Egoism, indifference, greed, superstitions of various types, out-dated customs and religious fanaticism – all these are alive and well in this community.2 These are apparently two perspectives on a single phenomenon, reminiscent in certain ways of the responses to modernity by European Ashkenazic Haredi communities. Were indeed the Jews of Aleppo, and especially (for our purposes here) the rabbinic scholars of Aleppo, very different from other Middle Eastern communities in their response to modernity? If so, would it be correct to characterize them as an indigenous Sephardi Haredi community? We shall discuss these and other questions below, after presenting a brief historical overview.

Historical background There is no reason to doubt the claim that Jews lived continuously in Aleppo (except for brief interruptions) since the second temple period, at which time all of Syria had a rather large Jewish population.3 Even after the decline of the Jewish population of the land of Israel under Byzantine rule, the Jewish community of Aleppo continued to flourish. Already in the eleventh century, and perhaps even before, this community was recognized as a significant center of Torah learning. In his letter to the Torah scholars of Lunel, Maimonides paints a dark picture of the state of Torah study in his day and described Aleppo and its Torah scholars as a miracle—as a ray of light in this darkness. Maimonides’ great philosophical-theological work Guide of the Perplexed was written in the format of a “personal letter” to his disciple, Yosef ben Yehuda Ibn-Shim’on, who had made his residence in Aleppo where he taught Torah. In 1260 the Mongols invaded the Middle East from the northeast and destroyed the city of Aleppo, but many of the Jews found refuge in the large and ancient synagogue, and the invaders caused them no harm. An Penso’s report to the AIU directors in Paris, July 15, 1938. The report, written of course in French, is in the AIU archives in Paris, and a copy is in the central archives of the history of the Jewish people in Givat Ram, Jerusalem, in a micro-film coded as HM2 6566. The entire report was translated into Hebrew by Dr. Yohanan Cohen-Yashar and was published in: Zvi Zohar, Drama Hevratit Tarbutit beHalab haMandatorit [A Socio-Cultural Drama in Mandatory Aleppo], Jerusalem: Ben-Zion Dinur Center for the Study of Jewish History, Hebrew University, 2002. 3 This is apparent from the historical map of Jewish settlement in Syria. See: EJ, vol. XV, 638. 2



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additional Mongol invasion in 1400, however, ended in disaster: Many of the Jews of Aleppo were killed or sold into slavery, and the foundations of community existence were undermined. From the middle of the fifteenth century, we hear reports of a renewal of Torah life in Aleppo and of international trade being conducted by Aleppo’s Jewish merchants. The relative strength of the Aleppo community in those years provides an explanation for an interesting difference between Aleppo and many other Middle Eastern communities: While in many other communities the Jewish exiles from Spain displaced the native local leadership, in Aleppo the exiles integrated into the pre-existing community structure. Since ancient times Aleppo’s location on the intersection between the main route through the Fertile Crescent and a route inland from the coast gave it strategic and economic importance. Before the Europeans found alternative routes to India and the Far East, Aleppo served as an important station on the overland commercial route that extended from the Mediterranean coast to Iraq and Iran, and from there to India, Central Asia, and China. With the opening of the maritime route around the Cape of Good Hope between Europe and these countries, Aleppo lost some of its economic strength but none the less maintained some of its vitality. In fact, the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries saw an influx of Jewish merchants from Europe (the “Francos”) who sought to take advantage of the economic opportunities of caravan trade. The community’s economic strength enabled the development of Torah academies, and Aleppan rabbis were well known far and wide. Yaron Harel4 wrote about the Aleppo community in the nineteenth century, until the year 1880. He mentions the considerable decline in the scope of Aleppo’s commerce following the opening of the Suez Canal (1869). After that, a major part of Aleppo’s trade was conducted with its more immediate environment: Aleppo served as an economic hub for the southeast region of Anatolia—a large but not particularly wealthy area. Cities such as Diarbakir, Urfa, Maresh, Gaziantep, and Kiliz depended upon Aleppo’s importers, exporters, and merchants. In addition, some commerce continued on the route between Aleppo, northern Iraq, and northwest Iran. But after the First World War, when an international border was drawn between Turkey and Syria—dividing them by a customs barrier—Aleppo’s trade with its “natural” hinterland died off almost entirely.5 In the early years of the French Mandate there were expectations that Syria’s economic situation would improve, but political disquiet originating in Syrian rebel-

4 Yaron Harel, Syrian Jewry in Transition 1840–1880, London: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2010. 5 On economic activity in Aleppo after the opening of the Suez Canal and until after the First World War, see: Louis Cheikho, “Rihla Haditha ila elShahaba,” al-Mashriq 19 (1921), pp. 750–8; Pinhas Neeman, “beSuriyya – Aram Tzova,” Haaretz, 24 Elul 1927; Penso’s report to AIU, April 15, 1931, p. 9 (AIU archive HM2/6566).

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lions against French rule made economic revival difficult in the 1920s. Later, in the 1930s, Syria (like other countries) suffered from the ongoing global economic depression. Economic hardships encouraged many Syrians, including Jews, to emigrate to more prosperous countries, primarily from the 1880s and onward. Because of this emigration, the Jewish population of Aleppo grew at a relatively slow rate, reaching a peak of 12,000 residents on the eve of the First World War. From then until the Second World War the population decreased by almost half. A high percentage of the emigrants were wealthy and/or educated; the latter group included a significant contingent of rabbinic scholars. Beginning in the 1890s, many of these scholars settled in Jerusalem, where they focused on both Talmudic and Kabbalistic studies and created an autonomous rabbinical court. As we shall see below, some of the leading members of this group established close ties with the heads of Jerusalem’s ultra-Orthodox Ashkenazic anti-Zionist community. This was to have consequences for developments in Aleppo itself.6

Aleppo Rabbinic leaders and their struggle to preserve the community’s character Given the ongoing decline and depletion of the Aleppo community, the activism of its rabbinic sector from the late 1860s until the mid-1940s is particularly noteworthy. During this period, Aleppo’s rabbinic leaders acted as a united and self-aware social and political group that saw as its primary mission the preservation of the community’s traditional-religious ways of life.7 A crucial precondition for this was ensuring the ability of the rabbinic leadership to effectively define the norms of communal behavior. The community’s rabbinic court was the institution that symbolized and implemented this policy, and through it the rabbis vigorously opposed changes that they regarded as threatening the religious-traditional character of the Aleppo community. To clarify and validate these statements, I shall briefly present and analyze a series of events that took place in Aleppo during the years under consideration. Taken together, they provide a general outline of the strategy embraced by Aleppo’s rabbinic leadership.

An overview of the Jews of Aleppo and Damascus in the years 1880–1920 can be found in my book Masoret uTemurah, Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1993, pp. 20–76. 7 This is not to say that there were not intrigues and power struggles within the rabbinic group itself. See: Yaron Harel, Bein Tekhakhim leMahapekha [Between Intrigues and Revolution], Jerusalem, 2007. 6



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The burning of Rabbi Eliyahu Ben-Amozegh’s Commentary on the Torah The first case took place toward the end of the 1860s, and it relates to the Aleppo rabbinic leaders’ response to the work Em la-Miqra authored by Rabbi Eliyahu Ben-Amozegh. Rabbi Ben-Amozegh (1822–1900), descendent of a Moroccan family who resided in Livorno, constructed an original world view that combined Kabbalah and philosophy, particularism and universalism.8 During the years 1861–5 Rabbi Ben-Amozegh’s book Em la-Miqra, a commentary on the Torah, was published in Livorno. This commentary had two main themes. First, it attempted to utilize findings of modern research in areas like Philology, Archeology, and History to explain the meaning of the Torah. Second, in response to critiques and attacks by Biblical critics and the like, it defended traditional Jewish positions on the veracity of Torah and of Jewish tradition.9 After a while, copies of the book arrived in Aleppo. The rabbis of the city, after reading Ben-Amozegh’s commentary, concluded that his approach was mistaken and dangerous. Their criticism concentrated upon two matters of principle: First, they rejected the author’s opinion that external sources of knowledge may in any way advance the understanding of Torah; and second, they rejected his statements, in a number of different places in the text, that various beliefs and behaviors appearing in the Bible were parallel to or reminiscent of similar phenomena in the ancient pagan world. They formulated their criticism in an extensive quasi-indictment. Up to this point, the Aleppo rabbis’ response was within the bounds of critique considered reasonable and conventional within the rabbinic world. But they did not stop there: And it came to pass that when this book came to Aleppo, that they read Em la-Miqrah and they scented – with the fear of God that characterizes them – that this book was not composed in good faith. And in the fire

See especially: Yehoyada Amir, “New paths towards Christianity and Islam in the thought of Nachman Krochmal and Elijah Benamozegh,” Görge K. Hasselhoff (ed.), Die Entdeckung des Christentums in der Wissenschaft des Judentums, Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010, pp. 213–38; Meir Seidler, “A nineteenth century Jewish attempt at integrativeness: Rabbi Eliahu Benamozegh’s multicultural approach to polytheism,” Yossi Goldstein (ed.), Yosef Da'at; Studies in Modern Jewish History in Honor of Yosef Salmon, Beer Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 2010, pp. 11–23; Alessandro Guetta, Elijah Benamozegh and the reconciliation of Western thought and Jewish esotericism, Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2009; Gitit Holzman, “Universaliut u-Leumiut, Yisrael veha'Amim beHaguto shel Rav Eliyahu Ben-Amozegh,” Pe'amim 74, 5758 (1997/8), pp. 104–30. 9 Eliyahu Ben-Amozegh, Em la-Miqrah, 5 vols, Livorno, 5622–3 (1862/3). Examples and discussions of his exegetical approach can be found in Holzman, ibid. See also: M. Agmon, Eliyahu Ben-Amozegh: Qavim li-Demuto keMefaresh ha-Miqrah, MA thesis, Hebrew University, 5731 (1970/1). 8

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of their zealotry they burned it, together with the Lord’s Torah that was printed together with it!10 As a rule, there is a strict prohibition against causing physical harm to a Torah or to its commentaries; as Maimonides wrote: “It is forbidden to burn or to destroy by direct action any sacred texts, their commentaries, and their explanations.”11 There is only one exception to this rule: a Torah written by a “Min,” a heretic posing as a believing Jew while harboring distorted and fallacious religious positions. Such a Torah is identical in form to one that is kosher, but it is not at all considered holy. Quite the contrary: Canonical sources determine that such a work should be destroyed in order to eradicate heresy from Israel and to restore the intimate relations between the people and God.12 Aleppo’s rabbis’ decision to burn the copies of the book, which contained not only Ben-Amozegh’s commentary but also the text of the Torah itself, was therefore a striking symbolic act through which they expressed their opinion as to the heretical nature of Ben-Amozegh and his work.13 The rabbinic leaders of Aleppo were not content with ridding their community of these “heretical” books. They also turned to rabbis of other communities in the Ottoman Empire, calling upon them to take similar action. The rabbinic leaders of Damascus heeded the call, and they too burned their copies of Em la-Miqra.14 In contrast, the venerable Rabbi Hayyim Palache of Izmir (1788–1869), greatest of the rabbis of Asia Minor in the nineteenth century, took an opposite stance: Not only did he refuse to join the Aleppo rabbis in their crusade, he also wrote a letter of encouragement to Ben-Amozegh.15 Jerusalem’s rabbis adopted

10 Yehiel Brill, editor’s note, haLevanon, year 8 (1871/2), issue 14 (December 13, 1871), in the section “Kevod ha-Levanon,” p. 1. Emphasis mine. The phrase “they scented—with the fear of God” is an allusion to Isa. 11.3 “va-hariho b'yirat ha-shem.” Brill obviously assumed that his readers, knowledgeable in the Bible, would also note the relevance of the rest of that verse. 11 Mishne Torah, Hilkhot Yesodei haTorah, ch. 6, halakha 8. 12 And as written in the Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 116a: R. Tarfon said: May I lose my son if I do not burn them [= books written by Minim] together with their Divine Names when they come to my hand ... R. Ishmael said: [One can reason] a fortiori: If in order to make peace between man and wife the Torah decreed “Let My Name, written in sanctity, be blotted out in water” [c.f. Num. 5.21–3 and Sifrei, Naso, 42], how much more so [must Torah advocate the destruction of the Divine Names contained in books written by] these [“minim”] who stir up jealousy, enmity and wrath between Israel and their Father in Heaven!; and of them David said (Ps. 139.21–2) “Do not I hate them, O Lord, that hate thee? I hate them with perfect hatred, I count them mine enemies.” 13 The affair of the burning of Em la-Miqra is also discussed in Yaron Harel, “Ha'alaat Em la-Miqra 'al haMoqed – Aleppo 1865,” HUCA 64 (1993), pp. 27–36. 14 HaLevanon, ibid. 15 Ibid., issue 43, 3.7.1872, section “Kevod ha-Levanon,” p. 1 (in the note). About Rabbi Hayyim Palache, see: Yishai Hasida, haRav Hayyim Palache uSefarav, Jerusalem, 5728 (1967/8).



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a hesitant position: They did not support the Aleppan rabbis, but they also did not denounce them, nor did they publicly affirm Ben-Amozegh’s approach.16 In order to publicly justify his work and gain the support of the Jerusalem rabbis, Ben-Amozegh wrote a letter of apology entitled “Tzori ha-Gil'ad” [Balm of Gilead] that was published in haLevanon.17 However, it seems that the Jerusalem rabbinic leaders were insulted by a comment made by the journal’s editor implying that they had refrained from expressing support for Ben-Amozegh because they secretly sympathized with the Aleppo rabbis’ radical act. During the years in which the Em la-Miqra affair exploded, Rabbi Hayyim David Hazan served as the Rishon le-Tziyyon.18 In 1873 his grandson, Eliyahu Hazan, who grew up in Jerusalem and was in his trusted circle, chastised Ben-Amozegh for the way in which he related to the Jerusalem rabbinic leaders. It is true, Eliyahu Hazan wrote, that in his letter of apology Ben-Amozegh addressed those who differed with him with good taste and moderation, and “that all his ways are ways of pleasantness with respect and not with deprecation.”19 Nevertheless, Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan writes, one painful question remains: Only one thing will I ask you and let me know: why did you call the letter “An Apology to the Rabbis of Jerusalem”? while your complaint is truly against the rabbis of Aram Tzova [=Aleppo]! And the reader will rightfully understand [from the title] of the apology, that – God forbid – the hand of the Jerusalem rabbis was in that treachery or that it was at least with their knowledge and support! And when you express anger against those who saddened and embittered your soul by defaming your book, you misled the readers to think that it was the rabbinic leaders of Jerusalem who were guilty of this treason. … Even though your [Ben-Amozegh’s] eyes saw the pleasantness of their words when they wrote to you out of concealed love, and even though they also made it clear that what had been done to your book in certain cities was bad. Therefore you should not count those who love you, the great rabbis of the holy city, among those who hate you, are jealous of you and oppose you … It would have been more fitting for you to write against those

This at least is how Yehiel Brill described their stance. See above, note 10. See ha-Levanon, 1871/2 (in the Kevod ha-Levanon section), issues 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 23, 24, 32, 36, 42, 43. It should be remembered that the term “letter of apology” is a classic medieval term that refers to a document of defense formulated by an author whose opinions have been harshly attacked. I shall not delve into this affair in greater detail here; the interested reader is referred to Yaron Harel’s article referred to above. 18 Born in Izmir (1791), Rabbi Hazan moved to Jerusalem in 1855 and served as Rishon le-Tziyyon from 1861. He passed away in 1869. 19 Introduction to Eliyahu Hazan, Zikhron Yerushalayim, Livorno, 5634 (1873/4), p. 8. 16 17

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who blame you, and not against those who are free of blame, hate or jealousy.20 Ben-Amozegh replied that his relations with Jerusalem’s rabbis had always been respectful and mutual and that it was the editor of haLevanon who gave the letter of apology a misleading sub-title, making it seem as if Ben-Amozegh was responding to the rabbis of Jerusalem.21 Most important for our context is that Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, in order to protect the image of the Jerusalem rabbis, sought to emphasize the gap between their moderate approach and that of the rabbis of Aleppo. He called what the Aleppo rabbis did to the book Em la-Miqra “treachery,” and he described their attitude toward Em la-Miqra with the terms blame, hate, and jealousy. What most interests us here is what the Em la-Miqra affair reveals about the path chosen by Aleppo’s rabbinic leaders. The outstanding characteristics of this path are: First, a stance that rejects innovation in the area of tradition; second, a demand for a clear and sharp distinction between “holy” and “secular,” between “Jewish” and “gentile” realms; third, initiation of vigorous action to protect the Aleppan community from penetration of views characterized by innovation and/or by lack of proper distinction between the “Jewish” and the “gentile”; fourth, a proactive attempt to convince rabbinic leaders of other communities to take similarly vigorous action; and fifth, a willingness to maintain their course even when major rabbis of leading Jewish communities negated this path. As we shall see below, a significant part of these characteristics recurs in the responses of Aleppan rabbis to other issues that cropped up in subsequent years.

The response of Aleppo’s Rabbinic leadership to the Ottoman Tanzimat Halakha obligates Jews to obey Torah law and not the laws of other faith communities. Until the nineteenth century all courts in the Ottoman Empire were religious. Under these conditions, the Jews in the Empire were directed by their rabbis to conduct their financial litigation in rabbinical courts and not in the Muslim Shari’a courts.22 In the nineteenth century Ibid. Ibid. pp. 6–7. 22 It is important to differentiate between this principled demand and what was done in practice. Research in the archives of the Jerusalem Shari’a court from the sixteenth century onward, conducted by Amnon Cohen and his colleagues, has found that, in fact, Jews turned to the Shari’a court on a wide variety of matters. See: Amnon Cohen, Elisheva Simon-Pikali et al., Jews in the Moslem Religious Court, vols 1–5, Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1993–2010 [Hebrew]. An important consideration leading Jews to this praxis was the Shari’a court’s power to enforce its decisions, which was considerably stronger than that of the rabbinical court. 20 21



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the Ottoman Empire initiated extensive administrative and legal reforms, called Tanzimat. Inter alia, they introduced new forms of secular legislation and gradually reorganized the court system, granting extensive authority to newly established secular legal institutions at the expense of the various religious courts.23 An important example of this was the Land Registry Law, enacted in 1858 for public land (miri) and extended in 1874 to private real estate (mulk). Inter alia the law established that all real estate deals must be registered at the land registry office (Tapu), at which time a tax and other fees would be paid to the state treasury. The law implied (although did not explicitly state) that a transaction not so registered would not be recognized by the Ottoman legal authorities.24 Jewish law holds that “the law of the kingdom is the law,” thus recognizing the authority of non-Jewish state laws.25 In the Middle Ages and in modern times, rabbis have been divided over the extent of the application of this rule; in any case, real estate was universally agreed to be a realm in which halakha recognizes state law.26 Since the Land Registry Law was a nonreligious state law regarding real estate, one would expect Jewish scholars to consider it halakhically valid. Such a decision would mean a change of the former practice (holding that real estate transactions between Jews should be conducted only under the rules of the relevant sections of the Shulhan 'Arukh, Hoshen Mishpat) following the recognition of new secular state legislation. This indeed was the initial response of Rabbi Yitzhak Moshe Abulafia (1823–1910),27 chief rabbi of Damascus in the last decade of the nineteenth century: In our times the king has legislated, for his own pleasure and benefit, with regard to all immobile property, that the purchaser or the beneficiary cannot be acknowledged as owner until the previous owner transfers ownership to him in the Registry of Properties and Tapu. And the king disqualified all other types of deeds, except for the Tapu deeds,

The literature on the Tanzimat is of great scope. For a concise overview, see R. H. Davison, “Tanzīmāt,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition. Brill Online, 2012. 24 I have discussed the specific legal reforms relating to the land registry in my book, Masoret u-Temura [Tradition and Change], Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1993 [Hebrew], pp. 145–9, 152–3. 25 Or, alternatively, Thus granting halakhic validity to the legislation of a non-Jewish government. There are important differences between these formulations, but they are not of interest to us here. 26 The classic work on this topic is Shmuel Shilo, Dina Demalkhuta Dina, Jerusalem, 1975 [Hebrew]. 27 On Rabbi Abul'afia, see: Yaron Harel, Bein Tekhakhim leMahapekha (note 7, above), pp. 143–235. And see also: Yaron Harel, “Abulafia, Isaac ben Moses,” EJIW 1, p. 47; Zvi Zohar, Masoret u-Temura, passim. The information on Rabbi Abul'afia in Aleppo, City of Scholars, New York, 2005, is mostly inaccurate. 23

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as is known. That being so, the decree of the king cannot be rejected, and the law of the kingdom is the law (dina de-malkhuta dina). And there is now no difference at all between [Ottoman] law and [Torah] law.28 Similar or identical rulings on this matter were issued by leading rabbis of Jerusalem, Hebron, Safed, Izmir, and Baghdad.29 Against the background of these completely conventional decisions applying the rule “the law of the kingdom is the law,” the position taken by the rabbis of Aleppo stands out in stark contrast. These rabbis completely negated any halakhic recognition of the Ottoman land registry. Their views are set forth in a communication by Rabbi Moshe Ben Yitzhaq Harrari30 of Aleppo to Rabbi Abul’afia in Damascus: This ruling has not been accepted in Aleppo (may the Most High strengthen its Jewish community). For many continue to purchase by [halakhic] deeds alone, as well as [deeds] of benefit or lease, despite the fact that they were not registered in the Tapu or in the Registry of Properties. And they make deeds of Tapu only for [convenience of] evidence, as with the hujjet31 previously. As a matter of fact, any person who holds a [halakhic] deed of purchase, the beit din [rabbinical court] forces the seller willy-nilly to register the property in the Tapu in the name of the purchaser, and they pursue him relentlessly [if he refuses to do so]. I have heard that the honorable rabbis of Jerusalem and of Izmir (may the Most High strengthen those communities) fully accept the above position [recognizing the Tapu as halakhically superseding standard halakhic modes of transaction]. But the rabbis of Aleppo have yet to accept it in their minds: for if so, you will have negated most halakhic modes of transaction that derive from the Torah. And with regard to such, we do not say dina de-malkhuta dina.32 The Aleppo rabbinic court thus continued to attribute legal validity solely to the halakhic laws of commercial transactions and refused to accord any halakhic status to the Tapu. Registration in the Tapu was regarded as having only utilitarian value, and when necessary they forced a recalcitrant Jew to change the Tapu registration to conform with their halakhic

Rabbi Yitzhak Abulafia, Responsa P'nei Yitzhaq 5, Izmir, 1898, 40c [Hebrew]. Zohar supra n. 24, at 157–8, 162, 164–5, 170. 30 Rabbi Moshe ben Yitzhaq Harari was a rabbinical judge in the city of Aleppo. During the 1890s he emigrated to Jerusalem, where he died toward the end of 1917. See: li-Qedoshim Asher ba-Aretz, second edition, Jerusalem 5740 (1979/80), p. 40a; Aleppo, City of Scholars, New York, 2005, p. 203. 31 A hujjet is a document of certification issued by an Islamic court. 32 P’nei Yitzhaq, supra n. 28, 46d. 28 29



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decision regarding the ownership. It is noteworthy that the Aleppo rabbis did not even attempt to provide formal halakhic justification for their choice because they knew full well that the halakhic tradition recognizes the validity of dina demalkhuta dina in matters of real estate. Instead they justified their stance at the level of halakhic policy: “capitulation” to the new Ottoman legislation in this area could lead to capitulation down the line and thus to the de facto annulment of most of halakhic real estate law. In order to prevent this eventuality they were willing to take a halakhic stance that went against all accepted precedent on the validity of “the law of the government.” Subsequently, the rabbis of Aleppo succeeded in convincing the rabbis of Damascus to support in principle the approach that denies the Tapu halakhic recognition,33 but a deep disagreement remained on this matter between them and all other rabbinic leaders in the Ottoman Empire. Rabbi Rahamim Franco of Hebron34 wrote the following to the Aleppo rabbis about their stance regarding the Tapu: Beyond the fact that this testimony [about the policy of the Aleppo rabbis] seems to me a halakhic novelty [i.e. unsupported by precedent], in any case … Jewish judges certainly cannot rule in opposition to the laws of the government, and [should they do so] their guilt will be on their heads, God forbid … And not one of the Jewish judges under the rule of our royal highness the king can reject the request of someone who wants his case to be judged in accordance with the laws of the government.35 After Rabbi Abul'afia of Damascus adopted the Aleppan approach and argued that only in Europe were Jews permitted to act in accordance with “the law of the government” in civil transactions, Rabbi Yosef Hayyim of Baghdad wrote to him thus: In our city [Bagdad] and its environs … everyone acts and behaves in accordance with the laws and regulations of the government, in line with the Qanun [civil law] promulgated by His Highness the king. Thus, we in our city and its environs who are under the rule of the Ottoman Empire act in such a manner, and we have become [on this issue] like the Jews of Europe, committed to the customs and regulations of His Highness the king. And we do not understand: why should the city of the poseq [i.e. Rabbi Abul'afia] be different in that they should buy and sell

Masoret Utemura, pp. 168–73. Rabbi Franco (1835–1900) was born in Rhodes, emigrated to the land of Israel in 1868, and lived in Hebron and Jerusalem. See: Encyclopedia le-Hakhmei Eretz Yisrael, vol. 3, p. 52. 35 Sha'arei Rahamim, vol. 1, p. 90b. 33 34

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using halakhic modes of transaction and Jewish witnesses; Are they not subjects of the Ottoman Empire?! And why the difference?!36 But Rabbi Abul’afia was not at all impressed by the prominent Baghdadi decisor’s argument and responded: If in his city they behave in this way, it is not in accordance with the religion of Torah, as I wrote above … But the generation is declining and they are comfortable with their lawlessness, and of suchlike it was said: “In the future the Torah will be forgotten from Israel”.37 And this is not the way of the worthy ancients, and it is not to be obeyed.38 There is therefore a significant similarity between the stance of the Aleppo rabbinic leaders on the issue of Em la-Miqra and their stance with regard to the halakhic response to Tanzimat in the area of property law. In this second issue as well, their approach is characterized by rejection of innovation in the sphere of tradition and by a demand for a clear and sharp distinction between the “Jewish” and “gentile” realms (here with regard to legal matters). Here too they initiated vigorous action—including the adoption of a halakhic ruling/policy that runs counter to precedent in the halakhic literature—in order to protect the Aleppo community from infiltration of potentially “negative” influences. And here too they tried (and with regard to Damascus succeeded) to convince other communities to accept their stance and were willing to stick by their decision even when important rabbis from other central communities rejected it outright.

The alliance of the Aleppo Rabbis against affronts to religion and to the Rabbinic leaders A while after this controversy over “the law of the government is law” a harsh internal dispute broke out in the Aleppo community when the Hakham Bashi, Avraham Dwek, tried to take advantage of the official authority granted him by the Ottoman government in order to impose his opinion upon the other power brokers in the community—members of the “va'ad ha-Gashmi” (lay leadership committee), members of the rabbinic court and the remaining rabbis. Following a bitter struggle, leaders of the community and the rabbis succeeded in having him dismissed.39 Such

Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s critique is quoted in P'nei Yitzhaq, ibid., 150d. Bavli Shabbat, 138b. 38 P’nei Yitzhaq, ibid., 151c–d. 39 This event was discussed by my friend Yaron Harel in his article: “Hadahato shel heHakham Bashi ha- Halabi haAharon,” Pe'amim 44, 5750 (1989/90) pp. 110–31. My understanding of the events is that Dwek tried to undermine the traditional balance of power in the community, 36 37



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struggles are exhausting and painful, and apparently in an effort to draw lessons from the past and to prevent similar occurrences in the future, the city’s rabbis initiated a ceremonial pact of unity and alliance with the goal of guaranteeing a united front and organized joint action against any future threat to the rule of Torah and to the status of the rabbinic leadership. The rabbis who joined forces in 1895 signed a pact replete with literary allusions, declaring: We the undersigned, hakhamim and rabbis of Aleppo, have arisen and stand firm40 to aid the Lord with valor,41 to raise the banner of Torah42 for the unification of the Holy One Blessed be He and His Shekhina.43 From now and henceforth we have taken upon ourselves a total and strong obligation to gather together all of us as one person joined together by love, brotherhood and total unity with the Lord’s help and salvation to fight and go out to battle with regard to any matter that coalesces against our holy Torah.44 We must annul any such matter, whether public or private, as we deem fit, and pull it out by its roots …45

but the traditional leadership—an alliance between the rabbinic leaders headed by the rabbinic court and the heads of the well-to-do families of high social ranking—overcame him despite the support he received from the government, and they restored the previous balance of power. The affair thus underscores the power and the survival capacity of the old oligarchy. 40 “Have arisen and stand firm” = Qamnu va-Nit'oddad. This phrase derives from Ps. 20.9 and expresses the success of those who rely upon God in contrast to the failure of those who rely upon conventional weapons such as chariots and horses. In the Mekhilta deRabbi Yishm'ael (Parashat BeShallah, vaYehi, 2) these words are placed in David’s mouth as he approaches the towering figure of Goliath. 41 L'Ezrat haShem baGibborim; cf. Judg. 5.23 where this phrase indicates the proper response to a crisis where God (and/or His people) is under attack. 42 Le-Haqim Degel ha-Torah—under this imagery, the Torah and its legions are challenged (or threatened) by a variety of negative forces. Those who seize the initiative and take action that strengthens the legions of Torah and thwarts the intentions of the forces arrayed against it—are raising up or upholding the banner of Torah. 43 The unification of the Holy One and His Shekhina, i.e. of the two major complementary aspects of the Divine Being, is (according to Kabbalah) a central goal to which all religious acts should be devoted. Ipso facto the declaration that an act is being performed for the sake of this goal identifies that act as one of great piety and religious worth. 44 Latzet liqrat nasheq—The source of the expression is in Job 39.21, which relates to a physical battle. The expression was borrowed from there to describe fierce intellectual or religious conflicts. For this type of borrowed use, see e.g. Rabbi Levi ben Haviv, Teshuvot MaHaRaLbaH, responsum 120; Rabbi Hayyim Shabbetai, Torat Hayyim, vol. 3, responsum 93; Rabbi Yehuda Aszod, Yehuda Ya'aleh, vol. 1, Orah Hayyim, responsum 52; Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, Shem ha-Gedolim, heading Shin entry 99, Shemuel ben Wileisid; Hayyim Yosef Mikhal, Or ha-Hayyim, Altona 5651 (1890/1), letter yud entry 1025—Yehuda ben Moshe Saltro. 45 li-Qedoshim Asher ba-Aretz, first edition, Jerusalem, 5712 (1951/2), p. 88. It is worth mentioning that the manifesto was signed, inter alia, by Rabbis Yesha’ya Dayyan and Yitzhak Bekhor Mizrahi, who had consistently refrained from taking a public stance in the conflict between Rabbi Dwek and the rest of the community (see Harel, ibid., pp. 121–2).

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Other conditions emphasized in the articles of alliance were: the obligation of each and every one of the hakhamim to support such acts of struggle and to abide by the majority of votes cast with regard to each matter on the agenda, with the minority committed to accepting the decision of the majority, even if it is against its opinion, “without revealing their opinion outside saying to any other Jew ‘what could I do that I was in the minority?’.”46 The group agreed to gather regularly every Sunday in order to discuss what was happening in the community and what decisions should be taken; in the event of the occurrence of an exceptional development requiring immediate response, the rabbis would convene on an emergency basis. In addition to dealing with direct threats to observance of Torah commandments, the rabbis agreed to also deal with indirect threats to the Torah’s authority—that is, with instances in which someone caused even the slightest affront to any Torah scholar. The basic posture of those who signed the deed of alliance was one of active initiative, with a militant consciousness reflected in the expressions “raise the banner,” “to aid the Lord with valor,” and “to fight and go out to battle.”

Excommunication of persons who desecrate the Shabbat or consume non-kosher food The pact of alliance was to be valid for two years from the time of its signing, but apparently joint actions of the kind described continued to take place for many years to come. An example of this occurred in 1906, at which time the rabbis noted traces of deviance in the community’s younger generation: A number of young men behaved in ways that were not in keeping with the laws of Shabbat and Kashrut. We don’t have a detailed description of their conduct, but it seems likely that some dissonance exists between the rhetoric the rabbis employed against them and the actual halakhic severity of their deeds. On the rhetorical level, the rabbis characterize the deviants in radical terms: Men of wickedness (bli-ya'al) have come out of us to cast off the yoke of Shabbat and to perform their work on Shabbat. They behave on Shabbat just as they behave on weekdays … they eat non-kosher flesh with brazen intent (le-hakh'is) … they want to cast off the yoke [of Judaism in general] and to break through the constraints of Torah.47 The opening phrase of this paragraph alludes to Deuteronomy 13.14,

li-Qedoshim, ibid. Rabbi Ya'aqov Shaul Dwek Hacohen, Derekh Emunah, Aram Tzova, 5674 (1913/14), p. 120a–b. 46 47



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which describes a group of sinners who incite an entire community to abandon the God of Israel and worship alien gods; the paragraph ends with the characterization of these sinners as persons seeking totally to abandon Judaism and Torah. However, a careful reading of the specific sources cited in the text indicates that a less radical understanding of the situation may be more accurate: It seems that these persons engaged in some type of commercial activity on Shabbat.48 Similarly, the transgressions against the norms of kashruth may be less severe than indicated.49 Ya'aqov Shaul Dwek Hacohen, who at the time served as acting Chief Rabbi of Aleppo,50 acted assertively together with other scholars and rabbis of the community, and they imposed a ban upon the transgressors: Today we heard and our bellies trembled51 that among the renegades of our people52 are ill-behaved youth who make light of the prohibitions of the holy Shabbat by whose virtue we live and of the laws against prohibited foods. And they want to cast off the yoke [of Judaism in general] and to break through the constraints of Torah … Therefore we the undersigned, hakhamim and rabbis of Aleppo, have arisen and stand firm for the unification of the Holy One Blessed be He and His Shekhina, for the honor of the Shabbat, to raise the banner of our Holy Torah, and we have all convened together at one and the same time and agreed and obligated ourselves by a total and strong obligation that anyone who transgresses any of the prohibitions of the holy Shabbat, even a prohibition found [only] in rabbinical law, and eats non-kosher flesh with brazen intent (le-hakh'is), we shall go out etc. and call him a “min” (heretic), as written in the Shulhan 'Arukh. And we will not give him a wife from among our daughters, nor will we take his daughters for our

The essence of their transgression on Shabbat is implied by the specific halakhic texts cited by the rabbis who censure these young men, The rabbis stress the severity of transgression against the norms of Shabbat even if these are of rabbinic origin, and they quote the great nineteenthcentury Ashkenazic authority Hatam Sofer (responsa, vol. 5, responsum 195), who severely censures a Jew who opens his shop on Shabbat, even partially, in a way that it became known to other Jews even though they did not actually see him do so (c.f. Derekh Emunah, p. 120b). Operating a shop on Shabbat is a transgression against rabbinic law. 49 With regard to the transgression of kashruth, perusal of a contemporary work (Rabbi Yosef Sitton, VaYelaqet Yosef uBirkot Shamayyim, Aram Tzova, 5675 (1914/15), leads to the impression that transgression of the rabbinical prohibition of eating foodstuffs (containing only kosher ingredients) cooked by gentiles was considered a shocking innovation: “things newly come, never done before” (ibid., first page in the author’s introduction). In such a conservative context, it is hard to take at face value the assertion that young men in Aleppo were eating completely non-kosher meat—although this cannot be completely ruled out. 50 With regard to this rabbi, see li-Qedoshim, first edition, 19–20; Yaron Harel, Bein Tekhakhim le-Mahapekha (above, note 7), p. 274ff. 51 C.f. Habakkuk 3.16. 52 C.f. Daniel 11.14. 48

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sons. And we will not marry him to a woman or bury him in a kosher Jewish burial. And he will be invalid for giving testimony or an oath.53 The ban is signed by Rabbi Dwek and 32 other Aleppan rabbis. Particularly noteworthy is the author’s testimony that the decision was taken not by gathering signatures by going from individual to individual but rather in a joint gathering of all 33 rabbis who committed themselves to act as a single unit in order to cope with the threat to Torah observance posed by the “ill-behaved” youth. This action is fully congruent with the conditions of the alliance formulated by Aleppo’s rabbis 11 years previously in 1895. The close connection between the 1906 document and the strategy set out in 1895 is also clear from the similar language used in both: The writers identify themselves as “hakhamim and rabbis of Aram Tzova,” “who have arisen and stand firm”; their goal is to “raise the banner of our holy Torah,” and through their determined stance they intend to achieve the Kabbalistic goal of “the unification of the Holy One Blessed be He and His Shekhina.” For this purpose they have taken upon themselves “a total and strong obligation” to carry out what they have taken upon themselves, and “to go out etc.” Every one of these expressions on its own is not exceptional, but their appearance together in both sources points to the connection between these activist rabbis in 1906 and the approach outlined in the 1895 deed of alliance. The Aleppo rabbis were not content with imposing a local ban; they also sought backing from beyond their community, among rabbinic leaders of the Sephardic communities in the land of Israel, and they indeed received expressions of vigorous support from Tiberias, Hebron, and Jerusalem. Three separate letters of support came from Jerusalem—from the rabbinic court of the Aleppan community, from the rabbinic court of the Sephardi community, and from the Rishon le-Tziyyon, Chief Rabbi Ya'akov Meir.54 In order to evaluate the full significance of these letters of support, we should note that in the first decade of the twentieth century transgressions against the norms of Shabbat were far from rare in both Jerusalem and Tiberias. Many—among both the old and the new yishuv—were deeply disturbed by these phenomena. But as long as these were the acts of private individuals, as opposed to organizations and their representatives, the rabbis of these cities did not respond by excommunicating the transgressors. Instead they limited themselves to protesting against and preaching to those who deviated from the ways of the Torah.55 The rabbis of Aleppo thus succeeded in getting the rabbis of Tiberias and Jerusalem to express a position with Derekh Emunah, 120b–121a. The letters of support from three “holy cities” are printed in Derekh Emunah, 121b–124a. 55 See Yehoshua Kaniel, Hemshekh uTemura: haYishuv haYashan veHayishuv heHadash beTequfat ha'Aliyah haRishona vehaSheniya, Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhak ben Zvi, 5742 (1981/2), pp. 48–50, 274–80. 53 54



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regard to Shabbat transgressions in Aleppo that was much more severe than the policy these rabbis actually followed in their own jurisdictions. As in the previous cases discussed above, here too we are witness to the Aleppo rabbis’ fierce opposition to infringement upon traditional norms of behavior. They initiate a radical move with the declared goal of protecting the community from the infiltration of nontraditional behavior, and they demand that a clear distinction be made between the “holy” and “secular,” between the behavior of “Israel” and the behavior of gentiles; whoever fails to comply will find himself excommunicated, cut off from the holy community, and assigned the de facto status of gentile. And finally, here too, as in the previous cases described, the Aleppo rabbis tried—and succeeded—to mobilize rabbis of other communities to support their harsh position even though the rabbis of those communities did not react with the same vigor to Shabbat transgressions and similar phenomena occurring in their own communities.

The Bnai Brith affair: Aleppo Rabbinic leaders follow the stance of Ashkenazic Haredim in Jerusalem From the year 1906 we move forward 18 years to 1924. In that year the “Grand Lodge of Bnai Brith in the Orient” initiated the establishment of Bnai Brith lodges in the major Jewish communities of Syria, now under the rule of the French Mandate. A sufficient number of individuals expressed interest in joining Bnai Brith, and the president of the Grand Lodge, Dr. Yakir Behar, traveled in person from Istanbul to Syria to participate in the founding meetings of the new branch lodges. In Damascus the lodge was named for Adolph Cremieux56 and received the blessing of the Chief Rabbi Dr. Shlomo Tager, who also participated in a festive gathering held by the lodge that summer.57 The establishment of the Bnai Brith lodge in Aleppo, in contrast, went much less smoothly. When the city’s rabbis, led by the members of the rabbinic court, were informed about the intention to set up a lodge in their city, they were immediately suspicious. As the founders of the lodge wrote: For this thing is new and strange in the eyes of our community, may God protect them and grant them life, and because of this the city’s hakhamim 1796–1880. Cremieux, a leader of French Jewry, was—together with Sir Moses Montefiore—a prime mover in the rescue of Damascus Jewry during the 1840 Damascus Affair. 57 On the founding of the lodge on March 24, 1924, see ha-Menorah, 2, (1924) pp. 94–5. On the participation of the community’s chief rabbi at the lodge’s festive gathering held on July 21, 1924, see ibid., pp. 221–4. 56

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and rabbis and judges had misgivings that perhaps this association contains something that is, God forbid, opposed to religion.58 In other words, the very fact that the Bnai Brith lodge was a new phenomenon immediately triggered the rabbis’ suspicions and misgivings about its acceptability. It is worth noting that the community’s rabbis appear here (as in all the cases discussed) as a monolithic and unified group; we hear nothing about differences of opinion among them, and the writer relates to them as to a single unit. Nevertheless it should be noted that the Chief Rabbi of Aleppo, Hizqiyya Shabbetai, who served in this position from 1908, does not appear to have been involved at all. Perhaps, as someone who was born in Salonica and grew up in Jerusalem, his approach differed from that of the local rabbis.59 The Bnai Brith movement tried to establish its base among the bourgeois and educated sectors in the communities in which it operated. Precisely against this background it is noteworthy that the middle class, relatively open-minded Jewish burghers of Aleppo, who had agreed to establish the lodge, felt that they could not ignore the (unproven) suspicions heard from the rabbis’ quarter. They hurriedly sent off a telegram to the Rishon le-Tziyyon, Rabbi Ya'akov Meir, and he reassured them, warmly recommended Dr. Behar, and confirmed that “the Bnai Brith association is faithful to our holy religion.”60 After receiving this message, the initiators were relieved of their concerns and went ahead “willingly and wholeheartedly” with the founding of the “Jeshurun” lodge of Bnai Brith in Aleppo. But the joy of the members of the new lodge was premature. The city’s rabbis, led by the head of the rabbinic court Rabbi Ezra Hamwi,61 continued to cast doubt upon the organization’s legitimacy. In an effort to take preventive action, the members of the lodge turned to a number of individuals who, they hoped, could quell the rabbis’ apprehensions. Rabbi Meir wrote a more detailed conciliatory letter to the head of the Aleppo rabbinical court: Your honor, as a religious and devout head of the rabbinic court, perhaps suspects that this lodge may have within it something that is against our holy Torah; and I say [to Rabbi Hamwi]: yishar kocho [you do well]. But I will say to your honor that scholars of complete religious devotion, as well as rabbis famous in Torah and in pure piety and who are fearful for God’s word, testify in their greatness about the purity of the association, that it contains not the slightest particle of impropriety. … Therefore, Ibid., p. 227. With regard to Rabbi Shabbetai’s tumultuous first years in Aleppo (until 1912), see Harel (note 7 above), pp. 280–305. 60 ha-Menorah, ibid. 61 On Rabbi Hamwi see: li-Qedoshim, first edition, p. 49. 58 59



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your pure heart may be confident of its righteousness. May peace be with you.62 Hayyim Bejarano, the Chief Rabbi of Turkey, also wrote to Rabbi Hamwi stating that he had been informed that the latter did not trust the Bnai Brith association “because of a farfetched and very strange suspicion.” Rabbi Bejarano told his Aleppan colleague that a person who suspects members of this association is “suspecting upright individuals” (hoshed bi-kesheirim) and added: For 42 years I have had the honor of being a member of this association after I saw that many of complete religious devotion, great rabbis of extreme probity who hold on to the fortress of their religion and belief, gather in its shade and take pride in its name. This is because the goal of this association is lofty and highly esteemed, and it is: To walk in the ways of our holy fathers, to observe God’s ways and to make known the greatness of the Creator and fear him …63 A letter of a similar nature arrived from Safed, in which it was reported that a Bnai Brith lodge had been in existence there for 32 years, and that: [M]ost of its members are among the most God-fearing and pious in Safed; this is an association that observes religion to the utmost, and there is no reason to oppose it, God forbid. And all the more so, there is no reason at all to suspect it of idolatry. And there are many God-fearing and pious rabbis who are members of this association, and therefore also your honor should not object to it …64 After all this, wrote members of the Aleppo lodge, they sent a delegation to Rabbi Hamwi, “and with great joy we received his answer” that he had withdrawn his opposition to the “Jeshurun” lodge. However, the days had passed when the head of Aleppo’s rabbinical court was in fact the autonomous, ultimate authority on local matters. Leading members of the Aleppan rabbinic cadre in Jerusalem were in cahoots with prominent Haredi Ashkenazic rabbis, including Rabbi Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld (1849–1932).65 These rabbis decided to consult with him about the recent developments regarding the Bnai Brith lodge in Aleppo:

Ha-Menorah, ibid. Ibid. 64 Ibid. 65 Rabbi Sonnenfeld was appointed the rabbi of the Ashkenazic ultra-Orthodox Jerusalem community in April 1920. See: Menahem Friedman, Hevra veDat: haOrtodoksia ha-loZiyyonit beEretz Yisrael, 5778–5796 (1917/18–1935/6), Jerusalem, Yad ben-Zvi, 5738 62 63

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The Torah sages of the Aram Soba [Aleppo] community who were living in Eretz Yisrael, among them R[abbi Hayyim] 'Ades, disapproved of this organization. R 'Ades was very close with R' Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld and visited him frequently. When R 'Ades learned about the founding of B'nai B'rith in Aram Soba, he, R' Yosef Yedid and R' Ezra Harari-Raful asked R' Sonnenfeld for his opinion about it. When he heard that R' Sonnenfeld vehemently opposed it, R ‘Ades publicized R' Sonnenfeld’s opinion, and it was [later] quoted in a proclamation entitled Koshet Dibrei Emmet, which publicly decried it.66 In other words, the Aleppan rabbis in Jerusalem sought to block Bnai Brith by enlisting the support of Rabbi Sonnenfeld, and when they succeeded they promptly sent the following telegram to Rabbi Hamwi: Concerning the Bnai Brith association. Hearing about it we became greatly despaired and sorrowful. And we have no way of clarifying the matter because it is a secret society. And our opinion and the opinion of the Ashkenazic rabbis is: “If it is hidden it is impure”.67 And every man of Israel who is fearful for the word of God and His Torah will withdraw from such associations.68 In addition to the telegram cited above, another letter arrived from Jerusalem reporting that “the great Rabbi Yosef Hayyim Sonnenfeld, may he live a long life, rabbi and head of the rabbinic court of the Ashkenazi community in the holy city of Jerusalem may it be speedily rebuilt,” had expressed his opposition to such associations, ruling thus: A man is forbidden to take part in any society whose secrets and mysteries have not been thoroughly investigated by the rabbinic court.

(1977/8), pp. 108–9. On the 'eda ha-Hareidit in Jerusalem, and on Rabbi Sonnenfeld’s status and activity, see there according to the index. 66 David Sutton and Isaac Kirzner (eds), Aleppo, City of Scholars, New York: Artscroll, 2005, p. 92. 67 This expression—“If it is hidden it is impure”—is taken from Numbers 5.13. By employing it here, the authors allude to its original context: the case of the Sotah, a married woman suspected by her husband of conducting an intimate relationship with another man with whom she had been seen entering a secluded locale. While the husband had no solid proof of any sexual intimacy between his wife and that man, the mere fact that she had been alone with a strange man in a secluded setting seems to somehow add an element of reality to his suspicions. Here, too, the Jerusalem rabbis imply that while there is no solid evidence proving the deviation of Bnai Brith from kosher Judaism, the fact that they hold their meetings and ceremonies in secret (and for members only) is sufficient to ground the suspicion of deviation. 68 Ha-Menorah, ibid. The letter is signed by three members of the Aleppan rabbinic court of Jerusalem, Hakhamim Yosef Yedid ha-Levy, Ezra Harari-Raful, and Avraham 'Ades. About these rabbis, see li-Qedoshim, op.cit., pp. 52, 53, 127 (respectively).



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Especially at the present time when there are so many agitators, he who cares for his soul will stay far away from them.69 The Jerusalemite writer expresses his hope that in light of these words the “preachers and rabbinic court” will act in Aleppo to guarantee that “every God-fearing man will protect himself and stay away from all of the associations.”70 The local Aleppan rabbis’ original sense of discomfort with Bnai Brith had been alleviated by the communications of Rabbis Meir and Bejarano but was now re-radicalized by the intervention of the Aleppan rabbis from Jerusalem. Furthermore, the opponents of Bnai Brith cited a passage from the Otzar Yisrael Encyclopedia to the effect that “the Bnai Brith association was founded in the manner of the Freemasons and other non-Jewish brotherhoods.”71 Aleppan rabbis had long held a definite—and negative—attitude toward the Freemasons, whose ceremonies included, in their opinion, obviously pagan elements.72 Comparison of Bnai Brith to the Freemasons was inevitably a powerful reinforcement of their earlier suspicions. In the wake of these communications from Jerusalem, it was proclaimed in Aleppo that Rabbi Hamwi and the other members of the rabbinical court, together with additional (anonymous) rabbis, had published a “severe enactment of total strength and validity” prohibiting participation in Bnai Brith “because of great concern for the destruction of the religion and the Torah, God forbid.”73 In a detailed public statement they invalidated the positive expressions of opinion presented by the members of Bnai Brith in Aleppo. They rejected Rabbi Meir’s letter by claiming that he was a hearsay witness [if he is not himself a member of Bnai Brith] or—alternatively—an interested party [if he is a member of this association]. Moreover, “his was a single opinion against the scholars and rabbis of Jerusalem (may it speedily be rebuilt) and the rabbis of Aleppo, may God protect them.” Ha-Menorah, ibid., p. 229. Pointedly, Rabbi Sonnenfeld et al. are identified as “the Ashkenazic rabbis” by the Aleppan sages in Jerusalem, and in the other letter from Jerusalem Rabbi Sonnenfeld himself is referred to as “Rabbi and head of the rabbinic court of the Ashkenazic community” in Jerusalem. Clearly, prominent rabbinic leaders of the Aleppan émigré community in Jerusalem recognized the ultra-Orthodox—and not the “Zionist” chief rabbinate led by Rabbis Avraham Kook and Ya'akov Meir—as the authentic rabbinic leadership of Jerusalem. They initiated a request to Rabbi Sonnenfeld that he issue an opinion on this topic and thus provide them with justification for mixing into the decisions of the local Aleppan rabbinate. 71 The quote from Otzar Yisrael appears in ha-Menorah, ibid., p. 229. For the original citation, see: Otzar Yisrael, vol. 3, p. 118. 72 For a detailed objection to the Freemasons, see: Rabbi Ya'akov Shaul Dwek haCohen, She'erit Ya'aqov, Aram Tzova, 5685 (1924/5), pp. 6b–9b. The author passed away in the summer of 1919, but the sermon opposing the Freemasons was in all probability composed before the First World War. 73 Ha-Menorah, ibid., p. 229. 69 70

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The words of Rabbi Bejarano and the letter of support from Safed were also invalidated due to being the opinions of “interested parties.” In other words, the Aleppo rabbis sharply rejected the stance of the Chief Sephardic Rabbi of the land of Israel as well as that of the [Sephardic] Chief Rabbi of Turkey, and opposed Bnai Brith based upon the view of the radical Haredi Ashkenazic Rabbi Sonnenfeld of Jerusalem, mediated by the similarly negative views of the Aleppan rabbinic court of Jerusalem.74 The characteristics of this affair are quite similar to the characteristics of the other cases discussed. The mere fact that those setting up the Bnai Brith lodge were doing something new is what aroused the suspicion and antagonism of the Aleppo rabbis. Added to this was the specific opposition to Bnai Brith because it was a secret association, which might enable the infiltration of “external” elements into the Jewish community thereby causing a dangerous mixture of the Jewish and gentile realms. Because of these concerns, the Aleppan rabbis took vigorous action, aiming to protect the local community from the infiltration of Bnai Brith, and in order to ensure greater validation of their actions, they found allies and backing both among Aleppan rabbis in Jerusalem and the Haredi Ashkenazic rabbinic leadership there. It is interesting to note that the members of the Bnai Brith lodge in Aleppo were apparently familiar with the modus operandi of the city’s rabbis and therefore also sought to mobilize for their own cause the authority of “external” rabbis, such as the chief Sephardic rabbis of Jerusalem and Turkey. This seemed at first to be of use, but ultimately—as in previous cases—the Aleppan rabbis were not deterred by outside criticism and were prepared to go their own way even in the face of rejection by important rabbis from major communities. One conspicuous aspect of the Bnai Brith affair, however, was new. In all of the previous examples, the Aleppo rabbis acted as an autonomous and leading force with an internal locus of authority. This was not the case here; rather, the locus of authority determining the decision of the Aleppo rabbinic court was in Jerusalem—whether the Aleppan rabbinic court there, or, through their mediation, Rabbi Sonnenfeld of the Haredi Ashkenazi community. To understand this shift we must take a look at changes in the

This was commented upon by Avraham Elmaliah, editor of Doar HaYom and among the leading Sephardi activists in the land of Israel during the Mandatory period, in an op-ed he published in Doar Hayom on the fourth of Tishrei 5684 (14.9.1923) (cited in ha-Menorah, ibid., p. 299): The obscurantist and regressive rabbis of Aleppo, behind whom stand the rabbis of Aleppo in Jerusalem who call themselves “the Aleppan rabbinical court of Jerusalem,” who are even more obscurantist and regressive than their colleagues in Aleppo, all commanded and led by … Rabbi Hayyim Sonnenfeld, found that the Bnei Brith organization was unkosher (treifa) …    Further on Elmaliah wonders how “shame did not cover their faces” when they disqualified the opinions of Rabbis Meir and Bejarano “whose little finger is certainly thicker than the waists of those who call themselves by the name of the Aleppan rabbinical court of Jerusalem” (and c.f., I Kgs 12.10) 74



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Aleppan rabbinic world that took place over the course of several decades and had an especially powerful effect after the First World War. Already in the 1880s there were signs that the status of Torah scholars in Aleppo had begun to decline. It is true that 40 veteran Torah scholars received financial support based on a graduated scale so that they would be able to study Torah, and some were also supported by local benefactors. But the writing was already on the wall with regard to the future cohorts of young Torah scholars: If in the past many of the children of the community’s leading families turned to Torah study, in 1880 it was reported that the only institution for training young Torah scholars beyond the elementary level was populated almost entirely by members of the lower socio-economic strata. In other words, well before the end of the nineteenth century it was clear that the future generation of Torah scholars would come almost entirely from the lower social class.75 Between the years 1880 and 1920 many rabbis emigrated from Aleppo, and this emigration continued during the years of the French Mandate as well. In the quarter century preceding the First World War, about 50 rabbinic scholars, including a significant portion of Aleppo’s rabbinic elite, emigrated from Aleppo to Jerusalem; other rabbis emigrated to other countries, including Egypt, the United States, Argentina, et al.76 In this way the center of gravity of the Aleppan rabbinical world shifted from Aleppo to Jerusalem; the effects of this shift are clearly visible in the dynamics of the Bnai Brith affair. The leaders of the Aleppo community, as well as the rabbis of the Aleppan diaspora, were aware of the decline of the Torah world in Aleppo. In the 1920s Refael Silveira of Aleppo addressed a halakhic question (whose original formulation we do not have) to Rabbi Yosef Yedid-haLevy, head of the Aleppan rabbinic court in Jerusalem, one of the signatories of the declaration against Bnai Brith. In the course of posing his question,

Masoret uTemura, pp. 51–2. About the emigration of the Torah scholars to Jerusalem, see: Zohar, ibid., pp. 26–7; li-Qedoshim asher ba-Aretz, where many biographies are presented throughout the book; biographies of tens of hakhamim in Harel, Sifrei Ere"tz, pp. 397–414. About emigration to Argentina, see, for example, Gaon, Hakhmei ha-Mizrah be-Eretz Yisrael, volume 2, p. 488; for biographies of the Rabbis David Moshe Sitthon (Sutton), Shaul David Sitthon, and Yitzhak Eliyahu Laniado, see Harel, ibid. On emigration to the United States, see Harel for the biographies of Rabbis Ya'akov Shmuel Almaliah, Shaul Matloub 'Abadi (discussed in Chapter 6), Ya'aqov (ben Shaul) Qatzin (Kassin), Yitzhaq 'Aboud, Hayyim Tawil 'Eli-haCohen. On emigration to Egypt, see the biography of Rav Shlomo Qatzin, ibid.; Yaacov Chaueka and Hayim Sabato (eds), Minhat Aharon – Maasef Torani le-Zikhro shel ha-Rav Aharon Choueka Zatza"l, Jerusalem 5740 (1979/80), introduction (on the Rabbis Aharon Shweiqe (Choueka), Avraham Shweiqe (Choueka), Ya'aqov Dwek, Hayyim Dwek, 'Aboud 'Antar, Halfon Tzafadiya). On emigration to Mexico, see the biography of Rabbi Mordekhai 'Atiah, in Harel, ibid.; to Brazil, see the biography of Rabbi Nissim b"r Ya'aqov Lofez in Gaon, Hakhmei ha-Mizrah be-Eretz Yisrael, 2, p. 348. Biographies of many of these rabbis are also included in Aleppo, City of Scholars (note 66 above). 75 76

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Silveira apparently related to the decline of the rabbinic elite in Aleppo. In response, Rabbi Yedid-haLevy wrote: I was reminded of a thing that brings sorrow to the heart and pierces the heart to its quick – what you wrote to me concerning the number of rabbis currently living in Aleppo. Ah, sir! A great city of Torah scholars and scribes, famous for its Torah, will soon be empty of Torah!77

The continued campaign against Bnai Brith during the 1920s Another indication of the relative weakening of the rabbinic leadership in Aleppo is the fact that, despite the opposition of the rabbinic court and other Aleppan rabbis, the “Jeshurun” lodge did not close down. Moreover, it seems that its ability to survive despite the rabbis’ attacks made it into a focal point for those in the community who were uncomfortable with the rabbis’ power. Against this background we can understand the events that took place in Aleppo in the first half of the year 1926. European influences affecting many and varied areas of life penetrated Syria under the French Mandatory government. One of these was the area of leisure activity: The motion picture reached Aleppo, and European-style coffee shops opened in the city. Some of the members of the Jewish community began to spend time in these places, and we can assume that this was not regarded positively by the rabbinic leadership. However, the rabbis did not take vigorous action until a number of Jews took a further step: They went out to these places accompanied by their wives, or even with their entire family—including their unmarried daughters. This behavior violated the traditional rules of modesty according to which “all of the honor of a princess is within,” and at this stage the rabbis stopped holding back. They publicly prohibited the heads of families from going out with their wives and/or their daughters to cinemas, coffee shops, or any other places of recreation.78 Among other reasons, the rabbis justified the prohibition by their desire to “protect the honor of the community against this licentiousness that degrades the daughters of the Jews in the eyes of their neighbors.”79 Not all heads of families paid heed to these prohibitions. The rabbis were particularly upset by the response of a number of the members of the Yosef Yedid ha-Levy, Responsa Sheerit Yosef, vol. 3, Brooklyn 5737 (1976/7), responsum 2. The responsum has no date, but it explicitly relates to French rule in Aleppo; Since Rabbi Yedid-ha-Levy died in 1930, it is clear that the responsum was written during the 1920s. 78 Ha-Menorah, year 4 (1926), p. 271. 79 See Neeman, note 5 above. 77



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Bnai Brith lodge, who apparently expressed themselves on the matter in words that revealed their negative attitude to the rabbis’ worldview. In a counter-response, the rabbinic court excommunicated these individuals for insulting “the rabbis’ honor.”80 After the excommunication a fierce conflict broke out in the community. One party, apparently reflecting the positions of the heads of the community’s executive committee who belonged to the conservative upper class, supported the rabbinic court. The other party, comprised of “all of the progressive elements, enemies of intolerance and zealotry,” banded together to protect individual freedoms against the attacks and edicts of the rabbis. Even though the members of this party were convinced that their cause was just and their position enlightened, they remained in the minority. In a manner typical of those who believe in the justice of their cause but lack significant support within the community, a number of the “progressives” tried to arouse sympathy outside the Jewish community. One can assume that in doing so they hoped to strengthen their overall position and to mobilize external sources of power. However, their complaints were published on the pages of the local press, and thus the “dirty laundry” of the Jewish community was hung out for all to see. As Pinhas Neeman wrote: They waged their war on the pages of the local Arabic press, which disgraced and abused the name of Israel in articles and illustrations, and the freedom-fighting “heroes” did not cool down until they falsely accused the head of the community of murdering his Christian housemaid.81 Following the articles published in the local press, the “Jeshurun” lodge found itself in an unbearable position. Some of its members abandoned it, and those who remained were accused of being responsible for the slanderous accusations against the rabbinic court and the city’s rabbis that had appeared in the press. In order to rescue the lodge from the alienation that had become its lot, the leadership of the Middle Eastern district of Bnai Brith sent Yosef David Farhi to Aleppo. Farhi was one of the leaders of the Beirut community, known to be a broadly accepted moderate. He was also a member of the Bnai Brith lodge of Beirut, “Arzei ha-Levanon” [Cedars of Lebanon]. Farhi declared that the general policy of Bnai Brith was for every Bnai Brith lodge to work in close collaboration with the entire community and

Insulting Torah Scholars is an archetypical negative act that entails ostracism or excommunication. See on this Mishneh Torah, laws of Talmud Torah, ch. 6, laws 11–14. The determination of what behavior is considered insulting is left completely to the rabbis’ discretion. Because of its very nonspecificity, the rabbis could use this clause to protect their status and authority. 81 Neeman, ibid.; and compare with ha-Menorah, ibid. 80

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that a publicity campaign that publicly affronts the community’s rabbis is in conflict both with Bnai Brith’s known positive attitude toward Jewish tradition and with the essential purpose of the association’s existence—the nurturing of brotherhood and mutual assistance among world Jewry. He formulated a conciliatory proclamation that was published by Bnai Brith in Aleppo, in which the lodge stated that the honor of the community and religion was foremost among its interests and that it was desirous of good relations with all entities in the community. Although the lodge itself had not at all been involved in the articles distributed in the press, it had dismissed all those who had been responsible for this act, and it hoped for a future of cooperation and reconciliation, in the spirit of the approaching days of awe …82 After this, a “truce” was reached in the relations between the rabbis and the lodge. None the less, it seems that the polemic between the Aleppo rabbis and the “freedom seekers” continued to darken communal relations for years to come.83 The Bnai Brith lodge nearly closed down until, at the end of 1929, after a visit to Aleppo by the heads of Bnai Brith’s Grand Lodge of the Orient, Yosef Niego and Yakir Behar, a new approach was adopted: The lodge would define the battle against assimilation as its primary mission, with an emphasis on the cultural-religious dimension. And so it came to pass that the Bnai Brith lodge became the patron and initiator of courses in Jewish topics for young Jews studying in non-Jewish schools. In this context a course in ethics and halakha was given by Rabbi Rahamim Mizrahi, and lessons in Hebrew and Jewish history were given by some of the members of the lodge. As a result of this initiative, noted the head of the lodge in 1931, “a wave of sympathy was created for our project, which earned much appreciation in public opinion.”84 In other words, the “progressive” elements in Aleppo understood that in order to be accepted by the local community they had to take on the function of preserving the Jewish religion and identity. This is further evidence of the significant power of the conservative elements in the community in the beginning of the 1930s despite having weakened relative to the past.

Ha-Menorah, ibid. Neeman (ibid.) writes—in 1927—that the middle class householders in the Aleppo community are “still tired from the long controversy that went on for over a year, for and against excommunicating those who had gone astray.” Two years later, toward the end of 1929, an internal discussion of the “Jeshurun” lodge still focused on the question: “Is there any chance of reaching an understanding with our old adversaries?” See ha-Menorah, 8 (1930), p. 40. 84 Ha-Menorah 9 (1931), pp. 16–17. 82 83



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The 1930s and 1940s The distress of the rabbinic class in Aleppo is very evident in a description published in 1933. The following relates to the state of Torah and rabbinical studies in Aleppo: The spiritual state of our community is also in decline. The yeshivot are empty, and many of them are in ruin. Only one yeshiva continues to exist, with about twenty students who are graduates of the Talmud Torah. They learn 'Ein Ya'akov, Talmud and the halakhic codes, with the purpose of becoming rabbis in the future. They also learn to write Arabic, a little arithmetic and French. It should be noted that when they finish their studies, the students abandon the career they had chosen in order to find employment that will enable them to support themselves. The result of all this is that the study of Torah is on the decline, with a total of about ten rabbis remaining, three of whom are members of the rabbinic court. Nonetheless, the community remains conservative, religious. No Jewish store is open on Shabbat …85 The author adds that the community has no chief rabbi who represents it before the government. At the same time, it is apparent from his words that the authority of the rabbinic court remains steadfast: He notes that the community’s rabbinic court holds daily meetings, and in addition to matters of marriage and divorce it also deals with civil cases.86 In other words, about 60 years after the Aleppo rabbis took a stance negating “the laws of the government” with regard to civil law, in the belief that in that way they would be able to continue to adjudicate in these areas, at least some of Aleppo’s Jews indeed continued to acknowledge the authority of the rabbinic court in issues of interpersonal civil disputes. I doubt that this was the case in other Middle Eastern urban centers. The conservatism of the religious establishment was also expressed in its attitude to the study of Hebrew. This is what Meir Nehmad writes about the community’s Talmud Torah institutions: There are two schools of the type called Talmud Torah … The number of students in them is about 530. Instruction in Hebrew as a language is prohibited in these religious schools because the principals believe that this is prohibited and a form of heresy.87 This attitude toward teaching Hebrew is reminiscent of the stance taken See Meir Nehmad, “Communaute d’Alep,” Le Judaisme Sephardi, 1, 7 (Fevrier 1933), pp. 110–12. The quote is from p. 111. 86 Ibid., p. 112. 87 Ibid. 85

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by the more extreme rabbis of the Ashkenazic community in late Ottoman Jerusalem, a stance continued by the heads of the Haredi community during the period of the British Mandate. At the root of this approach is a negation of the Zionist symbols of identity and a simultaneous assertion that observance of Torah and Mitzvot is the sole basis for Jewish identity.88 And indeed, Nehmad concludes his description of the state of the Aleppo community by asserting that “as of now there is no nationalist Jewish life in Aleppo. It is true that there is a Hebrew club, but it does not have even a single Hebrew book.”89 Thus it is clear that the Aleppo rabbis’ identification with the positions of the Haredi community in Jerusalem were not limited to the issue of Bnai Brith but rather included the negation of one of the outstanding expressions of Zionism—the teaching of Hebrew as a living language. The attempt of the rabbis of Aleppo’s rabbinic court to impose their authority on the members of the community continued also into the 1930s. Thus, for example, in 1937 they announced that philanthropic organizations of any kind were not allowed to raise money by organizing public balls.90 One year later, in March 1938, they related once again to the issue of cinema attendance on Shabbat: Boys and girls from the Aleppo community, especially girls, were accustomed to going to the cinema on Shabbat afternoons. They went there in big noisy groups, attracting the attention of the gentiles. Youths their age – Moslems and Christians – mingled with them and went together with them to the same movie halls. Friendships developed between these gentile youths and a number of the Jewish girls. The rabbis were very angered, and ex cathedra they prohibited going to the cinema on Shabbat.91 It is hard to see this as an expression of religious conservatism; from the description it is apparent that, as long as the Jewish girls did not befriend non-Jewish boys, the rabbis did not intervene.92 Indeed, not every deviation from the halakhic ideal led the rabbis to assert themselves. Thus (in the 1930s and 1940s) they did not attack members of the community for See Friedman (note 65 above), pp. 65, 130. Nehmad, ibid., p. 112. 90 Rahmo Nehmad, head of the community committee in Aleppo, to the president of the AIU in Paris, June 30, 1938, AIU archives HM2/6565, p. 3. 91 From Mr. Eli Penso’s report to the president of the AIU, July 15, 1938 (note 2 above), p. 13. This matter developed into a major confrontation—analyzed in Drama Hevratit Tarbutit (note 2 above). 92 Compare above the ban on visiting the cinema on Shabbat imposed in 1926; there too the ban was justified through reference particularly to the behavior of the Jewish women. In these matters the line between religious conservatism and social-sexual conservatism is, as is well known, extremely vague. 88 89



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going out to coffee shops on Shabbat or for eating non-kosher food in these coffee shops or in hotels. The main activities in the social club of the prestigious Jewish neighborhood Jamilia were card games and mixed social dancing,93 and we have no evidence that the rabbis denounced these phenomena. In any case, from the instances in which the rabbis chose to take an active stance it is clear that they saw themselves as responsible for overseeing the social behavior of community members. Therefore they saw themselves as entitled—and obligated—to bring their authority to bear against “disgraceful” behaviors cropping up in the lives of their flock.94 We mentioned earlier the Aleppo rabbis’ negative attitude to the teaching of Hebrew as a living language, and we hypothesized that this reflected a hostile attitude toward Zionism. In 1943 Rahel Yannait Ben-Zvi95 visited Aleppo and found a more positive attitude to Hebrew in the Talmud Torah school.96 None the less, Aleppo’s rabbis continued in their negative attitude toward Zionism. Yannait noted that the head of the Yeshiva in Aleppo, Hakham Moshe Tawil,97 “tried last Shabbat to cause a stir in the hearts of Aleppo’s Jews—ahh, how are Jewish girls being sent to live an immoral life in the land of Israel!?”98 Years later, Rabbi Yitzhak Chehebar recalled that “Mrs. Ben-Zvi came to Aleppo to take children to the land of Israel to educate them in Kibbutzim, Heaven forbid, and we opposed her vigorously until she left in disappointment.”99 Chehebar’s statement accurately reflects

See: Yona Cohen, El haMillion haNishkah, Jerusalem, Cana, 5747 (1986/7), pp. 49, 75, 86, 91; Rahel Yannait Ben-Zvi, BiShelihut leLevanon uleSuria (1943), Tel Aviv, Milo, 5739 (1978/9), p. 38; Drama Hevratit-Tarbutit (note 2 above), passim. 94 The Aleppo rabbis also intervened frequently in the second half of the 1930s against the efforts of the principal of the local AIU school, Mr. Ezra Manda, together with Bnai Brith and other individuals, to found an Alliance school for boys in the old Jewish Quarter of Aleppo. Similarly, the rabbis opposed in various ways the efforts of these parties to change the political status quo, according to which the community committee was totally controlled by a rich and exclusive oligarchy. It is not clear, however, which party (in this alliance between the rabbis and the oligarchy) was in control of the other party, and therefore I have decided not to deal with this question in the current context. For a more detailed discussion of the social-religious dynamics in the Jewish community of Aleppo in the 1930s, the reader is referred to my book Drama Hevratit-Tarbutit be- Halab haMandatorit (note 2 above). 95 Rahel Yannait (1886–1979) was a leading Zionist activist and leader in her own right and was married to Yitzhaq Ben-Zvi, himself an important Zionist leader. 96 Rahel Yannait ben-Zvi, note 93 above, p. 36. 97 Rabbi Moshe Cohen Tawil was born in Aleppo in approximately 1896 and later played a leading role in teaching Talmud and halakha to Yeshiva students. In 1958 he made aliyah. He died toward the end of 1976. See: LiQkedoshim asher ba-Aretz, second edition, pp. 60–1. 98 Rahel Yannait, ibid., p. 37. She adds that “very quickly” influential leaders silenced Rabbi Tawil because “Mr. Rahamim Nehmad, head of the community, and all the members of the local council were acting in cooperation with me …” (ibid.). In other words, when the stance of the leaders of the community opposes that of the rabbis, the former prevail. Compare to note 94 above: Which party was in control of the other? 99 Rabbi Yitzhaq Chehebar, Sefer Mikhtevei ha-Halakha Yitzhaq Yeranen, Buenos Aires, publication of the Sephardi community in Argentina “Yesod Hadat,” 5751 (1990/1), p. 170. 93

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the negative attitude of the rabbis toward Rahel Yannait and her mission of getting children to make aliyah to the Land of Israel. However, it does not accurately reflect the consequences of that negative attitude as many children from Aleppo did emigrate to Israel in response to Rahel Yannait’s activity. Yona Cohen, an emissary from the land of Israel operating in Aleppo during 1943–4, established a religious Zionist youth movement called Irgun Halutzi Dati (Aha"d). Cohen describes, among other things, that the emissaries of the secular youth movements opposed this movement because it was religious, but: [O]pposition to Aha"d’s activity also came from the non-Zionist religious direction. Principals of the Talmud Torahs investigated and discovered that the movement’s library included “secular” books and that boys and girls in this movement were educated together. Once they hung up posters in all of the synagogues and Talmud Torahs calling to “beware of the oppressing sword (herev ha-yonah),100 stay away from the activities of the counselor Yona’s movement”. There were those who threatened students that they would be expelled if they continued to spend time in the Aha"d clubhouse.101 Cohen added that “the city’s hakhamim, such as Rabbis Chehebar and Tawil, had reservations with regard to Aha"d’s activities and told their followers that it was not a religious movement.”102 But from Cohen’s descriptions it is apparent that despite this opposition, a number of yeshiva students initiated contact with him, unbeknownst to the rabbis, and some of the students of the Talmud Torahs even secretly participated in Aha"d’s activities. During Rabbi Aharon Choueka’s visit to Aleppo, when he was offered the position of Chief Rabbi, he related positively to Aha"d, and this made it a bit easier for these students to be in contact with the movement.103 In any case, beyond the question of the extent of the Aleppo rabbis’ ability to effectively enforce their authority in relation to the Aha"d movement, we can see in this affair a number of characteristic policies familiar from the other cases presented. These include: the rejection of anything new in the area of tradition (in this case Zionism, even if Rabbi Chehebar was born in Aleppo in approximately 1913 and in the 1930s was appointed principal of Aleppo’s communal Talmud Torah. After the Second World War he emigrated to Argentina, where he was appointed Chief Rabbi of the Syrian Sephardic community in Buenos Aires. He died in 1990. For his biography, see the introductions to Yitzhaq Yeranen. 100 Cf. Jer. 46.16, 50.16. 101 Yona Cohen, note 93 above, pp. 86–7. 102 Ibid., p. 74. And also compare ibid., pp. 58–9, 70. 103 Ibid., p. 96. For more on Rabbi Choueka, see Minhat Aharon (note 76 above), pp. 15–32. Rabbi Aharon Choueka, a native of Aleppo who lived in Egypt from the age of 14, was not the only Aleppan rabbi to relate positively to Zionism, as we shall see in the next chapter.



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religious); rejection of a mixture of “holy” and “secular” (in this case, the claim that the movement’s library included non-religious books and that the movement was co-educational); initiation of aggressive acts to oppose the new (threatened expulsion of students from educational institutions, publication and distribution of warnings in synagogues and Talmud Torahs); and a steadfast refusal to countenance any change in their position even though other important rabbis—including rabbis of Aleppan descent, like Rabbi Choueka!—advocated a more moderate approach.104

A comparison between the policies of the Aleppo Rabbis and the Approach of the Rabbis of Jerusalem’s ultra-orthodox Edah Haredit In the series of cases discussed above, from the mid-1860s to the mid-1940s, the Aleppan rabbinic establishment reacted decisively and even aggressively to developments they perceived as dangerous deviations from the way of Torah. With regard to their attitude toward Bnai Brith and Zionism, there was a clear similarity between their stance and that of the Haredi leadership in Jerusalem. Particularly in light of this similarity, it is important to point to an essential difference between the rabbis of the two communities. The 'Edah Haredit in Jerusalem was a framework oriented toward segregating itself and its members from the rest of the city’s Jews. Such phenomena are familiar from an anthropological-social perspective. In the words of Menahem Friedman: “This segregation-seclusion should be seen as the mechanism employed by a small and zealous religious group, in ongoing conflict with the surrounding society, to protect its way of life and worldview.” This seclusion had social, organizational, cultural, and symbolic expressions, as Friedman writes: This seclusion meant a turning of energy inward … it thus accepted a priori the fact that the extremist group was a minority and withdrew from the challenge of changing the larger social reality … whether because it was too dangerous or because they were pessimistic about the chances of success.105 In other words, the leaders of the 'Edah Haredit in Jerusalem defined that community as the faithful “remnant of Israel” and regarded themselves as committed to the wellbeing of only those Jews who chose segregation.

Yona Cohen mentioned several other rabbis who visited Aleppo during the Second World War and who supported the activities of Aha"d. See Cohen, (note 93 above), pp. 95–6. 105 The last two quotes: Friedman (note 65 above) p. 130. Ibid., pp. 135–6. 104

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Persons who were not members of the community were “outside of the camp,” and the leaders of the community did not see themselves as bearing responsibility for the behaviors or beliefs of such persons. In contrast, the rabbinic leaders of the Jews in Aleppo never followed a seclusionist policy. They never set up in Aleppo a separate framework of the “fearful for the word of God,” set apart from the rest of the city’s Jewish community. This was so even though quite a few of the members of the community, including almost all of the well-to-do, sent their children to educational institutions that were not traditional, whether Jewish (such as the AIU) or non-Jewish (such as schools maintained by a variety of Christian organizations), spent much of their leisure time (sometimes also on Shabbat) at the movies, the coffee shops, playing cards, or in mixed ballroom dancing, and were not notably strict in their religious observance. Despite all this, the rabbis of Aleppo felt responsible for the behavior of all of the city’s Jews and regarded themselves as bearing a mandate to enforce behavioral norms that would prevent all Jews in Aleppo from straying too far from the path of tradition. This essential difference between segregating the “truly religious” community from non-Haredi Jews and attempting to struggle with non-Haredi Jews and get them to mend their ways is not unrelated to important differences between the contexts in which the rabbis of the two groups acted. Haredi-Ashkenazic society: … developed against the background of a growing confrontation with processes of modernization and secularization, uprooting and emigration, which undermined the stability of religion and tradition … As a result of these processes the traditional Jewish community, a social framework with clear geographical boundaries, disintegrated.106 The “geographical” community, which included all of the Jews living in a specific location, was to a great extent replaced by voluntary communities that existed in one location, side by side. In this new context, each individual could join the community of his choice—or, indeed, choose no community at all. The Haredi community was one instance of such a voluntary framework: Its members were persons who chose to identify as Jews who observe the Torah in the Haredi way. One of the effects of this change was that the Haredi rabbi was not elected to serve as the rabbi of all Jews living in a particular geographical area, nor was he seen by others as responsible for any non-Haredi Jews living in his proximity. This change went hand in hand with a concomitant devaluation of the role of the geographical community rabbi (mara de-atra), a devaluation caused by

Menahem Friedman, haHevra heHaredit: Mekorot, Megamot, veTahalikhim, Jerusalem: Jerusalem Institute for the Study of Israel, 1991, p. 9. 106



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two linked developments. First was the ascendance of the ideal of “learning Torah for its own sake,” according to which “eternal life” (full time Torah study, which can only be realized in an advanced Yeshiva, secluded from the life of the mundane Jewish community) is more important than “the life of the hour,” which is the lot of rabbis who lead communities of ba'alei batim (homeowners).107 And second was the development of the religious idea that halakhic-religious authority was vested primarily not in the community rabbi, the mara de-atra, but rather in individual halakhic decisors (poskim), many of whom served as heads of advanced Yeshivot, whose decisions were considered to derive authority from the suprarational source of Da'at Torah possessed by these great individuals.108 Despite European influences upon life in Aleppo and especially upon its Jews, the community there never lost its character as a geographical community.109 All of the Jews in Aleppo were members of one common community regardless of the degree of their observance or of the neighborhood in which they lived. In addition, there was a clear link in Aleppo between Torah study and involvement in community life. At the top of the hierarchy of the Torah elite in Aleppo stood the members of the community’s rabbinic court—an institution focused upon the day-to-day affairs of the members of the community.110 The Aleppo rabbis saw themselves as involved in every aspect of community life and did all that they could to guarantee that the city’s Jews would not significantly deviate from halakhic and traditional norms. In conclusion, even though there are definite similarities between certain positions taken by the rabbis of the Edah Haredit in Jerusalem and those taken by the rabbis of Aleppo (such as with regard to Bnai Brith, Hebrew as a living language, and Zionism), these positions had different significances because of the differences in context. These differences were both with respect to the anthropological-social context (geographical community versus voluntary community) and with regard to their ultimate purpose (guiding all of the city’s Jews in the path of Torah versus leading a select

107 See: W. B. Helmreich, The World of the Yeshiva, New Haven, 1982, pp. 243–4. Despite Helmreich’s contention (ibid., p. 244), the community rabbi’s decline in status and the ascent of the Rosh Yeshiva did not begin in North America but rather existed already in nineteenth century Europe. 108 The concept Da'at Torah and its functioning in the modern Haredi religious world are discussed in four major articles included in Zev Safrai and Avi Sagi (eds), Samkhut ve-Otonomia, Tel Aviv, 1997, pp. 56–156. See there the articles by Ya'akov Blidstein, Gershon Bacon, Ya'akov Katz, and Lawrence Kaplan. 109 One attempt to change this state of affairs ended in total failure. See: Yaron Harel, “Tesisah Ruhanit ba-Mizrah – Yisudah shel Qehila Reformit be-Halab bi-Shnat 1862,” HUCA 63 (1992), pp. 19–35. 110 And, as we saw, not only matrimonial cases were brought before them but also financial and commercial matters.

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seclusionary subset of totally observant Jews in the maintenance of a sectarian community).

Comparing the approach of the Aleppo Rabbis to that of other Rabbis in the Middle East If we compare the main findings in the previous chapters of this book to the findings of the present chapter, we see significant differences between the approaches of the Syrian rabbis and those in Iraq. In later chapters we shall find that a similar contrast obtains between the rabbis of Aleppo and the rabbis of Egypt. The truth is that this difference was already evident in the first issue presented, the burning of Em la-Miqra: The Aleppo rabbis took the most radical stance of all Middle Eastern rabbis against the book. The same holds true for the second issue discussed, the attitude toward the Ottoman Empire’s civil-economic legislation. Noted rabbis from Baghdad, Izmir, Jerusalem, Hebron, and Safed decided that this legislation was halakhically valid under the principle of “the law of the government is the law”—while the Aleppo rabbis took their own course: “For if so, you will have negated most halakhic modes of transaction that derive from the Torah. And with regard to such, we do not say dina de-malkhuta dina.” The same was the case in relation to the excommunication of people who publicly violated the laws of Shabbat: The Aleppo rabbis received letters of support from various rabbis, but the rabbis who sent the letters refrained from excommunicating people violating Shabbat in their own communities. And in the Bnai Brith issue the same scenario repeated itself: Senior Sephardic rabbis from neighboring countries (Rabbi Ya'akov Meir in the land of Israel and Rabbi Bejarano in Turkey) supported the organization while the rabbis of Aleppo opposed it, gaining support from none other than the Ashkenazi Haredim in Jerusalem. Their attitude to the teaching of Hebrew as a living language and to Zionism was also anomalous in the landscape of the rabbis of Islamic countries, who supported these innovations almost without exception.111

On the attitudes of Eastern Jews and their rabbis to Zionism, see: Yosef Tobi, “Shorashei Yahasa shel Yahadut haMizrah el haTenu'a haZiyyonit,” Shmuel Almog et.al. (eds), Temurot baHistoria haYehudit heHadasha, Jerusalem: Shazar Institute, 5748 (1987/8), pp. 169–92; Zvi Zohar, “Zionism and the State of Israel as Viewed by Leading Sephardic-Oriental rabbis (1948–1967)” [Hebrew], M. Bar-On and Zvi Zameret (eds), On Both Sides of the Bridge: Religion and State in the Early Years of Israel, Jerusalem, 2002, pp. 320–49; idem., “Religious Affirmation of Zionism as a National Liberation Movement: Aspects of the Thought of Rabbi Khalfon Moshe HaCohen of Jerba” [Hebrew], Israel: Studies in Zionism and the State of Israel – History, Culture and Society, vol. 2 (1), 2002, pp. 107–26. 111



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How can we explain this difference between the attitudes of the Aleppo rabbis and those of their colleagues in other Middle Eastern communities in the modern era? At least a partial explanation for their uniqueness can be found in their differentiated social status and their strong and steadfast group consciousness; it is difficult to point to a group of rabbis in any other Middle Eastern community during this period that shared these characteristics. It is doubtful, however, that this is a sufficient explanation. Their social status and group consciousness might provide an answer to the question of what enabled them to adopt such aggressively conservative policies. But if they felt strong and well anchored in their community, they might well have chosen whatever policy they deemed proper, in accordance with the Torah, and have expected full well to be successful in its implementation. Why then did they choose the specific conservative-confrontational policy that they did? At this point, I would like to cast doubt upon what many seem to regard as a virtual truism in historical research and to make a “heretical” suggestion that perhaps it is impossible to arrive at a full explanation of variance in religious-halakhic positions solely on the basis of historical-social differences. Any attempt at this kind of explanation assumes, even if implicitly, that intellectual-spiritual phenomena are a direct function of an empirical socio-economic reality. But the fact is that rabbis and intellectuals living in the same neighborhood and the same community often disagree with one another about what positions and world views should be adopted. Thus the realm of world-views and opinions is significantly autonomous and far from totally dependent upon socio-economic reality. Undoubtedly, this reality, together with additional variables, poses a variety of challenges that must be met by individuals and communities living in that specific context. In addition, socio-economic reality may well have a significant influence upon setting outer parameters for the set of responses to contemporary issues that will be considered as live options in that specific reality. Nevertheless, socio-economic reality does not determine which of the many options within those parameters will be advocated by a particular rabbi or group of rabbis at that time.112 See S. N. Eisenstadt, Tradition, Change and Modernity, Malibar (Florida), 1983, p. 352. In this work Eisenstadt proposes (on pp. 329–36) a classification of possible response-strategies that are likely to characterize traditional leaderships who face the challenges of change in their social reality. With regard to each of these strategies, he points to a set (a kind of “syndrome”) of tactics that are likely to be adopted by the elite that has chosen this strategy. But his words imply that he too does not think that this choice itself can be sufficiently explained. This especially in light of the fact that each of the “Great Traditions” developed within itself, already in pre-modern eras, a broad assortment of mechanisms for coping with change. Every option from within this assortment may be perceived as equally legitimate in the tradition’s own terms (ibid., p. 329). The reader is invited to compare the elements of the strategy that 112

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Indeed, this is true of Aleppo itself: While many Halebi rabbis held to an activist-conservative outlook and policy as analyzed above, several other rabbis took a different path. In the following two chapters we present two leading figures who exemplify this alternative: Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan (Chapter 5) and Rabbi Shaul Matloub ‘Abadi (Chapter 6).

Eisenstadt calls “traditionalistic” (ibid., pp. 330–2) with the characteristics of the policies taken by the Aleppo rabbis as these characteristics emerge from the events described here.

5 Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan: A “Maskil” in Aleppo

The image of Aleppan rabbis that emerged in the previous chapter is of a conservative group that harbored deep suspicion toward modernity and innovation, regarded as being by their very nature an implicit or explicit threat to the holy, premodern Jewish way of life. This image was projected by later authors, writing in the Syrian Diaspora, about all of Jewish life in Aleppo: nostalgic or hagiographic writers emphasize the extent to which Aleppan Jewry was a “Holy Community,” whose lifestyle, norms, and beliefs saved its members from succumbing to modern Jewish influences that had ravaged other Jewish communities in the Middle East.1 This is especially evident in the work Aleppo, City of Scholars published by Artscroll in 2005.2 However, even a re-reading of the previous chapter will demonstrate that the current portrayal of the Aleppan Jewish community is one-sided: already in 1906 some persons were deviating from halakhic norms regarding observance of Shabbat and kashruth; the Bnai Brith lodge continued to exist after 1924 despite rabbinic opposition; together with others, such as David Ben Hillel Silvera,3 the members of Bnai Brith held liberal ideas and objected to the authoritarian behavior of the rabbinic establishment; Jews spent part of their Shabbat in coffee houses and cinemas, sometimes accompanied by

See, for example: A. Cohen, “Aleppo: A City of Torah and Wisdom in the Nineteenth Century and in the Beginning of the Twentieth Century,” [Hebrew] Ba-Ma'arakha 253 (1982), pp. 16–17; J. A. Sutton, Magic Carpet: Aleppo in Flatbush, New York: ThayerJacoby, 1979. 2 Rabbi David Sutton and Isaac Kirzner (eds), Aleppo, City of Scholars, New York: ArtScroll Press, 2005. With regard to this work’s general approach, see my article: “And Artscroll Created Aleppo in its Own Image: The positioning of Aleppo as a holy Ultra-Orthodox community in Aleppo, City of Scholars.” A draft version is currently available online at https://docs.google.com/document/pub?id=1dfkMWbBEHc0joowFo32U7vnHBoQ3Z9vXS4 QptxsmtJk 3 Regarding whom, see: Gaon, Hakhmei ha-Mizrah be-Eretz Israel, vol. 2, Jerusalem, 1938, p. 483. 1

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their womenfolk; the main activities at the community’s social club were mixed social dancing and card playing, and the community leadership supported the recruiting of children for “Youth Aliyah” despite rabbinic opposition. That being said, the focus of the current chapter is not upon Jewish social and communal religious life in twentieth-century Aleppo but upon its rabbis. Unlike the impression that may have been received from the previous chapter, the rabbinic elite itself was not monolithic in its opposition to modernity. Thus, when the French–Jewish association Alliance Israelite Universelle first established a modern Jewish school in Aleppo, the rich communal leaders wanted to reserve these institutions for children of well-to-do families; it was Chief Rabbi Aaron Choueka (d. 1881) who supported the position that children of all socio-economic strata be accepted.4 Several rabbis taught in these schools, and other rabbis enrolled their sons as students.5 When the Alliance opened schools for girls—a radical innovation compared to the past when no public framework for girls’ education existed and almost all girls were illiterate— the rabbis supported this option and sent their own daughters to study there. Those rabbis who subsequently became powerful critics of Alliance were angered when they saw that the personnel sent by the AIU to teach in Aleppo were not only providing an education in general studies but also advocating secularization, leading the male students to disregard traditional religiosity.6 They organized a committee to support traditional Talmud Torah schools in Aleppo, maligned the school principles and tried to have the directorate of AIU in Paris rein in these deviant teachers.7 However, these opponents of the AIU also decided to include “secular” studies in the program of the more traditional Talmud Torah educational frameworks for boys.8 This chapter and the next will focus upon two rabbis of the twentieth century who undoubtedly belonged to the elite of the Aleppo rabbinate and who nevertheless were open in interesting ways to new ideas and currents in the Jewish world of their time: Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan and Rabbi Shaul Matloub ‘Abadi.

See: Yaron Harel, By Ships of Fire to the West [Hebrew], Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar, 2003, p. 117. This book is now available in English as: Syrian Jewry in transition, 1840–1880, Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2010. 5 Ibid., pp. 119–120. 6 Ibid., p. 122. 7 See: Zvi Zohar, Drama Hevratit Tarbutit beHalab haMandatorit [A Socio-Cultural Drama in Mandatory Aleppo] Jerusalem: Ben-Zion Dinor Center for the Study of Jewish History, Hebrew University, 2002, passim. 8 Ibid., pp. 22–3. 4



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Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan The Dayyan family was one of the most important and distinguished families in Aleppo, perhaps even the most important and distinguished. It was an indigenous Musta'rib family9 which treasured a genealogical tree going back to King David himself.10 Throughout the Middle Ages, members of the Dayyan family were recognized as the religious leadership of the community, and even after the arrival of exiles from Spain (who, in other communities, culturally overwhelmed the locals and assumed leadership of the community), the Dayyan family did not capitulate. While sharing the leadership with the newcomers, they continued to guard their ancient primacy. Rabbi Yesha'yah Dayyan (d. 1903) was the head of the Rabbinical Court of the community, and in Aleppo it was the head of the Rabbinical Court, not the Hakham Bashi, who had the highest religious authority. His son, Yitzhak, whose views we shall discuss here, was therefore a descendant of the central rabbinic family in the community and the son of the central religious figure of the previous generation. Born in 1878, Yitzhak studied in his youth under his father and under Rabbi Ezra 'Abadi Sha'yo.11 Yitzhak’s grandson, Rabbi Yosef ben 'Ezra 'Abadi Sha'yo,12 presents the following portrait: Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan studied under Rabbi Ezra and became a great luminary. He was the 85th generation of King David of blessed memory and inherited his father’s status. All of the community’s matters were dealt with by him. He was intelligent, sagacious and wise, a guide, leader and advisor, and one of the first to be involved in any matter of public concern. He was also the chief circumciser. He was the last of the Dayyan family to bear the yoke of public responsibilities and custom, and he executed all the rights and prerogatives of the Dayyan family. His relatives invested for him in commercial activities and thus supported him. Therefore, he was economically well off and did not benefit monetarily from most of those prerogatives except for recompense for the trouble of writing legal documents and Ketubbot. If individuals gave him unasked, he would distribute the money to scholars and for the support of students. Musta'arib is an Arabic word meaning someone who chooses to behave in ways that are similar to Arabs. Since the sixteenth century at least, it has been used in rabbinic literature to refer to Arabic-speaking Jews whose families had been living in the Middle East continuously, unlike, for example, Sephardim who had emigrated from Spain or Ashkenazim who had emigrated from Northern Europe. 10 The family tree was printed at the beginning of Rabbi Moshe Dayyan, Yashir Moshe, 1879. 11 1869–1939. Cf. Sutton (above note 2) at pp. 320–1. 12 1894–1976. Cf. Sutton, ibid., p. 321. 9

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He was a sensitive and respected person, a writer with fine style. The poems of Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi were all impressed upon his heart, and he derived great pleasure from reading them. He also was at home in the poetry of the Nagid, Ibn Gabirol and Najara and knew them by heart.13 He was fond of the books and poetry of Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra and understood their depths.14 He also was an excellent scholar of the Talmud, the Bible and the works of rabbinic decisors. Several of his novella were published in the journal Ha-Me'assef over the course of 12 years.15 He was penetrating in his study, in his eulogies for the departed and in sermons. He was also a lover of ancient books. He had in his possession the genealogy of the Dayyan family that he received from his holy ancestors, going up to King David of blessed memory, as well as ancient legal documents that he received from the earlier generations of his family concerning the prerogatives of [the Dayyan family in the Jewish community of] Aleppo. He had three sons and two daughters. He passed away on 2 Kislev 5765 [= 7.11.1964] in Brazil and was interred in Tel Aviv.16 This description of Rabbi Dayyan captures many facets of his personality, capabilities, and interests. Scion of an illustrious line, he was endowed with fine character traits and fulfilled the roles assigned to the most prominent member of his family in each generation: public leader, wise advisor, outstanding scholar. However, he was characterized by additional interests, not typically expected of persons in his position. Two of these stand out in the above paragraphs: first, an interest and high competence in classical Hebrew poetry of the great master-poets of the golden age of Sepharad— Judah HaLevi, Samuel ha-Nagid, and Ibn Gabirol—as well as the more recent poetry of Israel Najara, who in his time was accused of pandering to less fine tastes and deviating from the classic Sephardic poetic ideal; and second, identification with Abraham Ibn Ezra, an independent razorsharp individual of manifold talents, who went his own way in interpreting canonical texts and in integrating Jewish and general thought and science.

The Nagid [= Samuel ibn Naghrela “the Nagid,” Spain, c. 990–c. 1060], statesman, Talmudic scholar and poet. Ibn Gabirol [= Solomon Ibn Gabirol, Spain, c. 1021–c. 1058], poet and philosopher. Najara [= Israel Najara, c. 1555 Damascus–c. 1625 Gaza], poet and kabbalist. 14 Abraham Ibn Ezra, [1089–1164], biblical commentator, poet, philosopher, mathematician, astronomer, linguist. Uncompromising in his search for the plain meaning of the text, Ibn Ezra served as a model for later scholars not inclined to follow unexamined convention. 15 Ha-Me'assef was a Jerusalem-based rabbinic journal edited by Rabbi Ben-Zion Koenka. For an example of an article by Yitzhak Dayyan, see Ha-Me'assef, 4th year, #2, 14th Heshvan 5659 [= 30.10.1898]. With regard to Rabbi Koenka, see Chapter 11, at note 47. 16 From Rabbi Yosef Sha’yo’s “Shivhei haMehabber” published in: Yesha'yahu Dayyan, Hazon Yesha'yah, Jerusalem, 5758/1998, pp. 7–26. The section presented above in translation is from ibid., p. 21. 13



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In the late 1940s or early 1950s Rabbi Dayyan decided to leave Aleppo and settle in Israel where he arrived no later than 1952.17 He lived in Tel Aviv and was the rabbi of an “Aleppan” congregation there.18 When the Aleppo Codex was transferred in secret from Aleppo, arriving in Israel in early 1958, he seemed to Aleppan rabbis—both in Aleppo and in Israel—to be the natural choice to receive it.19 Ultimately, a committee was formed for the guardianship of the Codex, and Rabbi Dayyan served there as the representative of Aleppan Jewry (the two other members were President Ben Zvi and Israeli Sephardic Chief Rabbi Yitzhak Nissim).20 Later, in 1958, he visited the Syrian community in Brooklyn, New York, where he was recognized as the pre-eminent living Aleppan rabbi. Subsequently Rabbi Dayyan, then in his 80s, decided to move to Brazil to be with his sons. It was there that he passed away in 1964. However, a second reading of Rabbi Sha'yo’s portrait reveals an interesting fact: the entire description relates to Dayyan’s life and activities in Aleppo. His departure from Aleppo and his subsequent history are entirely missing from this account—as from all accounts of his life given by rabbinical sources. Why is this so? A deeper acquaintance with Rabbi Dayyan’s views and attitudes may provide grounds for an answer. Fortunately, we have an essay that he published in 1924 entitled “The Torah of Israel and the People of Israel” that reveals major aspects of his worldview. In the remainder of this chapter, I present and discuss that essay and the worldview it expresses.

“The Torah of Israel and the People of Israel” In 1924, Rabbi Yehuda 'Atiyya21 published in Aleppo a book entitled Minhat Yehuda, providing 87 different brief homilies expounding upon the ideational links between the first and the last verses of the Torah. The first few pages contain approbations by prominent rabbis and the author’s

One of his daughters, Sophia, was married and living in Brooklyn. When her son Mosse was about to celebrate his Bar Mitzva in 1952, Rabbi Dayyan composed a sermon/speech (in Hebrew) for Mosse to recite upon that occasion and sent it from Israel to the US; see also below, text near note 83. 18 Amnon Shamosh, Ha-Keter: the Story of the Aleppo Codex, [Hebrew], Ben Zvi Institute, Jerusalem, 5747/1987, pp. 87–8. 19 Ibid., pp. 49, 84. However, the individual who brought the Codex decided to place it in the hands of Yitzhak Ben Zvi, a public leader known for his research on Oriental Jewry, who was at that time President of the State of Israel. 20 Ibid., p. 87. 21 Born in Aleppo in 1879, he later moved to Jerusalem in 1946 and passed away in 1962 (Sutton, above note 2, pp. 137–9). 17

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introduction. Then, before the body of the work, Rabbi 'Atiyya writes that he has decided to include, at this point, an essay by his colleague Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan, whom he presents to the reader as: [A] dear and beloved rabbi, a basketful of sweet dates, a descendant of saints and angels, son of our great Master, fortress of strength, the ultimate authority of our city, saintly head of the court, the honorable Rabbi Yesha'yah Dayyan of blessed memory; my great and honorable friend, the honorable Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan, may his light shine, may he enjoy a long life.22 Rabbi 'Attiyya explains that Rabbi Dayyan composed a pleasant and interesting article dealing with “Israel’s link to their holy Torah, their great worth, their mission and their goal,” encouraging Jews to attach themselves to the study of Judaism and faith. This article was thus similar to the topic of his book, linking the people of Israel (mentioned in the last words of Torah) to the first word of Torah, as one of the metaphoric terms for Torah is “Beginning” (Reishit). Therefore, ‘Atiyya thought it appropriate to print this essay just before the body of the book’s text “as a kind of introduction.” Be that as it may, Rabbi Dayyan’s essay was not written as an introduction but as an independent work to which we now turn our full attention.

The content and structure of the essay23 “The Torah of Israel and the People of Israel” aims to ground a conception of Jewish education that includes Jewish and general studies within a framework that accords primacy to a spectrum of Jewish studies significantly broader than what was customary in traditional Jewish education, including Bible, Aggadot of the Talmud and Midrashim, history of the Jewish people, and (apparently) also Hebrew poetry. In order to anchor this understanding, the author opens with a chapter discussing the essential connection between the people of Israel and the Torah. Afterwards, he establishes a contrast between the distant past generations—who knew this essential connection and internalized its truth—and the generations of the Diaspora, and especially the present generation, who lost that truth even if they assiduously maintain a fully observant Jewish lifestyle. He concludes that the proper understanding of “Enlightenment” obliges us to bestow upon young Jews a Jewish education that emphasizes

Minhat Yehudah, p. 12. As noted above, Dayyan’s essay was published in Yehuda 'Atiyya, Minhat Yehuda, Aleppo, 1924. Page references given below are all to this work. 22 23



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the ideational and ethical import of the Bible and of rabbinic Midrashim as a condition for any possible continuity of the Jewish people. From this summary it should already be apparent that Rabbi Dayyan does not accept the value of Jewish traditional observance of halakha as “self-evident”—as many persons in Aleppo (and other Middle Eastern communities) purportedly did—at least according to the image propounded today. He was not alone in this: Many other scholars who lived in both his and preceding generations also did not regard the value of traditional praxis as self-evident and searched for the inner meaning of Torah. Most of them found this meaning in the intricate and rich world of Kabbalistic thought. During the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, many works were published by scholars from Aleppo, reflecting their involvement with Kabbalah.24 The majority of the tens of scholars from Aleppo who emigrated to Jerusalem from the 1870s to the 1920s engaged there in matters of Kabbalah and conducted themselves accordingly.25 In the literature of praises that posthumously glorify the greatest rabbis of Aleppo, those who dealt with Kabbalah receive recognition of special magnitude.26 For many of these rabbis, Kabbalistic study and praxis were more important than halakhic and Talmudic study. Not all Aleppan rabbis were happy with this development. Thus, Rabbi Yosef Mordekhai Yedid ha-Levy (1867–1930) wrote from Jerusalem to Aleppo: My friend: I hear that you are focusing on study of Kabbalah. But it is known that Rabbi Elijah Mizrahi wrote that it was not for that purpose that Moses ascended on high. Rather, [he did so] for the sake of the thirteen methods of interpreting the Torah. And study of Kabbalah must be little.27 Rabbi Yedid thus represents an alternate view, somewhat similar to that of the “Lithuanian” yeshivot, according not only practical but spiritual primacy to engagement in study of Torah and Talmud rather than Kabbalah.28 However, some scholars followed a third path, that of contemplation and philosophy. In the essay before us, Rabbi Dayyan is 24 Cf. Yaron Harel, Sifrei Eretz, Ben Zvi Institute, Jerusalem, 5757/1997 for a listing of books composed by Aleppan rabbis. 25 This emerges clearly from an accurate analysis of Li 'Qedoshim Asher ba-Aretz, Jerusalem, 1980 (2nd edition). For more on these emigrant kabbalist scholars and their milieu, see: Jonathan Meir, Rehovot ha-Nahar, [Hebrew], Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2011. 26 See, for example: Rabbi Ya'akov Katzin, Pri 'Etz ha-Gan, Jerusalem, 1931. Soon after publication of this work, the author became chief rabbi of the Aleppan community in Brooklyn. 27 Yosef Mordekhai Yedid ha-Levy, Responsa She’erit Yosef, vol. 3, Brooklyn 5737/1977, end of responsum 2. 28 While Sutton (note 2 above) at page 352 adds the epithet “kabbalist” to Rabbi Yedid’s titles, it is noteworthy that all of his published works are devoted to halakha (ibid., p. 354).

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revealed as such an individual whose spiritual heroes were “the early analytical scholars of Spain,” amongst whom he counts “Rabbi Sa'adiah Gaon, Rabbi Shmuel Ben Hofni, the author of Hovot Ha-Levavot, Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi—the poet and author of ha-Kuzari—Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra, Maimonides and others.”29 Throughout his essay, it is clear that he sees himself as trying to follow the path of these rabbis, that of understanding and enlightenment, in order to deal with the issues currently facing Jewish life.

A rationalistic approach to the interpretation of Rabbinic Aggadah One gauge of a rabbi’s worldview is to see how he deals with Aggadic or Midrashic statements that seem unreasonable. Some hold that Jews must believe the text “as is”; if the holy rabbis of yore wrote it, so it is. Others argue for a Kabbalistic interpretation. Rabbi Dayyan openly prefers a rationalistic approach: If the plain meaning of a text is clearly unreasonable, an allegorical interpretation must be preferred. Thus, the midrash on the verse in Qohelet (12.5) “and the almond tree blossoms” states that in the human spine there is a small bone called “luz” that is in no way susceptible to physical destruction; this bone is the kernel around which the future body of each person will form at the time of the resurrection of the dead.30 Rabbi Dayyan comments: [W]e are compelled to say that there is something hidden within this statement, because it is not possible for it to be as literally described. For we see that in the place where the dead are cremated nothing remains except a few ashes … and therefore a wonderful hint and a lofty allegory are to be sought in this statement.31 Indeed, one of his major critiques of the proponents of Haskalah in modern times is precisely that they “did not realize all this, and did not penetrate the great conceptual depth of Judaism … the spirit of the Bible and the Midrash and the sublime ideas they contain.”32 The maskilim

Dayyan (note 23 above), p. 20. Rabbi Sa'adiah Gaon (882–942) was a philosopher, halakhist, translator, and public leader. Rabbi Shmuel ben Hofni (d. 1013) was a philosopher, halakhist, and biblical interpretor (see: David Sklare, Samuel ben Hofni Gaon and his Cultural World, Leiden, 1996); the author of Hovot haLevavot was Bahya Ibn Paquda (c. 1050–1120), philosopher and liturgical poet. 30 Midrash Kohelleth Raba, 12:5. 31 Dayyan, p. 13. 32 Ibid., p. 30. 29



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rejected tradition because they understood it in a simplistic, superficial manner and did not perceive its rational seriousness and depths. While regarding themselves as rationalists, they were in fact taking that name in vain.

The universal ethical dimension of Torah When explaining the importance of the study of Judaism for Jewish youth, Rabbi Dayyan emphasizes the importance of inculcating and stressing the universal ethical dimension in Judaism, which will influence the personality of the youth if they learn Jewish subjects in the proper manner. He expresses concern that, if attention is not paid to these matters, … the young person will go out [i.e. into the world, after his studies] lacking all the fine qualities and refined morality contained in Judaism, which are crucial to his future and success when he grows up … because only through these will they become good persons, of benefit to themselves, to their nation, to others and to civilization in general.33 Therefore, he continues later in the essay, it is important … to plant and instill our ethics in their hearts … and thus they will become persons who are wise, successful and good, of benefit to God and His Torah, to their nation, to themselves, to others and to the whole world.34 According to Rabbi Dayyan, then, it is not enough for a Jew to be “of benefit to God and Torah.” A Jew bears simultaneous responsibility for ever-widening circles of human existence. He owes it to himself not only to worship God and obey His mitzvoth but to cultivate his personality for his own personal sake, for the sake of his nation, for the sake of other individual non-Jewish human beings and for the sake of humanity in general. The ideal of service to humanity in general is expressed also in Rabbi Dayyan’s words concerning Israel’s mission to humanity.

Ibid., p. 24. Ibid., p. 32.

33 34

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“Israel’s Mission” (Te'udat Yisrael) toward the world Clearly linked to his emphasis upon the universal moral dimension of the Torah, Rabbi Dayyan states that the Jewish people have a mission toward the whole world: Israel … was chosen since ancient time as God’s special treasure – a kingdom of priests, instructing and teaching the nations about God’s existence and unity. And one of the purposes for their dispersion among the nations is to promulgate and announce the existence and unity of God to the whole world. As the rabbis of blessed memory said: “God did righteousness with Israel by scattering them among the nations.”35 The rabbinic statement cited by Rabbi Dayyan is in tractate Pesahim 87b. However, the meaning that he attributes to this statement is far from self-evident. The conventional reading is: God’s goodness toward Israel is expressed in their not being all concentrated in one Diasporic country but rather scattered throughout the world. This ensures that even if a tyrant in one country attacks the Jews and decimates them, the Jews in other countries will still survive.36 Rabbi Dayyan reads this in a radically different manner: It is not God’s goodness to Israel that is manifest in their dispersion but rather God’s goodness toward humanity in general. Only by virtue of Israel’s dispersion were the nations in general enabled to become acquainted with the central tenets of monotheism: God’s Existence and His Unity. Thus Israel were not the objects of God’s righteousness to them but rather the medium through which God manifested His concern for humanity as a whole. It is worth noting that a similar characterization of Israel—as priests entrusted with instructing humankind with regard to God’s existence and unity—was a central tenet of the religious thought of Rabbi Eliyahu Ben Amozegh, whose books were burnt by Aleppo’s rabbis some 60 years before the publication of Rabbi Dayyan’s essay.37 Rabbi Dayyan explains that this mission had already been entrusted to Abraham, of whom God said that all the nations of the world shall be blessed in him “For I knew him, so that he should command his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord to do justice and judgment” (Gen. 18.19). Therefore, writes Rabbi Dayyan:

Ibid., p. 26. Cf. Rashi’s commentary ad loc, s.v. Tzedaqa ‘Asa she-Pizran. 37 This incident was discussed in Chapter 4. For more about Rabbi Ben-Amozegh, see Chapter 4 at note 8. 35 36



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[T]he mission of the people of Israel (te'udat 'Am Yisrael) is to promulgate the unity of God and His ways in the world. And they did so – and succeeded in this mission! For the fundamentals of the two religions whose members constitute the majority of the civilized world were taken from Israel’s Torah, and all of them acknowledge God’s Existence and Unity.38 A similar statement was included by Maimonides in his magnum opus Mishne Torah and was censored out of that work’s printed versions until quite recently.39 However, significant differences should be pointed out. First, Maimonides does not state that Israel’s influence upon the nations was one of the goals of Israel’s Exile but rather that God’s intent in the rise of Christianity and Islam was to acquaint humanity with aspects of monotheism. Second, Maimonides does not agree that Christians (as he knew them) were monotheists40 while Dayyan states this clearly. On this matter, Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan is in agreement with several other rabbis of Islamic lands in modern times who identify Christianity as a monotheistic religion.41 The ideal portrayed by Rabbi Dayyan is thus not “A nation that dwells alone”42 in the plain sense of that phrase but a nation involved with and influencing humanity. Israel’s chosenness (segulla) is thus not to be conceived of as an ontological fact but as a functional imperative: to guide the world to recognition of God’s Existence and Unity. There is thus a direct link between Israel’s chosenness (segulla) and its mission (te’udah). According to Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan, Jewish educational institutions should construct their educational programming in light of Israel’s mission.

Dayyan, ibid. Hilkhot Melakhim, ch. 11:4. 40 Hilkhot 'Avoda Zara, ch. 9:4. 41 These include, inter alia: Rabbi Sa'adya 'Amor, Algiers (c. 1800); Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan (1808–63), who will be discussed in Chapter 7; Rabbi Eliyahu Ben-Amozegh, Livorno (1822–1900); Rabbi Hayyim Belaih, Tlemcen (1832–1919); Rabbi David haCohen Scalli, Oran (1861–1949); Rabbi Yosef Mesas, Meknes, Tlemcen, and Haifa (1892–1974); Rabbi Hayyim David haLevi, Jerusalem, Rishon leZiyyon, and Tel Aviv (1924–98). For the positions of Rabbis 'Amor, Belaih, and Mesas, see Yosef Mesas, Responsa Mayyim Hayyim, vol. 2, Yoreh De’ah, #108. For Scalli, see: David haCohen Scalli, Responsa Qiriat Hana David, vol. 1, Yoreh De'ah, #16. For haLevi, see Hayyim David haLevi, Responsa 'Aseh Lekha Rav, vol. 9, #33. 42 Cf. Num. 23.9. 38 39

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The importance of education about the history of the Jewish people Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan’s relatively open and rational approach finds additional expression in the fact that he absorbed and internalized positions and approaches characteristic of some intellectual currents prevalent in modern European (and European-Jewish) thought. One of the ways in which this is manifest is the importance that he attributes to the requirement that the education of every young Jew should include knowledge of Jewish history: “It is incumbent upon us … to educate our children in our spirit, our language, our history, our studies.”43 Conversely, those who “teach the youth foreign studies and the history of other nations” cause the youth to go out, upon conclusion of his studies: … lacking in knowledge of his history and his shining past, when he was a light unto the nations, and many walked in his light. Lacking in knowledge of the history of the heroes of Israel and their great Rabbis, who courageously imparted a great and steadfast spirit that enabled Israel to live in Exile, and cast a pure, clean light that provided illumination for Israel and for the nations …44 Thus, one who does not know the history of Israel will not want nor be able to continue the illustrious and brilliant line of great individuals who embody Israel’s greatness over the ages. These heroes fulfilled a dual role: On the one hand, they ensured the continued existence of the People of Israel under the harsh conditions of Exile and persecution; on the other hand, they bore high the torch of Israel’s mission throughout the millennia, casting a pure, clean light upon all of humanity. Furthermore, knowledge of the history of the people of Israel confirms the special quality of the relation between the people of Israel and its Torah and makes one conscious of the miraculous nature of the people’s very survival despite their troubles and persecutions: He who is wise … will perceive with his critical intelligence all that occurred during the history of Israel throughout changing times and periods and realize that the necessary conclusion is that they exist eternally. For they have survived in the world thousands of years while thousands of great powerful nations were completely destroyed and their memories lost …45 Ibid., p. 32. Significantly, for “history” Rabbi Dayyan employs the Arabic Taarikh rather than the terms Historia or Divrei ha-Yamim more current in today’s Hebrew. 44 Ibid., p. 24. 45 Ibid., p. 29. 43



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Rabbi Dayyan states that the reason for this historical uniqueness of Israel is the Torah. Above, the midrash mentioned on the verse “and the almond tree blossoms” refers to an indestructible “luz” that serves as the kernel of physical resurrection. Rabbi Dayyan allegorically explains the midrash as referring to the eternal continuity of the Jewish People: the “luz” is that which ensures the eternality of the Jewish People—the Torah. He adds that this may also be confirmed by study of Jewish history: “[L]et us proceed to analyze what can be known from Israel’s history: that many large nations rose against them with different weapons and were not able to conquer them …”46 He proceeds to cite a plethora of incidents from the Jewish past, including some of which he must have learned from nontraditional sources, such as Greek anti-Jewish propaganda in Egypt in Second Temple times.47 Rabbi Dayyan also presents a positive and sympathetic exposition of the Bar Kochba revolt and concludes his historical survey with the following analysis: All who rose against Israel with different weapons of war were not able to destroy its luz bone, as is written: “no weapon will succeed against them” (Isa. 54.17); all of the nations that fought Israel were destroyed and their memories lost, and Israel still lives and exists, and its luz bone still bears a spark that will once again be kindled and become a very large bonfire that shall shed light onto Israel and onto the whole world.48 Thus, Israel’s eternity is proven by the evidence of Jewish history, and that proof provides ground for faith that in the future the nation will once again shed light on the whole world and thus fulfill its universal mission.

Exile and Revival Rabbi Dayyan also sees the Jewish historic experience described above— survival in desperate circumstances under recurring persecution—as clarifying why Jews at present lack awareness of their nation’s values and its purpose: The reason for this is clear: this Exile of ours, of almost two thousand years, and the many edicts and decrees and religious persecutions that we have endured, have caused us to forget the value of the Torah; “the wisdom of our wise men has been lost to us, and the understanding of our prudent ones is hidden from us”.49

Ibid., Ibid., 48 Ibid., 49 Ibid., 46 47

p. 15. p. 16. p. 18 p. 21. The statement “the wisdom of our wise men has been lost to us, and the

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It is important to place these words in context: Rabbi Dayyan wrote this in Aleppo, a community that took great pride in the greatness of its scholars and in their knowledge of the depths of Torah. His statement that today we have no access to the wisdom and understanding of the rabbis and sages of the past thus expresses a strong critique of the current state of Torah scholarship in Aleppo. He further develops this critique, first citing a statement by the first-century sages of Yavne: “In the future, the Torah will be forgotten by Israel.”50 Rabbi Dayyan explains that this statement does not relate to loss of knowledge about practical religious daily behavior: The sages were not referring to knowledge of how to perform the practical mitzvoth, the laws, commandments and norms. For with regard to these God has promised (Deut. 31.21), “it will not be forgotten by their descendants”. And in truth, all the commandments of Torah are still preserved by us as if on the day they were given at Sinai.51 Rabbi Dayyan thus bears witness—perhaps referring to his own native community of Aleppo—that the public fully observes the words of Torah; or, in any case, that all are well acquainted with the details of halakha “as if on the day they were given at Sinai.” This aspect of Torah, then, was indeed not forgotten by the Jewish people. Nevertheless, the dire forecast of the sages of Yavne had indeed been fulfilled, for their intention was not with regard to practical details, but rather: [T]heir intent was with regard to the worth of Torah; and the insight into the value of its commandments; and the knowledge and recognition of their deep truth and their crucial significance for Israel; and the sensual, deeply felt knowledge that the Torah is the essence of the nation, its spirit, its soul, and without it, Israel cannot exist.52 In other words, not the details of the halakha have been lost but rather an understanding of the whole: Jews can see the multitudinous trees of the mitzvoth but cannot appreciate the value and significance of the forest of Torah. They do not comprehend the crucial existential link between Israel and Torah. The reason for all this was the radically negative effects of Exile that also caused an all-inclusive blurring of the Jewish people’s self-perception:

understanding of our prudent ones is hidden from us” is a clear allusion to Isa. 29.14 – “the wisdom of their wise men shall perish, and the understanding of their prudent men shall be hidden.” 50 Bavli Shabbat, 138b. 51 Dayyan, ibid., p. 22. 52 Ibid.



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This knowledge was completely forgotten by us because of the length of Israel’s Exile in distant lands and isles, every few years relocating anew in a different place, a different people, a different ruler. They labored under conditions of weighty troubles, dwelling amidst different peoples and exposed to their corrupt ways, and in great poverty and increased lack of basic necessities. And therefore we have become entirely absorbed in the persistent and great war for survival. Because of all this, the lofty and exalted Hebrew soul has died inside us …53 Until the last sentence of the paragraph just quoted, Rabbi Dayyan was involved in disproving the thesis that, while Exile may have been negative for the material, mundane life of the Jews, it had not had significant negative impact upon Israel’s ability to experience a deeply meaningful religious life. Not so, he said: Exile had reduced Jews to technical performance of halakhic rules while stripping them of the capability to experience the depths and meaning of Torah as a whole. Having made this powerful point, Rabbi Dayyan introduced, in the paragraph’s last line, another aspect of Jewish existence that he regarded as crucial. By employing the term “Hebrew soul” (ha-neshama ha-'ivrit), he links the reader to modern discourse on Jewish nationality. Indeed, a rereading of the above paragraph as a whole reveals that it relates to a central topos of Zionist thought: negation of Exile (shelilat ha-galut). As Eliezer Schweid demonstrates,54 this idea had a wide range of variants, ranging from complete negation of everything Jewish that was present in the Diaspora and calling for the creation of a completely new Jew, to more moderate views that related positively to many aspects of Diasporic Jewish culture but nevertheless held that life in Exile entails of necessity severe deformation of Jews and Jewish life. Clearly, Rabbi Dayyan belongs to the latter category. Nevertheless, his critique of galut and presentation of its negative consequences is especially telling, coming as it does from the scion of Aleppo’s most important rabbinic dynasty, and stating that life in galut diminishes and confounds the greatest rabbis’ understanding of Torah, alienates both the rabbis and the religiously observant Jewish public from comprehension of the overall goals and nature of Judaism, and cripples the “Hebrew soul” within them. An obvious concomitant of all the above is that rehabilitation of the “Hebrew soul” is dependent on a national revival and the cessation of Exile. And indeed, the national dimension appears prominently in this essay by Rabbi Dayyan.

Ibid. Cf. Eliezer Schweid, “Rejection of the Diaspora in Zionist Thought,” Jehuda Reinharz and Anita Shapira (eds), Essential papers on Zionism, New York: New York University Press, 1996. 53 54

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The national dimension The national dimension, in the modern Zionist sense, is reflected in the essay in several ways. To begin with, the terms “People/Nation of Israel” ('Am Yisrael) and “nation” (umma) appear time and again in a variety of contexts, and the need to ensure the benefit and success of the Jewish people serves as a major argument in Rabbi Dayyan’s call for advancing Jewish education of the youth.55 Second, although in one place the author emphasizes that “it was said to Esau: you shall live by the sword” whilst “Israel never prided itself on the sword,”56 he emphasizes in several other places the quality of physical courage as a positive characteristic of figures from the past, in light of whom the youth of the present time should be educated. He tells of “[T]he brave Hasmoneans … who fought without regard for danger to their life, with deliberation and courage”57 and describes in a positive manner: [T]he hero Bar Kochba who reigned over Israel and commanded a large army of many heroes of Israel, who fought with wondrous courage and in disregard for danger to their lives, resisting the powerful Roman conquerors of the world who ruled over many nations”.58 And, as we have already seen above,59 he advised that the youth be educated in a manner enabling them to know the history of the heroes of Israel. Over and above all that has been said, Rabbi Dayyan specifically identifies as great flaws the absence of a sentiment of national honor as well as the absence of active initiatives for national revival in the Jewish Homeland: The feeling of national pride has died within us. We have lost a sense of our own worth. The lust and the aspiration for nationality and for a homeland have disappeared from us. Our inner feelings have so died out that we do not even feel a desire to improve our situation by our own actions. Rather, we hope only to be fed at the tables of others or [to be saved] by great miracles.60 For Jews to feed at the tables of other nations is to enjoy the fruits of emancipation bestowed upon Diaspora Jewry by their host nations. For Other arguments in favor of such education include securing the future of the Torah and of Jewish observance. 56 Dayyan, ibid., p. 27. 57 Ibid. 58 Ibid., pp. 13–14. 59 At note 44. 60 Dayyan, ibid., pp. 22–3. 55



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Jews to be saved by great miracles is what many pious Jews over the centuries expected would happen at the end of history: a miraculous redemption from Exile by the heaven-sent Messiah. In the above paragraph, both these attitudes receive an equally negative valuation by Rabbi Dayyan, who instead advocates that Jews should “improve our situation by our own actions”—an excellent rendition of “autoemancipation”—the term coined by Pinsker after the 1881 pogroms in Russia led him to realize that the Jewish people could not allow their future to depend upon emancipation in the Diaspora but must take their national destiny into their own hands.61 It thus seems quite clear that our author was acquainted with major ideas of cultural and political Zionism and identified with them. His call for educational activism is formulated in kind: “Therefore, it is incumbent upon us to make sure that we educate our children in our spirit; ‘if we will not be for ourselves, who will be for us?’.”62 This is a paraphrase of the words of Hillel, a great rabbinic teacher of late antiquity: “If I am not for myself—who will be for me?”63 Hillel declares that he, as an individual, cannot expect others to act in his stead; rather, he (and every other individual) must take responsibility for his own life’s course and act accordingly. Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan gives Hillel’s phrase a collectivist turn, turning the singular “I” into the plural “we” in the spirit of contemporary Jewish national identity. Just as each individual must take responsibility for the course of his own life, so too the Jewish national collective must take responsibility for the course of their collective life. Education, he holds, should be recognized as crucial for ensuring the best possible Jewish future for the entire people.

Bialik and Tchernichowsky as sources of authority The positive attitude of Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan toward modern Jewish national ideas was not restricted to their political and educational dimensions but also encompassed the important cultural dimension of modern literary creativity in the Hebrew language. It is clear from his essay not only that he is familiar with modern Hebrew poetry but that in certain respects he places Bialik and Tchernichowsky, great poets of national revival in modern times, on a par with the leading Hebrew poets of the Golden Age of Spanish Jewry. Let us present some examples.

For an easily accessible reference, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auto-Emancipation Dayyan, ibid., p. 24. 63 Mishna, tractate Avot, 1:14. 61 62

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In the first section of the essay, Rabbi Dayyan presented his views through the medium of a philosophical-homiletic interpretation of selected midrashic sources. Further on, he proceeds to ground his points by quoting from Hebrew poetry. Thus, the devotion of early generations to the Torah is illustrated not only in the midrashic story about Papus and Rabbi Akiva64 but also through quotations from the poetry of Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi (“Far from You all life is dying; Death is life with You beside me”)65 and Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra. In a paragraph describing and praising that devotion by which Jews of medieval times willingly submitted to death in order to sanctify the Divine Name, he writes that they said to the murderer, “Ho, headsman, bare the neck.”66 Is this chance usage? Not at all, it turns out. For, after another quotation from Abraham Ibn Ezra, Dayyan quotes another poetic source expressing the extent to which the sense of national honor has atrophied in the hearts of Jews living in Exile: and the national poet calls out bitterly: “Surely the people is grass, now do they fade like a blossom. Ages of endless wandering, Exile too vast for endurance Turned all the hearts of them backward, counsel has died from the people, Taught of the rod and the lash, can they perceive now their anguish, Shame and pain of the spirit — aught but the thrall of the body? Have they another care at heart than of the moment, Men that are lost in the darkness, deep in the pit of the Exile”.67 Note carefully: Bialik is both “the national poet” and a source of cultural, spiritual “authority,” functionally equivalent to Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi and Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra. It seems, however, that the most interesting usage of modern Hebrew poetry can be found in a passage in which the author preaches the importance of educating Jewish children in the use of tefillin: Israel is obligated to educate their sons in tefillin when they begin to enter adulthood to plant in their hearts the seed of higher learning, both

Bavli, Berakhot 61b. From HaLevi’s poem “Lord, You are my sole desire (Adonai negdekha kol taavati),” The Selected Poems of Yehuda Halevi, translated and annotated by Hillel Halkin, Nextbook Press, 2011. 66 A phrase taken from “Upon the Slaughter,” Selected Poems of Hayyim Nahman Bialik Translated from Hebrew, New York, Bloch Publishing Company for Histadruth Ivrith of America, 1948, p. 112. 67 Dayyan, ibid., p. 23. The poem in English is “Surely the People Is Grass,” Selected Poems of Hayyim Nahmam Bialik, pp. 65–8. 64 65



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spiritual and physical, in order that their sons come to realize the value of Israel and its devotion to its God in the past and in the future. And the poet says to his son: You are a Jew, my son, and this is your good fortune and your misfortune. As a shoot from the stem of an ancient people, your pride is over the nations, You are still a child, you will yet grow and know your people’s past great deeds. Then you will understand how great will be their works when our sun shall rise.68 Saul Tchernichowsky (1875–1943) was a medical doctor by profession and an inspired poet and translator by vocation; he was recognized in his lifetime together with Bialik as one of the two most influential poets of the period of Hebrew Revival. Central aspects of his worldview have been described as follows: From the ideational perspective, a striking theme present in Tchernichowsky’s writings is what can be described, unashamedly, as general humanism, a craving for the best of European literature, and a yearning for the primeval foundations of nature (a sort of vitalism), for the golden age of human civilization’s mythical era. Out of this ideational–artistic blend (together with certain Nietzschean features) there arose the “pagan” criticism of Jewish culture (directed, in fact, against the rabbinic tradition). This was most famously expressed in Tchernichowsky’s early poems “Le-Nokhah Pesel Apolo” (Standing before Apollo’s Statue; 1899) and “Me-hezyonot nevi' ha-sheker” (From the Visions of a False Prophet; 1900). From the time these poems were published, the poet was seen as “Hebrew poetry’s heathen” and as being “saturated with the secular spirit.”69 There can thus be no doubt that Tchernichowsky’s views would not be generally considered as advocating the instruction of youth in the wearing of tefillin. Rabbi Dayyan is thus making a double distinction: first,

The quotation is from Shir 'Eres (Lullaby) by Saul Tchernichosky. From: Aminadav Dykman, “Tchernichowsky, Shaul,” available online at http://www. yivoencyclopedia.org/article.aspx/Tchernichowsky_Shaul. Dykman notes, however, that in retrospect this impression of Tchernichowsky may be simplistic: “These images continue to characterize his legacy, even though modern research has, on many occasions, pointed out that the poet’s works are more complex than their simple meaning conveys. Tchernichowsky’s idea sought a combination of the Hellenic ideal and primeval vitality, with elements of the ancient Jewish heritage.” 68 69

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between the views of the poet in their totality and the position reflected in quoted stanzas; and, second, between the poet’s lifestyle and his cultural “authority.” In other words, his very status as a Hebrew poet of national renaissance imparted to Tchernichowsky’s words a cultural authority not contingent upon his personal views that were at times quite anomalous with traditional religiosity. Indeed, the same may be said of Rabbi Dayyan’s attitude toward Bialik, whose relative moderation (compared to Tchernichowsky) could not obscure his deep criticism of central features of traditional Jewish life. In sum, then, Rabbi Dayyan deployed poetry of the modern national Enlightenment in a consciously selective manner. He acknowledged its authority and its value while negating those aspects that were in blatant opposition to traditional Jewish culture. Let us now turn, therefore, to his polemic against such negative trends in Haskala intellectual circles.

A polemic against intellectuals who negate the world of tradition We have already seen that the author’s spiritual heroes were “the early analytical scholars of Spain.” Rabbi Dayyan contrasts between these scholars of the Golden Age and scholars of the Modern Period: The first intellectuals in the period of the wise men of Spain realized and knew well the depth of the light of Judaism and its glorious power. The Torah and rational knowledge walked among them like twin sisters. And there was a true peace among their spiritual tendencies. And therefore in their wisdom and their intelligence they strengthened and sustained the Torah and the tradition and made them intellectually accessible. But the new maskilim of the past generation failed to comprehend this. They did not penetrate the great depth of Judaism. They did not comprehend that the homeland of the nation’s soul, which developed and reached perfection over thousands of years, was the spirit of the Bible and the Midrash and the sublime ideas they contain. They did not comprehend that a person who seeks wisdom and perfection in mundane knowledge must all the more fulfill his natural responsibility to honor the holy tradition as a man honors his father and mother. And therefore they strayed a great distance and changed their manner.70 Clearly, integration and harmony between Torah and general human culture are the Jewish cultural ideal in Rabbi Dayyan’s eyes. The greatness

Dayyan, ibid., p. 30.

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of the luminaries of the Golden Age of Sephardic Culture was in their ability to achieve such integration and harmony; the great flaw of modern maskilim was their failure to do so, a failure that derived from their inability to penetrate to the depths of the spirit of biblical and rabbinic culture. This made them insensitive to the fact that precisely that spirit was “the homeland of the nation’s soul.” Knowing as we do that Rabbi Dayyan was acquainted with Bialik’s work, it seems likely that Dayyan is relating here to a penetrating question posed by Bialik in his great poem “The Matmid” with regard to traditional Talmudic studies: “Is this where the Nation’s Soul was formed?”71 Bialik’s answer to this question is complex and ambivalent; Rabbi Dayyan’s response is also far from simple. He states that the classical canon is indeed the home of the nation’s soul yet not specifically in the halakhic dialectics of the Talmud but rather in “the Bible and the Midrash and the sublime ideas they contain.” Maskilic dissatisfaction with traditional learning as experienced in Eastern Europe led the maskilim to a mistaken overall rejection of the national value of canonical texts in toto. Rabbi Dayyan is not at all deaf to the critique of the “The Matmid” regarding the mode of study practiced in nineteenth-century yeshivot and agrees that crucial elements are lacking there. But the baby should not be thrown out with the bathwater; rather, the traditional curriculum should be revised so as to give proper place to the ideational aspects found in the Bible and the midrashic literature. The future of the Jewish people is contingent upon its ability to continue to draw nurture and inspiration from “the homeland of the nation’s soul”—primarily, Bible and Midrash. This is in consonance with Rabbi Dayyan’s view, which we saw above in the section “Exile and Revival,” that a person can be fully cognizant of the details of halakha yet totally unaware of the true meaning of Torah. Having identified the central flaw in the modern maskilic view of classic Judaism, Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan proceeds to accuse these new intellectuals of three major faults, whose inner rationale is similar: ridicule and hatred of the Jewish spiritual heritage, brazen attacks on the rabbinic leadership of the present and past generations, and the causing of assimilation. Significantly, there is a common denominator also to the grounds upon which Rabbi Dayyan rests his critiques of these three faults: each expresses estrangement from the national-popular dimension. As we saw above, their denial of the importance of the canonical texts is derived from their lack of recognition that these were “the homeland of the people’s soul.” So, too, with regard to the modernists’ attack on the rabbis, … for the rabbis were the nation’s choice, who achieved their position

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without force but were, rather, raised up in pride and glory by virtue of their vast knowledge … and their exalted qualities and attributes …72 That is to say, rabbis are not tyrants who forcefully hold sway over communities by virtue of God-given power; rather, they are freely appointed by the people out of the appreciation of their wisdom and their personalities. Thus, whoever attacks the rabbis is, in fact, attacking the people’s will. A similar disregard for the well-being of the broad popular strata of the Jewish people is reflected in these intellectuals’ antagonism toward traditional Judaism: They did not attempt to understand the consequence and the outcome that would result from their knowledge and their wisdom and their investigations and their doubts and their stinging remarks … they mixed up the peoples’ hearts and confused their thoughts and led them astray into great doubts and mental disturbance.73 The maskilim acted as atomistic individuals and felt free to radically criticize traditional Jewish life and culture without taking any responsibility for the effect their writings might have upon the Jewish people in general. This irresponsible attitude toward the public/popular effects of their endeavors is reflected also in the non-national character of the modern intellectuals’ cultural creativity: Despite all their knowledge, they did not enrich the spirit of their people. They did not create and establish spiritual ideas that would live within the nation … thus, even the greatest of them were of no use to their own people, only to others.74 The basis of Rabbi Dayyan’s critique is, again, national: among the secular intellectuals there were indeed brilliant minds—but what is the value of their creation if they do not enrich the Jewish people? In support of this point, Rabbi Dayyan once again quotes Bialik: As the national poet complains in his poem: When one of your own sons proves an eagle and grows wings, From his nest you cast him forever; Even when he soars, sun-thirsty and mighty in space, Not to you does he bring down the luminaries; Far from you on a mountain peak where he shouts exultant, Not even the echo to you descends.75 Dayyan, ibid., p. 31. Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 The quote is from “Surely This Too,” Selected Poems of Hayyim Nahman Bialik, pp. 190–1. 72 73



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The national functions of the Torah The central importance of national considerations in Rabbi Dayyan’s worldview finds expression also in the reasons he provides for the importance of a Torah-based Jewish education. He writes that central aspects of the importance of the Torah lie in the benefits that it brings to the people of Israel. These benefits are threefold:

1. The creation of a joint socio-economic milieu It is through Torah that the people of the nation unite and are drawn together in material matters: in work and business, in purchase and acquisition and the like. For their minds are drawn close via the medium of Torah, and it establishes love and harmony between them, to help one another improve their lives and to attain a high position in the life of society and in worldly matters.76 2. The creation of a cultural foundation shared by all Jews throughout the world The nation’s individuals scattered in distant places and far-away islands … by means of the Torah … become dear and friendly to one another. Even though they had never met each other, when they do meet, they immediately become known to each other as if they were brothers.77 3. The creation of a path to achieve joint spiritual self-realization The Torah coordinates and unites the spiritual thoughts of the nation, that is to say, the sciences of logic, nature, and theology towards the one goal, which is: knowledge of Reality as it is and the knowledge of God and the verification of His unity.78 It is important to note that the “self-evident” premise underlying this set of arguments is the will of the Jewish people to exist in a healthy, sound manner. In these passages by Rabbi Dayyan, the stress is not upon Torah as a duty that the Jewish people are obliged to fulfill in the context of a covenant or a treaty with God. Rather, Torah is presented as a means for

It should be pointed out that this reading of Bialik’s poem—as a critique of the intellectuals’ attitude toward the Jewish people rather than the exact opposite (a critique of the Jewish public’s attitude toward intellectuals)—would not seem to most readers to be the straightforward intent of the poet. That being said, it is not Bialik whom we are discussing here but rather Rabbi Dayyan. 76 Dayyan, ibid., p. 20. 77 Ibid. 78 Ibid. This definition of “the one goal” is strikingly Maimonidean: true knowledge of the created world is a necessary precondition for knowledge of God.

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the realization of the most significant collective aspirations of the Jewish People’s will as a nation. Rabbi Dayyan’s overall conclusion, then, is that it is necessary to teach children Torah even before engaging them in general studies for the good of the Jewish people in general and for the future of the Jewish child in particular: Education is the great foundation on which Israel is established forever. Consequently, it is incumbent upon us to educate our sons in our spirit, to sow and implant in their hearts our morals, our language, our history, our studies, our spirit which is hidden in the Bible and in the Aggadot of the Talmud and Midrashim. For within these sources is a pure spirit and a lofty morality, which is like the soul, whereas other disciplines and languages are like the body and the outer clothing. Therefore, it is right for us to provide our sons with the needs of the soul before providing them with the needs of the body. Then, they will be able to sustain both of these because they will be wise, successful men, who are good and of benefit …79

Conclusion: Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan’s worldview In retrospect it is clear that Rabbi Dayyan composed the essay discussed in this chapter to support the above proposition, i.e. For the sake of the Jewish people and for the sake of the Jewish children as individuals, it is important to first provide the child with a well-rounded Jewish-Hebrew education, followed by an education in general knowledge. In the course of the essay, the author sets forth his views on a variety of themes and topics: the importance of the moral dimension in Torah and in the Midrashim; interpretation of Midrash; the significance and importance of Jewish history; the centrality of the national dimension in an ideal Jewish identity; and much more. All of this is expressed within the general context of Rabbi Dayyan’s attempt to explain the proper and true connection between the Torah of Israel and Israel’s existence as a nation. It is apparent from Rabbi Dayyan’s words that he was acquainted with ideas, currents, and opinions prevalent within European Jewish culture in his time: attitudes of radical maskilim advocating alienation from rabbinic Judaism; ideas concerning the mission of Israel toward the nations of the world; the emphasis upon the moral-universal dimension in Judaism; modern Hebrew cultural renaissance; and the ideas of the Jewish national

Dayyan. ibid., p. 32.

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movement encouraging autoemancipation and the initiation of return to the land of Israel without waiting for international aid or for heavenly intervention but rather stressing concepts such as national honor and physical courage. In Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan’s essay, these ideas and values appear in conjunction. He sharply criticizes the radical enlightenment but expresses himself in a sympathetic manner toward the rest. Rabbi Dayyan’s essay is based on a range of sources that includes classic rabbinic literature but extends beyond it to classic religious poetry of the Golden Age, to modern Hebrew poetry of the national renaissance, and to historical and maskilic writings that he does not cite by name but about which he was clearly knowledgeable. This is not a naïve, eclectic juxtaposition of sources. It is clear that Rabbi Dayyan understands and knows much more about the spiritual world of modern European Judaism than what he quotes in his essay. His quotes (as we have seen with regard to his citations of modern Hebrew poetry) are purposively selected and reflect a conscious choice of specific messages fitting his values and the aims of his writing. At this point we may recall Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s portrayal of the creative rabbinic decisor who responds to questions he seeks to answer not by turning to the obvious rote sources but rather by creatively selecting from a wide variety of sources, even some that prima facie seem to have no connection to the issue at hand.80 Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan may be seen as following that paradigm and expanding upon it, by including non-rabbinic texts in the parameter of sources upon which he draws to craft the composition we have been discussing. The essay “The Torah of Israel and the People of Israel” may thus be seen as a mosaic, in which the author selected and synthesized elements that he found desirable— either from classic Jewish sources or from contemporary European Jewish sources—in order to create a composite picture that expresses the message he sought to convey. In the following chapter we shall see that, while this may have been unusual amongst Aleppan rabbis, Yitzhak Dayyan was not unique and shared his neo-classic Sephardic world view with his younger peer Shaul Matloub ‘Abadi, who later became the leading rabbinic scholar of the Syrian Jewish community in Brooklyn, New York.

Postscript Given my interest in Rabbi Dayyan’s writing, I was overjoyed to hear, in 2007, that a volume of his sermons and halakhic writings had been published under the imprimatur of the “Aleppo Research Institute—for See Chapter 3.

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the publication of writings and books by Aleppan Rabbis.”81 After several telephone calls, I received direction to an address in an ultra-Orthodox area of Jerusalem’s Rommema neighborhood. In a small, barely furnished apartment, a young Haredi scholar handed me an elegantly bound volume, asking for a quite small sum. Returning to my home, I eagerly opened the volume82 and found that it not only included much material from manuscript, but opened with the text of “The Torah of Israel and the People of Israel.” Perusing the clearly typed pages of this (to me) familiar work, I discovered an amazing fact: all references to Bialik and Tchernichowsky had been expunged and other sections of the essay had been emended to dispel any hint that Rabbi Dayyan had been in favor of the modern Jewish national revival—i.e. of Zionism. There were 13 other sermons and essays in the volume that had never before appeared in print. However, I now realized that I had no way of knowing to what extent they reflected Rabbi Dayyan’s views—and what had been considered “nonkosher” by the contemporary descendants of Aleppo’s illustrious rabbis and therefore expunged. Recently, my suspicions were confirmed. In 1952 Rabbi Dayyan’s daughter, Sophia, was married and living in New York, and her son Mosse was about to celebrate his Bar Mitzva. In honor of the upcoming event, Rabbi Dayyan (then living in Israel) composed a sermon/speech in Hebrew for Mosse to recite upon that occasion.83 That “same” sermon was printed in the 2007 volume of Rabbi Dayyan’s work, without reference to its familial context. In the original, the sermon concludes with the following words: Every Jew should yearn and be eager to reside in the Land of Israel, for “She is the Home of Our Life”,84 to hold her stones dear and cherish her very dust.85 And especially at this time, when the branches and buds of Redemption are blossoming, the Exiled are ingathering into Her, and the Land is being built with splendid buildings, worthy of glorification and praise. And as Rabbi Yehuda ha-Levi has already written, at the end of The Kuzari: First “thy servants hold her stones dear, and cherish her very dust” and then – only then – “God rebuilds Zion”.86 When there is awakening from below (it’aruta di-l-tata) to yearn and to act and build Makhon Mehqerei Aretz—l'hotsaat kitvei ve-sifrei rabbanei Aram Tzoba. Yitzhak Dayyan, Yedei Yitzhaq, Jerusalem, 5767/2007. 83 I am grateful to Mosse, and to his sons David and Sam, for enabling me to view a copy of that speech. 84 Hebrew: ki hi beit hayyenu. From the benedictions recited after the chanting of the Haftara, according to the traditional prayerbook: “Have mercy upon Zion, for She is the Home of Our Life.” 85 Cf. Ps. 102.15 “For thy servants hold her stones dear, and cherish her very dust.” 86 The relevant text of The Kuzari is as follows: … it is written: ‘Thou shalt arise and have mercy upon Zion, for the time to favour her, yea, the set time is come. For thy servants take pleasure in her stones and embrace the dust thereof’ 81 82



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its stones and dust, then will there be awakening from Above: “God rebuilds Zion”. And so too it says (Ps. 127.1) “Unless the Lord builds the house, they who build it labor in vain”: there have to be persons who act as builders! May God grant us the merit of participating in the building of Eretz Israel in any way whatsoever. May God redeem us with a complete redemption, speedily in our days, Amen. I have emphasized two sections of the text. The first clearly reflects Rabbi Dayyan’s sense of positive religious excitement, four years after the establishment of the State of Israel, when hundreds of thousands of Jews were being ingathered from the four corners of the earth, and intensive building activity was going on apace. He identified all this as the blossoming of branches and buds of redemption. The second emphasized section reflects his conviction that the Jewish people cannot and should not rely only upon God as Redeemer but should realize that the redemption of the world is a joint enterprise of God and Man, and thus man is called upon to be an active participant in the building of redemption. Rabbi Dayyan places in the mouth of his Bar Mitzva grandson the hope and prayer to have the merit of participation as a “builder” in this great contemporary project. Both of these emphasized sentences were censored from the 2007 volume.

(Ps. cii. 14 sq.). This means that Jerusalem can only be rebuilt when Israel yearns for it to such an extent that they embrace her stones and dust. (Kitab al Khazari, Translated from the Arabic by Hartwig Hirschfeld. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1905, p. 295.) Rabbi Dayyan is thus providing an activist interpretation of Yehuda HaLevi’s position: Jews are called upon not to merely to embrace Zion’s ruins (as HaLevi himself set out to do toward the end of his life) but to embrace and rebuild them.

6 “A seal of truth which I have sought and loved with all my being” Aspects of the Halakhic and religious world of Rabbi Shaul-Matloub 'Abadi1

Introduction: Jews from Syria in the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth century As we noted in Chapter 4, from the 1870s onward economic stagnation prevailed in Syria. At the same time, preferable economic possibilities arose in nearby countries—especially in Egypt, as we shall see further on in this book. In addition, maritime transportation to farther destinations with a thriving economy (Western Europe, North and South America) improved. As a result, Jews (and other ethnic groups) emigrated from

The title of this chapter is a line from the introductory poem that Rabbi Shaul-Matloub ‘Abadi wrote for his book Magen Ba'adi, Brooklyn, New York, 1970. I would like to extend special thanks to two persons who played a significant role in my decision to write on this topic: to David Shasha, who dedicates himself to bearing the torch of the ideal of the Sephardic humanist tradition in an environment that finds it hard to accept what the light of this torch reveals. And to Joseph Mosseri, a scholar who does not make his Torah an instrument for pecuniary gain, who in 2003 presented me with a copy of Magen Ba'adi and thus enabled me to study it at leisure. 1

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Syria during the last quarter of the nineteenth century and throughout the twentieth century. In many of the cities to which they emigrated the Syrian expatriates (from Aleppo and Damascus) organized themselves in ethnically based communal frameworks. Like any other immigrants, the members of these communities struggled with the challenges of acclimatization to a social, economic, cultural, and political reality that was new to them. In this they were similar to European Jews who emigrated to these cities. But there was a significant difference between them and most of the other Jews: For example, Jews who emigrated to New York from Eastern Europe found themselves a minority among the American majority society—but as members of the local Jewish majority, which was Ashkenazic. On the other hand, Syrian Jews who emigrated to New York discovered that they were a minority also within the local Jewish community. Indeed, many members of the Ashkenazic majority had difficulty in accepting the Jewishness of people who spoke Arabic instead of Yiddish and whose prayer book and customs were so different from the “common” ones. Those Jews from Syria who arrived in New York settled first in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, but beginning in the 1920s members of the community started moving to Brooklyn. In the first stage, the Syrian communities existed without rabbis and were advised by those community members who were more learned and had a good grasp of the tradition and customs.2 In the second stage, scholars of Syrian origin arrived in the United States in order to fill rabbinical posts in the communities. In time, these scholars underwent a process of adaptation to life in Brooklyn. But the members of the community—and especially its leaders—underwent a more accelerated and intensive process of adaptation and began to view the Middle-Eastern rabbis’ style as inappropriate for American reality: Their English was not good, and the contents of their sermons and classes was not modern. As a result, a third stage began (around the time of the Second World War), in which highly presentable Ashkenazic rabbis were chosen to serve as rabbis of the Syrian communities.3 The public prominence granted to these rabbis overshadowed the status of most of the Syrian-born rabbis, who found themselves on the margins of the stage of communal life, regardless of their scholarship and their intellectual

For example: Rabbi Moshe Hidary (See: David Sutton (ed.) Aleppo, City of Scholars, New York, 2005, pp. 220–1); Rabbi Moshe Mizrahi (ibid., p. 277). 3 The most prominent of these rabbis was Abraham Hecht, who served as the rabbi of the Aleppan-expat “Sha'arei Zion” community from 1942. In 1995 Rabbi Hecht became infamous when he reportedly said that, according to halakha, anyone who hands over areas of the Land of Israel to Palestinian rule is deserving of death. Another such prominent rabbi was Rabbi Zevulun Lieberman, rabbi of the “Beth Torah” community. He too became well known for his unequivocal positions regarding the Land of Israel and in 2001 reportedly participated in memorial services for Rabbi Meir Kahana. See also: Walter P. Zenner, A Global Community, Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2000, pp. 164–5. 22



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qualifications.4 It would be no exaggeration to say that the most talented and original of these eminent but sidetracked scholars was Shaul-Matloub 'Abadi.

Rabbi Shaul-Matloub 'Abadi: a biography Rabbi Shaul-Matloub5 'Abadi was born in Aleppo in 1889.6 His grandfather, Rabbi Mordechai 'Abadi, was one of the most prominent scholars of the community.7 Shaul-Matloub studied Torah under Hakham Ezra Shayo8 and achieved complete mastery of the deep analysis ('iyyun 'amoq) methodology characteristic of Torah study in Aleppo. One of his classmates in the beit midrash was Rabbi Ezra 'Attiyah, who later wrote of him: “I remember the days of our youth when we studied together in Aram Tzova, how our love was fixed like a stake.”9 But Rabbi 'Abadi aspired to expand his horizons beyond the regular curriculum, as Rabbi Eliyahu ‘Attiyah writes: [Rabbi 'Abadi] did not content himself with the type of learning accepted in the world of the yeshivot. Together with his friend Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan10 he studied the Hebrew language in depth, the history of Israel and of the nations and Jewish philosophy. Together they delved into the

In the fourth stage, young mizrahi rabbis began to fill more posts in the life of the community. Some of these rabbis were members of the Syrian community who studied in yeshivas in the United States and in Israel, and others were not members of the community. 5 The meaning of the name Matloub in Arabic is identical to the meaning of the name Shaul in Hebrew. Therefore, the name Shaul-Matloub is similar in structure to European combinations such as Dov-Ber or Zvi-Hirsch. 6 The title page of his book Magen Ba'adi states that he was born on the second day of Av 5649 (= 1889). Upon his arrival to the United States in 1921, he declared to the immigration clerk that he was 30 years of age (meaning that he was born in 1891). In 2005 the book Aleppo, City of Scholars was published, edited by Rabbi David Sutton. This book presents itself as an English version of Li-Qedoshim Asher ba-Aretz (for more details about the three editions of this work, see my article “And ArtScroll Created Aleppo in Its Own Image” (cf. Chapter 5 note 2)). But the English work has many alterations from the Hebrew originals, sometimes due to carelessness and sometimes intentional. As to the matter at hand, the English edition brings Rabbi ‘Abadi’s date of birth forward to 5647 (= 1887) due to careless copying. 7 About him, see: Rabbi David Zion Laniado and Rabbi Eliyahu ‘Attiyah (eds), Li-Qedoshim Asher ba-Aretz (second edition), Jerusalem 1980, pp. 123–5 (second pagination). 8 Born in Aleppo 1870, emigrated to Jerusalem 1935 and died there 1939. 'Attiyah and Laniado note inter alia that he: “had the good fortune to mentor many students, who learned from him the methodology of deep analysis of rabbinic texts, characteristic of Aram Tzova” (p. 174, second pagination). 9 Magen Ba'adi p. 313. Rabbi 'Attiyah was born in 5647/1887 and was head of the Porat Yosef Yeshiva from 1925 until his death in 1970. 10 Rabbi Dayyan was discussed in Chapter 5. 4

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books of the masters of philosophical-religious thought, Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed, Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, Rabbenu Behaye, Rabbenu Sa'adiah Gaon and more.11 Such breadth of knowledge was not characteristic of Aleppan scholars, and although influence of the classical Sephardic religious humanistic ideal is discernible, the curriculum described above is not merely a direct continuation of that ideal but rather reflects also the influence of new cultural trends.12 Rabbi Shaul-Matloub emigrated to Jerusalem around the year 1913 and gained fame there as an exceptional Torah scholar. In 1914 he married Esther, daughter of the well-known philanthropist Nissim Nahum.13 It is said that he was offered the post of head of Porat Yosef Yeshiva—but declined it.14 Later in the same year he returned to Aleppo where he founded and managed the Magen David Talmud Torah, in which all studies took place in the Hebrew language. By 1921 the couple had three children.15 Around that time, Rabbi 'Abadi decided to move to the United States.16 On October 4th, 1921, he arrived at the gateway to the United States, Ellis Island. His previous place of residence was recorded as Aleppo, Syria; it was also recorded that upon his arrival his age was 30 years.17 He 'Attiyah and Laniado (ibid., note 7), p. 120 (second pagination). Rabbi 'Abadi was not included in the first edition of Li-Qedoshim Asher ba-Aretz edited by Rabbi David Zion Laniado because at the time of the book’s compilation (5712/1952) he was still alive. 12 On the one hand, occupation with the scientific realm is lacking; on the other hand, occupation with world and Jewish history, which was not highly valued in the Middle Ages, is highly regarded. 13 Rabbi 'Abadi’s granddaughter, Mrs. Annette Hidary, conveyed to me through her daughter Ms. Jennifer Felicia 'Abadi that Esther Nahum was born around the year 1897. The granddaughter also believes that Esther married Matloub when she was 16 or 17, around the year 1913/14. His daughter, Mrs. Evelyn Rahmey, was certain that the marriage took place in 1914 and that in the same year Rabbi Matloub returned with his bride to his birth city of Aleppo. Thus, it appears that the young Rabbi Matloub spent the years of the First World War in Aleppo. I would like to thank Mr. Matloub Rahmey, grandson of Rabbi Shaul-Matloub, who found out these facts for me from his mother. 14 Who offered him the post? Why did he decline it? There are no details of this in the sources before us. The yeshiva was founded in 5683/1923, but the preparations for it took a long time, and if there is any basis for this story, then his declining of the post took place in 1914, long before the yeshiva was actually established. Alternately, it might be that the offer was made to him in the early 1920s, soon after his arrival in New York. 15 Their names in the United States were Freida, Abe [= Abraham], and Adele. 16 Until my reception of the clear information conveyed to me by his daughter Evelyn and his granddaughter Annette, the time sequence of this chapter in his life, including his emigration to Jerusalem, his return to Aleppo, and his emigration to the United States, was extremely vague. Eliyahu 'Attiyah writes that he emigrated to Jerusalem “at a young age” and resided there “for a short time” before he returned to Aleppo. Within this short time he managed to marry the daughter of the rich mystic Nissim Nahum and to decline the offer to be head of the Porat Yosef Yeshiva. However, when the yeshiva was founded in 5683/1923, he was already in the United States. 17 I thank his great granddaughter Jennifer Felicia 'Abadi, who conveyed to me the year of his 11



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took up residence in Brooklyn among the members of the Jewish-Syrian community. Two years later his wife arrived with their three children.18 On arriving in the United States, he started engaging in commerce, achieved a stable economic status and could provide for his family honorably; as he said of himself: In America since then my jar of meal19 was not spent And I have been satiated with the richness of my table and the roast of my skewers.20 Alongside this activity, beginning in 1925, he headed the community’s Talmud Torah,21 an institution in which the community’s boys (but not girls!) convened after returning from their studies at the American public school.22 He also taught Torah lessons on a high level to a select group of adult students, who, like him, worked for their living. He sat on the community’s religious court, but despite his greatness in Torah he did not head a yeshiva, nor did he fill a rabbinical post.23 None the less, halakhic questions were often directed to him, both from the local community and from other communities of the Syrian Diaspora.24 Some time before his death, his leg was injured in a car accident. He managed to meticulously prepare for print Magen Ba'adi, a volume compiled from his rabbinic

arrival in the United States (from her mother, Annette Hidary). Following this, I searched Ellis Island’s online database and found the relevant information. See: http://www.ellisisland.org/search/passRecord.asp?MID=02134511070152138528&FNM= MATLUB&LNM=‘‘ABADI&PLNM=‘‘ABADI&CGD=M&SYR=1921&EYR=1921&first_ kind=0&last_kind=0&town_kind=0&ship_kind=0&RF=1&ALTS=97%7C’’Abadie&ALTS= 97%7Cabady&pID=100064080237 One should note the two year gap between Rabbi 'Abadi’s year of birth according to the Ellis Island record and the year of birth written in the opening page of Magen Ba'adi. 18 In the United States they had two more children: Evelyn in 1927 and Nissim (also called Seymour) in 1930. Late in 2007 Adele, Evelyn, and Seymour were still alive. This information was given to me by Matloub Rahmey, the rabbi’s grandson. 19 An allusion to 1 Kgs. 17.14. 20 Magen Ba'adi p. 4. All translations are mine, unless otherwise indicated [Z. Z.]. 21 In 5725/1965 a party was held in Brooklyn to mark 40 years of his service to the community [Magen Ba'adi, p. 315]. From this we learn that he commenced his activity in the Talmud Torah around 1925. Moshe Faham claims, ibid., p. 299, that these were celebrations to mark 50 years of his activity, but this is obviously impossible since he arrived in the U.S. only in 1921. 22 Rabbi Moshe Shamah, who studied in the Talmud Torah beginning in 1943, informed me that the studies were quite intensive: on each of the days, Monday through Thursday between 3.30 p.m. and 7.30 p.m., and also on Sunday mornings. (The information was sent by email on January 8th, 2008.) 23 According to Rabbi Shamah (see previous note), Rabbi 'Abadi refused to fulfill a public role that involved public ceremony and pomp. 24 See, for example: Magen Ba'adi pp. 86–92, in a response to two questions from Mexico City. Ibid., pp. 141ff., and in an answer to Rabbi Yitzhak Chehebar of Buenos Aires.

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writings: responsa, innovative interpretations (hiddushim), sermons, and poetry. Before the book was published, he died on 23 Tevet 5730 (1.1.1970).

Rabbi 'Abadi As he saw himself Rabbi 'Abadi’s writings include several sentences and paragraphs that express the way he sees himself. And this is what he writes about his youth in Aleppo: I was born and educated there [in Aleppo], and I served its scholars and rabbis in its well-known and celebrated synagogues and halls of study (batei midrash). And especially Beit Nassi, in which the decisors of the court of justice – may they rest in peace – conducted their halakhic rulings and their prayers, and the midrash of ‘Ovadia Harari’ in which great rabbis and expert decisors of law conducted studies. And among them my own teachers and rabbis, of blessed memory. There too, ten rabbinic devotees of Kabbalah dedicated themselves all day long to esoteric studies, among them Rabbi Michael Mish'an and Rabbi 'Ovadia Laniado, may they rest in peace.25 In these words, Rabbi 'Abadi identifies himself as an authentic continuation of the religious tradition of Aleppan Jewry. This is owing to three facts: origin, socialization, and culture. Origin: He was born in Aleppo. Socialization: He was raised and educated in Aleppo. Culture: He served in Aleppo as a disciple of Torah scholars, i.e. he closely and vividly followed their actual everyday activities—sitting in court, prayer, study, and mystical devotion. Among these three facts, it seems that the most important in Rabbi 'Abadi’s worldview is the last: serving Torah scholars as a disciple. Regarding his own occupation with the Torah in his youthful days in Aleppo, Rabbi 'Abadi relates that his parents motivated him to devote himself to study. He adds: Heaven is my witness that on many nights the floor [of the beit midrash] was my cradle and carpet. And awaking me from my slumbers were the Alfasi and the Asheri, Barceloni and Gerondi.26 Here Rabbi 'Abadi emphasizes his devotion to study to the extent that on many nights he did not return to his home at all but rather slept on the floor of the beit midrash, and when he awoke he returned to his studies. Those who “awoke” him were neither the classmates of his own age group Magen Ba'adi, p. 82. From his poetic introduction to Magen Ba'adi, ibid., p. 3.

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nor his teachers but rather the greatest masters of the past, the leading interpreters of the Babylonian Talmud who lived in the first half of the second millennium ce.27 Rabbi Shaul-Matloub’s Sephardic identity is salient here: the Tosafot, the staple fare of Ashkenazic yeshiva students, are not on the list of masters, while those scholars mentioned are referred to by their typically Sephardic nomenclature.28 Rabbi 'Abadi here presents himself not only as Sephardic but as a classicist who grants a central position to the Rishonim, the early Sephardic scholars, above others. Another emphasis of this identity can be found in the special precedence that Rabbi ‘Abadi grants Maimonides: Maimonides, may he rest in honor, my light, my shepherd, and my redeemer Redeeming me from folly and participating in my grief, in my stumbling and in my dancing Always from his beds of spices I harvested my myrrh and nard, And did not trust my teaching until I presented him as my witness And when I sought and did not find him in my ruling – my suspicion was aroused I was fortunate to multiply his students and with them I take sweet counsel.29 The honorary appellations granted to Maimonides are close to those ascribed to God in the Bible. Our author identifies Maimonides as the one who saved him from folly—and by this hints at his identification with Maimonides’ rationalist ideal. But his affinity to Maimonides goes beyond the rational dimension and is characterized by a clearly emotional aspect: Rabbi Shaul-Matloub feels that Maimonides shares with him his times of crisis and of elation. The image of the myrrh and the nard being harvested from Maimonides’ beds of spices has a powerful emotional dimension, and the reader immediately identifies its source in the Song of Songs.

These scholars can be divided into two subgroups. The first—the greatest scholars who summarized the Talmud in order to decide halakha: Rabbi Yizhak Alfasi and Rabbi Asher Ben Yehiel [= the Asheri]. The second group includes the greatest of the Rishonim who were masters of the school of analytical commentary [hidushim, innovations] on the Talmud: the Rashb"a [Solomon ben Adret (c.1235–c.1310), the greatest scholar of Barcelona] and Nahmanides [Moshe ben Nahman (1194–1270), the greatest scholar of Gerona]. Alternatively, the epithet “Gerondi” might refer to the Ra"n, Rabbi Nissim of Gerona (c.1310–c.1375), who lived after the Rashb"a. This identification cannot be ruled out. None the less, because of Nahmanides’ centrality in the Sephardi analytical method, it is unlikely that Rabbi 'Abadi would ignore him, and it appears that his location at the end of the sentence is motivated by rhyming. 28 An Ashkenazi scholar would list these scholars thus: the Ri"f, the Ro"sh, the Rashb"a, Ramban [or: the Ra"n]. 29 Magen Ba'adi, p. 4. 27

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Even studying Maimonides together with experienced adult students is experienced as “taking sweet counsel together.”30 The author also testifies as to how much Maimonides influenced his method of deciding halakha: If a conclusion that seemed otherwise valid was found to be incompatible with Maimonides’ position, Rabbi 'Abadi would suspect its correctness. Prima facie, this seems strange: it is commonplace that after the sixteenth century, Sephardic communities and rabbis agreed to decide halakha according to Maran [Rabbi Yosef Caro], so why did Rabbi 'Abadi decide to make his halakhic decisions dependent on Maimonides? But here, too, our author’s rationalistanalytical tendency is revealed. Rabbi Yosef Caro did not decide according to any systematic-analytical method but rather according to the majority of decisors.31 Therefore, one should not expect his writings to be an expression of an in-depth analysis of the foundations of halakha and/or of Talmudic discussions; consequently, no critical use can be made of them in examining one halakhic thesis or another. On the other hand, there is no halakhic master who compares to Maimonides in his Mishne Torah in adhering to a systematic-analytical method for halakhic decision-making in light of a close reading of the words of the Talmudic sages. Those scholars who viewed halakhic decision-making as a practical implementation of systematic halakhic-Talmudic principles, continued therefore to treat Maimonides as their guide in formulating halakhic conclusions; and our author testifies that he counts himself among these scholars.32 In various places in his writings, he dedicates a significant effort to defending Maimonides’ position on the topic at hand against opposition and criticism that had been directed at it and devotes much discussion to Maimonides’ phrasing, to understanding his method, to identifying and solving internal contradictions and so on.33 While Maimonides is for Rabbi 'Abadi the archetype of a scholar who integrates methodical halakha and a rationalist worldview, the figure he looked up to among those living in his generation and times was Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan, who was his senior by slightly more than a decade.34 Rabbi ‘Abadi was both a student and a peer of Rabbi Dayyan and saw

The source of the expression is in Ps. 55.15, and we find already in the early rabbis and the literature of the Middle Ages that the expression is used to refer to those studying Torah together, in a small group. See, for example: Bamidbar Raba portion 18, “va-Yiqqah”; Sanhedrin 106b; Kala Rabati 5,4; Rash"i in his commentary on this verse in Psalms. 31 See Rabbi Caro’s introduction to his magnum opus Beit Yosef. 32 I discuss Maimonides’ prominent presence in the analytical and practical religious world of the scholars of Islamic lands in modern times in Zvi Zohar, “Maimonides as Inspiration and Guide for Sephardic Halakhic Leadership in Modern Times: (With Special Reference to the Case of Giyyur),” The Journal for the Study of Sephardic and Mizrahi Jewry, 2, 2007, pp. 102–15. 33 See, for example Magen Ba'adi pp. 92–3, 239, 255, 257, 262, 273, 279, 297, and more. 34 We have made the acquaintance of Rabbi Dayyan in Chapter 5. 30



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him as his guide in the realm of higher Jewish learning. And this is what he writes: The brilliant Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan, my champion and friend Affectionately nurtured my talents and protected them from snares and hunters. He especially enlightened me in the grammar of the language that adorned him like a jewel. And in the lofty words of the sublime poets: his only joy! And he taught me Hovot haLevavot by the Pious Behaye, And The Kuzari, and The Guide and its commentators, Shem-Tov and Efodi.35 Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan was thus the wellspring through which Rabbi ‘Abadi connected with the classical realms of the Sephardic-Andalusian tradition: Hebrew grammar, poetry in rhyme and meter, and philosophical literature in all its hues. It is clear that among the three philosophers specifically named—Rabbenu Bahye ibn Paquda, Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, and Maimonides—Rabbi Dayyan and Rabbi ‘Abadi devoted special attention to Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed, which they studied using two of his main commentators (also keen rationalists!) Shem-Tov Ben Yosef and Profiat Duran. Rabbi Shaul-Matloub not only regarded Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan as a master of poetry and religious thought but also considered him to be the most important Aleppan halakhic scholar of his time (the mid-twentieth century). Rabbi ‘Abadi testifies that his practice had been to rule that on Shabbat in a place where there was no eruv one was only permitted to wear a gold watch with a gold strap and not a regular watch. But, he adds: When the holy presence dwelt among us, with the arrival of the great rabbi, our teacher, Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan may he live long36 (who is now in Brazil), he completely permitted wearing a watch worn upon the arm even if it is not made of gold and is attached by a leather strap because it is an article of clothing, according to his opinion (may God protect him and grant him health). Since then I did not forbid this as before because this had already been decided not simply by an elder but by the eldest of our rabbis, may his name stand forever, amen.37

Magen Ba'adi, p. 3. This was in 5718/1958. See Magen Ba'adi, p. 66. 37 Ibid., p. 156. The phrase “this has already been decided by an elder” is found in the Babylonian Talmud and expresses an important scholar’s yielding on a halakhic position due to his recognition of the primacy of a highly regarded veteran scholar. See, for example, Shabbat 51a. 35 36

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It is clear that for Rabbi 'Abadi the rabbinic paragon is a person like Rabbi Dayyan, who integrates within himself occupation with halakha, the Hebrew language, poetry, and philosophical thought.38 Rabbi 'Abadi himself tried to follow this path and furthermore—like Maimonides—was determined to gain his living not from the Torah but rather from his work, while taking care to grant priority to the Torah and not to wealth. Rabbi 'Abadi’s pride in his ability to persevere in this path is clearly evident in the following self-description: Here [in the United States] Torah study and commerce have made my status Commerce is secondary; and often was scorned by me And its corrupting angel did not chase me to my oblivion And study is the main thing! It prevails in my home and in my office In its love I was ravished and rejoiced, in my peace and in my travails, “Like a consuming fire it is shut up in my bones” in my flesh and in my skin.39 This last sentence transfers us to the internal tensions that Rabbi ‘Abadi felt regarding his occupation with the Torah. In Guide for the Perplexed 2:37 Maimonides interprets this verse from Jeremiah as a reflection of the internal drive felt by people of great talent to externalize their creative talent and share it with others. For people of great talent in analytical wisdom, this is expressed by writing books and by teaching their intellectual innovations to students. However, despite Rabbi 'Abadi’s self-characterization as having a strong urge to create in the religious realm, he never published anything, and only toward the end of his days did he prepare one volume for publication in which he compiled everything he had written over the years. Rabbi ShaulMatloub is aware of this gap between vision and implementation and explains to the reader that he sacrificed the realization of his creative potential on the altar of his devotion to the Talmud Torah for the community’s children: I know the faults of my opus, and the meagerness of my savory fruits. I could not find the strength to focus on any specific topic in depth. My consolation for the meagerness of my possessions and of the fruits of my chase

When recalling the midrash of 'Ovadia Harari in Aleppo (above, near note 25), Rabbi ‘Abadi wrote respectfully of the 10 scholars who engaged in Kabbalah. But he was not attracted to that branch of study and to the best of my knowledge did not delve into Kabbalah. One reason for his reticence may have been his identification with Maimonides. Another may be linked to his repulsion from negative practices characteristic of rabbis known as “Kabbalists” (see text near note 51). 39 Ibid., p. 4. The words “like a consuming fire it is shut up in my bones” allude to Jer. 20.9. But there: “a burning fire shut up in my bones.” And see Guide for the Perplexed, 2:37. 38



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Is that for decades my destiny and my role has been tied To teaching children, who are “better than you and me” And the making of books would have turned my gain into my loss. With the words “better than you and me” Rabbi ‘Abadi is alluding to a short paragraph in Tractate Shabbat: Resh Lakish said, in the name of Rabbi Yehuda the Prince: “the world does not exist but for the breath of schoolchildren”. Rav Papa said to Abaye: “what about you and me?” – He said to him: “breath that has sin in it is not similar to breath that does not have sin in it”.40 Rav Papa is surprised by the quotation brought by Resh Lakish: The Torah study undertaken by him and by Abaye, highly prominent and creative Torah scholars, must surely be on a much higher level than the rote and non-innovative memorization performed by small children. Abaye replies that study performed by young children has a virtue lacking in the study of grownups, wise and learned as those may be—the virtue of innocence. This innocence is like a talisman by virtue of which the world exists. Indeed, in the same paragraph in BT Shabbat, it is subsequently said: “any town that does not have schoolchildren in it—is destroyed.” However, did these statements induce Rav Papa to desert the beit midrash and go teach young children? Not at all. In an organized community there are many people with knowledge of Torah, and there is a rational division of labor among them: the younger scholars, or those who do not possess originality and a creative talent, teach Torah to those who are in the early stages of learning, while greater and more original scholars sit in the advanced beit midrash, devote themselves to Torah innovations and original interpretations, compose original works, and teach the most advanced students. “The breath of schoolchildren” exists side by side with advanced creative learning, not instead of it. But Rabbi Shaul-Matloub ‘Abadi found himself confronted with a difficult dilemma: according to his impressions and feelings, among the Syrian community in Brooklyn there were basic flaws in the most elementary and simple stages of Torah study. If he were to devote himself to advanced Torah creativity, the study of the schoolchildren would remain in an irreparable state: The insult to Torah in our community penetrated my liver like an arrow. The religious Jewish schoolboy made do with a mechanical reading. In understanding the Five Books of Moses he was similar to his Italian or Irish neighbor.41

40 41

BT, Shabbat, 119b. Magen Ba'adi, p. 4.

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In other words, frameworks for beginner Torah study did exist, but they did not develop the children’s ability to understand and think but rather trained them in mechanical memorization.42 Rabbi 'Abadi, who had experienced the Aleppan mode of Torah study as a tradition of in-depth learning and systematic thinking, felt that the situation in Brooklyn amounted to an insult to the Torah and decided to devote himself to a total transformation of that reality—even at the price of sacrificing his own involvement with original religious creativity: To redeem small prisoners – I acted in devotion to God’s name. And to teach Torah in their institution I vowed – and I fulfilled my destiny. And to the language of the Torah they converted their foreign tongue. Despite the obstacles and the troublemakers who lay in wait for my downfall and entrapment In management and teaching I invested the best of my years and marrow And my highest reward: students, who lead me to forget the difficulty of my enslavement.43 In these words Shaul-Matloub hints at the change he initiated from teaching religious studies in spoken Arabic (as had been done in Aleppo from time immemorial) to teaching in Hebrew, a transformation in tune with the spirit of the movement of Hebrew national revival that he began while still in Aleppo and continued in the United States.44 We can also infer from his words that there were individuals in the community who tried to oppose and hinder his actions in the Talmud Torah. Above all, it is clear that he is ambivalent: torn between feeling that his involvement in the Talmud Torah is a “redeeming of prisoners” and the realization of a vocation, and feeling that this very activity is a form of enslavement. Just as an internal tension existed within Rabbi ‘Abadi with regard to the realm of Torah, a similar tension existed within him regarding the geographical realm, that is, his place of residence. As we mentioned earlier, he decided in 1914 (for reasons that remain unclear) to return from Jerusalem to Aleppo, and in 1921 he emigrated to the United States. Regarding this he testifies:

In light of these words, we might be able to understand something of our author’s attitude toward the magnate Yitzhak Shalom, whom he described as always making sure to test the children on their mechanical reading (ibid., p. 308). 43 Magen Ba'adi, p. 4. 44 And as Rabbi Yaakov Kassin said of him: “he was also the founder and builder of the of the Talmud Torah studies on the natural method of Hebrew in Hebrew” (ibid., p. 315). About his activity in this spirit while still in his native city of Aleppo, see above near notes 14, 15. 42



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I traveled to Jerusalem hoping to build my future there, And I met with constrictions that diverted me and made me travel afar to America.45 Despite this, he expresses a feeling of being torn between his commitment to life in the community of Syrian expatriates in Brooklyn and his feeling of commitment to the Land of Israel, especially at the time that the land was experiencing a revival of its settlement and its stature. In the rhymed introduction that he composed in 5718/1958 to his grandfather’s work Ma’ayan Ganim, he writes: To my troubles, in the foreign country and in Exile, God will say: Enough! And before my candle dims and my embers come close to dying out – He shall plant me in the Land of Dearness,46 the first of all lands and the most coveted That alleviates the sins of its dwellers and cures souls of their illness And in its Torah he will grant me wisdom, to respond in accordance with halakha and question to the matter’s heart How I yearn to kiss its stones, to beg for their appeasement, for their placation! And to join together with the comrades who are turning its ruins into settlements and buildings! If God has favor for me, may he show me their beauty.47 And about a decade later, having after all remained in Brooklyn, he writes that despite his economic thriving in the United States, My conscience is making bitter my drink and my broth For having evaded Jerusalem and in Exile driving my stake My shame is rebuking me and making my beauty consume away like a moth My soul weeps in secret, and I put my tears in my bottle.48

Magen Ba'adi, p. 3. The Land of Dearness—eretz ha-tzvi. This term for Eretz Israel is of biblical origin; it appears in Dani. 11.16 (that itself references Jer. 3.19 and Ezek. 20.6). Rabbinic texts develop rich interpretations of this term (see note 137 below), enabled inter alia by the fact that the word play Dear/Deer applies also in Hebrew: zvi is the Hebrew term for deer or gazelle and also means “dear” in the sense of yearned for, sought after, coveted, etc. 47 Rabbi Mordechai 'Abadi, Ma'ayan Ganim, Jerusalem 1958, introduction by his grandson Shaul-Matloub 'Abadi. 48 Magen Ba'adi, p. 4. The expressions are of biblical origin: “like a moth making my beauty to consume away” [= Ps. 39.12], “my soul shall weep in secret” [= Jer. 13.17], and they are connected to many midrashim. Especially surprising and interesting is Rabbi 'Abadi’s last 45 46

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It appears that Rabbi ‘Abadi lived in a consciousness split by a double schism: between his wish to devote himself to high-level Torah creativity and his commitment to the community’s children, and between the calling of a life in the Land of Israel and his commitment to the future of his family and community members. This almost tragic consciousness made its mark on his life and on his personality.49

The image of Aleppan scholars in Rabbi 'Abadi’s eyes Toward the beginning of our discussion of Rabbi 'Abadi’s self-perception we noted that a central aspect of his identity was his identification as a scion of the world of Aleppan scholars: He mentioned the scholars and rabbis of Aleppo as expert rabbis and decisors, most of whom were occupied with halakha and some of whom were occupied with mysticism.50 A rich description of the characteristics and qualities of the original scholars of Aleppo can be found in the rhymed introduction Rabbi 'Abadi composed for Ma'ayan Ganim, authored by his grandfather Mordechai 'Abadi.51 It seems to me that this detailed description was written not only as an ode to the past but also as a critique of the present and as mapping a course for the future: The qualities he praised in Aleppo’s scholars are the same qualities that he did not find among the people of the community in Brooklyn and which he felt were worthy of being inculcated into the public, thus correcting the religious and personal qualities of its members. Let us therefore examine sections of that introduction concerning Aleppo’s scholars of yore: Aram Tzova, which in earlier days gathered exiles and fulfilled their yearnings Was famous over generations for its rabbis, great in wisdom and in number Who in study burnished swords, spears, and armor – to permit And who in secret built worlds and said: “These I like!”

idiom: “I put my tears in my bottle.” The source is in Ps. 56.9, where the poet turns to God requesting: “put Thou my tears into Thy bottle.” 49 On this matter, like on the previous, one might say: what is Rabbi 'Abadi complaining about? These are after all decisions he made himself in sound mind and, at the bottom line, they reflect his preferences. But as we all know, this is simplistic criticism: Even rational decisions made in sound mind do not diminish the keenness of an essentially unsolved dilemma—and especially when each horn of the dilemma is of great importance. 50 See above, in the text near note 25. 51 Note 47 above.



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The scholars of Aleppo are described as great in wisdom and in number—i.e. in quality and in quantity. Their activity in the areas of halakha and Jewish mysticism is then characterized. In the area of halakha they are described, according to the image common in rabbinic writings, as engaged in “the war of Torah,” using sword, spear, and armor. The last word—“to permit”— indicates that the immense intellectual effort that Aleppo’s scholars invested into Talmud and halakha would find its most worthy culmination in lenient halakhic decisions. In the realm of mysticism, the scholars of Aleppo were engaged in building beautiful and graceful worlds and in this they were similar to God himself, Who is described in the midrash as “building worlds and destroying them, building worlds and destroying them, until He built these and said: ‘These I like’.”52 And from which activities, conversely, did the scholars of Aleppo distance themselves? Our author elaborates: They did not boast of driving away demons, of making barren women bear children And were not involved in divination by dream regarding the fate of the deathly ill. The scholars of Aleppo were indeed great mystics, “creators of worlds”— but they did not turn this magnificent and exalted mysticism into magic and did not use it to change the order of this world or to predict the future awaiting gravely ill persons. It seems that Rabbi Shaul-Matloub is hinting here at other rabbis, his contemporaries, who did boast of such magical abilities. Similarly, with regard to the other qualities he attributes to the scholars of Aram Tzova: Free of the defects of hypocrisy, flattery, pride and their faults And fleeing from power like Moses when herding the flocks of the priest of Midian … never considering acceptance of questionable income: father of all impurities and filth … their outer and inner qualities equal, glowing both inside and out With no double standards, two hearts, trickery or concealment. It is hard to avoid the impression that Rabbi 'Abadi is hinting that the current generation is not such, but rather that hypocrisy, flattery, pride, thirst for power, and pretension exist in his time among (at least some of) the generation’s rabbis. Beyond these personality traits, the scholars of Aleppo excelled in their willingness to stand fast before the people who held power in the community’s leadership; they “did not favor an aggressive leader or a sinner,” and furthermore they did not permit people of means to

52

See: Bereshit Raba, 9:2 (and parallels).

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interfere with religious life: “to a donor who interfered with their leadership they said: ‘here are your presents’”; that is, take your money back. And it seems that this too is intended to contrast with the reality of Rabbi Matloub’s times. In their attitude toward the Jewish community, the rabbis made sure to set community members apart from the ways of the nations, from witchcraft and idolatry, to make the Shabbat beloved unto them and to show them “the commandments’ splendor and beauty.” For these rabbis, the significant commandments were not only those between a man and his Maker; rather, the scholars of Aleppo: [P]ublicized the punishment to be incurred by lack of moral standards, deceit and stealing and condemned such behavior at length And they preached the merit of conducting business relationships in good faith … It is reasonable to assume that here too our author is hinting that these issues are presently in need of repair by the community membership. Wrapping up his paean for the scholars of the past, he writes: Happy are they who in their lifetime internalized the goodness of these traits, their perfection and fulfillment And when their souls traveled to their paradise, ministering angels participated in accompanying them. Now that we have discussed his biography, his self perception and his image of Aleppo’s scholars, we shall say a few words about his approach to Torah scholarship.

Some characteristics of Rabbi 'Abadi’s Halakhic approach Analysis of Rabbi 'Abadi’s work included in Magen Ba'adi enables us to single out some aspects that characterize his approach to Torah scholarship. We shall list a few: 1. His great admiration of Maimonides, described above, stemmed among other things from his great appreciation of intellectual originality and daring in matters of Torah study. Thus, for example, he writes about the Rashb"a: Here in the topic of “compound doubt” (sfeiq sfeiqa) he surprised us with original and sensational innovations … [although the author of



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Pnei Yehoshua attacked the Rashb"a’s position] there is no doubt that this man, the greatest of giants, this Ben Adret, will not have any fear or terror of the arrows of wrath raised against him by the Pnei Yehoshua.53 2. When discussing a halakhic question, he casts a wide net and does his best to personally study all the sources he discusses and not make do with citations included in the writings of other scholars. As he testifies after mentioning the positions of 13 scholars who hold that Kaddish should not be said after reading The Book of Lamentations on the night of Tisha B'Av: “all these books I have seen in their originals.”54 Thus too, when ruling that the redeeming of a firstborn son can take place on the 30th day after birth without waiting for the completion of all 24 hours of the 30th day, he bases his ruling on 17 decisors whom he details, writing: “because not all of these books are available to every person, I saw fit to copy their words in brief.”55 In his lengthy responsum on the matter of adopting children, he bases his ruling on a wide range of halakhic works, some not commonly referred to in “yeshiva” circles56 and some of them quite obscure.57 3.The varied halakhic sources of which he makes use in deciding halakha include works by Ashkenazic and Sephardic authors, with no preference of one over the other on principle. By way of example: He was asked if a Jew who owned a grocery store may enter a partnership with a non-Jew and, based on this partnership, sell in the store non-kosher foods that would attract non-Jewish customers to the store as well. Rabbi ‘Abadi quoted a wide variety of positions, of Ashkenazic and Sephardic scholars, and finally decided to reject the (too lenient to his taste) position of the author of 'Arukh ha-Shulhan (an Ashkenazic rabbi) and accept the halakhic solution

Magen Ba'adi, pp. 197–8. We have identified Rashba above. Pnei Yehoshua is an important work of commentary upon the Talmud, composed by Rabbi Joshua Falk of eastern and central Europe (1680–1756). 54 Ibid., p. 83. Later he also testifies about what he saw in the writings of two other decisors, who quoted from works he did not see himself. 55 Ibid., pp. 120–4. 56 Such as Geonic literature (She'iltot, Otzar HaGeonim) and Rabbi Menachem HaMeiri (ibid., pp. 165–6). 57 A few examples: a) Urim Gedolim (Izmir 5518/1758), from which he quotes sections of a responsum by Rabbi Shlomo Havdala, cited there in study 108 (Magen Ba'adi, pp. 181, 186). Rabbi Havdala, born in Greece, was chief rabbi of Jerusalem and died in 5490/1730 (see: Moshe David Gaon, The Scholars of the East in the Land of Israel [Hebrew], vol. 2, Jerusalem, 1938, p. 218). b)  Ya'akov Sasson’s book Bnei Ya'akov a commentary on Ha'Ittur, Constantinople 5474/1714, “in his responsum published at the end of the book” (Magen Ba'adi, p. 191). c) Meqitz Nirdamim by Menachem Mendel Hayyim Landa, Pietrekov 5664/1904 (Magen Ba'adi, p. 194). 53

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suggested by Mahara"m Shik cited in Darkei Teshuva (also Ashkenazic).58 Among the 17 sources he brought regarding the redemption of the firstborn son, 12 are by Ashkenazic scholars and five by Sephardic scholars.59 The works he studied include inter alia recent publications by contemporary writers of both traditions, such as the Hazon Ish,60 Rabbi Benzion Uzziel, Hoq Umishpat,61 and Nahalat Zvi.62 4. According to his opinion, in a situation in which Sephardic and Ashkenazic Jews live in the same town, and the Sephardic halakhic tradition includes both severe and lenient positions while the Ashkenazic tradition takes a lenient halakhic stand—the Sephardic community’s scholars should also adopt the lenient position: “[A]fter all, those who permit have a source to rely upon, as mentioned above, so let them follow that tradition. And especially as our Ashkenazic brothers in the same town have been following this permissive view since days of old.”63 5. All the above is irrelevant when the question at hand is not halakha itself but rather the preservation of customs. In this area, not only must the Sephardim maintain their customs, but Aleppans too must maintain their communal customs even if they are in contradiction of what is written in the Shulhan 'Arukh. Thus, for example, in the Shulhan 'Arukh one learns that on the night of Tisha B’Av the evening prayer is said first, and only then is the Book of Lamentations read, while in Aleppo the Book of Lamentations was read first, and only then was the evening prayer recited. About this, Rabbi 'Abadi writes: And it is true that from the words of the Tur, Shulhan 'Arukh and other decisors it is proven that the evening prayer precedes the reading of the Book of Lamentations. But with regard such custom there is no doubt that the custom of Aret"z [Aram Tzoba] has foundations of great sanctity and was ordained in holiness by scholars and rabbis who led the community and not by laymen. Aleppo has always been famous as a city of scholars and writers, and the public there does not deviate to the right or to the left from its teachers’ instructions. When I researched the matter I discovered that this custom existed even before the generation of the Shulhan 'Arukh. For the well known

Magen Ba'adi, pp. 86–8. Ibid., pp. 115–28. 60 Ibid., pp. 169, 196. On p. 204 he refers to the Hazon Ish as “the greatest of this latest generation.” 61 Ibid., p. 169. Hoq uMishpat was authored by Rabbi Hayyim Toledano and published in Fez, 5691/1931. 62 Ibid., p. 196. The book was written by Rabbi Gedalia Felder, New York, 5719/1959. 63 Ibid., p. 92. 58 59



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mahzor (holiday prayer book) of Aret"z – of which some parts of its volumes are found in the library of the Rabbinical Seminary of New York – was published in the month of Tamuz 5287 [1527] in Venice, by order of Rabbi Aharon Benveniste, as is written there. And in the section about fast days it says: “and through our sins and the sins of our fathers we are now counting one thousand four hundred and seventy five years since the destruction of the house of our God and the dispersal of the people of God from upon the Holy Land, blessed is the True Judge”. And that year is the year of 5285 since creation, fifty years before the death of Maran in the year [5]335, may his pious memory be blessed. And I saw that also in this ancient mahzor the Book of Lamentations is placed before the evening prayer.64 Rabbi Shaul-Matloub’s historical awareness enables him to examine learnedly the relationship between the custom of Aleppo and the rulings of Maran and to determine the precedence of the Aleppan custom by using a rare first edition.65 Based on his firm view regarding the validity of the Aleppan custom he also unequivocally criticizes the halakhic ruling of Rabbi Shmuel [Ben Shelomo] Laniado, one of Aleppo’s most important rabbis in the second half of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth century, author of the halakhic work Shulhan haMelekh.66 And thus writes Rabbi ‘Abadi: He who examines this work from beginning to end, and also in its detailed introduction, will see that the author does not bother at all to write the customs of Aram Tzova, and all that concerns him, may his pious memory be blessed, is to copy down the opinions of Maran in the Shulhan 'Arukh … And therefore this author should not be relied upon, and he toiled for himself alone.67 In other words, although this rabbi lived and wrote in Aleppo and was the scion of one of the community’s central rabbinical families, the fact that he based his writings on Maran while ignoring the customs of Aleppo makes his work irrelevant to the members of the community, according to Rabbi Shaul-Matloub’s opinion.

Ibid., pp. 79–80. The reader will notice that this book is to be found in the library of the Conservative Movement’s Rabbinical Seminary (JTS) and that this affiliation did not deter Rabbi 'Abadi from visiting the place and making use of the library’s resources. 66 This book was written no later than 5164/1804 although it was only printed in 5683/1923. See: Yaron Harel, The Books of Aleppo [Hebrew], p. 201; 'Attiah and Laniado, p. 89 (second pagination). 67 Magen Ba'adi, p. 84. 64 65

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6. Sometimes he integrates historical and empirical data within his halakhic argument. In the previous paragraph we saw an example of the integration of historical data within Rabbi 'Abadi’s halakhic argument, when he proved from the rare Aram Tzova mahzor that this work preceded the Shulhan 'Arukh. Similarly, Rabbi 'Abadi makes use of his historical knowledge when he determines that the piyyutim (liturgical poems) for Tisha B'Av common in the Jewish Diaspora (including Aleppo) predate Rabbi Sa’adiah Gaon’s prayerbook.68 Likewise, he is aware of the historical dimension of the discovery and printing of rabbinical manuscripts and is willing on this basis to assume that a midrash found in his own library was not known to the Maharsh"a.69 For a similar reason, he was willing to “forgive” the author of Shev Sh'ma'ateta70 for not knowing the rulings of the Ge'onim published in Otzar Hege’onim but unwilling to excuse his ignorance of the Sh'iltot, which were already in print in his day.71 Accordingly, Rabbi 'Abadi does not feel the need to sanctify “at all costs” the wording of texts as found in print, and therefore he is willing (when there is no other plausible solution) to resolve interpretive difficulties by explaining that the printed text reflects a scribal error. He feels able to employ such methodology not only with regard to the texts of less central works, such as the Maharsh"a and Rada"k,72 but with regard to the printed editions of the Jerusalem Talmud and of Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishna.73 Another kind of empirical consideration that appears in his work is found in his attitude toward the world of nature: although the Talmud mentions that calves are born without teeth, he is willing to accept as a fact that in his times this is not the case.74 Similarly, in Aleppo great care was taken prior to eating certain fruits, which were known usually to be worm infested. Rabbi 'Abadi writes that this care must not necessarily be taken with those same fruits when they are grown in the United States: Maybe “here” the worms do not tend to attack these specific fruits while they might be found in other fruits, which in Aleppo were free of this problem.75 A third kind of consideration to which Rabbi 'Abadi relates stems from empirical changes in the social-normative realm. For example, if a Jewish woman has been impregnated by a man whose identity we are unable to determine, must we take into account the possibility that this man is a gentile? Rabbi 'Abadi quotes from various halakhic sources from which it Ibid., p. 80. Ibid., p. 113. Maharsh"a = Rabbi Samuel Edels, Poland, 1555–1631. 70 Aryeh Leib Heller, Galicia, (d. 1813). 71 Ibid., p. 165. 72 Ibid., p. 112 and p. 281 (respectively). 73 Ibid., p. 242 and p. 244 (respectively). He is willing to assume a textual mistake in Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishna even in contradiction to what is found in Rabbi Kafih’s meticulous edition! 74 At least in Mexico City, where the calves were examined … ibid., pp. 89–90. 75 Ibid., pp. 101–2. 68 69



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transpires that in the past there were rabbis who believed that this was not probable. But, Rabbi Shaul-Matloub comments: We must admit that today lifestyles have changed from what they were before, even in recent generations. And today there is not even a shadow of doubt as to “the mixing of kinds” [i.e. it’s obvious that such a possibility must be taken into account] … and especially in these countries of ours, in which most of the youth of the Jews and of the nations of the world spend time together in public schools and also in places of entertainment and commerce and in factories. For, to our dismay, we now see, from time to time, cases of mixed marriages, may God save us. And if these were not preceded by meetings of affection and passion, how did two youngsters from different nations [sic!] come to be married?76 7. He is open to new genres in religious writing. The idea that the sum of religious literary genres accepted by the rabbinic milieu in the past equals the totality of genres that should exist in this literature was not accepted by Rabbi 'Abadi. Rather, he was open to literary genres that were innovated in recent generations. Thus, we find that he read “Personalities and Methods” by Rabbi Zevin,77 Otzar Hage'onim “edited by Dr. Levin,”78 The Talmudic Encyclopedia,79 and Rabbi Kafih’s edition of Maimonides’ Commentary on the Mishna.80 8. Rabbi 'Abadi’s style of writing is economical, composed, and restrained. He attached importance to such restraint so that even when he completely disagrees with the position of some other scholar, he expresses himself with moderation and merely writes: “I yearn to see the books on which he based his opinion.”81 A typical critique he aims at rabbis who employ a bombastic style can be found in a halakhic decision he composed in which he permits placing milk and meat dishes together in a dishwasher and running the machine. According to his opinion, this will not have any effect on the kashrut of these dishes, for several reasons. One of these was that

Ibid., p. 169. See ibid., p. 110. The full name of the book: Shlomo Yosef Zevin, Men and Methods: A Series of Articles about Men of Halakha and Their Methods in Torah [Hebrew], Tel Aviv, 5612/1952. 78 Magen Ba'adi, p. 165. 79 After having examined whether according to the halakha one who rapes an “adult” [= a halakhic term denoting a girl older than twelve and half] is obliged to marry her, Rabbi 'Abadi concluded: “one must comment that we have already found about a dozen famous authors who touched upon this question of adult rape, whether he is obliged to marry her or not. And it is surprising that in the Talmudic Encyclopedia under ‘rape’ this detail is not mentioned.” (ibid., p. 254). 80 Ibid., p. 244. 81 Ibid., p. 196. 76 77

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the taste of the meat will not be absorbed into the milk dishes (and vice versa) because the cleaning soap in the water impairs the various tastes, and whatever the dishes might absorb is merely “an unpalatable taste” (ta’am nifgam).82 Rabbi Shaul-Matloub adds that in the year 5720/1960 a journal of rabbinic studies published a short article, whose author: …. much too briefly, and with great wrath, fury and rage, set out to abuse those rabbis who permitted washing meat and milk dishes one after the other in the same machine. Begging his pardon, his anger caused him to err with regard to several halakhic details and to forget what is written in the Bible: “The words of the wise are heard when spoken in quiet” (Ecclesiastes 9.16). And since his way is not mine, and the basis of my permission is not the basis cited by the rabbis he quoted, I saw no need to copy his words, which shoot fireworks, just for argument’s sake.83 As far as I have been able to discover, Rabbi 'Abadi was the first decisor who noticed that the halakhic discussion of dishwashers can completely ignore the problematics of “cooking,” “too hot to touch” (yad soledet bo), “emits just as it absorbs” (kebol'o ken polto), etc. This is so because the washing detergent that mixes with the water during the machine’s operation ruins the tastes of the meat and the milk emitted from the dishes so that even if these tastes are absorbed again by a different dish, this will be “an unpalatable taste” that will not affect the kosher status of the dishes. More than 40 years later, Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef would publish a similar ruling.84

See ibid., pp. 102–11. Ibid., p. 110. The brief article under discussion appeared in the Haredi publication Hama'or, Nissan 5720/1960, p. 21, and was written by Rabbi Moshe Nussbaum from Poughkeepsie, New York. 84 In 2004 the tenth volume of responsa Yabi’a Omer was printed, and in it Rabbi Ovadia Yosef published a similar permission—which was considered daring in the kashrut-observant community. Rabbi Eli Mansour, of the young generation of rabbis in the Syrian community in Brooklyn, referred to washing meat and milk dishes in a dishwasher in February of 2005. After an introduction explaining why this seems forbidden, he presents his listeners/ readers with Rabbi Ovadia’s new response, details his reasoning and rules that this position can be relied upon. Only then does Rabbi Mansour add: “This is also the opinion of Hakham Matloub 'Abadi in his Sefer 'Magen Ba'adi'.” See: http://dailyHalakha.com/Display. asp?ClipDate=2/25/2005. 82 83



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Aleppo in Brooklyn: Deciding Halakha in a North-American Syrian community Rabbi 'Abadi’s Halakhic activity took place in North America—but those who might expect to find him relating to the contemporary problems of mainstream American Jewry in the 50 years between his arrival and his death will not find what they seek. Rabbi 'Abadi’s world of reference was congruent with the borders of the communal life of the Syrian immigrants— and these lived (for the most part) in a sort of bubble. Below I shall discuss three matters in which an influence of the American way of life upon the Syrian public is noticeable, and I shall examine Rabbi 'Abadi’s attitude toward these matters.

Shaving facial hair when in mourning According to Jewish halakha and tradition, the members of the deceased’s nuclear family are supposed to express their grief through various physical gestures: tearing their clothes, sitting on the ground or on low seats, abstaining from sexual relations, abstaining from washing their bodies, withdrawal into the house, and more.85 Most of these gestures are delimited in time for the period of the shiva, i.e. the seven days following the burial. One of the more prolonged gestures involves abstaining from cutting one’s hair, including men’s facial hair.86 As a rule, men are supposed to abstain from shaving up to 30 days from the beginning of mourning; but this period is prolonged indefinitely in mourning for a parent “until his friends scold him,” that is, until those close to the mourner “force” him to shave and to cut his hair. This implies that left to his own subjective feeling, the tendency of the mourner would have been to abstain from this forever, were it not for this scolding from those close to him.87 But, according to the code of male appearance common in twentieth-century United States, men were expected to be clean-shaven. Thus writes Rabbi 'Abadi: Growing a beard in these times is a heavy and unbearable burden. And especially for those who are used to shaving almost every day. There is no doubt that for these delicate men, one week now is equivalent to a whole month in earlier times. And the decree of thirty [days] in shaving becomes today harder than the upturning of the bed, a [mourning]

Many sections of the Shulhan 'Arukh are dedicated to this topic. See: Shulhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah, sections 380–93. 86 Shulhan 'Arukh, section 390. 87 The origin of the expression is in BT, Mo'ed Katan, 22b: “for all the dead one cuts one’s hair after thirty days; for his father and mother—until his friends scold him.” 85

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custom that has been cancelled for a negligible reason. And even more so is it harder than [the mourning custom of] “wrapping the head”, which used to be mandatory for seven days and was later cancelled as a custom in most countries, as written by the Rem"a [Rabbi Moshe Isserles], for the reason that it invoked great mocking on the part of the gentiles and our domestic slaves.88 In Talmudic times, there were additional gestures that mourners observed: the upturning of the bed [= turning all seats in the house legs up] and wrapping the head [= enveloping the whole head, including the face, with a cloth scarf, similar to a kafia that men customarily wore]. But over time these gestures were eliminated because in the context of the surrounding non-Jewish society they were considered strange and ridiculous.89 According to Rabbi ‘Abadi’s opinion, gentile society in the United States viewed prolonged abstention from shaving as strange and bizarre behavior, and Jewish men themselves also internalized the norm of shaving daily and found it hard to give up. Therefore, on principle, there was justification to reopen the matter to renewed halakhic discussion. None the less, abstaining from shaving during the period of mourning is an ancient customary manner of expressing grief over the death and respect for the deceased, and its complete abandonment would be considered by the public as disrespect for the dead. Rabbi ‘Abadi’s concluded that as a rule this halakha should not be cancelled. However, if the deceased himself had ordered lenience on the matter—as indeed happened in the year 5725/1965, when a father in his will ordered his sons to shave after the first seven days of mourning—his sons must obey him.90 Magen Ba'adi, p. 139. About “the upturning of the bed” and its canceling, see Shulhan 'Arukh Yoreh De'ah, section 387. About the wrapping of the head, see ibid., section 386. 90 Magen Ba'adi, paragraph 28 (pp. 133 et seq.). Regarding the dating of this incident to 1965, see p. 142. We should note that Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan, Rabbi 'Abadi’s teacher and friend, proposed a more original and daring suggestion for mourning men in America: “I have found for them a remedy that is a half-consolation: to shave the beard after seven and the head after thirty and a rebuke. Because the main problem in America is about shaving the beard. And one who is used to shave his beard every day and doesn’t shave considers himself unkempt, and is so considered by others, and people avoid interaction with him. But as to the head there is not so much strictness” (Magen Ba'adi, p. 70). In other words, despite the fact that since time immemorial all halakhic sources on the norms of mourning related identically to all hair of the head, Rabbi Dayyan rules that this should not apply in America. Since socio-cultural convention in American society at large relates differently to lack of shaving for 30 days and to lack of haircutting for the same period of time, and since the men of the Brooklyn-Syrian community are effectively part of American society, it is right and proper that American convention on this matter should influence halakha. Therefore, male mourners may shave after the seven days of mourning have passed, but may have a haircut only according to the original halakhic time-framework. It should be noted that during the first seven days after the burial of their close relative, the mourners would in any case not be interacting with the outside society as they would be at home “sitting shiva.” When they return to work on the eighth day and interact with their peers and the general public, they will already be newly-shaven. 88 89



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A few years later, the rumor spread among the Syrian-Jewish community of Buenos Aires that the scholars of the community in Brooklyn headed by Rabbi 'Abadi permitted shaving after the first seven days of mourning. The rabbi of the community in Argentina, Rabbi Yitzhak Chehebar, wrote complainingly to our author that “the moment this instruction was heard, the multitudes started to beseech us to put it into effect here too.”91 An interesting correspondence between the two scholars developed, during which their positions emerged regarding the correct halakhic policy to be adopted toward the Syrian community in present times. Rabbi Chehebar posed a question: But is there not a concern that through this mourning will be abandoned altogether, for the simple folk prefer unruly behavior, and might they not learn to lie – and every single one of them will say that this is what his father ordered him to do?92 With these words Rabbi Chehebar is revealed as extremely suspicious toward the members of his community, who are depicted as willing to do whatever they can to escape the discipline of halakha if only they have some excuse on which to base their actions. Rabbi 'Abadi’s response was that this was not how he perceived the Jewish-Syrian public in Brooklyn: Here, the holy community is not suspected of this … most of the community observes Torah and the commandments … Even those who – God forbid – make light of the more serious commandments, to our dismay and shame, are painstakingly meticulous with the more minor customs of mourning.93 Rabbi 'Abadi’s feeling as to the subjective inclinations of the community’s rank and file was that, as a rule, they were committed to maintain a Jewish lifestyle and were not seeking excuses to be exempt from it. Furthermore, even those who did not feel this way, and—to Rabbi 'Abadi’s great dismay and shame—were slack in observance of commandments defined as very important according to the halakhic scale of values, nevertheless felt a special commitment toward the norms of mourning as practiced in the community. Do we have before us a reliable testimony by each rabbi as to the quality of the community in which he lived, with the Syrian public in

Ibid., p. 142. Ibid., p. 141. 93 Ibid. And yet … the scholars of the community in Brooklyn decreed that in order to shave after the seven days of mourning, a man’s declaring that his father so ordered him was not sufficient, but one had to bring independent evidence, whether a signed will or two proper witnesses. 91 92

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Buenos Aires seeking to be free of the commandments and the public in Brooklyn willingly adhering to them? Or were the communities similar in character, the contrasting assessments reflecting differences in personality between the two debating rabbis? It is hard to answer definitively one way or the other, and there probably is some truth in each of these answers.94 In any case, Rabbi Chehebar did not concede the point and later in the correspondence raised the “slippery slope” argument: even if according to halakhic literature the option exists to permit mourners to shave under certain circumstances, this should be avoided because: [G]enerations are becoming lesser, and we must be concerned about people’s coming up with various excuses to be exempted from the burden of mourning and the like.95 In other words, the scholars of the generation should forbid sons to obey their father’s instructions to shave after the first seven days of mourning, even if the scholars have verified that this instruction is the father’s true will, because enabling such an option might result in a widespread slide toward disregarding all laws of mourning. However, Rabbi ShaulMatloub did not agree that rabbis in the present were permitted to adopt such a policy: I say, that in an “orphan generation” such as ours, there is no man with the power to make decrees prohibiting that which is permissible according to the Talmud and that has been agreed upon by all the decisors in all the generations following it.96 Therefore, even if Rabbi Chehebar suspects the members of his community of being prone to make use of any formal loophole in order to be exempt from mourning, neither he—nor any other rabbi in the present—is authorized to issue decrees forbidding that which was permitted by all halakhic scholars of all generations. In the present, the halakhic toolbox simply doesn’t include such capability—however negative a rabbi’s assessment of the members of his community might be.

In any case we must note that in other contexts Rabbi Shaul-Matloub did express concern lest an unwisely lenient ruling create a “slippery slope” dynamic leading those lacking selfdiscipline to act in disregard of proper halakhic behavior. See: Magen Ba'adi, pp. 75, 80. 95 Ibid., p. 144. 96 Ibid. 94



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A decree forbidding Giyyur [“Conversion to Judaism”] It seems reasonable that the principle held by Rabbi 'Abadi, according to which scholars of the present do not have the authority to prohibit something that was in earlier times halakhically permitted “across the board,” was one of the reasons why he refused to join the initiative to issue a decree completely prohibiting giyyur—a decree that originated with the Syrian community in Argentina. The background to this matter was that in 1912 Rabbi Shaul SuttonDabbah arrived in Buenos Aires, after having left his hometown of Aleppo where he had become embroiled in internal controversies. After his arrival, although he had not been designated as rabbi of the local expatriate community of Aleppans, he felt obligated to try to make matters in the community more organized. In the mid-1920s he felt that there was a disturbing increase in mixed marriages, with young men of the community living with gentile partners. Some of these men claimed that their partners had undergone a process of giyyur, but the nature of this procedure and its halakhic validity seemed suspect to the rabbi. At first, Rabbi Sutton-Dabbah was inclined to adopt the position of Rabbi Aharon Ben Shimon, Chief Rabbi of Cairo, who ruled that as a response to the growing number of mixed marriages the orderly giyyur of gentile spouses should be encouraged, with rabbis adopting a lenient halakhic attitude.97 But Rabbi Goldman, the Ashkenazic rabbi of the I.C.A. colony of Moiseville, convinced Rabbi Sutton-Dabbah to adopt a diametrically opposite approach, arguing that in the circumstances of a mixed couple, when the Jewish man himself was not committed to halakha but was rather a systematic transgressor, it was impossible for giyyur to be undertaken with proper seriousness. Rabbi Sutton-Dabbah was convinced—and took a radical, totally unprecedented step: he posted notices throughout the community forbidding the giyyur of any adult person in Argentina, regardless of his or her personal merits.98 That text was never printed and to the best of our knowledge is not in existence today.99

About Rabbi Ben Shimon’s position, see: Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, Transforming Identity, London, 2007, pp. 228–9. 98 All the occurrences that led to the making of this decree by Rabbi Dabbah, including (especially) the correspondence between him and Rabbi Aharon Goldman, have been discussed in depth in: Moshe Zemer, “The Rabbinic Ban on Conversion in Argentina,” Judaism 37:1 (1988), 84–96. 99 For a fuller analysis of the events in Buenos Aires, and the debate on this matter between Rabbi Hizqiya Shabbetai and Rabbi Ben-Zion Uzziel in the early 1950s, see: Zvi Zohar, Ve-lo Yiddah Mimennu Niddah, Jerusalem, The Committee for the Publication of the Works of Rabbi Uzziel, 2012, pp. 199–220. 97

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Be that as it may, the rumor of this innovation spread quickly among rabbis of the Syrian community around the world. In 1933 Rabbi Ya'akov Kassin [= Katzin] was invited to serve as Chief Rabbi of the community of Syrian Jews in Brooklyn. He established a beit din (religious court) whose members (in addition to himself) were Rabbi Shaul-Matloub 'Abadi and Rabbi Eliyahu Husni.100 About two years later, Rabbi Kassin initiated a decree against giyyur similar to “the weighty enactment adopted on this matter in the city of Argentina, by the great rabbis there.”101 The 1935 Kassin enactment declares that young Jewish men have become attached to gentile women, and as a result “the daughters of Israel remain abandoned and no one demands them.” In order to prevent mixed marriages, the decree forbids: 1 “Mixing with the gentiles, even through conversion.” 2 “No beit din of the Syrian holy communities residing here in North America … has permission to convert a gentile man who desires a daughter of Israel nor a gentile woman who tempted a son of Israel.” If the intention of the first clause was to forbid marrying anyone who converted before a proper beit din anywhere in the world, whatever his or her motives were in doing so,102 this is a strange decree. Halakhically speaking, there is no doubt that giyyur is a matter that is permitted according to all canonical sources; in fact, converting worthy candidates is considered a mitzvah, i.e. an act of positive religious value.103 And indeed, Rabbi ‘Abadi did not sign the enactment initiated by Rabbi Kassin.104 Clearly, in refusing to support the rejection of giyyur, Rabbi ShaulMatloub was loyal to his principled position mentioned above, according to which “in an ‘orphan generation’ such as ours, there is no man with the power to make decrees prohibiting that which is permissible according to the Talmud, and that has been agreed upon by all the decisors in all the generations following it.”

See: Rabbi Avraham Hillel, History of the Author, p. 99, in Rabbi Ya'akov Kassin, Responsa Qetzinei Are"tz, Jerusalem, 1995. 101 A facsimile of the decree, in Rabbi Kassin’s handwriting, may be found in the abovementioned work by Avraham Hillel, p. 105. 102 The wording of the decree does not necessitate such an interpretation, but, in fact, this is how it was applied by Rabbi Kassin, and this is how it is currently implemented. See: Zev Chafets, “The SY Empire,” The New York Times, 14.10.2007. 103 See BT Yebamot 47b: “for it is a mitzvah and not to be postponed.” 104 Indeed, neither did Rabbi Husni. Thus, of the three members of the beit din, only one signed it: Rabbi Ya'akov Kassin. 100



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Adoption of children The longest and most detailed halakhic ruling in the book of Magen Ba'adi is devoted to the question of adopted children; it seems that it was written no earlier than 5721/1961, that is, in the last decade of our author’s life.105 According to Rabbi 'Abadi, this question is characteristic of the reality of life in the Syrian community in the United States. In the past, the families’ “purity” and “the refinement of their lineage”106 were an important value for the Jews of Aleppo. Those who wanted to do a good deed and adopt an orphan took into their homes an orphan from a known family. Under the influence of American reality, this tendency changed: … childless women [began] to seek and find neglected babies, whose mothers and sometimes also fathers … agreed to hand them over to the barren women to nurture and adopt as legal sons … those economically comfortable but miserable women, whom God had denied a fruit of the womb, wandered in the desert … these spoiled and modern women, even those who are loyal to the religion of Moses and Judith, instead of walking in paths of rectitude [and adopting orphans of known parentage] … follow crooked roads and they please themselves in the brood of aliens, without knowing whose womb they came out of …107 In the pre-modern Jewish world, adoption was done for the good of the child. In America, the goal of the adoption is the good of the adopting mother. These women’s yearning/need is for a boy or a girl who will not be identified with the lineage of other parents—but only with that of the adopting parents. This need spawned the activity of mediating agents between new mothers in financial distress and women who sought to adopt; the integrity of these agents was rather questionable: Everybody is saying about this huge city [New York] that in the eyes of the managers and the middlemen of this unfortunate business, any means are justified to achieve their wish. And in the black market they transfer “goods”, whether good or damaged, from the hand of the woman “selling” to the hand of the woman who’s “buying”.108 The number of Syrian families who adopted children through such a

See Magen Ba'adi, pp. 156–215. As to the dating: on p. 212 our author quotes a responsum by Rabbi Moshe Feinstein in his work Iggerot Moshe, vol. 3, Even Ha'Ezer. This volume was published in 1961. 106 Ibid, pp. 156–7. 107 Ibid. 108 Ibid., p. 157.

105

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procedure was not by any means minuscule, and the impact of this trend on the communal reality was definitely considerable: In New York and in the other cities of America, these babies of the mixed multitude who have been appended to our community already number dozens of males and females. Most of the children were entered and accepted into our Talmud Torahs and yeshivot without any investigation as to whether the blood of circumcision was at least drawn from them for the sake of giyyur or whether they were ritually immersed by a beit din [for giyyur] according to the laws of the Shulhan 'Arukh … Some of them have even reached bar mitzvah age and were honored, inadvertently, by receiving an aliyah to read the Torah, as was their legal [= adoptive] father. And I am quite sure that in the future, when they reach the age of marriage, they will in all innocence turn to the scholars and rabbis of the community and invite them to arrange their ketubah and kiddushin.109 We have before us testimony of a fascinating social process: In a traditional, conservative milieu, adopted children are absorbed into the community through a process of gradual and natural integration into society, with no ceremony of a formal-halakhic character. They are accepted into the community’s educational system, and when they reach bar mitzvah age they get an aliyah to the Torah—and their adoptive father is also given an aliyah at the same time. The mere fact that they grow up in homes of the community “qualifies” them, de facto, to be fully integrated in its life. According to Rabbi 'Abadi, “the moment of truth” had not yet arrived because the oldest of the adopted children hadn’t yet arrived at the stage of marriage, but this time was drawing closer and closer. Rabbi 'Abadi called for this critical matter to be regulated according to the appropriate halakhic criteria. He was aware that each case should be discussed in its own right, but he still wished to present the general principle norms according to which one should discuss and rule. And what were these norms? Our author writes: Our master the Hid"a … wrote in the name of Mahari"f that all these countries, Aram Naharayim and Aram Tzova, accepted and took upon themselves Maimonides’ instructions. And here, in the matter of those possibly ineligible to marry into the community, Maimonides and Maran completely adhere to the same position and take a hard line on matters of lineage … The essence of my answer to the painful question before me is to guide its laws according to Maimonides and Maran.110

Ibid. Ibid., p. 158.

109 110



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Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, the greatest Sephardic scholar of the second half of the eighteenth century, sympathetically quoted Rabbi Yoshia Pinto, Chief Rabbi of Damascus, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, who determined that the authority of Maimonides (and of Rabbi Yosef Caro) applied to “all these countries,” that is, to the Jews of the Arabic-speaking Middle East. One might conceivably argue that with the Aleppan Jews’ emigration to the United States, they had left “these countries” and were therefore no longer subject to the same halakhic decisors. If so, it would be possible to rely on more moderate and lenient halakhic opinions that might be found among decisors who were not Sephardic or Middle Eastern. But we have already seen above (regarding the order of prayers on Tisha B'Av) that the internal logic shaping the religious life of the community of Syrian Jews in the United States was that they continued to conduct their lives according to what was accepted in their country of origin. We have seen in a different context111 that, according to Rabbi 'Abadi, when Sepharadim and Ashkenazim lived together, and the Ashkenazim followed a lenient halakhic norm, it was better for the Sephardic halakhic scholars to adopt this leniency also for the members of their community. Ostensibly, our author could have relied on this principle and followed more moderate positions regarding adoption. But it seems that he attributed great specific value to the purity of families and nobility of lineage—and therefore preferred to adhere to the more strict position in this realm. This was compounded by the fact that the strict position was also that held by Maimonides—whom Rabbi 'Abadi (as one will remember) looked up to as the paradigmatic role model who should be followed in formulating halakhic conclusions. If Rabbi Shaul-Matloub had been a Haredi decisor, who saw himself as committed only to that segment of the Jewish public that observes every commandment, big and small alike, he might have ruled that this custom of adopting children from adoption agencies and mediators was completely forbidden and demanded that only children of identified ancestry who were known as completely proper Jews should be adopted. But such was not Rabbi 'Abadi’s attitude; he saw himself responsible for the entire spectrum of the Syrian community with all its variations. Therefore, he accepted the social communal reality as it was and outlined a halakhic policy: the establishment of a communal lineage committee, which would act in two directions. First: The committee will make every effort and try to find decent orphan boys and girls, whose “kosherness” is clear and does not fall under any

Near note 63.

111

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doubt, for those families that wish to have them and be built-up through them.112 This solution could serve a priori for future cases. It could not solve the questions regarding those boys and girls who had already been adopted and were living within the community, and it was also not a compulsory procedure. Thus, even after the establishment of the committee, there might still be families adopting children through other channels. Regarding such children, our author formulated five separate categories of adoptees according to halakhic literature and outlined the best way of dealing with each of them. Rabbi 'Abadi wrote that one of the committee’s roles would be to implement the appropriate method in each of the varied cases of adopted children living within the community: The main role of this lineage committee will be to check and examine to the best of its ability with regard to each baby boy and girl who are adopted whether they are eligible to later marry into the community, either by applying these five categories or by other halakhic means that the board of rabbis will find correct and sufficient to enable the adoptee’s acceptance into the community.113 Adopted boys and girls whose mother is found to be a gentile are gentiles. Therefore, our author writes, the committee must arrange for their giyyur: This [= the adopted] gentile can find shelter under the canopy of Judaism and be counted for all ritual purposes and [when adult] marry a Jew by birth. But this can be only after the circumcision of the male and the ritual immersion for giyyur of both sexes by a beit din of three who are qualified to judge.114 Many adopted parents don’t tell the child that he or she is adopted but rather encourage the child to think that he or she is growing up in the home of his or her biological parents. Our author emphasizes that if the child was converted, this should not be done, but rather the child should be told of his or her giyyur. In the course of his explication of this issue, his fundamental position regarding giyyur is revealed: We must remember that giyyur is a benefit for a person, and it is fine to benefit a person in his absence. But not against his will. And so it is

Ibid., p. 214. Ibid. 114 Ibid., p. 213. 112 113



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clear [that one must not] come upon him in a roundabout way [= by deception]. And we have never heard of giyyur involving deceit of the convert himself.115 In these words Rabbi 'Abadi is alluding to the main Talmudic discussion dealing with the giyyur of minors, where Rabbi Huna explains that, although a minor is not a legal personality and therefore is not qualified to make a decision about his or her own giyyur, the court may still convert him or her. This is the case because by doing so the court is benefiting the gentile minor by granting him something of positive value—an identity as a Jew. The court has the power to do this because, according to halakha, someone who wishes another person well can give him something beneficial even in the absence of the receptor (in the case under discussion: the minor’s “absence” as a legal personality).116 Clearly, the very conception that giyyur is a benefit is not extraordinary or surprising within halakhic discourse; on the contrary, this is the basic position of the major halakhic sources throughout the generations. But, within the context of the Syrian community in Brooklyn, whose members had gotten used to treating giyyur with hostility, it is important to emphasize Rabbi 'Abadi’s adherence to the classic halakhic position.

Learning and education In an earlier section—“Rabbi 'Abadi As he saw himself” (page 162)—we observed the great importance Rabbi 'Abadi attached to the question of education and the extent to which he saw it as his sacred duty to sacrifice his independent religious intellectual creativity in order to ensure high quality Jewish education for the children of the Syrian community in Brooklyn. We shall now examine the essence and quality of the type of Jewish education that Rabbi Shaul-Matloub held in high esteem. A central matter in his eyes was having the children progress toward mastery of the Hebrew language, both a “technical” mastery and a mastery of content.117 In light of this goal, Rabbi 'Abadi completely revised the language of instruction in the Talmud Torah, switching from Arabic to Hebrew. In the year 5697/1937 he expressed deep satisfaction over the fact that, together with the school’s teachers, he was fortunate: Ibid., p. 214. See: BT, Ketubot, 11a. Still, later in that discussion it is ruled that, immediately upon the converted child’s reaching adulthood, he or she may announce that they have no wish for this “merit” and by this announcement will become gentile again. If despite their recognition that they are converts the children do not declare their renouncement of Judaism immediately upon reaching bar or bat mitzvah age, their Judaism is then an unqualified existing fact. See more about this in Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, note 97 above, pp. 153–4. 117 See Magen Ba'adi, pp. 308–9. 115 116

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… to participate in the redemption of our national language from its bondage, to put it in the mouths of schoolchildren, for whose breath the world exists, and to purify in sanctity this breath which for a number of years was desecrated by study in a secular language: Arabic. Our great aspiration “may the pure ones come and study matters of purity”118 has been realized through two years of graduates who studied Bible, Talmud and Rash"i in Hebrew, and who are destined to write the first shining page in the history of their community.119 Mastery of Hebrew was thus important not only for its own sake but as a tool through which the whole of religious knowledge was acquired. This method of “Hebrew in Hebrew” was an identifying characteristic of the modern Jewish national movement. Rabbi 'Abadi began implementing this method in the Talmud Torah framework upon his return from Jerusalem to Aleppo in 1914 and, with greater efficacy, in the community in Brooklyn. For this he received in 1965 the clear and sympathetic appreciation of Rabbi Ya'akov Kassin, who stressed that Rabbi 'Abadi: … was also the founder and builder of the basis of the Talmud Torah on the natural method of “Hebrew in Hebrew”, which is customary to this day in the Talmud Torah and also in the “Magen David” Yeshiva … Despite all the obstacles and all the oppositions that existed then, he firmly stood his ground and managed to set the order of the studies, entirely in the Holy language. He “entered in peace and emerged in peace”,120 victorious in the war of the Torah.121 In the world of traditional Jewish education, the “Hebrew in Hebrew” method was far from unanimously welcome. This was the case also with regard to prominent Aleppan rabbis between the two world wars. In the city of Aleppo itself, rabbis opposed the teaching of Hebrew as a living language, as reported by Meir Nehmad in 1933.122 In the year 5688/1928 Refael Silvera, an Aleppan resident and public figure, posed a halakhic question: With the establishment of French rule in Syria, was it permitted to integrate study of the French language into the curriculum of the Talmud Torah in Aleppo? Rabbi Yosef Yedid ha-Levy, an Aleppan scholar living in Jerusalem, replied that the study of French would lead to heresy, and therefore this was forbidden, much in the same way that modern Hebrew

See Yalqut Shim'oni, Torah, 479. See Magen Ba'adi, p. 301. 120 This phrase is employed in rabbinic texts to characterize luminaries such as the Patriarch Abraham (see Bereishit Rabba 39:3 and parallels) and Rabbi Akiva (see Shir HaShirim Rabba 1:1 and parallels). 121 Ibid., p. 315. 122 See Chapter 4, at note 87. 118 119



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is corrupting because of the contents that come with it.123 In the same year Rabbi Yedid ha-Levy also responded negatively to the idea that “Hebrew in Hebrew” studies should be introduced in the Syrian community’s Talmud Torah schools in Buenos Aires.124 Seen against this backdrop, Rabbi ShaulMatloub’s Hebrew educational enterprise is even more worthy of note. As in Syria itself and in the Syrian Diaspora all over the world, the community Talmud Torah in Brooklyn was for boys only; traditional Jewish education offered no option for girls. Thus, when the Alliance Israelite Universelle established modern Jewish schools for boys and girls in Aleppo, the opposition of the extremist rabbis focused on the boys’ schools only. The fiercest of Alliance-rejecting rabbis sent their own daughters to study in this organization’s institutions, and it never occurred to any of them to suggest an alternative in the form of religious education for girls.125 It seems that Rabbi 'Abadi might have been the first rabbi in the Syrian community in Brooklyn to recognize the problematic nature of such a state of affairs.126 In his 1939 congratulatory address to the graduates of the community Talmud Torah, he called upon the graduates to rise up to various challenges, and, inter alia, said: And may you succeed also in redeeming female captives! These are our daughters – the spine of the cultivation of the future generation – whose education we have disregarded. And to this day, only a very small percentage of them continue their Hebrew education. And most of them are similar, in adulthood, to Jews captured in infancy by gentiles. May it be God’s will that you redeem them a full redemption.127 If these girls are captives, who are their captors? Clearly, these are the men, and especially the rabbis, the knights of the traditional order of things, who failed to offer these girls a formal Jewish education and thus deprived them of the freedom of knowledge. This despite the fact that See: Rabbi Yosef Yedid-Halevi, Responsa She'erit Yosef part 3, pp. 108–10. This responsum is cited in full in: Yosef Moshe Sofer, Mara De-Ar'a Israel, Jerusalem 2003, pp. 180–99. In Aleppo: City of Scholars (note 6 above) this opinion is cited as the authentic Aleppan position. What more need be said? It is interesting to note that Rabbi Yosef Hayyim Sonnenfeld, head of the Ashkenazic 'Eda Haredit in Jerusalem, also replied to that same question which arrived from Argentina. Although it is quite clear from his language that in his opinion it is preferable not to teach in Hebrew, he does not forbid it outright and even admits that in the Sephardic “Bnei Zion” Talmud Torah in Jerusalem Hebrew is taught in Hebrew, and everything is completely “kosher” from a religious point of view. See: Responsa Torat Hayyim (Sonnenfeld), Jerusalem 2005, responsum 106. 125 See Chapter 5 after note 5. 126 At about the same time, Rabbi Ya'akov Mizrahi of the Syrian community in Buenos Aires expressed a powerful critique of the lack of religious education for girls in the Syrian community and called upon the community to establish Jewish schooling for girls. See: Ya'akov Mizrahi, Zarah Ya'akov, Lod, 1994, pp. 45–50, 58–60. 127 Magen Ba'adi, p. 304. 123 124

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the girls, when mothers, would be “the spine of the culture of the future generation.” Harsh criticism, indeed, directed against the traditional world of Syrian Jewry, from the mouth of one of the community’s most prominent scholars. Rabbi 'Abadi’s critique of the education of the community’s girls was not tempered by satisfaction with the way the community’s boys were being educated. The Talmud Torah classes took place in the afternoons, after the children had already spent the morning studying in an American public school. Rabbi 'Abadi’s great hope was for the establishment of a Jewish-Syrian school that would replace the public school, that is, a day school in which the boys would study both religious and general studies. Schools of this kind were rare in pre-Second World War United States; and indeed, the Brooklyn Aleppan-Syrian community’s day school “Magen David” was established only after the Second World War. But Rabbi 'Abadi did not think it was enough to have Jewish studies only until the eighth grade; he was aware that over time the graduates forgot the Hebrew language they had acquired during their years at the school and also grew distant from Torah studies. Furthermore, his mind’s eye had before it the model of serious Torah study he experienced during his youth in Aleppo. There, the crucial years for advanced Torah study were those after the bar mitzvah; it was during these years that talented young boys turned into serious scholars. Therefore he beseeched the members of the community to establish for the graduates of the community’s primary school “a high beit midrash for Talmud … to fulfill their duty to Judaism with four years of learning in a high yeshiva.”128 He hoped that through this institution the crown of religious learning that had characterized Aleppo in its days of glory would be restored: May it be God’s will that we will be fortunate enough to soon lay the cornerstone for our high beit midrash, with a program and curriculum that will be well suited to the spirit of our community and to the fulfillment of its special needs, and the crown that adorned the batei midrash of Syria will be restored, for in better years they were bustling with hosts of students and scholars of Torah. Such a beit midrash will be a beacon for our children, our well-nurtured young ones. In addition, it will be a stronghold for the correct laws and traditions of our community, established by the scholars and rabbis of Syria and its true Geonim, may their memory protect us, Amen. 129 In 1964, when these words were written, it was already common practice for most young Jews in the United States to continue their studies in a

Magen Ba’adi, p. 311. The text dates to 1964. Ibid, p. 312.

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college or university. Therefore, the high school years were not the peak of education for these young people but rather an intermediate stage between primary school and their bachelor’s degree. Why, then, does Rabbi ShaulMatloub depict the high school age yeshiva as the height of education for the boys of the community? It seems that this has two main reasons. One was, Rabbi 'Abadi’s worldview and life experience. For him, the ways of life and the manners of religious existence in Aleppo of his youth were the ideal and pure manifestation of authentic Judaism in all its fullness. There, study in the beit midrash during one’s teens was the crucible and the wellspring for the aspiring scholar; these were the years of intensive learning, of studying under the great master-scholars, and of acquiring the knowledge necessary to fulfill rabbinical posts. Soon afterwards, the young man would marry and find himself one job or another in order to make a living; at this point, he could not be expected to devote himself to study, as the rabbis said: “a grindstone around his neck and he should study Torah?”130 This was the first reason that a four-year beit midrash for primary school graduates seemed to Rabbi 'Abadi the highest institution for Torah studies. The second reason was that the tendency toward academic studies that characterized American Jewry at the time had not yet developed (in the 1960s) within the “bubble” of the Jewish-Syrian community in Brooklyn. The community’s internal ethos was that there was no need for such studies because the qualifications needed for a talented young man to integrate into the business world on the way to a strong economic base could (and should) be acquired “in the field” and not in academics. Therefore, after their high school years almost all the community’s young men went into business, often within the family businesses of their fathers, their uncles, or other relatives. For the young men of the community, the high school years were therefore the last opportunity for a formal education—another reason why Rabbi 'Abadi viewed a yeshiva type institution for these ages as the height of religious education.131 We have seen above that Rabbi 'Abadi felt that through teaching “Hebrew in Hebrew” the staff of the Talmud Torah “participate[d] in the redemption of our national language from its bondage.” This characterization of Hebrew as a national language indicates that Rabbi ‘Abadi See BT Kiddushin 29b. This is the place to note that Rabbi 'Abadi was not fortunate enough to see in his lifetime the establishment of the four-year yeshiva for which he hoped. Indeed, the “Magen David Yeshiva” was founded as early as 1937 (see Magen Ba'adi, p. 302), but this seems to have been only a framework in which a few religious classes were given each week, and not a full and organized study program. The “Magen David Yeshiva” for students of high school age was established only in 1987. Furthermore, its study program is quite similar to study programs in Jewish high schools in the Orthodox sector in general, and the degree to which the methodology and contents of its studies are connected to the Aleppan religious tradition is not as Rabbi 'Abadi envisioned it. 130 131

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held a Jewish nationalist worldview; that is, he was a Zionist. In the next (final) section of this paper we shall discuss this issue. In addition, we shall consider the fact that Rabbi 'Abadi’s national world view was for him fully compatible with a positive attitude toward universal values and a positive approach toward the nations of the world.

Rabbi 'Abadi’s attitudes to Zionism and toward the non-jewish world Rabbi Shaul-Matloub’s nationalist worldview was expressed by two complementary facets. One was his treatment of the Jews as a “nation.” The other was his positive attitude toward the Zionist national project in the Land of Israel. His treatment of the Jews as a nation is reflected in his address to the graduates in 1937, each one of whom he personally blesses: [T]hat his study will be ever-present within him, and bring him to action … in establishing cultural and national societies in our community, organizing its youth to keep the Shabbat, to family purity, and to good deeds, which sanctify the name of the nation, grant it longevity and bring redemption closer.132 Activity to strengthen the observance of Shabbat and family purity and the execution of good deeds is not “Zionist” activity in any reasonable sense of the term. But these are certainly activities that can strengthen the foundations of Jewish existence, and, therefore, if we assume that the Jews are a “nation” for which observing the commandments of the Torah is part of its culture, then these activities are no doubt “national.” From the quoted paragraph it is clear that Rabbi 'Abadi does perceive the Jews thus; furthermore, he expresses hope that this activity will sanctify “the name of the nation” and does not use the classic expression, so common in religious literature, of “the name of God.”133 Magen Ba'adi, p. 303. Compare: When Rabbi J. B. Soloveitchik describes the responsibility of each member of the people for its destiny, he writes that the individual’s behavior radiates onto the image of the whole nation: “the individual is responsible not only for his or her own conscience, but also for the general conscience of the nation. If he does right—he sanctifies the name of the nation and of the God of Israel … [Kol Dodi Dofek, Rabbi J. B. Soloveitchik]. In Prime Minister Levy Eshkol’s letter in honor of Memorial Day, 1964, he writes that “this we know: the legacy of bravery and sanctifying the name of the nation—they are what saved us in this generation …”, and A. D. Gordon, describing in the year 5671/1911 the willingness of Jews in the Diaspora to sacrifice their lives rather than submit to the gentiles, writes that “they would, then, in those terrible days while in Exile, give their lives for the sanctification of the name of the nation” 132 133



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His positive attitude toward the Zionist national project in the Land of Israel is expressed in a number of places. The most prominent is his speech to the graduates of the Talmud Torah on 7 Shvat 5699/ February 27, 1939: Happy shall you be if you use this time for the good of the Land of Israel, the pride of our past and the luminescence of our future, to fulfill your duty towards it and to help it with all the means and the ways leading to rebuilding its ruins and making its settlement bloom. Remember our pledge to Zion on the rivers of Babylon and our aspiration and prayers to it over all generations. Do not be among those who falter behind its camps; be in the first ranks of its defenders and the fighters for its freedom, and take an important place among its loyal sons and builders.134 The Zionist character of these words is obvious and manifest. In addition, attention should be paid to the activist political-military dimension: the youth of the community are called not only to build the ruins and make the settlement bloom, and also not to content themselves with defense alone, but rather to be among “the fighters for [the country’s] freedom.” In this context, it is relevant to note one of the great virtues of studying the Bible, according to Rabbi 'Abadi: Because of our sins we were exiled from our Land and lost our kingdom and our freedom, but we did not lose our Torah, the treasury of our delights and the source of our hope, which attests to our historical rights and to our original possession of them.135 In other words, the Torah, in addition to its importance as bearer of religious content and the norms binding the people of Israel, is also evidence of the “historical rights” of the people of Israel to the Land of Israel, which is one of the reasons it is important to nurture its study and strengthen the connection to it. The term “historical rights” is not one that stems from the halakhic or philosophical rabbinical lexicon but is rather part of the discourse of modern Zionism that is intended to anchor the justification of the Jewish national claim for political sovereignty over the Land of Israel. That Rabbi 'Abadi makes use of this term in his address to his students in early 1939 shows that this term was familiar and meaningful for them and that he felt comfortable using this term and utilizing it in order to explain and strengthen their attitude toward Torah and its study. Of course, Rabbi

[from A. D. Gordon, ha'Uma veha'Avoda, Jerusalem, Zionist Library, 1952]. Of the sources cited, Gordon is the only one who wrote before 1937. It is not impossible that Rabbi 'Abadi had read Gordon, just as his teacher and colleague Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan had read Bialik and Tchernichovsky (see Chapter 5). 134 Magen Ba'adi, p. 304. 135 Ibid, p. 303.

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‘Abadi did not believe that the Jewish connection to the Land should be based solely on historical right just as he did not believe that the connection to the Torah is solely a national-cultural one. But it is clear that, according to his world view, no contradiction exists between political Zionism and religious loyalty to Torah and to the Land of Israel; rather, they complete and strengthen each other. If we now go back and look at one of the first quotations we cited, we shall see in Rabbi 'Abadi’s words the same interweaving of a traditional connection to the land and a connection to the Zionist enterprise taking place in his own time: The Land of Dearness, the first of all lands and the most coveted That alleviates the sins of its dwellers and cures souls of their illness … How I yearn to kiss its stones, to beg for their appeasement, for their placation! And to join together with the comrades who are turning its ruins into settlements and buildings!136 In the first three lines Rabbi Shaul-Matloub expresses a traditionalreligious attitude toward the Land of Israel: he calls it “the Land of Dearness” thus referencing biblical sources and the land’s praises in rabbinical literature: “why was the Land of Israel likened to a deer?”137 He calls it “the first of all lands” according to the midrash that determines that, when the time comes for resurrection, those buried in the Land of Israel will rise first before the dead in all the other lands.138 And “most coveted”—as the midrash says: “that all the nations covet it and want it.”139 He describes it as “alleviating the sins of its dwellers” according to the midrashic interpretation of Isa. 33.24: “any person who dwells in the Land of Israel is without sin, for it says ‘people that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity’.”140 The next sentence—“How I yearn to kiss its stones” etc.—alludes to Ps. 102.15: “For Thy servants take pleasure in her stones and love her dust” and to the words of the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmud, that describe Talmudic scholars as kissing the rocks of the Land of Israel.141 In this context, Rabbi 'Abadi surely had in mind

From: Rabbi Shaul-Matloub’s introduction to his grandfather’s book, Rabbi Mordechai 'Abadi, Ma'ayan Ganim, Jerusalem, 1958. This quotation was already brought above, near note 47. 137 See BT Ketubot 112a, and parallels. And see above, note 46. 138 See: JT Ketubbot 12:3. And also Bereshit Raba, part 74, S.V. “and God said to Jacob.” 139 Midrash Tehilim (Buber), Ps. 5. 140 Sifri Dvarim, paragraph 333. 141 See BT Ketubot 112a–b, and also JT Shevi'it ch. 4, halakha 7. 136



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his studies of the Book of the Kuzari, for the last words that the haver [learned rabbi] says to the king of the Khazars are: This sacred place serves to remind men and to stimulate them to love God, being a reward and promise, as it is written: “Thou shalt arise and have mercy upon Zion, for the time to favor her, yea, the set time is come. For thy servants take pleasure in her stones and embrace the dust thereof” (Ps. 102.14). This means that Jerusalem can only be rebuilt when the people of Israel yearn for it to such an extent that they embrace her stones and dust.142 That is, God will arise to have mercy on Zion when he sees that the people of Israel for their part yearn for the Land so much that they embrace its stones and dust not in the metaphorical sense but in the real, this-worldly sense.143 Up to this point Rabbi 'Abadi employed traditional language and a traditional approach toward the Land of Israel. But in the last sentence he expresses himself in a different, modern way and expresses his wish to join the “comrades” who are turning the country’s ruins into settlements and buildings. The Hebrew term “haverim” is used here not in the rabbinicalclassical sense of “scholars” but rather in the Zionist sense, as a name for those tilling the soil and engaging in construction as “pioneers” [halutzim]. It is not unreasonable to interpret these words as indicating that for Rabbi ‘Abadi such pioneer activity was itself a concrete expression of the “great extent of yearning” for the stones and dust of the Land of Israel that the Kuzari poses as a condition for the realization of the future redemption. After introducing Rabbi 'Abadi’s attitude toward nationalism, it is fitting to introduce his attitude toward the non-Jewish world. In the twentieth century there were scholars of the Syrian-Aleppan community who, inspired by the Kabbalah, characterized the relationship between the people of Israel and the nations as a relationship of essential and polarized opposition. Thus, Rabbi 'Ovadiah Hedaya, a man Rabbi 'Abadi’s age,144 wrote in Tevet of 5729/1969 that: As mirror-images did God make them, that is, the Man of Holiness and the Man of Wickedness. The people of Israel are from the aspect of the Man of Holiness; their souls are carved from beneath the [heavenly] Throne of Honor. And all the other nations are from the aspect of the The Book of the Kuzari, end of the fifth part (and of the whole book). Translated by Hartwig Hirschfeld. 143 Toward the end of Chapter 5 we saw that Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan placed this quotation at the finale of his grandson’s Bar Mitzva speech and interpreted it as relating to human activism in striving for redemption. 144 Rabbi Hedaya was born in Aleppo, on the first of Tevet 5650/1890, and died in Jerusalem in Shevat of 5729/1969. 142

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Man of Wickedness, that is, The Other Side. Their souls are not from the Side of Holiness, but from The Other Side, animal souls.145 According to this view, there is a zero-sum game between the people of Israel and the nations: the better things get for the nations, the worse they get for Israel, and vice versa. But this was not the view endorsed by many other Sephardic rabbis, and Rabbi 'Abadi did not hold this view either. He regarded the political order prevailing in the United States with great appreciation and very positively, characterizing it thus: “The government itself is honest and pious and respects all religions and helps them to follow their religion.”146 To his students in the Talmud Torah he emphasized: “Happy are you to live in America, the land of plenty, of light and liberty, and of unlimited possibilities.”147 Had Rabbi 'Abadi intended only to emphasize the economic benefits of life in America, he could have made do with “the land of plenty” and of “unlimited possibilities.” Adding “light and liberty” refers to America’s virtues in the realms of value and principle. Perhaps Rabbi 'Abadi is expressing an evaluation of other nations that is contingent only upon their treatment of Jews who reside within them? This is not what emerges from a close reading of Rabbi 'Abadi’s words. In a number of places he emphasizes that the interest and the commitment of the people of Israel toward the nations of the world are not because of the benefits Jews receive from those nations but rather because of the testimony that the people of Israel bear for all of humanity: Everywhere we were exiled, the Divine Presence went with us into Exile. From country to country we bore before us the bright-burning torch of our religion by whose light we walked and with which we burned away the straw of idolatry and its foolishness and turned the hearts of their worshippers to believe in one God.148 The people of Israel’s loyalty to its religion does not stem from introversion and a lack of interest in the fate of the nations of the world but rather the contrary: Living among the nations while maintaining this loyalty to its religion, the people of Israel has been a living example for the nations of the world that there is but one God in the world, and through this fact all nations also recognized the one God. According to this view, not only the Muslims but also the Christians believe in one God. This assertion as to the monotheistic character of Christian belief was not widely accepted by all rabbis over the generations but was indeed accepted by some of the greatest

Rabbi 'Ovadia Hedaya, Responsa Yaskil 'Avdi, vol. 8 (Jerusalem 5740/1980), p. 199. Magen Ba'adi, p. 215. 147 Ibid., p. 304. 148 Ibid., p. 303. 145 146



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Sephardic scholars of the modern era.149 As we saw above in Chapter 5, one of these scholars—who also attributed great value to the witness born by the people of Israel toward the nations of the world—was Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan, Rabbi 'Abadi’s teacher and colleague.150 Rabbi 'Abadi believed that, while the mission of influencing humanity theologically rests upon the shoulders of the whole people of Israel, it is the cultural-religious tradition of Sephardic Jewry that is especially well suited to fulfill this mission, and he praises: … the rich ancestral tradition, the magnificent tradition of Spain, ancient and enlightened, whose poets and scholars illuminated the darkness of the Medieval world with the torches of their pure religious fire.151 The Jewish-Sephardic tradition thus cast its light not only for Jews but for the whole world. It could do so because its poets and scholars carried messages of universal significance, and they could do so because their religion was “pure” (that is, free of ignorance and superstition) and “enlightened”—a term with a clear meaning in modern Hebrew as expressing a worldview or a culture embodying reason and breadth of horizons.152 Had Rabbi ‘Abadi not appreciated enlightenment as a positive value, he would not have used this term to praise the magnificent tradition of Spain. And finally, the mission of the people of Israel in general and the mission of the Sepharadim specifically is to bring the blessing of the values of Judaism and Torah to all the nations of the world without exception. Nevertheless, there is a special “fit” between the Torah of Israel and those nations that are of greatest excellence: From the [Torah’s] well, flowing with waters of life, we have watered – through various pipes and utensils – those civilized and enlightened countries of our days, whose foundation is liberty and democracy.153 In other words, it is no coincidence that those countries are outstanding and excellent; rather, this is because they were fortunate enough—thanks to the people of Israel—to be watered from the Torah’s well of living water. From this we learn that the special qualities of these countries originate with the Torah of Israel. But no less important for the matter at hand, liberty,

For a partial list, see Chapter 5, note 41. See Chapter 5, text at note 35ff. 151 Magen Ba'adi, p. 307. 152 This term appears frequently in modern Hebrew literature of the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century. See: http://www.google.com/searc h?q=%D7%A0%D7%90%D7%95%D7%A8&hl=en&inlang=iw&domains=benyehuda. org&sitesearch=benyehuda.org&oe=windows-1255&start=0&sa=N 153 Magen Ba'adi, p. 303. 149 150

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democracy, and enlightenment—for which these civilized countries (and of course, first and foremost, the United States) are praised—are qualities completely in accordance with the Torah itself. It is now clear that when Rabbi ‘Abadi praised the United States for its policy that “respects all religions” (i.e. not Judaism in particular), this was not a slip of the pen but rather part of a complete worldview.

Conclusion In light of all of the above, I could see no better than to conclude this chapter by quoting the last verse of the poem with which Rabbi ShaulMatloub ‘Abadi opened his book Magen Ba'adi: He who resides in Zion, whose dust I have always longed to embrace And towards whose barren temple I turned in my prayer and worship Will rebuild its temple, the wish of every Jew’s soul And in His light will walk also its neighbors, the Arami and the Giladi, In peace they will return its inheritance, the land of the Reubenite and the Gadite And in the Land of Dearness a leopard shall lie down with a kid. Maimonides, Rabbi Shaul-Matloub’s role model, wrote about this last metaphor, found in Isa. 11.6: The knowledge of truth removes hatred and quarrels and prevents mutual injuries. This state of society is promised to us [by God] in the words: “And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb and the leopard shall lie down with the kid,” … [He] also points out what will be the cause of this change: for he says that hatred, quarrel, and fighting will come to an end, because men will then have a true knowledge of God. “They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea”. Note it!154 And Rabbi Shaul-Matloub noted it full well.

Maimonides, Guide for the Perplexed 3:12 (translated by M. Friedländer, 1903).

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7 “There is none like this Arabic language upon the Earth” The Arabic language and Oriental culture through the eyes of Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan

Introduction In the world of the European enlightenment it was widely assumed that European culture was superior to the culture of Islamic lands. Enlightened European Jews in the nineteenth century extended this assumption to relate to the Jews of Islamic countries as well. According to this approach, the Jews of Islamic countries were fundamentally no different from their European brothers; however, the undeveloped and defective environment in which they had lived for generations had affected them for the worse. In order to extricate themselves from their lowly condition, the Eastern Jews needed to open themselves to European influences through whose absorption they could raise themselves to a higher level.1 The “Alliance 1 From a historical-cultural perspective, the dialectic is fascinating, for several leading proponents of the Haskalah in eighteenth-century Europe looked to Sephardic culture as a model of culturally enlightened Judaism that should serve as a model for hoped-for developments in the realm of Ashkenazic Jewry. See: Andrea Schatz, “Returning to Sepharad: Maskilic Reflections on Hebrew in the Diaspora,” Resianne Fontaine, Andrea Schatz, and Irene Zwiep (eds), Sepharad in Ashkenaz: medieval knowledge and eighteenth-century enlightened Jewish discourse, Amsterdam: Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, 2007, pp. 263–77.

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Israelite Universelle” was established in 1860 by French Jews with a universal Jewish consciousness who felt responsible for the future of the Jewish people and for this reason wished to bring the gospel of enlightened European civilization to their brothers in the East.2 Some of the AIU’s founders had already begun to take action in this direction 20 years earlier: In 1840, on their way back from intervening on behalf of their fellow Jews in Damascus persecuted during the “Damascus Affair,” Adolph Cremieux and Solomon Munk passed through Egypt where they set up the first modern Jewish schools in Islamic countries. The local Jewish leadership—both rabbinic and “secular”—responded positively to this initiative.3 How did Oriental Jews respond to the Western Jews’ patronizing assumptions? Did they agree that they were culturally inferior? Did they react to the way their image was constructed by European Jews, express a sense of Oriental self-confidence and take a critical stance vs. European Jewry? As far as I know this matter has not been studied with regard to the nineteenth century. In this chapter I discuss one such counter-response, expressed in the work Sheerit ha-Nahala, written by Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan. Rabbi Hazan is revealed in this text as a highly confident advocate of the Arabic language and its heritage in general and of Eastern Jewish culture specifically. He also advances a penetrating critique of core aspects of contemporary European culture and of European Jewish culture in particular. In the first half of the nineteenth century the mother tongue of Middle Eastern Jews was Ladino or Arabic. Boys (but not girls!) learned Hebrew, but most never reached a level enabling independent reading of Hebrew texts, and even fewer developed the capacity to write in it.4 Many read and wrote Ladino or Judeo-Arabic in Hebrew letters.5 Those whose occupations required it developed a functional reading capability in languages written in Arabic letters (Arabic, Turkish) or Latin letters. But they too did not acquire an education in the intellectual cultures expressed in these languages, and not enough is known about intellectual discourse that took place in the

As Simon briefly summarized: “The educational aims of the AIU were to advance ‘primitive’ Jews; to make them productive citizens in their own states; and to enhance and modernize their Jewishness.” See Rachel Simon, “Education,” Reeva Spector Simon, Michael Laskier, and Sara Reguer (eds), The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times, New York, 2003, pp. 142–64 (the quote is from p. 148). 3 With regard to the positive response of the local leaders, see: Ben Zion Tarragan, haQehila haYehudit beAleksandria beArba'im Shana haAharonot, Alexandria, 5707 (1946/7), pp. 47–8. 4 Simon, pp. 142–5. 5 For more on Jewish languages in Arabic-speaking countries in the modern era, see: David M. Bunis, Joseph Chetrit, and Haideh Sahim, “Jewish Languages Enter the Modern Era,” Reeva Spector Simon, Michael Laskier, and Sara Reguer (eds), The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times, New York, 2003, pp. 113–41. 2



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mid-nineteenth century between Middle Eastern Jews and the educated members of other faith communities.6 Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan was different.7 He was born in Izmir in 1808 and at the age of three emigrated to Jerusalem where he obtained a broad Torah education that included medieval Jewish philosophy. In 1843/4 he went abroad as a fundraiser qua cultural emissary of Jerusalem’s Jewish community, meandered through the countries of North Africa, and lived for a while in London and Amsterdam until he arrived in Livorno, Italy. Beginning in 1847, he served for five years as Chief Rabbi of Rome, then for a similar period of time as rabbi of the community of Corfu. His last post was Chief Rabbi of Alexandria (Egypt). In 1862 he returned to the Land of Israel but soon passed away at the early age of 55.8 Rabbi Hazan read Spanish in Latin letters, and it is possible that he already learned to do so during his years in Jerusalem. When in Italy, he achieved full mastery of spoken and written Italian and engaged in intellectual discourse with senior members of the Catholic Church. It was through this language that he became aware of the European enlightenment prevalent at the time.9 Similarly, he read the works of Jewish maskilim who wrote in Hebrew, and he saw himself as belonging to the worlds of both the Hebrew and the general Enlightenment. Awareness of this sense of belonging and identification is obvious to the readers of his work Sheerit ha-Nahala.

For a slightly earlier time-framework, see: Zvi Zohar, “The Rabbi and the Sheikh,” Jewish Studies Quarterly, 17(2), 2010, pp. 114–45. Lital Levy’s innovative and significant research on the cultural involvement and interaction of Middle Eastern Jews with the Arabic culture of the region and (subsequently) with the Nahda—the Middle Eastern cultural renaissance equivalent in many ways to the Haskalah—begins with 1863, the year of Rabbi Hazan’s death. See: Lital Levy, Jewish Writers in the Arab East: Literature, History and the Politics of Enlightement, 1863–1914, Dissertation, Berkeley, 2007; idem., “Reorienting Hebrew Literary History: the View from the East, Prooftexts 29:2, 2009, pp. 127–72. 7 Two important studies have been devoted to Rabbi Hazan: See: Yosef Faur, haRav Rabbi Yisrael Moshe Hazan: ha-Ish u-Mishnato, Jerusalem, 5737 (1976/7); and Avi Sagi, “Harav Yisrael Moshe Hazan – Bein Particularism le-Universalism,” idem., Yahadut: Bein Dat leMusar, Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz ha-Meuchad, 1998. The following overview of Rabbi Hazan’s biography and cultural world is based upon these studies. 8 Rabbi Hazan passed away in the month of Tevet 5623, i.e. in late December 1862 or early January 1863. For a list of his writings in print and other works that he wrote or planned to write, see: Faur, pp. 30–4. 9 It is possible that he knew other languages less well, including English, Turkish, and Greek. See: Faur, p. 19. But Italian was the foreign language in which he achieved mastery. 6

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Sheerit ha-Nahala Sheerit ha-Nahala was published in Alexandria, Egypt, in 1862. The book opens with an introduction by “the publisher,” which explains that the text that follows is but a small part of “the wonderful composition Netsah Israel, the longest in its generation, written in the form of question and answer, a tremendous and awesome debate.”10 The publisher adds that this composition was written as a very critical response to the negative content of the work Vikuah ha-Kabbalah, written by “his [= Rabbi Hazan’s] friend, the esteemed and honorable rabbi, Rabbi Shmuel David Luzatto, may the Lord protect him and save him, against the Zohar and the Wisdom of Truth.”11 While Sheerit ha-Nahala may well have been excerpted from a larger work written as a defense of Kabbalah, it does not deal with that topic at all but rather with other issues that were foci of discourse in the intellectual world of contemporary Jewish maskilim, and primarily with issues related to the study of the Hebrew language. The composition is fashioned as a dialogue: On one side are two rabbis from Jerusalem who came to Livorno on a trip to raise money from Diaspora Jews for the Jews in the Land of Israel, and on the other side is a local, wealthy Jewish merchant who is himself well-versed in Jewish learning. The goal of Sheerit ha-Nahala is similar to the goal of other dialogic compositions written in both the Middle Ages and the modern era: to present readers with the author’s views and thoughts. But, unlike many such compositions, this one is characterized by a great deal of vitality and drama that sometimes breaks up the purely logical discussion. The author explains that one of the reasons that he chose to write in this way is: … to quiet the reader’s displeasure at the tiresomeness of fine theoretical distinctions and to attract his heart with words of charm, common sense and frivolity, to amuse the reader over the course of such long deliberation.12 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 1. [All translations in this chapter are by Israel Sykes and myself—Z. Z.]. It should be noted that in the body of the text a rhetorical ploy is used repeatedly in which the speakers mention the author in third person, as a person known to them, and describe his deeds. I am inclined to think that the same is the case with regard to the introduction: The publisher, who writes about the author of Sheerit ha-Nahala in third person, is none other than Rabbi Hazan himself. Furthermore, I am not at all convinced that the book Netsah Yisrael in fact existed at the time outside of Rabbi Hazan’s own writing agenda. For if it existed, why did he not publish it at the time? 11 The Wisdom of Truth = Hokhmat ha-Emet = Kabbalah. Rabbi Samuel David Luzzatto (1800–65) was one of the luminaries of the Jewish-Italian and Jewish-European Enlightenment. His work Vikkuah 'al ha-Kabbalah (on Kabbalah and the antiquity of punctuation) was published in Göritz, 1852. This quote thus indicates that Rabbi Hazan began working on Sheerit ha-Nahala around that time (1852). 12 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 2. 10



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And another reason is: … to give every aspect of this debate the flavor of a true story. And this cannot be accomplished without sometimes getting out of focus. For that is how people argue; they skip from matter to matter and from thing to thing in the course of their argument. … One has an association and asks his friend about it, and he responds. And these things are clear and well known to anyone who is well-versed in the wisdom of logic and rhetoric.13 Thus, aside from its being a conceptual-philosophic work, Sheerit ha-Nahala has a clear literary quality in which one can find segments such as this, which make the composition similar to a play: The merchant, upon hearing the rabbis’ words, arose in his rage from the wine feast, turned to the walls of the wide and large reception room, and walked back and forth, now talking, now cursing. And thus he said while walking, with his face to the walls of the room … And in reply: The rabbis, in a sarcastic voice, cold as snow, which crushes the hearts of people and turns them into water, responded thus to the merchant …14 Elsewhere the rabbis’ words arouse an uncontrollable response in the merchant: The merchant planted his hands tightly on his loins because his great laughter filled them to such an extent that he couldn’t hold back. And he remained thus, walking and laughing, for about a quarter of an hour. And whenever he attempted to overcome himself and to return to the stream of discussion and response – each time he started to talk, great laughter would come upon him unbeknownst; whenever he began to open his mouth, he would fall into laughter. Whereupon the rabbis responded severely: They became exceedingly angry at him and said the following harshly: “Are we lacking in madmen that you come to us with this crazed, painful laughter? This is precisely the way of tricksters! If they don’t have replies

Ibid. Ibid., p. 51.

13 14

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to winning arguments, they distract with nonsense and laughter and silliness!”15 More attention should certainly be paid to the literary aspects of Sheerit Ha-Nahala, but in the present chapter I shall focus upon some of its cultural contents; by way of background, I shall say something about the author’s philological approach.

Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan’s philological approach A great deal of Sheerit ha-Nahala is devoted to presenting Rabbi Hazan’s method for research on the Hebrew language. He regarded himself as partner to linguistic discussions that took place among maskilim in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Among the individuals whom Rabbi Hazan mentioned appreciatively were Moses Mendelssohn and Naphtali Herz Wessely. He was aware that conservative religious authorities were harshly critical of them but refused to join the chorus of criticism. In his opinion, expressed through the mouths of the rabbinic emissaries from Jerusalem, such attacks were an expression of a tendency toward extremism and toward a black-and-white dichotomous perception of cultural and religious reality all too typical of the European intellectual climate. As the Jerusalem rabbis say in response to such criticism voiced by their Italian host: God forbid! Quiet! Lest we be infected by this European plague – the illness of the two extremes – that has infected Europe for years. God forbid that we should judge Rabbi Moshe ben Menachem [= Mendelssohn] harshly! And if he, of blessed memory, said some things that can be understood in two different ways, our religion instructs us to afford him a decisively positive verdict.16 In a similar way Rabbi Hazan, through the Jerusalem rabbis, praised: [T]he author of the commentary on Leviticus17 and Gan Na'ul18 and other enlightening books … that is Rabbi Naphtali Herz Wessely who was, as we said, the first giant in this [study of the Hebrew language], Ibid., p. 15. Ibid., p. 73. 17 Naphtali Herz Wessely composed the commentary to Leviticus published in the Pentateuch with German translation by Moshe Mendelssohn, Berlin, 5743/1782. 18 Naphtali Herz Wessely, Gan Na'ul, Amsterdam, 5725/1765. 15 16



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and all of us ride on his shoulders and see beautiful and healthy evidence that strengthens our Oral Torah by the depth of linguistic wisdom that “upon earth there is not its like”.19 These two scholars, Wessely and Mendelssohn, were pioneers who: … acted and succeeded and were able to renew the scholarly comprehension of our Holy Tongue like an eagle restores its youthfulness.20 It was they who opened for us the gateway that had been closed since the Gaonic period to inquire into the logic of the words of the Bible in accordance with faithful tradition so that its memory never be erased from Israel. …21 And ever since Wessely and his writings, the eyes of later Talmudic linguistic scholars have been opened, and they have begun to penetrate into the rooms of the Talmud and the midrashim and to draw from them cool water for a tired soul.22 Rabbi Hazan saw himself as continuing this course of scholarly insight, bringing it to its apogee. He dealt with in-depth literary commentary on the Bible and Talmud, applying philological tools that he developed. He stated that, according to this method, “the Talmud must be explained in accordance with the wisdom of the Holy Tongue and the wisdom of its logic and the organization of its ideas.”23 Without false modesty, he described the achievements of his method as revealing “the breadth and depth of the meaning of the literal text and great and reliable foundations for understanding matters completely so that they will be seen to have no other serious explanation—and this is no exaggeration: a book with almost no parallel since the day that the people of Judah were exiled from their land.”24 He explained that, over the generations, the rabbis’ knowledge of linguistic wisdom had declined: “After we lost our land we lost the wisdom 19 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 73. For the source of the expression “upon earth there is not its like,” see: Job 41.25. Significantly, Wesseley himself portrayed contemporary SephardicOriental communities in, for example, Salonica and Istanbul as symbols of an open and vibrant Judaism worthy of emulation by Ashkenazic Jews. Cf. Schatz (note 1 above), pp. 263–77. 20 The simile of restoration of youthfulness “as the eagle does” is based upon Ps. 103.5. 21 Ibid., p. 73. Rabbi Hazan added to this list, if with a certain distinction of level, “the famous Rabbi Shmuel David Luzzatto … we love him with the love of wisdom.” And in another place he wrote of him: “The wise Rabbi Shmuel David Luzzatto, even though he on occasion writes with his pen things that are neither correct or polite, nonetheless is one of ours!” 22 Ibid., p. 77. Additional scholars whom Rabbi Hazan mentions as belonging to this school are “Ba'al Otzar Ha-Shorashim” (Yehuda Leib ben Zeev, 1764–1811, ibid., p. 77) and the author of the book Yeri'ot Shlomo’’ (Shlomo Papenheim, 1740–1814; ibid., p. 77). As a partner to discourse in the field of Hebrew philology, he also mentions Rabbi E. (probably Elazar) Hurwitz from Vienna (ibid., p. 93, in note 111; cf. Encyclopedia Judaica, 8, 996). 23 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 18. 24 Ibid.

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of our language … and this poverty began already in the age of the Tannaim who came after our Holy Rabbi (Rabbenu haQadosh).”25 And as the two Jerusalem rabbis explain: In this evil generation in which we find ourselves … we have descended to the very netherworld. We are in need of a composition that is wonderful, wide like the waters of the ocean, in order to renew the youth of this wisdom like an eagle and to empower and strengthen it through logical proofs, philology and rhetoric. For if we don’t do so, we shall perish and be lost. And this is the purpose and intent of the composition Dat Moshe VeIsrael that our friend the author of Nahala le-Israel has begun. …26 May God grant him and us merit that he shall be able to realize his intention, for it is an extremely necessary thing … The essence of this project is to lay out great and broad propositions and to reveal/discover the Foundations of Torah and of Moral Character27 by perfect proofs, similar to those of geometry and mathematics, in order to prove that that is how things are. And in each proposition he will elucidate one of the various aspects of the written and oral Torah.28 This magnum opus that (as the above quote indicates) Rabbi Hazan began to write in the early 1860’s was never completed. The dialogue Sheerit ha-Nahala seems to have been intended as a type of “prolegomenon” to that great book, introducing the readers to the author’s philological method. The rest of this chapter is devoted to those sections of Sheerit ha-Nahala that express the author’s attitude to Arabic language and culture and explicate his views regarding the relative merits of the sphere of Oriental culture in comparison to the European cultural sphere.

Ibid., p. 42. Our Holy Rabbi—Rabbenu haQadosh—is a term for Rabbi Judah the Prince, the intellectual, religious, and political leader of Palestinian Jewry c. 200 ce, under whose aegis the Mishna was compiled. 26 Nahala le-Israel is the title of a work by Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan devoted to the biblical laws of inheritance. It was published in Vienna (1851) and again in Alexandria in 1862. The “amazing and wide” composition Dat Moshe VeIsrael does not appear in the list of Rabbi Hazan’s works compiled by Faur, pp. 30–4. It seems that, while Rabbi Hazan declared here his intention to write such a work, he passed away before actually doing so. 27 Hebrew: Le-galot Yesodei haTorah ve-Hilkhot De’ot. Significantly, these phrases allude to two sections of Maimonides’ Mishne Torah that deal with knowledge of (and relation to) God and with ethical character (respectively). 28 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 42. And see too: ibid., p. 76, where Rabbi Hazan complained “that we have thoroughly lost the wisdom of the holy tongue, and now we wander through the streets seeking God’s wisdom and we don’t find it.” 25



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The Hebrew language—not identical to the original language of creation Rabbi Hazan distinguishes between two languages: one, the language of canonical Jewish texts—“The 24 books [of the Bible] and the Talmud and Midrash”—and the other, “the Holy Tongue.” The canonical works in our possession are “Israelite books,” and they include only a circumscribed segment of a much broader language, “that which is called ‘One language for All’.”29 Rabbi Hazan described this primordial original language thus: It is the language fashioned by He Who created the heavens and stretched them out, He Who spread forth the earth and that which comes out of it.30 And He established it and searched it out31 for all the world’s populace, seed of Adam, so that they would be able to employ it in order to make manifest all the details of the sublime creation of all species, their goings out and their journeys.32 And were it not for the generation of the dividing,33 this very language would be the mother of all living beings to this very day.34 In that primordial language, whose source is God Himself, people could express any matter that could possibly be thought: To speak with it of all their needs and to express through it all of their thoughts in words appropriate to convey every last thing and every last detail with the greatest precision. Even the most minute idea in the world of thought could be expressed beautifully and properly, in accordance with a person’s thought.35 It follows that this language must have had words or uses of words that differed from Hebrew. For example, it has been claimed that Hebrew lacks explicit words for sexual activity and for the sexual organs.36 But in the primordial language it is clear that there must have been words for these matters because it was a perfect language, in which anything that could Ibid., p. 85. By employing the phrase “one language for all” Rabbi Hazan alludes to the state of affairs that prevailed, according to the book of Genesis, before human beings divided into different nations and languages: “Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language” (Gen. 11.6). 30 Cf. Isa. 42.5 31 Cf Job 28.27. 32 Cf. Bemidbar 33.2 33 Hebrew: Dor ha-Palaga. This refers to Gen. 11.1–9. 34 Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 85. 35 Ibid. 36 See note 42 below. 29

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be thought of could be expressed. Rabbi Hazan explained that the lack of these words in Hebrew derives from a sort of “delicacy” that affected the people of Israel in their effort to realize Torah’s commandment: “You shall be holy.”37 For this reason, “for us the Israelites this talk [of sexuality] came to be regarded as abominable,”38 and a whole class of words disappeared from Hebrew. However, writes Hazan: “Not because of the particular character of one nation—albeit ‘a kingdom of priests and a holy people’,39 ‘the fewest of all peoples’40—does the Holy Tongue, mother of all living beings, change its nature and essence!”41 It should be well noted that Rabbi Hazan is here in direct contradiction of Maimonides. According to Maimonides, there can be no difference between Hebrew and “the Holy Tongue”: Hebrew is the holy tongue. Moreover, he explains that the characterization of Hebrew as the Holy Tongue derives precisely from the fact that it contains no terminology for sexual organs and sexual activity: The lack of such terminology is a clear sign of Hebrew’s holiness.42 Rabbi Hazan, on the other hand, makes an unequivocal distinction between the language of “the Israelite books”—the language of a nation that is indeed “a kingdom of priests” but also “the fewest of all peoples”—and the “Holy Tongue, mother of all living beings,” which was the original language of creation. Of all extant languages, Hebrew is the variant closest to that primordial Holy Tongue—but it is not identical with it. It is tempting to suggest that Rabbi Hazan’s views on this topic were influenced by his acquaintance with Italian culture; Dante had given serious attention to this issue and concluded that Hebrew could not have been the original language.43 Rabbi Hazan believed it was possible to perform a type of philological archeology that would reveal in the Hebrew language remnants of nouns and verbs that were lost or whose original meaning had been blurred.44 He

Levi. 19.2. Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 86. 39 Cf. Exod. 19.6 40 Cf. Deut. 7.7 41 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 86. 42 See: Moreh haNevukhim leRabenu Moshe Ben Maimon [The Guide of the Perplexed] (Michael Schwarz, translation and annotation), Tel Aviv, 5763 (2002/3), III, 8 (p. 446). Rabbi Hazan knew full well that he was directly disagreeing with Maimonides on this issue and writes later on: “And the earlier masters (Rishonim) left us room to say something new that did not occur to the author of The Guide. And the choice is up to he who chooses” (Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 86). 43 Cf. Angelo Mazzocco, “Dante’s Reappraisal of the Adamic language,” idem., Linguistic Theories in Dante and the Humanists, Leiden: Brill, 1993, pp. 159–81. 44 And indeed he applied his method vigorously in order to reconstruct the sexual vocabulary that had disappeared. For example, he claimed that the root for the act of sexual intercourse was ‫ה‬ʽʽ‫זנ‬, whose meaning is close to vitality and fertilization, as in ‫הזן את העולם כולו‬. In the Bible this root was used to denote only negative sexual activity, but Hazan argues that this was not originally the case. 37 38

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thought that a crucial tool for the implementation of such a philological project would be consulting other relevant languages. This is because, even though Hebrew is the language closest to the perfect primordial language, it none the less stands to reason that some aspects of that language might have been more clearly preserved not in Hebrew but in other cognate languages. Rabbi Hazan considered Arabic to be the most important cognate language relevant to this philological project.

Use of Arabic to explain the foundations of Hebrew Rabbi Hazan was aware of his limited knowledge of Arabic and expresses this clearly through words he places into the mouths of the Jerusalem rabbis: If only our early fathers living in the East had tried to teach this language thoroughly to the sons of Judah. And we are very, very sorry that our knowledge of it is only for conversation; if only we really knew it! Why should people in the Orient learn other languages? “Either the Holy Tongue or Arabic and Turkish”!45 They should be the mother tongues46 and all the other languages would be only for those seeking special completeness.47 Despite this deficiency, the author did not refrain from attempting to concretize his general insight that Arabic is an excellent means for obtaining a deeper understanding of Hebrew. 48 In contrast to the conventional view, Rabbi Hazan held that Hebrew roots had not three but merely two letters.49 In addition, he developed a theory that posits that when a verb appears to

A paraphrase of: Was it not taught that Rabbi stated: “Why use the Aramaic language in Eretz Yisrael? Either the holy tongue or Greek [should be employed]!” And R. Jose said: “Why use Aramaic in Babylon? Either the holy tongue or Persian!” (Babylonian Talmud, Baba Kamma, 82b-83a). 46 ‘Iqqar mitrin (see Bereshit Raba 53, 5). 47 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 10. 48 The full scope of Rabbi Hazan’s activity in this area is worthy of a full analysis beyond the scope of this chapter. 49 For a more contemporary discussion of this thesis, see: Joshua Blau, Torat haHegeh vehaTzurot, Tel Aviv, 5770 (2010), ch. 27. Blau notes that, while historically some Hebrew roots may indeed have originally consisted of two letters, this clearly was not the case for all or even most roots. However, there were scholars who held that all roots had once been of two letters only, and the apogee of this opinion “was in the second half of the nineteenth century, when it was held by rabbis … and by Christian linguists”(p. 273). I thank Professor Haim Cohen who referred me to Blau’s book. 45

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have three letters, the last of which is a bet, this indicates the presence of a conjunction: [the two letter root] + [bo (= “in it”)]. In this way he explained that the three letter word 'esb (= grass) is comprised of 'es + bo (‫ עש‬+ ‫)בו‬: 'esb means: “action and existence and vitality are in it” ('asiyya ve-qiyyum ve-hayyut bo). And in the Arabic, vitality and existence are called 'esh … and also bread, which feeds a man’s heart and sustains him and gives him life, is called 'esh.50 It is easy to see that this hypothesis does not reflect a thorough knowledge of literary Arabic. First, while the literary Arabic term for “life” may sound like 'esh, it includes a middle letter ya [‫ ]ﻋﻴﺶ‬that Hazan did not realize is there. Second, this term is used to denote bread only in colloquial Arabic while in literary Arabic the word for bread is khubz [‫]ﺧﺒﺯ‬. A second example of Rabbi Hazan’s application of Arabic to the understanding of Hebrew also interprets a Hebrew word as a conjunction. He achieves this by stressing the proper pronunciation of the Hebrew language—a pronunciation that is identical with the proper pronunciation of Arabic and quite different from the Hebrew pronunciation prevalent among Jews living outside of the Arabic-speaking countries. The word is yahdaw, which appears many times in the Bible, including Amos’ famous rhetorical question (3.3): “haYelekhu shenayyim yahdaw bilti im no'adu?” (Shall two walk together unless they have agreed to do so?). Rabbi Hazan explains: The source of yahdaw (‫ )יחדו‬is composed of two words, as indeed is the case for most of our language. And it is as though the speaker is saying: yahda – hu. This is clear especially to those who are knowledgeable in the pronunciation of the waw (‫( )ויו‬and especially at the end of a word) as it is enunciated by the Hebrews and Arabs. The listener will hear the sound ‘au’ veritably ringing in his ears. And the reason for this is that the waw ‫ ויו‬will be pronounced similarly to the diphthong wau as if marked with the diacritics shuruq and patah (and this is something that cannot be written because only the ear can hear the difference; therefore we cannot convey this transformation to a person learning the matter from a text except to say that the Hebrew and Arabic pronunciation of the letter waw is intermediate between the pronunciation of uwau and guau – with the shuruq and patah vocalization, as I said). And if so, then necessarily one who hears the word yahdaw from the mouth of one who pronounces the letter waw in the aforementioned way will seem to hear two vowels combined together, with a clipped ending: yahdau.51

50 51

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In other words, the European Jewish reader pronounces the word yahdaw as though it were written yahdav. But this is a mistake. The correct pronunciation of the last letter, waw, is a double-vowel (diphthong). This can only be understood by someone who is accustomed to the world of proper Hebrew pronunciation—the world of pronunciation identical to that of Arabic speakers.52 These two examples suffice to indicate how Rabbi Hazan engaged in a creative elucidation of Hebrew in light of Arabic foundations. We shall now see, however, that Rabbi Hazan was an advocate of Arabic not only for its usefulness in understanding Hebrew but also because he attributed to it virtues in its own right.

The special qualities of the Arabic language Rabbi Hazan wrote that the virtue of the Arabic language derives from its closeness to the original language of creation – that is, the Holy Tongue: All languages are a corruption of the Holy Tongue. However, the corruption of each is in proportion to its distance from the navel of civilization – that is, the Land of Israel (may it be speedily rebuilt in our days, amen). The further its distance, the more it has divested the light of its conception and birth. And Arabic, being close to its source, retained the taste of the Holy Tongue, as well as its form and structure, and its scent was not changed [lo namar].53 Creation began from the Foundation Stone on the Temple Mount, which is the center of the Land of Israel. This is the “navel of civilization,” the focal point of human existence,54 and by extension it is also the focal point of

The fact that the pronunciation of Hebrew in the mouths of eastern Jews is the correct one has, according to Rabbi Hazan, implications for the area of education as well. See below on this. 53 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 10. Use of the phrase lo namar ‫לא  נמר‬, aside from demonstrating our author’s mastery of the intricacies of the Hebrew language, is particularly fitting when used to characterize a language whose speakers maintained proximity to their origin over generations. This is apparent from a reading of the source of this phrase in Jer. 48.11. 54 As expressed, for example, in the following quote from Midrash Tanhuma: Just as the navel is in the middle of the person, thus the Land of Israel is the navel of the world, as it is written “who dwell at the center of the earth” (Ezek. 38.12). The Land of Israel sits in the middle of the world, and Jerusalem in the middle of the Land of Israel, and the Temple in the middle of Jerusalem, the Hall in the middle of the Temple, the Ark in the middle of the Hall, and the foundation stone, upon which the world was founded, is before the Hall (Midrash Tanhuma [Buber], Kedoshim 10, 39b). 52

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the Holy Tongue. Thus, Hebrew, the language of the Israelites, is closest to the Holy Tongue; the closest language after Hebrew is Arabic. What is more, Arabic was positively influenced by Hebrew because Ishmael grew up and was educated in Abraham’s home. According to Rabbi Hazan, many languages lack words for concepts such as “to bless,” “to curse,” “pure,” and “impure,” whereas Hebrew is replete with them because it is the language most suited to expression of matters that are “Divine and spiritual.” He noted that such terms exist also in Arabic: Don’t question why such terms exist in Arabic – because it has a modicum of holiness! Ishmael, father of the Arabs, took from the mouth of Abraham, head of our family and fountain of blessings, some godly matters from the Sitra di-Yemina.55 And some divine spiritual words remained in his language, firmly connected to faith in God’s Unity … And other nations? Nothing!56 The Arabic language is therefore not like all other languages because it absorbed a positive influence from the closeness to God characteristic of Abraham’s home. Abraham’s son, Ishmael, was the father of the Arabs and thus the father of the Arabic language, and he integrated into that language positive spiritual elements that he received from his father. These elements are “from the Right Side,” meaning they are from the Divinepositive side of cosmic reality. The link to God of the sons of Ishmael, the Arabs, is reflected in their being monotheists, believers in God’s Unity. This is in contrast to all other nations, who, according to the Kabbalah, are not from the Right Side but rather from the Other Side. The Arabs are thus an anomaly: gentiles influenced by the positive side of reality. For this reason, their language also has special virtue—less than Hebrew but higher than all other languages: “a modicum of holiness.” Another positive aspect of the Arabic language is that it grants (to those well-versed in it) full ability of expression. As noted above, a central virtue of the primordial tongue was its quality of enabling full expression of all thoughts. It is interesting to compare this with the way in which Rabbi Hazan described the Arabic language: There is none like this Arabic language upon earth, for it has radical clarity and wondrously poetic phrases; it is inlaid – as if with topaz, onyx and jasper – with lovely words that bespeak noble matters. And it also assists and gives a hand to the rhetorician to say in it all he wants. Even should the rhetorician’s ideas multiply like the ocean’s waves, “ascend

Lit. “the Right Side.” This is a term derived from kabbalah, where it indicates the positive spiritual realm. 56 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 27. 55



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to the heavens, descend to the depths”57 – this clear, full and intense language ascends with him to the crests of the waves of his ideas and goes out and comes in58 before them, doing as he wills, transforming his ideas from the latent to the manifest and bringing them to their resting place – the script and the enscribed – with tremendous ease; it gives full expression to the world of ideas, omitting not so much as a drop from the ocean.59 The expression “doing as he wills” (ke-mitzbeyei 'aveid)—employed here by Hazan—appears only once in the entire Bible (Daniel 4.32) to describe God as doing whatever He wishes, with no limitation. Here the expression is employed in reference to the Arabic language—to describe it as granting to those who master it an unlimited capacity to give perfect expression to every possible human idea. Thus, Arabic is characterized as having a God-like attribute. In addition, comparison of the description here (“it gives full expression to the world of ideas, omitting not even as a drop from the ocean”) to the earlier characterization of the primordial language of creation (“Even the most minute idea in the world of thought could be expressed beautifully and properly, in accordance with a person’s thought”) shows just how great Hazan’s emphasis is upon the virtue of Arabic and its similarity to the source of all languages.

A different attitude toward the Arabic language As mentioned above, Sheerit ha-Nahala is structured as a dialogue between two parties: on the one hand, the two rabbinic emissaries from Jerusalem and, on the other, an Italian Jewish merchant, well versed in Judaic studies. The author characterizes the emissaries as representing the leading Torah scholars of the land of Israel and the East while the Italian merchant is characterized as representing those among European Jewry who are faithful to Torah but at the same time open to the Jewish Enlightenment (Haskalah).60 All of the citations above expressing the exemplary qualities

Cf. Ps. 107.26. Cf. I Sam. 18.16. 59 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, pp. 9–10. 60 On one occasion, Professor Joseph Hacker was present when I discussed aspects of Sheerit ha-Nahala, and he pointed out that the Livornese community was constituted primarily by descendents of Portuguese Jews; he suggested that the dialogue in Sheerit ha-Nahala can be seen as taking place between representatives of the Eastern Sephardim (the Jerusalem rabbis) and the Western Sephardim (the Livorno merchant). This proposition seems reasonable and makes sense, and I take this opportunity to thank Professor Hacker for his insightful comment. 57 58

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and virtues of the Arabic language were spoken by the emissaries. However, the Italian merchant held a radically different view on this topic.61 Quite early on in Sheerit ha-Nahala the Jerusalem rabbis are described as suspending their dialogue with the merchant to exchange ideas between themselves, and, when doing so, they switched, quite naturally, to Arabic. After several such instances, their Italian conversant loses his patience and says: Gentlemen! How long will you depress me with your Arabic language? … By the Temple Service! Three times you have brought my breath between my teeth with the twittering of that alien language. I feel disgusted with life, listening to a language that brings a man to deafness; from hearing your guttural snorts when you pronounce it and especially the letters alef, heh, het and 'ayin that sound to our ears like the croaking of frogs in a bog. And after all – it is a corrupted language, as Maimonides of blessed memory described it.62 The merchant states two complaints. The first: the repulsive pronunciation of Arabic and especially of the guttural letters; this pronunciation is characterized as “guttural snorts” and as the “croaking of frogs.” The second: Arabic is in its essence a corrupt language. After the rabbis respond in flowery defense of the virtues of Arabic, the merchant responds by saying: Can papyrus grow tall where there is no marsh? Can reeds thrive without water?63 So too: Can an Oriental person talk without hyperbole? It has become second nature among Orientals not to conduct even a brief conversation without great and fantastic hyperbole! And I have seen one of the books of the Ishmaelites who went so far as to make the exaggerated claim that the righteous can only enjoy one another’s company in Paradise in Arabic! Can we believe that such a virtue characterizes a corrupt language?64 This impassioned disparagement of Arabic and “the Orientals” clearly indicates that in the eyes of the Jewish merchant from Livorno the term “Orientals” includes Jews and non-Jews alike, under the same rubric: “in the same breath” he criticizes as Oriental hyperbole the Jerusalem emissaries’ praise of the Arabic language and the Muslim tradition regarding the pleasures of the righteous in Paradise.65 Identification of Jews of Islamic

Cf. Faur, note 7 above, pp. 108–11. Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 9. 63 The rhetorical question “Can papyrus grow tall where there is no marsh? Can reeds thrive without water?” is taken from Job 8.11. 64 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 10. 65 This apparently refers to a Hadith, which tradition attributes to Ibn 'Abbas and is quoted 61 62



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lands as partners in an Oriental culture, which is radically different from the culture of Europeans, appears also in the merchant’s words to the Italian proprietor of the tavern where he was dining with the two emissaries. With regard to the great difference between the dining customs of Orientals and Europeans, the merchant explains to the proprietor: Did you not know, and have you not heard, that Orientals have a hot nature? That is why they cannot sit for long at their table as we northerners do; for to our table may be applied the dictum “sitting as though in residence”,66 and those sitting are stuck there for as much as seven or even eight hours. Not so in the Orient, where they sit around their table for no more than an hour, an hour and a half. Immediately they say the grace after meals and get up to have a smoke. And their servants bring to each a pipe, and the smoke rises from the heart to the mouth in one reed. And in great banquets, between the courses, they set up a pure table with an assortment of sweets and fruits and a variety of wines. And therefore, these rabbis too, may God grant them life, have had enough of this long meal. “Color may change, but nature does not”!67 In this section the dining customs of the Easterners are not described as inferior to those of the Europeans but as colorful, exotic, and (especially) essentially different. These are not the customs of Oriental Jews in particular but of all Orientals; the Oriental rabbis of Jerusalem are members of this culture, and it is irreversibly part of their nature: “Color may change, but nature does not.” Similarly, the Italian merchant regards himself as one of the Europeans and refers to himself and the tavern owner as “we northerners.”

by Al-Hakim, Al-Tabbarani, and others. According to this Hadith, Muhammad declared that Arabs should be loved for three reasons: because Muhammad is an Arab, because the Koran is written in Arabic, and because Arabic is the language of Paradise. The Hadith is very widespread even though there are those who doubted its authenticity. This Hadith and its authenticity continue to be debated among contemporary Muslims. See, e.g. http://mac.abc. se/~onesr/d/larh_e.pdf, p. 2, note 6. 66 This is a brilliant use of a phrase originally appearing in relation to the commandment of sitting in a sukkah. The Torah commands “Sit/dwell [teshevu] in booths for seven days” (Lev. 23.42) and the rabbis interpreted this ambivalent word in its broader sense, i.e. it should be construed as requiring not merely “sitting” in the sukkah but as establishing residence therein. On this basis they derived various norms with regard to performance of the commandment of sukkah (see, for example, Babylonian Talmud, Sukkah 28b; 27a; ibid., Kiddushin 34a). Our author employs this expression to describe the extended nature of meals among Europeans as if they had turned their sitting around the table into fixed residence. 67 Yishtaneh ha-Tzeva´ ve-lo yishtaneh ha-Teva´. Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 22.

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The inferiority of the Orientals In other places in Sheerit ha-Nahala, however, it is apparent (as we have seen) that the merchant did not regard the relation between the Europeans and Orientals as “different but equal.” Rather, a clear hierarchy existed in the merchant’s mind in which European culture was superior. This view reveals itself throughout Sheerit ha-Nahala in comments such as “Please gentlemen! Put these Oriental ideas aside …”68 The merchant’s perception of Oriental inferiority is also expressed in greater detail; for example: Indeed, one who has never befriended the people of the Orient cannot know the power of exaggeration – in Italian fantastico – imprinted in all their actions and conversations, in their songs and their arguments, even when clearing their mucus and phlegm.69 This critique is similar to the critique cited earlier, in which the merchant— qua European—declared that Orientals cannot speak without hyperbole. Elsewhere, the merchant goes beyond an aesthetic-expressive critique and finds fault in rational aspects of Oriental discourse: I have met many people, most of them from the Orient, who not only speak in a confused manner without taste or scent, but the essence of their argument is presented as a jumble of different matters, skipping from matter to matter and from one piece of information to another, with nothing at all to support or connect them.70 In other words, Orientals are incapable of constructing a logical argument, built layer upon layer. Instead, they express themselves in a confused way that lacks systematic continuity. Moreover, the intellectual content of their words is “without taste and scent.” Are these criticisms directed only toward non-Jewish Orientals while the merchant regards Oriental Jews, or at least their rabbis, as cut from superior cloth? Not at all. When the two emissaries complain that the merchant, and like him other learned European Jews, do not act for the benefit of Oriental rabbis by translating books of modern Jewish thought, written in European languages, into Hebrew, he lashes out at them and expresses his opinion that such translations would be pointless: Who would I be working for if I were to copy into Hebrew all those books written in other languages that are zealous in defense of Jewish

Ibid., p. 8. Ibid., p. 83. 70 Ibid., p. 21. 68 69



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beliefs and opinions? For the Jews of Asia and Africa? I would just be toiling in vain, diligently translating for naught!71 The merchant proceeds to relate his numerous depressing experiences when “outstanding rabbis from those lands” came to visit him while he was sitting and reading books of Jewish thought such as the “wonderful book The Kuzari … with the commentary Qol Yehuda”72 or “the holy and pure book 'Aqedat Yitzhaq.”73 But when he shared the topic of study with these guests and suggested they discuss such matters, an embarrassing situation arose: They became fearful and didn’t answer, as though I were speaking to them “with stammering lips and in another language”.74 And eventually I would hear them say in a voice cooing like a dove: “Ah, our noble master! We have no experience in studying such philosophical books, for we are Talmudists from our youth!” I almost fainted, but, out of respect, I tried to change the subject to matters such as sermons and word-plays that are sweet to the palates of the rabbis of those countries.75 Rabbi Hazan thus presents this learned European Jew as regarding Oriental rabbis as intellectually naïve and ignorant, completely lacking in religiousphilosophical sophistication. However, they are not to blame, for their existence is embedded in a backward cultural world, characterized by fantastic thinking saturated in hyperbole: Arabic culture, a culture whose spoken language sounds like the croaking of frogs. Such perceptions among Western Europeans in the nineteenth century need not surprise us. At the time, Europe’s power was on the ascent in the international arena, and the power of the Moslems was at an ebb. This was the case not only in the political-military arena but also in the scientific and cultural realms. European feelings of superiority found expression in an arrogant Orientalist attitude toward Middle Eastern people, cultures and ways of life. Had Rabbi Hazan stopped here, we might have praised his ability, as an Oriental Jew, to so successfully portray in literary prose the arrogance of the Europeans and to so clearly express the extent to which it had permeated into the consciousness of Jews living in the West—that they regarded themselves as European despite the fact that Judaism’s roots were

Ibid., p. 8. The Kuzari is a dialogue on Judaism, composed by the eleventh-century philosopher-poet Yehuda HaLevi, Qol Yehuda is a commentary on the Kuzari by Rabbi Yehuda Moscato (sixteenth century, Italy). 73 By Rabbi Yitzhaq 'Arama (fifteenth-century, Spain). 74 Cf, Isa. 28.11. 75 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 8. 71 72

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in the East. Hazan, however, did not stop here but rather responded in kind, giving voice and expression to the ways in which Orientals such as himself—represented in this case by the figures of rabbinical scholars from Jerusalem—reacted to those aspects of Orientalism that had been internalized by even the best of European Jews. As we shall see, these reactions were not mere expressions of suffering and insult but rather a powerful and self-confident advocacy of Oriental culture—and especially, of Middle Eastern Jewish culture.76

Proper Jewish education: If only European Jews would learn from the Jews in Arab lands In the year in which Sheerit ha-Nahala was first printed in Alexandria in Egypt, the first AIU school was opened in Tetuan in Morocco. However, this was not the first “modern” school to be opened in Muslim lands by European Jewish individuals and organizations with the good intention to benefit their primitive brothers in the Orient. As described above,77 such a school had been opened in Alexandria already in 1840; in 1860 a school for girls was also established there.78 A similar institution, the Lemel School, was established in Jerusalem in 1856.79 The first modern Jewish school in Turkey was founded in Adrianopol in 1850, and a second was set up in Istanbul in 1854.80 The underlying assumption of the education provided in most of these institutions was that enlightened European or Europeanized Jews were acting as benefactors toward their less developed brethren by opening for them pathways to European education, thus enabling them to become increasingly similar to the successful Jews of Europe. But Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan was highly critical of aspects of European Jewish education—not only that provided to Jewish children in Muslim lands but also that provided in Europe to local Jewish children. One focus of his critique is expressed in his response—placed in the mouths of the Jerusalemite rabbis—to the merchant’s patronizing remarks about the guttural Arabic accents of Oriental Jews:

Cf. Faur (above note 7), pp. 110–16. At note 3. 78 Zvi Zohar, “haHinukh shel Yehudei Mitzrayyim baMeot haTesha-'esre veha'Esrim,” Nahem Ilan (ed.), Mitzrayyim (Kehilot Yisrael baMizrah baMeot haTesha-'esre veHa'esrim, 9), Jerusalem, 5768 (2007/8), pp. 83–102. 79 Mordechai Eliav, Eretz Yisrael vYishuva baMea ha-19: 1777–1917, Jerusalem, 1978, pp. 215–19. 80 Hayyim J. Cohen, The Jews of the Middle East 1860–1972, Jerusalem, 1973, p. 129. 76 77



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It would be rationally correct to try and ensure that all schoolteachers in all parts of the Jewish world be natives of Arab lands in order to implant proper Hebrew pronunciation in the mouths of Jewish youth. But these days we see, and our eyes languish at the sight,81 that also in Oriental countries Jewish schools have begun to employ European teachers – empty vessels – and they have already destroyed our children’s pronunciation. And there is nothing we can do, for the world has been put in the hands of stupid, ignorant and stubborn people who want in various matters to become like ravens and bats; they pain the heart and are ill-tempered.82 Not only is guttural pronunciation unworthy of censure—it is the correct way to pronounce Hebrew. This pronunciation has been preserved only by those Jews who live among the Arabs, by virtue of their links with their linguistic environment. The Jews of Arab lands are thus custodians of a cultural-Jewish treasure that Jews throughout the world should recognize and adopt. Therefore, instead of employing native—that is, European Jewish—teachers, they should only employ teachers born and bred in the Orient. But the Jews of Europe did not do so. Thus, one might suppose that the original situation would remain: In Europe Jewish children would be taught corrupted Hebrew by local Jewish teachers while in Arabic-speaking lands Jewish children would learn proper Hebrew from local Jewish teachers. But instead, European Jewry sent inferior teachers—“empty vessels”—to the Orient, and for some reason the Jews in those lands did not reject those teachers but rather preferred them over the excellent local teachers. Rabbi Hazan’s anger was directed especially toward the wealthy lay leadership of the Oriental communities who were responsible for the operation of the new schools, calling them “stupid, ignorant and stubborn people.” Their fault was that, instead of appreciating and valuing their fine local cultural-Hebrew tradition, they sought to become similar in various ways to the Europeans, whom Rabbi Hazan calls “ravens and bats”—dark and impure creatures.83 Rabbi Hazan was critical not only of European Jews’ Hebrew pronunciation but also of the way in which they structured their children’s study of Jewish sources. The merchant declares to the emissaries: “We Europeans first and foremost study the Bible, according to the roots and rules of

'eineinu ro-ot ve-khalot hayom hazeh. Cf. Deut. 28.32. And note the original context of the phrase: “Thy sons and thy daughters shall be given to another people, and thine eyes shall look and languish for them all the day long; and there shall be no power in thy hand to help it.” 82 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 9. 83 The phrase “ravens and bats” appears in the Talmud as referring to nonhuman creatures toward whom Jews bear no obligation whatsoever. Cf. Hullin 134b. 81

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grammar, and according to philology.”84 This description refers of course to the revised curriculum instituted by the maskilim and not to studies in the pre-modern heder. The Jerusalem rabbis admitted that the standard Jewish school curriculum in Oriental lands was not perfect. At the same time, they argued that the Jews of Europe would derive great educational benefit if they would train their future elite—those young persons intended for positions of rabbinical leadership—according to the curriculum current among the elite of Oriental Jewry: If only you Europeans would reverse this order of study (for students who are intended for a rabbinic career), “your eyes shall be opened”, and you would not be the cause of our religion’s destruction. What I want to say is that for all the students who are on their way to becoming rabbis and halakhic decisors, it would be best if they studied Bible only until the age of twelve, until they knew how to explain the words in their country’s language, and a little bit of grammar along the way. And when they reach this age they should immediately start to study the depth and heights of the Talmud. And once their mind has been sharpened by learning that material, which is a mixture of Bible and all kinds of knowledge,85 they can return to the Bible and delve into the intricate depths of linguistics and logic. If you do so, you will see wonderful results, as we see in our provinces.86 Rabbi Hazan was not opposed to the choice of the maskilim to first provide children with a good basic understanding of Bible. But he totally rejected their curriculum ending there and never advancing the students to achieve mastery of the Talmud. He saw this as a “destruction of the religion” for two reasons: First, the Jewish religion could not exist without rabbis and posqim [halakhic decisors], and these need to have an excellent mastery of the Babylonian Talmud. Second, while a basic level of understanding of Bible can be obtained without Talmudic skills, mastery of the Bible’s linguistic treasures and the ability to reveal the hidden depths of its language and logic cannot be realized without these skills. As he goes on to say:

Ibid., pp. 34–5. Here Rabbi Hazan alludes to the stance taken by Rabbi Ya'akov ben Meir (Rabeinu Tam— twelfth-century France). The rabbis of late antiquity had determined that every person should divide the time he has available for study into three equal parts: one third Bible, one third Mishna, and one third Gemara (Babylonian Talmud, Avoda Zara, 19b). But the Tosafists, who were active in France during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, used to study only the Babylonian Talmud. Rabeinu Tam explained that in doing so they were fulfilling the recommendations of the ancient rabbis: “It seems to Rabeinu Tam that we who study only the Babylonian Talmud do enough because it is a mix of Bible, Mishna and Talmud, as it says in tractate Sanhedrin 24a ‘Bavel’—a mix of Bible, Mishna and Talmud”(Tosafot, Avoda Zara 19b, s.v. “A man should divide his years”). 86 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 35. 84 85



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One who learns Talmud from an early age has great promise of quickly becoming a philologist … while he who attempts philology at an early age without true knowledge of Talmud – there is less hope for him than for a fool.87 This is to say that, even if we agree that obtaining a very high level of linguistic analysis (philology) is an important goal in Jewish studies, Talmud study is an essential condition for achieving that goal. The emissaries from Jerusalem end the presentation of their case by declaring that their conclusion with regard to the benefits derived from skill in Talmudic learning is not purely theoretical but rather is based upon empirical experience: “As we see in our provinces.” That is: In the Orient, rabbis excel in Biblical philology (as does Rabbi Hazan himself!), but this is thanks to the tools they acquired through in-depth study of Talmud.88 Rabbi Hazan thus recommended that the Jews of Europe distinguish between two groups of students. Both should begin with Bible study, but the group designated for an intellectual-scholarly career, a relatively small group of high quality, should at the age of twelve switch to a Talmudic track of study while the others will in all likelihood conclude their studies around that age and turn to making a living. In other words, Rabbi Hazan agreed that the existing curriculum of the maskilim was well suited to the vast majority of Jewish children, but he held that if all students were to learn only Bible, this would result in Judaism’s destruction. In order to avoid this destruction, the Jews of Europe needed to adopt the educational model of the Oriental elite.

A historical perspective on the cultural relations between Europe and the East Rabbi Hazan was well aware that the notion that Oriental culture might have certain advantages relative to European culture would be hard for many of his readers to entertain, accustomed as they were to assuming European superiority. He therefore put in the mouth of the merchant (!) an

Ibid. Rabbi Hazan hints that he is not satisfied with the current structure of curriculum in the Middle East as they too lack proper balance between Biblical and Talmudic studies with too little Bible being studied. As he wrote: “the ‘illness of dichotomy’ is always fatal. For you, the Bible is primary and Talmud is incidental and barely existent. While with us, for the most part, the complete opposite is the case” (Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 35). However, given a choice between these two imperfect situations, the situation in the Orient is to be preferred because—as quoted in the body of the article above—while someone trained in Talmudic study has a chance of becoming a philologist, the opposite is not the case. 87 88

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impassioned speech that places the cultural relations between Europe and the Orient in a broad historical perspective: Who were the faithful trustees of Greek wisdom? Who guarded the walls of intricate crafts and of elevated knowledge during the time known by historians as the Middle Ages? Who published great and wondrous works translating all of Greek wisdom into their own language – if not the Arabs?89 They were the faithful guardians of all of wisdom, knowledge, history and philosophy. … While in the time of our master Rabbi Hai Gaon,90 that is the time of the Middle Ages mentioned above, all the Europeans were ignorant and illiterate, no more than fishermen and forest-dwellers. And all the wisdom and the heresy and the mythology – as in the books of the Sabi’a91 and the like – were all translated into Arabic. … At that time, as we have said, the Arabic language was the mother of all types of wisdom and knowledge, whether good or bad, just like the modern and well ordered German language is today.92 Rabbi Hazan accepted the view that in his own time Western Europe was more dynamic than the Orient in the realms of science and thought and that German rather than Arabic was the language of intellectual and scientific progress in the mid-nineteenth century. However, he held that this contingent reality should not be taken as proof of the inherent virtues of either of these languages nor of the relative merits of those who speak them. The wheel of change turns in the world, and while the Europeans were at the forefront of progress in Hazan’s time, this had come to be only thanks to the intellectual inheritance transmitted by the Arabs:

Rabbi Hazan here alludes to the great enterprise of translation of Greek works into Arabic under the 'Abbasid Khalifate. Cf. Dimitri Gutas, Greek thought, Arabic culture: the Graeco-Arabic translation movement in Baghdad and early 'Abbasid society (second-fourtheighth-tenth centuries), London, Routledge, 1998. See also D. Sourdel, “Bayt al-Hịkma,” Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, Leiden, 2010; but cf. Dimitri Gutas and Kevin van Bladel, “Bayt al-Hikma,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE. Brill Online, 2012. Reference. Bar Ilan University. http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-3/baytal-hikma-COM_22882 [accessed 17 June 2012]. 90 Hai Gaon (939–1038) was one of the greatest of all the Geonim, the heads of the great academies of Iraq who were the halakhic, intellectual, and spiritual leaders of world Jewry c. 650–1050. 91 The Sabi’a mentioned by Hazan (who knew of them via Maimonides) were a syncretistic sect living in the area of Harran in today’s northern Syria. They convinced the Muslims who conquered their region that the Quran recognized their right to practice their religion (cf. B. Carra de Vaux, “al-Sābi'a.” Encyclopaedia of Islam, First Edition (1913–1936). Brill Online. http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-1/al-sabia-SIM_5007 [accessed 2012]). Texts describing their pagan religion were known in Islamic times and were familiar to Maimonides, who relied upon them in many of his statements about idolatrous religion. See: Schwarz (note 42 above), vol. 1, p. 162, note 3. 92 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 15. 89



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It was the Arabs and the Jews who began in Greek Italy,93 that is the kingdom of Napoli – or as they call it [today] “The Kingdom of the Two Sicilies” – to translate from Arabic to Latin and the like all the sciences mentioned, those that today one sees filling the European books with all kinds of knowledge and wisdom and craft.94 Clearly, Rabbi Hazan was well-versed in central aspects of the historicalcultural narrative based on modern European research in his time regarding the qualities of medieval Arabic culture and its important role as a link in the chain connecting ancient Greek and Roman culture with the renewal of European culture following the Dark Ages. He also knew of the important function filled by the Jewish and Arab translators who worked in the court of the Sicilian rulers, translating books from Arabic to Latin, the language of Catholic European culture.95 Since the only European language in which he was fluent was Italian, it is quite likely that he derived much of this information from the first one or two volumes of Michele Amari’s great study of the history of the Muslims in Sicily.96 This also indicates that, even after leaving Italy, Rabbi Hazan continued to take an interest in the intellectual world of Italian culture.97 The historical-cultural description that Rabbi Hazan placed in the mouth of the merchant expresses the view that Europeans, who in the past were “ignorant and illiterate, no more than fishermen and forest-dwellers,” had benefited from their contact with Arabic culture; they could not have attained their present scientific-cultural level if not for the foundations laid by the Arabic–Latin translators in Sicily. However, Rabbi Hazan also thought that much of what was good in the Orient had not been internalized by the Europeans; thus, they continued to manifest several particularly negative essential characteristics. These characteristics, whose sources were in gentile Europe, had been absorbed by European Jews, and so they too were afflicted with serious defects. Let us now turn to Rabbi Hazan’s discussion of this matter.

I.e. Magna Graecia. Hazan, ibid. 95 For an up-to-date summary of research on the work of translation from Arabic to Latin that took place in Sicily in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, see: R. Traini, “Sịkịlliya or Sikịlliyya,” Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, Leiden, 2010, http://www.brillonline.nl/subscriber/ entry?entry=islam_COM-1075, subchapter “Cultural Life.” 96 Michele Amari, Storia dei Musulmani di Sicilia, vol. 1, Firenze, 1854; vol. 2, Firenze, 1858. I am grateful to Dr. Asher Sela of Jerusalem and Dr. Daniella de Castro of Rome, who responded to my request for assistance and directed my attention to this pioneering and monumental work. 97 When Amari’s work was first published in 1854, Rabbi Hazan was already serving as rabbi of Corfu, and when the second volume was published in 1858 he was serving as rabbi of Alexandria. 93 94

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The corruptive influence of general European culture upon European Jews Rabbi Hazan specified three great defects characteristic of European culture that had also come to characterize European Jews. 1. A radically dichotomous perception of cultural and human reality. When the merchant claims that “external studies” are a secondary and dangerous occupation, the Jerusalem rabbis lash out at him: “Put your hand to your mouth, merchant! Don’t infect us with the European pestilence, the plague and illness of dichotomous thinking that has infected it for years.”98 They explain to the merchant that one should not take an unequivocal stance for or against studying non-Jewish sources but rather should differentiate intelligently between different aspects of such studies. They declare that, once a rabbinic scholar had “filled his stomach with the meat of Torah,” i.e. acquired a good measure of Jewish knowledge, it is appropriate for him to “stand in the halls of the natural sciences … and if he should do so, surely his eyes would be filled with light, enabling him to understand several deep matters found in the Bible, Talmud and Midrash.”99 The merchant continues in his opposition and claims that it is impossible that a Jew might gain something positive from studying “the wisdom of the Greeks, who had neither seen God’s deeds nor heard tell of Him.” To this, the Jerusalem rabbis reply: Don’t generalize about all of Greek wisdom. … We should take from them what is good, for they are “wonderful in counsel, excellent in wisdom”100 with regard to the wisdom, wonders and secrets of nature. Acclamations of “Grace, Grace”101 befit them, for all they have done, succeeded and accomplished in renewing the natural sciences like a youthful eagle … all that is below the moonly sphere. Good for them! As it is written: “He has given the Earth to the children of man” not only to Israel.102 The merchant, qua traditionalist European Jew, expresses (perhaps out of a sense of defensiveness) reservation and recoil with regard to “universal” intellectual activity. Strikingly, it is precisely the Oriental rabbis who take a positive stance toward the achievements of scientific research, expressing

Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 24. And similarly ibid., p. 73. Ibid., p. 24. Sagi (note 7 above) discussed in depth Rabbi Hazan’s positive attitude toward universal education and its values. 100 Cf. Isa. 28.29. 101 Cf. Zecha. 4.7. 102 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 24. 98 99



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particular esteem for the discoveries of researchers in the modern era who had rejuvenated the natural sciences. They interpret the verse “The heavens are the heavens of the Lord; but the Earth hath He given to the children of men” (Ps. 115.16) as establishing that God wants humans to engage in scientific research with regard to the world and all that is in it; ipso facto, such activity by non-Jews mandates positive appreciation from a Jewish perspective. In contrast, writes Hazan, that which is beyond the natural sciences, i.e. that which pertains to the world of beliefs and religioustheological opinions, “we will not accept: ‘not from them, not from their tumult’, not from their students and not from the copiers of their books.”103 2. Preference for a broad superficial and quick education over deep and thorough knowledge. In the course of a complaint by the merchant with regard to what he regards as a tediously lengthy and complicated argument advanced by the two emissaries, he says to them: “My masters, a great miracle has been done today for your sake, in that we were not joined today by Europeans of the current generation, for they would have laughed at us unabashedly,” the Jerusalem rabbis respond severely: You too have been caught in the net of desire that seduced the Europeans of our time, and that is the great desire to know every matter and every construct in full – “on one foot”!104 … by studying the volumes of the Encyclopedia all have become scholars etc. etc. Woe to this improper attribute, for in the end it will lead to heresy, Heaven forefend! For it is completely impossible that “on one foot” everyone will turn into rabbis, philosophers and philologists. Because doing so requires a great deal of time!105 Rabbi Hazan is revealed here as a humanist and anti-populist. He rejected those who view reality dichotomously and advocated an awareness of complexity; precisely because of the complexity of things, he opposed short-cuts in the area of education. He regarded the project of the French Encyclopedists of the second half of the eighteenth century as an archetypal short-cut of this kind as it attempted to present to the broad reading public all of human knowledge from A to Z in one work. Rabbi Hazan believed that well-grounded, in-depth, and complex knowledge goes well with a serious religious worldview while superficial, rapidly acquired knowledge “in the end will lead to heresy.” 3. Distorted theological and religious worldviews. Unfortunately, wrote Ibid., pp. 24–5. “Not from them, not from their tumult”—cf. Ezek. 7.11. Cf. Talmud Bavli, Shabbat 31a, where a potential convert asks rabbis to teach him the entire Torah “on one foot,” i.e. (according to traditional commentators) quickly and simply. 105 Hazan, Sheerit ha-Nahala, p. 83. 103 104

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Rabbi Hazan, among the Jews of Europe there are intellectuals who have in fact reached the terminus described above: Heresy and apostasy. … shone from the foreheads of our nation’s people in this evil generation; why, there are several professors and teachers of languages and sciences who don’t even believe in the existence of the warm bread and cooked food that they eat every day.106 Another fault with European culture is mentioned by the emissaries, who complain that the merchant does not relate with an open mind to their logical arguments because he is influenced by the skepticism and cynicism characteristic of Europeans in general: We say things that are clear as the light of the sun and the moon, which contain elevated wisdom, and you banish them to the wilderness and the shadow of death with worn and patched claims mixed with the oil of European irreverence that burns the hearts of those with clean intelligence, clear ideas and pure hearts!107 The Jerusalem rabbis explain that the European tendency to illogical and heretical attitudes ultimately derives from European culture’s Christian context. Despite their Jewishness, European Jews live among a Christian majority, and they could not help but absorb distorted influences from this culture: We then also say about Europeans in general something perfectly true: Their imagination has become so coarsened by the coarseness of unformed matter that they do not know how to distinguish in their beliefs between the living and the dead, and in their arguments – between falsehood and truth. And the Israelites their neighbors learned much from their ways and have absorbed their nature and their temper.108 Those whose religious beliefs do not distinguish between the living and the dead are of course the Christians, who report that their Messiah was alive, killed on the cross, buried—and yet actually alive. Is it reasonable that people capable of such deep and utter confusion could distinguish between falsehood and truth? Certainly not, says Rabbi Hazan. And is it reasonable that someone could live over a long period in a society whose majority is characterized by such weird thought and not be affected? The answer to this question too must be in the negative. Herein, then, lies the explanation Ibid., p. 12. “Don’t even believe in the existence of the warm bread and cooked food that they eat every day” is a metaphor for radical skepticism. 107 Ibid., p. 10. 108 Ibid. 106



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for the defective thought processes characteristic of European Jews: They were originally of fine stock, but they were unwittingly affected by their problematic and distorted environment.109 And if this sounds familiar—it is nothing other than the mirror image of the claims put forward by the merchant from Livorno, representative of “enlightened” (in its own eyes) European Jewry, with regard to the characteristic defects of Oriental Jews: Living as they do among the Ishmaelites who speak the corrupt Arabic language, their minds, thought processes, and modes of expression became defective—but this was not their fault.

Summary In this chapter I have not dealt with the whole of Rabbi Hazan’s views and opinions in his various works, nor even with the entire range of issues treated in Sheerit ha-Nahala. Rather, I focused only upon two intertwined issues that find clear expression in that composition: Rabbi Hazan’s attitude toward the Arabic language, and his attitude toward European vs. Oriental culture. It is now clear that he presented his positions on these topics in contrast to the positions typical of contemporary educated European Jews embodied in the persona of the merchant. The merchant is portrayed as party to the European sense of superiority with regard to the Arabic language and Oriental culture, and he considers the Jews of Oriental countries as part of that inferior Oriental realm. Rabbi Hazan presented an alternative worldview. Even though he did not have mastery of literary Arabic, he heaped praises upon it for two reasons: first, because of its importance for the study of the Hebrew language and for achieving a deep literary and philological understanding of the Bible and rabbinic texts; and second, thanks to its virtue in its own right, stemming from its closeness to the primordial Holy Tongue (which is not the Hebrew language!) that enabled a perfect correspondence between the world of thought and the world of expression. Modern European cultures owe an enormous debt to medieval Arabic culture, but, instead of showing appreciation, Europeans tend to belittle that culture and its bearers. As for European culture itself, Rabbi Hazan presents an extremely penetrating criticism. While praising its achievements in the natural sciences, he characterizes it as tending to a dichotomous view of reality, as impatient and superficial and as influenced by the deep flaws of Christian theological thought. If we accept Professor Hacker’s reasonable proposal with regard to the sources of the Jewish community of Livorno (note 60 above), this accusation can be related even more strongly to the historical experience of the Portuguese Jews, many of whom were Conversos raised upon Christian beliefs, who later fled to more tolerant countries where they were able to “return” to a Judaism they had not previously known. 109

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Rabbi Hazan noted that, unfortunately, European Jews had been deeply affected by these European shortcomings. But there is hope: If the Jews of Europe would open themselves to an honest dialogue with the intellectual Jewish elite of the Orient, they could come to understand the depth of the distress into which they had fallen, to receive positive influences from their Oriental brethren and thereby to repair both the ways in which they educate the younger generation and the type of religious-cultural thinking that characterizes their adults. Rabbi Hazan’s early death prevented him from realizing his plans to write exemplary and comprehensive works in Hebrew philology and Jewish thought. But the study of his last printed composition, Sheerit ha-Nahala, provides us with an opportunity to become acquainted with an extraordinary individual, raised and educated in the elite cultural tradition of the Sephardic rabbinic world in early nineteenth-century Jerusalem. Although he spent many years in Europe, where he appreciatively connected with the world of the general and the Jewish enlightenment, he then returned to Corfu and Alexandria and eloquently advocated the superior cultural qualities of the Orient, whose priority was evident to his eyes.

8 Rabbinic responses to transformationsin the social life of Egyptian Jews

Introduction: Egyptian Jews’ receptivity to European influence Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan, whom we discussed in Chapter 7, encountered contemporary European life and culture “in situ” during his travels in Europe and his service as Chief Rabbi of Rome during the 1840s. Later, he returned to the Middle East, and gave expression in Sheerit ha-Nahala to his views on the encounter of Oriental and Western Jewish culture and the relative merits of each. For obvious reasons, most Middle Easterners met European modernity not in Europe but rather in their lands of birth. Their encounter with aspects of this foreign culture led to changes in their own lives; in the current chapter we shall see how the rabbis of Egypt responded to such changes and transformations in the life of their community’s members. But first, a general overview. The encounter of Egyptian society with contemporary European influence in the wake of the brief French occupation of the country at the close of the eighteenth century was followed by transformations in Egyptian social structure and cultural life. However, scholars do not agree as to the extent and depth of these transformations. Some hold that there was a complete transformation of the basic character of social life in Egypt, while others maintain that only a small part of Egyptian society, primarily those linked to the sectors of government and administration, were noticeably affected by European culture and Western norms.1

For an example of the first view, see e.g. Nadav Safran, Egypt in Search of Political Community, Cambridge, 1961, p. 38. For an example of the second, see e.g. Gabriel Baer, Social Change in Egypt, 1800–1914, London, 1968, pp. 135–61. 1

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Whatever may have been the case for Egyptian society at large, it is clear that a considerable segment of the Jews in Egypt belonged to that sector of the Egyptian population that was significantly influenced by the European West in its behavior and social norms. Indeed, throughout this chapter, we shall see that many members of the Jewish community were affected by European culture and mores in a wide spectrum of their lives. This particular openness of the local Jews to such influence may be attributed to the synergy of several factors, listed here in increasing order of importance: (a) The Jews’ relatively limited involvement in the general indigenous Egyptian cultural and social world (b) The cultural orientation of local Jewish schools (c) The weakness of local institutions devoted to Jewish religiouscultural education and knowledge (d) The European citizenship held by many locally born Jews (e) The integration of a significant number of European-born Jews into the local Jewish community. Let us consider each of these factors per se.

Relative lack of involvement in indigenous Egyptian culture and society Let me begin with some counter-examples. Ya'aqub Sanu'a (1839–1912) was born in Egypt to an Italian Jewish father residing in Egypt who had married a local Jewess. His father worked for Prince Yaken, whose grandfather, Muhammad 'Ali, had been Khedive  [= ruler] of Egypt. Ya'aqub’s talents impressed the prince, who agreed to fund his education in  Italy where he studied Arts and Literature between 1853 and 1855. Returning to Egypt, he served as tutor for the prince’s children but then moved to Cairo, where he taught languages at the Polytechnic Institute. In Cairo, his talents became manifest in the realms of journalism and the theatre. His attacks (in the name of Egyptian nationalism) upon the policies of the Khedive Ism’ail were carried out first in the context of the plays he authored and staged and then in the satirical journal he founded, Abu an-Nadhara. This led to the journal’s suppression and forced Sanu’a into exile in Paris (1878), from where he continued to publish journals in Arabic and French, attacking Tawfik and then the British occupiers of Egypt. Sanu’a, whose cultural and political activities have attracted much scholarly attention, was one of the first Egyptian nationalists, and his work as an Arabic journalist and playwright is of great Egyptian cultural significance.2 2

Recent works on Sanu’a include: Eliane Ursula Ettmüller, The Construct of Egypt’s



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Murad Farag (1866–1956), a leading member of Cairo’s Karaite Jewish community,3 was a lawyer, poet and intellectual who, inter alia, served as both a legal advisor to the Khedive 'Abbas and as a dayyan of the Karaite religious court. Fully at home in Arabic, he wrote some 30 volumes in that language. In several of his works he stressed the commonality of Arabic and Hebrew, and this is reflected especially in his four-volume comparative dictionary of Arabic and Hebrew, as well as in his Arabic translation of the first chapters of Genesis. He wrote essays and poetry as a patriotic Egyptian and also identified with Jewish national sentiment, as reflected in his work alQudsiyyat. As Sasson Somekh notes of the latter work, “It is not addressed to Jews alone. Rather, the poems and prose are meant to present Jewish problems and aspirations to the general public … there is frequent recourse to the theme of Jewish–Arab and Jewish–Muslim brotherhood, a brotherhood based on a common ancestry, similar traditions, and affinity of language.”4 Without in any way denying the significance of these two figures and several others similar to them, it must by acknowledged that the cultural and linguistic orientations of most Egyptian Jews during the four decades between 1882 and 1922 were not in line with those of Sanu’a and Farag. Reuven Snir, who has devoted much research to the involvement of Middle Eastern Jews in modern Arabic culture, sums up with regard to the Jews of Egypt: The participation of Egyptian Jews in Arab culture was … relatively limited from the point of view of the Arabization of the intellectual elite, especially if compared to Iraq. The main reason for this was that Arabic had low status among Egyptian Jews. … Most of the intellectuals among Egyptian Jews had somehow excluded themselves from Arab culture and language long before Arab and Islamic Egyptianness was defined in a way that excluded them.5 National-Self in James Sanua’s Early Satire & Caricature, Klaus Schwarz, 2012; Ziad Fahmy, “Francophone Egyptian Nationalists, Anti-British Discourse, and European Public Opinion, 1885–1910: The Case of Mustafa Kamil and Ya'qub Sannu',” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, vol. 28, number 1, 2008, pp. 170–83; Lital Levy, Jewish Writers in the Arab East: Literature, History, and the Politics of Enlightenment, 1863–1914, Dissertation, Berkeley, 2007, which, on p. 142 note 3, provides an extensive list of works discussing Sanu'a. 3 For more on this community, see Chapter 11. 4 Sasson Somekh, “Participation of Egyptian Jews in Modern Arabic Culture, and the Case of Murad Farag,” Shimon Shamir (ed.), The Jews of Egypt: A Mediterranean Society in Modern Times, Westview Press, 1987, p. 130–40. Lital Levy (note 2 above) discusses Farag on pp. 175–97 and provides extensive references. A more recent article provides in-depth cultural and linguistic analysis of Farag’s works of biblical translation and interpretation; see: Nahem Ilan, “Ha-'Aravit ha-Yehudit ha-Post Assimilatorit” [Post-Assimilationary Judeo-Arabic], A. Ettinger and D. Bar-Ma'oz (eds), Mi-Tuv Yosef, Haifa, 2011, vol. 3, pp. 250–65. 5 Reuven Snir, “Jewishness, Arabness and Egyptianness: The Participation of Egyptian Jews

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Snir’s last sentence is absolutely correct. However, it should be noted that “Egyptianness” was also never defined as clearly including the Jewish minority on a fully equal basis. Although some leaders of Egypt’s nationalist movement advocated a vision of the Egyptian nation in which members of all faith communities would be fully equal members of the polity, Egyptian culture and society were still closely affiliated with Islam. Indeed, in 1908, Murad Farag, a sincere Egyptian patriot, writes of the pain and insult he felt as a dedicated patriot when addressed in a less honorable way by his Muslim peers because he was a Jew. After Britain conquered Egypt in 1882, many Jews felt that their welfare and wellbeing were safer under British colonial rule than they would be under an independent Nationalist Egyptian regime. Their doubts as to the measure of equality they would enjoy in the event of full Egyptian independence may have been another contributing factor to their relative lack of involvement in indigenous Egyptian culture.

The cultural orientation of local Jewish schools The distance of local Jews from Arabic culture was not only the result of their feeling unwanted by Egyptian Muslim society but also a consequence of the curriculum adopted by Jewish schools in Egypt. As we noted at the beginning of the previous chapter, the first modern Jewish schools in Islamic countries were opened in Egypt in 1840 at the suggestion of two leading Jewish-European activists. This initiative received positive response and support from the local Jewish leadership—both rabbinic and “secular.”6 These schools, and the other educational institutions founded in Jewish communities during the second half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, emphasized the study of European languages and European literature. Within a short time a considerable part of the upper and middle economic classes of Jewish Egyptian society were speaking French or Italian among themselves and reading magazines and literature in these languages. A not inconsiderable number of these Jews had but limited command of colloquial Egyptian Arabic, and their command of literary Arabic was poor.7 By the end of the period of time on which we are focusing this was beginning to change, and a segment of middle-class Egyptian Jewry was becoming more at home in Arabic; it is for the sake of these Jews that Dr. Hillel Farhi translated into Arabic the basic works of Jewish liturgy—the Passover Haggada, the Siddur (prayer book), and the Mahazorim (liturgical collections) for the Jewish in Arabic Press and Journalism during the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” Australian Journal of Jewish Studies 20, 2006, pp. 199–238. The quotation is from p. 203. 6 See Chapter 7 at note 3. 7 For a general view of the Egyptian Jewish community in the nineteenth century, including aspects of education and linguistic preferences, see: Landau, Jacob, Jews in Nineteenth Century Egypt, New York: New York University Press, 1969.



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Holidays—and composed many other works on Judaism for the edification of the Jewish public.8 But even then, French, English, and Italian were regarded as languages of higher social-cultural valance than Arabic, and most Egyptian Jews were on the fringes of contemporary Egyptian intellectual culture.9

The weakness of local institutions devoted to Jewish religious-cultural education and knowledge For several decades, beginning with the 1870s, Egyptian Islam experienced a significant movement of religious renaissance, with one of its leaders and arguably its greatest luminary—Muhammad ‘Abduh—ultimately being appointed to the highest Islamic position in Egypt, rector of the AlAzhar academy.10 From what we shall see in this and the following chapters, it is clear that the views and halakhic rulings of Egypt’s leading rabbis during this period were analogous in many ways to the confident but open religious outlook characterizing ‘Abduh at his best. However, Egypt lacked the Jewish intellectual religious infrastructure that could have nurtured a wider, public religious-spiritual revival movement. And thus, in c. 1908, Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim’on writes: This pleasant city [Cairo] is barren of yeshivas of students of the Torah. Aside from the [rabbinical] court of justice and those religious functionaries linked to it – the remaining [people of Jewish learning] could be counted by a mere child.11 Nahum Slouschz, who visited Egypt in 1897, notes that this was not a development caused by European influence: “It is already several generations now that Torah has been forgotten in Egypt; learned persons

See: Nahem Ilan, “Le-Mi No'adah Haggadat Farhi,” JSIJ 4, 2005, pp. 3–59 (available online at http://www.biu.ac.il/JS/JSIJ/4-2005/Ilan.pdf). 9 See Gudrun Kramer, The Jews in Modern Egypt, 1914–1952, Seattle, University of Washington Press, 1989. pp. 2–9. 10 A recent important work on 'Abduh is: Mark Sedgwick, Muhammad Abduh, Oneworld Press, 2010. 11 Introduction to his book Nehar Mitzrayyim [The River of Egypt], Jerusalem, 1908. Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on was born in Rabat (Morocco) in 1848 and emigrated to Jerusalem with his father—the distinguished Rabbi David Ben-Shim'on, founder of Jerusalem’s Maghrebi (Jewish-Moroccan) communal framework. He grew up and received his rabbinic education in Jerusalem and served as Chief Rabbi of Cairo for 30 years (1891–1921). He then retired to Tel Aviv, where he passed away in 1928. For a concise biography, see: Zvi Zohar, “Ben-Simeon, Raphael Aaron,” EJIW, Brill, 2010, vol. 1, pp. 422–3. 8

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are very few.”12 This is confirmed by academic research. After surveying rabbinic works produced in eighteenth-century Egypt, Shlomo Zalman Havlin summarizes: “In the eighteenth century, then, Egypt did not excel in the area of spiritual and religious creativity.”13 Leah Bornstein-Makowsky, in a review of Jewish educational institutions in Ottoman Egypt, found that in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there were yeshivot in Egypt only in Cairo and Alexandria, and these were “quite small.” As to the eighteenth century, she found no evidence of the existence of any yeshiva in Egypt at all.14 This last assertion may not be completely exact. The existence of a yeshiva in Alexandria in the 1770s is attested to by the city’s chief rabbi, Eliyahu Israel (d. 1784),15 and around the end of the eighteenth century there was advanced study of Talmud in Dumyat/Damietta led by Rabbi M[eir?] Ibn Marji, and a beit midrash in Cairo with several prominent scholars.16 When Israel Moshe Hazan was rabbi of Alexandria, a small yeshiva probably existed there.17 However, aside from that small yeshiva, we do not know of any advanced religious educational institution that existed in Egypt during the nineteenth century. In light of the situation in the preceding centuries, it seems that the lack of such institutions in nineteenth-century Egypt was not a direct result of European influence but rather a continuation of pre-colonial Egyptian Judaism’s general decline during the eighteenth century.18 The dearth of indigenous religious scholarship in Egypt and the lack of an extensive Jewish religious intelligentsia meant that these could not serve as a cultural factor moderating the Jewish public’s enthusiastic reception of modern influences in the socio-normative sphere, once winds of change started coursing through the streets of Alexandria and Cairo.

Nahoum Slouschz, “haYehudim be-Mitzrayyim“ [The Jews in Egypt], Ahiasaf 5, 1898, pp. 104–19. The quote is from p. 109. 13 Shlomo Zalman Havlin, haYetzira haToranit [Religious Literary Creativity], Jacob Landau (ed.), Toledot Yehudei Mitzrayyim ba-Tequfa ha-Uthmanit [The History of the Jews of Egypt During the Ottoman Period], Jerusalem, 1988, pp. 245–310. The quotation is from p. 283. 14 Leah Bornstein-Makowsky, “haQehila uMosdoteha” [The community and its Institutions], Landau, ibid., pp. 120–216. Education during this period is discussed on pp. 212–14. 15 See: Rabbi Eliyahu Israel, Kise Eliyahu, Salonica, 1811, Orah Hayyim section 657 note a. 16 See: Rabbi Shlomo Hazan, Ben Shlomo, Alexandria, 1900, p. 43a. 17 See: Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan, Kerakh Shel Romi, Livorno, 5636 (1876), fol. 95a. 18 A decline that Jacob Landau regards as a riddle requiring a solution; see: Jacob M. Landau, “The Decline of the Jewish Community in Eighteenth Century Cairo: A New Interpretation in the Light of Two Iberian Chronicles,” Shimon Shamir (ed.), The Jews in Egypt, A Mediterranean Society in Modern Times, Boulder and London, 1987, pp. 15–29. 12



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The European citizenship of many indigenous Jews Under the conditions of the Capitulation agreements, the citizens of many European countries enjoyed a privileged position in the Ottoman Empire and were practically exempt from the jurisdiction of the local legal system and bureaucracy. This led many Jews who had been born in Egypt, or had immigrated to Egypt from other Islamic lands, to try to obtain such status. Indeed, many succeeded: In 1897, 49.6% of Egypt’s 25,200 Jews held foreign citizenship; by 1917 the same was true for 58.1% of the country’s 59,581 Jews.19 Thus, in addition to the three factors already outlined above, the fact that many locally born Jews held European citizenship was a factor in bringing them close to European attitudes. A person who enjoyed the protection of a European country and saw it as his shield and shelter was obviously prone to look favorably upon the judicial norms, and quite probably also the sociocultural norms, prevalent in that country. Furthermore, many Jews who had not managed to obtain European citizenship very much coveted it and similarly tended to regard European mores as superior to the values of local Egyptian society. An expression of such a positive image of European mores held by Jews of the area, and attributed by extension to European Jews, can be seen in the tone of hurt and disbelief in the rhetorical question levelled by the Sephardic dayyanim (rabbinical judges) of Jaffa toward a Sephardic Jew from Manchester, England, who, late in the nineteenth century, had married a Jewish girl from a wealthy Port Said family without telling her that he was already married to another woman back in England: Where, then, is the custom of the Europeans, they of tact, praiseworthiness and good faith, who do not go back on their words? And how could it have even crossed the mind of the maiden that he might have a wife and be cheating on her?20 These words imply that if this were a local Jew, it might have occurred to the girl that the groom-to-be was not introducing himself truthfully and in good faith—but how could she even imagine that a man of Europe would lie and cheat?! Indeed, even such an intellectually sophisticated person as

19 Sergio Della Pergola, “haDemographia,” Nahem Ilan (ed.), Mitzrayyim [Egypt], Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, , 2008, pp. 33–48 (see table 8 at p. 47). 20 From a halakhic responsum by Rabbis Mas'oud haCohen, Yosef Ibn Simhon, and Yosef Refael Ibn Nun, which was written around 1898 and printed in: Eliyahu Hazan, Responsa Ta’alumot Lev, Part 3, Alexandria 1903; Kontres Hashlihut [Section on Legal Agency] part 1. The quotation is from folio 86b.

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Murad Farag also held a hierarchical view in which the modern West was a model for the less developed East.21

The integration of European Jews into the local communities All of these four factors were eclipsed, during this period, by a fifth: the emigration of European Jews to the Land of the Nile. The direct influence of European Jews upon the cultural-religious world of Egyptian Jewry is evident in halakhic literature even prior to the period of our discussion. Thus, during the second half of the 1850s a halakhic inquiry was posed by the lay leaders of Alexandria’s Jewish community to the Rishon le-Tziyyon Hayyim Nissim Abul'afia (d. 1861), Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem: Recently, there arrived to the land of their birth [= to Alexandria] several rich individuals of high standing who want to introduce innovations that have not been known or heard since the founding of that country [Alexandria], according to the customs of their land of birth, Edom [Europe and probably, in this case, Italy]: to suspend burial of the deceased for 24 hours from the time of their passing. And the many residents of the country [the veteran members of the Alexandria congregation] are very upset by the [prospect of] changing of their customs, which are those of Turkey, i.e. to bury the dead as soon as possible.22 As the situation of Jews in Eastern Europe worsened following the pogroms of 1881, Jews from those areas arrived in Egypt in increasing numbers. These immigrants were merely a small rivulet of the great river of Jews leaving Europe during this period, but a significant number relative to the Jewish population of Egypt. They came from a Jewish world that was deeply affected by modernity and secularization. Nevertheless, the local Jewish community accepted them as fellow-Jews rather than as (alien) Europeans. Consequently, the defensive façade that Jews were wont to adopt when dealing with non-Jews was almost absent from these intracommunal relationships. Through direct contact with these immigrants, local Jews became acquainted with European culture and way of life in a much closer manner than occurred among non-Jewish Egyptians.23

Lital, note 2 above, at p. 190. Rabbi Abul'afia (1795–1861) asked the younger Rabbi Shalom Moshe Hai Gaguin (d. 1883) to respond to this question on his behalf. Rabbi Gaguin supported the local Alexandrian tradition as halakhically correct. See Responsa Yismah Lev, Jerusalem, 1878, section Yoreh De’ah, responsum 9. 23 Compare Baer (note 2 above), p. 160, who asserts that both in the urban centres and in the Egyptian social elite there was but very limited social interaction between Europeans and (non-Jewish) Egyptians. 21 22



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Jewish immigrants from Europe to Egypt were thus a major factor in the introduction of European influence into the local community. In sum, modern European influence was felt throughout Egypt not only in matters of technology but also in the mores and lifestyle of the educated classes. Several synergetic reasons contributed to the fact that such influence, in matters of social life and values, strongly affected the Jews of Egypt. We shall now review some of the ways in which European norms and lifestyles affected the Jews of Egypt and the manner in which halakhic scholars in Egypt responded to this influence.

Time and space One symptom of Western influence on Egyptian Jews was the transition to European units of measurement. Space began to be divided by metric units: the day by the European clock and the year by the Gregorian calendar. A problem of translation evolved, and it is evident that the rabbis of Egypt were aware of these issues and related to them. It should be noted that these matters were moot in Middle Eastern society in general: while the Ottoman Empire had officially legislated transition from traditional to metric units of weights and measurements in 1869, public resistance to this move, especially at the grassroots level, effectively postponed implementation of this law until 1931.24 Rabbi Aharon Mendel HaCohen, rabbi of the Ashkenazic congregation of Cairo and later a dayyan in the city’s Sephardic beit din, discussed the calculation of the amount of water required for the mikveh (pool of ritual immersion).25 After quoting several rabbis who lived at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and who calculated the volume of water needed in terms of “fingers,” or oqam and dirham, he writes: “Therefore I have come to clarify the calculation, to explain [the volume of the mikveh] in terms of the measurements customary in our times: in centimeters, which are one hundred to each meter.” His conclusion: the necessary amount is “four hundred ninety seven thousand and one hundred sixty [cubic] centimeters.” In order to simplify things he suggests using a basic unit of measurement of “one meter by one meter, of the height of eighty four centimeters,” a

See: Feza Günergun, “Weights and Measures,” Gábor Ágoston and Bruce Masters (eds), Encyclopedia of the Ottoman Empire, New York, 2009, pp. 595–8. 25 Rabbi Aharon Mendel Hacohen, Yad Re'em (the collected writings of Rabbi A. M. HaCohen), Tel Aviv, 5720/1960, p. 130. Rabbi Aharon Mendel HaCohen (Tiberias 1866–Haifa 1928) served as rabbi of the Ashkenazic community in Cairo during the years 1897–1910. When that community decided to choose a more “modern“ rabbi who could preach in German, he was invited by the Sephardic community to serve as a dayyan on their beit din (religious court), which he did from 1910 until 1927. His detailed biography is related in Rabbi Hayyim Naftali Weissblum’s extensive introduction to Yad Re'em. 24

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measurement that contains a little more than the necessary amount but no fractions of liters, “and with this measurement the necessary amount in all the bath houses according to their length and width and depth can be calculated easily, by anybody who is proficient in the science of measurement.” From this quotation it is clear that the change to the metric system did not seem to Rabbi haCohen to be a significant matter of principle but rather a fact that had to be taken into account and employed to articulate the relevant measurements according to Jewish law. This assessment of the abandonment of long-established measuring systems in favor of new ones in the matters of length and volume was not inevitable. The attitude of the halakhic decisor determined whether the problem should be viewed as practical or as a matter of principle and all the more so with regard to units of time. The Chief Rabbi of Cairo, Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on, wrote about this issue: Know, that our rabbis, the master-calculators of the phases [of the moon] and the cycles [of the year] count the hours of the day according to the custom of the Arabs, i.e. they count the 24 hours of the day from the beginning of day. And it is known that according to the calculation of our holy Torah the night goes with the day that follows it, as proven from the six days of Creation.26 Not only had the beginning of the day changed but also the way hours were calculated: Jewish tradition is in agreement with: … the hours according to Arab custom, who start counting the 24 hours of the day from the time of sundown, which is the summoning of the AlMaghreb, which is always [counted as] the twelfth hour at the end of the day … [Not so the European clock, according to which] the hour twelve is always at the middle of the day and the hour twelve is the middle of the night, summer and winter alike. And so, confusion now exists in all seasons’ timings.27 The clock of the Talmudic rabbis is based on the Biblical concept of time, and the Arab clock is identical to that of the Talmudic rabbis; the European clock is very different, and its use causes confusion in calculations necessary for Jewish law. This state of affairs seems almost to beg rabbis to decide that the rabbinic/Arab clock should be used by Jews and the European one avoided. But Rabbi Ben-Shim’on did not decide so. In his opinion, the Nehar Mitzrayyim (note 6 above) 78b. In the Biblical account of creation, the period of darkness precedes that of light, e.g. “And there was evening and there was morning, the third day.” Cf. Genesis, ch. 1. Similarly, days of the Hebrew calendar begin at nightfall and cease at the following nightfall. 27 Ibid., 67b–68a. 26



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way in which numbers are assigned to hours should be viewed as mere convention, devoid of any religious halakhic value. Indeed, this convention had become common to the whole Western world, and Egypt was part of the Western world, in this respect: The order of the hours of the days according to the European custom – today almost the whole world counts that way, except in the cities of Turkey; and here too in all the kingdom of Egypt, their hours are according to the European custom.28 In light of Ben-Shim'on’s awareness of this “global” state of affairs, he decided to devote a chapter in his book Nehar Mitzrayyim to formulating a simple method that would be understood by the whole Jewish public and would enable them to “co-ordinate the Arab enumeration of the hours with the European … in order to lift the obstacle from the way of the Holy Nation.”29 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on differentiates between the day itself, which must start in the evening according to Jewish law, and the numeration of hours, which he defines as a technical conventional matter. Evidently, his distinction is between the inner division of the day (convention) and the framing of the day itself (principle). And what about larger time units? Since the Muslim occupation in the seventh century ce, the rulers of Egypt and its people used the Hijri (Muslim) calendar. For over 1,200 years the Jews of Egypt lived within Muslim culture but nevertheless vigilantly adhered to the Jewish calendar. In light of what we have seen above, this is not surprising: if the borders of the day were considered a matter of principle, all the more so the identification of the day within the calendar, the very thing essential for its definition as a holy or secular day, as a day of mourning or a holiday … And lo, after but a few years of European rule, a complete change took place in this regard: the Jews of Egypt switched almost completely to using the calendar prevalent in Europe! This was attested to by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, who wrote: We have heard many complaints from many completely pious people who transgressed unwittingly and ate on the [fast day of the] seventeenth day of Tammuz30 because they did not know on which day the fast

Ibid. Ibid., 78a. 30 The month of Tammuz falls in the summer. According to tradition, on the 17th of Tammuz (in the year 586 bce) the Babylonian forces of King Nebuchadnezzar breached the walls of Jerusalem and began advancing within the city toward the Temple, which they ultimately destroyed three weeks later on the ninth of Av. Between the destruction of that First Temple and the construction of the Second Temple, the seventeenth of Tammuz was designated as a day of fasting and commemoration. After the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70 ce, the fast was reinstated. 28 29

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occurred, for in order to trade with the nations they count according to the solar months …31 The contrast between this new state of affairs and the condition under Muslim rule is striking and requires explanation. The European calendar, no less than the Muslim one, is a religious calendar: the years are counted beginning with the birth of Jesus, and its current form was set with the official approval of Pope Gregory the 13th, of the Apostolic See of Peter … What, then, caused the rapid adoption of this calendar by the Jews of Egypt? This question is intensified by the fact that the complaints mentioned by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on were not raised by Jews who tended toward secularization but rather by “many completely pious people.” It seems that the answer to our question is in the remainder of Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s previously quoted words: “many completely pious believers … in order to trade with the nations count according to the solar months, as do the citizens and the state.” Significantly, the Western powers had succeeded in characterizing their common calendar as a secular civilian calendar, used for reasons of mere economic and social convenience, and devoid of any religious-cultural specificity. By virtue of this image, it was easy for the European calendar to become current in populations that might well have been somewhat hostile toward it had they been fully aware of its religious Christian roots. And indeed, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on himself views the use of the Gregorian calendar as a mere pragmatic convention. The subject of the calendar reflects an important element that advanced the absorption of European culture in its various aspects by the peoples of Asia and Africa during this period, i.e. European culture’s self-perception (and its propagators’ presentation of it) as a universal secular elite culture, free of any particular religious historical context, appropriate for the enlightened person wherever he may be.32 Modern Western cultural influence was evident, during the period of our discussion, not only in the units of time and space but also in many other everyday areas in the lives of the Jews of Egypt—among them, dress and outward appearance of men and women, recreational habits of various strata of society—and all this also had repercussions upon the atmosphere and functioning of the synagogue. Let us discuss these transformations and the rabbis’ responses to them.

Ibid., 39a. See Emil Fackenheim’s decisive words about the great deception embodied in this presentation: Emil Fackenheim, Encounters Between Judaism and Modern Philosophy, New York, 1978, pp. 3–6. 31 32



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Dress and outward appearance: Men The Jewish Egyptian man’s style of dress “In Egypt today, most everybody wears European-style clothing that comes sewn from abroad,” wrote Rabbi Ben-Shim'on.33 These words should give pause for thought. Even today, more than a century after these words were written, there is cause to doubt whether the statistical majority of the Egyptian populace usually wears European-style clothes; many villagers, as well as no small number of the urban lower classes, continue to dress in traditional Egyptian clothes. It is thus obvious that at the beginning of the twentieth century, when Rabbi Ben-Shim'on wrote these words, traditional dress was even more common. We should therefore interpret the rabbi’s testimony that “most everybody” in Egypt dresses in European style as reflecting the essence of the social world to which he related: first, the urban Jewish population, regarding whom his assessment makes sense; second, urban Muslim and Coptic Egyptians, who belonged to the higher socio-economic classes; and third, of course, Egypt’s European residents. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on even provides us with information about the attire of the well-dressed contemporary Egyptian man: The white pressed camize. And the jakita. And the fanilla that is close to the skin and is made to absorb the sweat. And a top garment that is called capoti …34 A correct, well-pressed appearance was sine qua non for a European gentleman of the era and therefore for a sizable proportion of Egyptian Jewish men. Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, the Chief Rabbi of Alexandria,35 pointed out that no contradiction need exist in this matter between commitment to fashion and commitment to observance of the Sabbath: Now that it is the custom to wear European clothes, and the washed

Nehar Mitzrayyim 127a. Incidentally, the import of ready-made clothes from abroad, despite Egypt’s being one of the chief producers of cotton in the world, reflects the imperialist economic method. 34 Ibid., 136b. Camize = camise = shirt. Jakita = jacket. Fanilla = undershirt. Capoti = overcoat. The names for these garments are taken from a variety of European languages, and they are quoted by Rabbi Ben-Shim’on in the form in which they were known in modern spoken Arabic. This variety in itself reflects the polyglot European influences on Egypt in this area as well as Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s vocabulary in the matter of clothing. 35 Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan was born in Izmir around 1847, grew up and was educated in Jerusalem, served as Chief Rabbi of Tripoli (Libya) 1874–88 and then as Chief Rabbi of Alexandria until his death in 1908. For a concise biography, see: Zvi Zohar, “Hazzan, Elijah Bekhor,” EJIW (note 8 above), vol. 2. pp. 392–4. 33

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shirts and sleeves and collars are sent to the house of the [gentile] craftsman to be pressed with … hot iron, and sometimes they are returned from the house of the craftsman on Sabbath morning and the people wear them that same day – [this is not a problem because] they have a [halakhic] base to rely on.36 Pressed clothing also raised an issue with regard to the norms of mourning. In the Shulhan 'Arukh we find that “during the entire thirty days [of mourning] it is forbidden to wear pressed clothing …”.37 In practice, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on notes, this ruling is not observed in Egypt: “those in today’s Egypt who wear clothes according to the European custom and have the shirt pressed”—do not observe this norm.38 But he did not seek to condemn the members of his community; rather, he proceeded to justify their behavior: Perhaps they are relying on what was written by our Master [Rabbi Yosef Caro], in Yoreh De'ah, … that in present times there is no “ironing” since our “ironing” is like their “washing”. And also they conduct themselves leniently because usually within the thirty days [of mourning] they do not wear a new shirt, only [a shirt that has been] washed a few times, and they iron them.39 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on writes here in defense of the community’s praxis and attributes to the members of his congregation a reliance on halakhic opinions (with which they were probably not familiar at all) in order to characterize them as operating within the range of halakhically feasible opinions. However, not all cases could be defended this way.

Fashionable clothing and the ban on Kilayim40 Jewish Egyptian men’s aspiration to dress fashionably caused much confusion and embarrassment for those local Jewish tailors who wanted to act in consonance with Torah. This was because, in order to achieve the “correct look” for a stylish garment, it was customary to sew into it: An inforo, which in Arabic is called butana [lining], made from linen Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, Neve Shalom, Noh Amon (Alexandria), 5654/1894, p. 15a. Yoreh De'ah, ch. 389, paragraph 5. 38 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 158b. 39 Ibid. 40 The term kilayim is usually translated as “forbidden mixtures.” In this case, the reference is to a mixture of wool and linen, regarding which Torah says: “you shall not wear cloth combining wool and linen” (Deut. 22.11). Cf. Samuel Cooper, “The Laws of Mixture: An Anthropological Study in Halachah,” Harvey H. Goldberg (ed.), Judaism Viewed from Within and from Without, Albany: SUNY, 1987, pp. 55–74. 36 37



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that is a little stiff. And this is done in order to erect the form of the garment and its shape. And this butana is sewn from the inside by many stitches together with the outer woollen garment, and this constitutes a case of kilayim.41 What should the rabbi instruct those tailors to do? The easy solution would have been to forbid the tailors to sell clothes such as these to Jews, as the halakha forbids any Jew to dress another Jew in kilayim.42 But Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on did not take this course of action, … as it is very hard for the tailors to avoid putting the butana – which is kilayim – in European clothes. For if so – their livelihood will cease. In his opinion, preserving the livelihood of Jews is an important value, which should be taken into account in Jewish normative considerations even with regard to such a transgression explicitly forbidden by Torah. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on noted that Jewish tailors were of course allowed to manufacture garments that include kilayim and to sell them freely to non-Jews. However, … when a Jewish customer comes in [and expresses interest in buying such a garment], he [the tailor] must announce to him that there is kilayim in it. If he [the customer] refrains – very well. And if he does not heed, but rather intentionally decides to wear kilayim, this is what the tailor shall do to save himself from [transgressing] the aforementioned prohibitions: he himself should not dress the Jewish customer in the garment … only give it to him to put on by himself … or he should give it to his [the tailor’s, or the buyer’s] non-Jewish servant to dress him in it … and this suffices.43 In order to appreciate fully the significance of this halakhic decision we must bear in mind that the ban on wearing a combination of linen and wool is an unambiguous prohibition in the Torah, and Maimonides ruled uncompromisingly that: one who sees kilayim of Torah on another [Jew], even if he is walking in the market, must jump up and tear it off him immediately, even if that person is his rabbi who taught him wisdom. Because [concern for]

Nehar Mitzrayyim, 126b. Maimonides, Mishne Torah, Laws of Kilayim, ch. 10, halakha 31; compare Shulhan ‘Arukh, Yoreh De'ah, chapters 103, 104. 43 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 128a. 41 42

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a person’s dignity does not take precedence over a prohibition that is specified in the Torah.44 The gap between Maimonides’ demand for acute action against any Jew seen wearing kilayim and Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s directive—which specifies how a Jewish tailor can sell kilayim to a Jew who, forewarned as to the explicit prohibition nevertheless dons kilayim intentionally and in front of the tailor’s eyes45—reflects the gap between the atmosphere of a traditional medieval Jewish community and that of a modern Jewish community in an era of “freedom and liberty.” In modern conditions there is no existence for a non-sectarian Jewish community unless its members are wise enough to find a modus vivendi that does not include one person’s leaping at another and tearing off his garment when the latter strays from holy norms. Rabbi Ben-Shim’on’s halakhic decision expresses his determination to provide guidance for the members of his community in a way that will enable them to combine loyalty to halakha and existence side by side with Jews who stray from such loyalty.46

Effects of the changes in clothing on traditional customs of mourning The change to Western fashion of clothing contributed to the cessation of two ancient modes of mourning behavior, which are defined by the Talmud as totally mandatory: sitting on the ground, and wrapping the head in cloth. The requirement of sitting on the ground during mourning—incumbent upon both the mourner and those who come to console him—is derived from the behavior of Job and his friends: “They sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights” (Job 2.13). In the Shulhan 'Arukh it is said that the mourner’s duty is to sit “all day … upon the ground; and so, too,

Mishne Torah, op. cit., halakha 29. Of course, the reason for the buyer’s wearing the garment in the tailor’s shop is to check if the size is right for the buyer and what small alterations may need to be performed on the garment by the tailor! 46 Of course, a decision in this spirit is not a halakhic necessity but rather a halakhic implementation of a certain outlook on religion and values. A religious decisor might also have decided that if the choices were between preserving an inclusive Jewish community, in which there was no general observation of sacred norms, and the community’s breaking up into sub-units, then breaking up was preferable. Indeed, this was the decision made by prominent Orthodox rabbis, like Rabbi S. R. Hirsch, in nineteenth-century Europe, as well as by Jerusalem’s 'Edah Haredit referred to in Chapter 4. We thus have before us evidence of a difference between halakhic schools of thought as to the stand Judaism should take on the issue of the continued unity of the Jewish community under conditions of emancipation and freedom of opinion. 44 45



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those who console him may not sit anywhere but on the ground.”47 In several communities, exceptions to this rule had become conventional, and already by the second half of the eighteenth century it was normal, in Egypt, that the mourner not sit on the ground.48 Thus, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on writes that “it is not the custom in Egypt nor in these countries [the Middle East] to sit on the ground at all.”49 This behavior, which contradicts the words of the Shulhan 'Arukh, is justified by Rabbi Ben-Shim’on on several counts, including the following consideration: Today, when most of the world wears clothes according to the customs of Europe, and it is difficult for a person to sit on the floor … [for] because of his tight clothes he will be uncomfortable; and the rabbis of Talmudic times, may they rest in peace, did not intend to command the mourner to suffer from discomfort.50 One might argue that, if wearing European-style clothes leads to the abandonment of a halakhic directive explicated by the Shulhan 'Arukh, this clothing should then be abandoned in favor of a return to the Eastern style, which poses no problem to the fulfillment of traditional norms. However, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on does not choose this mode of response; rather, he sees the change in clothing as an empirical fact to which halakha must adjust itself—and not vice versa. As for those who come to console the mourners, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on notes that they, too, do not sit on the ground (as decreed by the Shulhan 'Arukh) but on regular chairs. As justification for this he cites the halakhic value of: … persons’ dignity (kevod ha-briyyot): because if you require them to sit on the ground [thus expressing respect for the mourners], no consolers will ever come to visit any mourner. And so the mourners too are willing to forgo this display of respect so that the consolers will express respect by coming to visit them.51 According to the Shulhan 'Arukh, respect toward the mourners requires the consolers to sit on the ground; according to Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, respect for the mourners will best be achieved by the consolers’ sitting on chairs. How so? Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s logic may be reconstructed as follows:

Shulhan 'Arukh, Yoreh De’ah, ch. 387, paragraph 1 As evidenced by the position taken by Rabbi Eliyahu Israel (rabbi of Alexandria, d. 1784) in his commentary on the above ruling of the Shulhan 'Arukh published in his work Kise Eliyahu (Livorno, 1811). 49 Nehar Mitzrayyim, p. 154a–b, 50 Ibid., 154b. 51 Ibid. 47 48

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The duty of the consolers is to show respect for the mourners by sitting together with them, on the ground. But in the present, people’s aversion to sitting on the floor is so great (either because of the European clothing they wear or because of the European manners they have internalized) that the application of Rabbi Yosef Caro’s dictum requiring all who console mourners to sit on the ground would cause a general avoidance of consolation calls. Because the mourners themselves are aware of this, they waive, in advance, the expectation that those who come to console them should show respect by sitting on the ground—realizing that otherwise they would suffer even greater disrespect, by being left with no consolers. At present, then—pace the Shulhan 'Arukh—respect for the mourners is achieved by canceling the demand that consolers sit on the ground.52 Wrapping the head was, for the mourner, a manner of shutting himself off from the world, remaining concealed behind his headdress so only his eyes were visible among the folds of the garment. This custom, which the Talmud presents as an unambiguous halakhic obligation,53 was explicitly linked to Eastern style of dress: “any wrapping which is not in the style of the Ishmaelites, is not a wrapping.”54 In medieval Europe, where Ishmaelite dress was not the norm, the halakhic decisors decreed that the original norm need not be observed.55 But in the lands of the East this obligation did not cease, and it was a living custom even in the second half of the eighteenth century, as reflected in the writing of the great eighteenth-century Rabbi Yosef David Azulai: The general custom is that the mourner does not wrap himself in the head wrapping all day but only when people come to console him … and the great rabbi our teacher Hayyim Capusi wrote in a responsum I have seen in manuscript that the current manner of observing the custom is correct, and that what they now do is good; and the custom of Israel is mandated by Torah.56 Azulai’s work, published in Livorno in the mid-1770s, thus states that mourners in the Middle East would “wrap their heads as Ishmaelites”

For another halakhic discussion of the way in which adoption of European dress affects the manner of sitting in a ritual context, see: Rabbi Yosef Mesas, Responsa Mayyim Hayyim, vol. I, Fez, 1939, responsum 58. 53 Tractate Mo'ed Qattan 15a. 54 Ibid., 24a. 55 Rema’s commentary to Shulhan 'Arukh, Yoreh De'a, ch. 386, and the commentators ad loc. For a general survey of the positions of European rabbis on this issue, see the chapter “Atifat Ha-Rosh Be-Evel” [Head Wrapping During Mourning], Yitzchak (Arik) Zomer, 'Olam KeMinhago Noheg, Jerusalem, 1996, Zalman Shazar Centre, pp. 191–207. 56 Rabbi Hayyim David Azulai (1724–1806), Birkei Yosef on Shulhan 'Arukh, ad loc. Notice his reliance on the words of Rabbi Hayyim Capusi (1540–1631), one of the scholars of Cairo in the sixteenth century. And see: Zomer, op cit., at p. 206. 52



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whenever consolers arrived. By the early twentieth century, praxis had changed: when the Jews of the East stopped wearing Eastern-style clothes, they also stopped wrapping their heads during mourning. Rabbi Ben-Shim’on justifies this and writes: Concerning the wrapping of the head [by mourners] – it is not at all customary in Egypt to wrap the head … and especially at present as virtually all of their clothes are according to the European custom. And they never wrap their heads. Rather, the opposite. And therefore it is not the custom.57 In other words, not only do people not wear an Eastern head wrapping in their everyday lives, but “rather, the opposite”—going about bareheaded (at least inside the house) is the norm in a society that abides by European dress customs. The complete disappearance of the head wrapping from daily life is presented not only as the cause that Egyptian Jews in the present do not wrap their heads during mourning—but also as the justification for this. It is clear from Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s position that he holds that traditional Jewish patterns of mourning behavior were intended to be permutations of everyday routine patterns of behavior; in the absence of the basic pattern, there is no reason or meaning in maintaining the permutation.58 It is especially instructive to see Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s conclusion in his comments about the disappearance of head wrapping in Egypt: … and so too is it the Ashkenazic custom, not to wrap their heads. And Rema wrote in [his glossa on Shulhan 'Arukh] chapter 386: “that we need not be strict about something that was not the custom of our fathers”. Now, when Rema—Rabbi Moshe Isserles, one of the greatest Jewish scholars of Eastern Europe in the sixteenth century—writes that a certain mode of behavior is “not the custom of our fathers,” he refers to the masters of the

Nehar Mitzrayyim. 154a. On the other hand, in Europe it was customary in some circumstances to wear a hat even inside the house; therefore the halakhic decisors there could suggest a homologous substitute to wrapping the head: The Talmudic requirement that “one is obligated to wrap“ was transmuted to “today … the hat is pulled in front of the eyes for the whole seven days.” The first to suggest this custom was Rabbi Elazar Ben-Yehuda of Worms in Sefer HaRokah (early thirteenth century), and his suggestion was characterized as binding halakha by the Ashkenazic commentators on the Tur (Bayyit Hadash, Prisha) and on the Shulhan 'Arukh (Siftei Cohen, Turei Zahav), Yoreh De'ah ch. 386. In Egypt of the early twentieth century Jews did not cover their heads at all inside the house, and so there was nothing to offer as a homologous custom to wrapping the head. About the connections between our daily frame of reference and other frames that are constructed as a keying of our basic daily frame, see: Erving Goffman, Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organisation of Experience, New York: Harper, 1974. 57 58

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Tosafot and other great rabbis of Poland and Ashkenaz in medieval times, who had dressed in European-style clothing hundreds of years before him and refrained from wrapping their heads during mourning. How are we to understand the meaning of these words, when cited by the Chief Rabbi of Cairo, where Jews for many generations were completely accustomed to wearing Ishmaelite clothes and wrapping their heads during mourning? It seems reasonable to interpret Rabbi Ben-Shim'on as holding that, once the Jews of Egypt have adopted a European style of dress, they are allowed to rely—in this matter at least—on the custom of those Jews who had been following this style of dress for a long time. “The custom of our fathers” is not, then, necessarily a local or communal matter, but rather it is a broader concept, which can include any relevant behavior that has an appropriate basis in the praxis of past generations of Jews. The position that European culture and lifestyle entail a correlate halakhic response and that such a response can be learned by Jews of Muslim countries from their Ashkenazic brothers—who have already experienced European-style life—could have been applied “across the board” to many realms of life, with far-reaching consequences. But it seems that the rabbis of Egypt saw the adoption of European halakhic precedent as a non-mandatory option. In other words, the scholars of Egypt believed that the fact that European rabbis dealt with European lifestyles in certain ways does not require the Jews of Muslim countries to respond in the same way. But European-halakhic precedents do comprise a resource that can enrich the variety of halakhic options available to Sephardic halakhic decisors engaged in formulating appropriate halakhic norms for their flock. The reader will, of course, note the similarity to the ways in which Iraqi rabbis felt free to apply Ashkenazic halakhic positions when they saw fit to do so.59 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s decision, discussed here, exemplifies a judicious use of this resource.60

Shaving off the beard Shaving off one’s beard marked a salient change in the outward appearance of a Jewish man. In 1878, a few years before the British occupation of Egypt, Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan responded to complaints by Jews from the city of Tunis against: The scholar, the dayyan, may God preserve him, who publicly embarrassed … a communal dignitary for shaving his beard; although the

See Chapters 2 and 3. Another example is Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s reliance on a ruling of the Rema in order to enable Jews to cook food in non-Jews’ ovens under circumstances that arose when Jews moved to the suburbs of Cairo; see: Nehar Mitzrayyim, 76b. 59 60



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dignitary protested loudly, saying that he cut it with scissors61 … indeed, many of the students in the yeshivot [Talmudic academies] do so, as long as they are not married.62 Rabbi Hazan responded that the dayyan was wrong to attack the dignitary, when the transgression attributed to him was common among many. But as to the matter of shaving itself, he stated: I look severely upon this deed of the young men [the yeshiva students in Tunisia] who have come to regard this thing as if it is completely permitted … [according to the letter of the law there is no total prohibition on shaving with scissors, but] in any case, once they shave with something similar to a razor, others among the common people will come to use an actual razor, as they [the general public] tend to learn from misdeeds.63 It is interesting to compare this early statement by Rabbi Hazan with the only mention of the shaving issue in the writings of the rabbis of Egypt during the period of our discussion. In the first decade of the twentieth century, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on describes the special qualities that a communal prayer-leader for the High Holidays must be endowed with: And especially the community officials must take care not to entrust any prayer-leading or [ram’s-horn] blowing duties to one who is known to shave his beard with a razor, an obstacle that has become very commonplace in current times … how will he come to entreat God, with his deceit clear in his face? For “a speaker for the prosecution cannot become a spokesman for the defence”.64 There is no objection here to shaving with scissors, nor is there even a general assertion that one who is know to habitually shave with a razor cannot lead prayers during the year. The rabbi focuses only on the heads of the community not appointing such a man as their delegate specifically

According to Torah, as interpreted by Talmudic tradition, shaving the beard by razor is forbidden, but the achievement of a similar effect by scissors is permitted. Cf. Lev. 19.27; Maimonides, Code, Laws of Idolatry, ch. 12. 62 Responsa Ta'alumot Lev, vol. III, fol. 98c. 63 Ibid. And compare a similar argument expressed by Rabbi Israel Meir Hacohen (the Hafetz Hayim) in the section Tiferet Adam printed at the end of his work Nidhei Yisrael [Israel’s Dispersed Ones], Warsaw, 1895. 64 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 40b. The phrase quoted in the last sentence is a Talmudic maxim, which explains why substances reminiscent of the golden calf (e.g. gold ornaments or cow-horn) should not be used on the High Holidays: their use will remind God of Israel’s sins, and thus be counter-productive. So, too, a razor-shaven prayer leader will remind God of Israel’s sinfulness rather than of their merits … 61

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during the High Holidays. It seems that during the 30 years between these two quotations the fashion of shaving had spread so widely that there was no more point in fighting it, except in special circumstances.

Dress and outward appearance: Women Uncovering of married women’s hair While Jewish men who used to cultivate a handsome beard started adopting a clean-shaven fashion, Jewish women who used to vigilantly keep their hair covered started revealing their tresses. This raised several problems. Thus, when married women were in the habit of covering their hair, one could tell that a woman had been divorced when she started appearing in public with her hair revealed. But, writes Rabbi Aharon Mendel HaCohen: Now that in these days, in our many sins, married women walk about with uncovered heads – what should be done, if a [divorced] woman comes to a town in which people know her as married to so-and-so [and it is not clear from her outward appearance that she is a divorcee]? How can the rabbi of that town permit her to be married?65 His conclusion was that the specifics of the certification of divorce given to divorcees by the beit din must be changed appropriately so that according to Jewish law that document would itself have the legal status of testimony to a divorce. In other words, the change in the behavior of women who no longer observed the norm of covering their head while they were married should entail a permanent modification of an official document of the rabbinic court.

Revealing clothes However, the women were revealing more than their hair. Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan writes: Upon my arrival in this town [Alexandria] I found this custom of having the huppah [marriage] ceremonies at night. And I did not protest because they were doing so according to a learned, expert rabbi, the great rabbi who was my predecessor, may he rest in peace.66 But as the days went by, I saw the many problems this causes. For the women come [to the

Yad Re'em, 146b. This refers to Rabbi Moshe Pardo, about whom, see Chapter 3, note 54.

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ceremonies] almost half naked, in flimsy and insolent clothing, so that afterwards they can arise and dance.67 Obviously, the fashion of European evening dress had become common among the Jewish women of Alexandria. One hundred or even 50 years before the end of the nineteenth century, it would have been unthinkable for self-respecting Jewish women in a Muslim country to appear in public wearing such revealing clothes. Within a very brief time-span, a profound change had occurred in norms of dress and in public notions of female modesty. Rabbi Hazan recognized this as an unfortunate fact—a fact that had however become so common that there was no use preaching its abolition: “One’s eyes darken when observing the calamity that has befallen our people—[but] we have not the power to protest and to say a thing that will not be heard …”68 This last sentence alludes to a central issue in the laws of tokheha (rebuke): when a person sees his peer deviating from a Jewish religious norm, when and under what circumstances must he follow the Torah command to: “Reprove your kinsman” (Lev. 19.17)? In the Talmud we find this answer: Rabbi Ila'a, citing Rabbi El'azar the son of Rabbi Shim'on said: “Just as a person is required to say a thing [of rebuke] that will be heard, so is a person required not to say a thing that will not be heard”. Rabbi Abba says: “It is an absolute obligation [not to say a thing that will not be heard], as it is written (Prov. 9.8) ‘Do not rebuke a scoffer, for he will hate you; rebuke the wise man, and he will love you’.”69 Rabbi Hazan employs this expression and in doing so alludes to the Talmudic discussion and halakhically grounds his policy: even though he does not justify the behaviour of the “high society” women in his community, he refrains from confronting them on this issue as this might create antagonism toward him (and perhaps also toward the Torah), and creating such antagonism is much worse than refraining from rebuke.70 Both Jewish men and Jewish women had grown accustomed, during the period of our discussion, to dressing in European style and wearing

Responsa Ta'alumot Lev, vol. III, fol. 48b. Ibid., 48c. 69 Yevamot, 65b. 70 With regard to the variety of understandings of the command of tokheha in the Mishnah and the Talmud and the socio-religious insights expressed by them, see my article: “Three Traditional Modes of Understanding the Commandment of Tocheha (Rebuke)—and their Socio-Religious Implications,” S. Fishbane and Jack N. Lightstone (eds), Essays in the Social Scientific Study of Judaism and Jewish Society, Concordia University, Montreal, 1990, pp. 105–21. Cf. especially the “third mode” on pp. 116–20. 67 68

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their hair according to the fashion accepted in Europe. Rabbi Hazan’s last paragraph points to a link between style of dress and style of recreation, i.e. women wear evening dresses in order to engage in social dancing. Let us now focus on recreational aspects of Jewish social life in Egypt around the turn of the twentieth century.

Modes of recreation Dance balls In fin de siècle Egyptian Jewish society, lavish balls were a common mode of recreation. Well-to-do Jews were so enthusiastic about this form of recreation that they sought to use any possible opportunity as an excuse for European-style dancing, and to satisfy this desire of theirs they changed a time-hallowed Alexandrian custom: For the custom of Noh Amon71 was – since ancient times – to hold weddings during the day, as all the elders and dignitaries of the community can testify. Only just recently have they instituted this bad custom of performing the marriage ceremony at night so that they can be ready and set for matters of sin immediately after the sheva brachot [seven traditional blessings of the Jewish wedding ceremony] – to rise to dance and to frolic before the bride, men and women, youths and maidens together.72 And in other words, also those of Rabbi Eliahu Hazan: “this is the reason for scheduling the weddings at night: so that immediately after the sheva brachot they can go out together to frolic and rise to revel. And the devil also comes among them to kindle the flames, of course.”73 Prima facie, the public’s urge to dance need not have entailed rescheduling weddings to the night; could dancing not be added to the program of daytime weddings? But of course this would be in total disregard of the cultural context of European social dancing: in this culture, dancing balls take place necessarily during the evening and the night. This social norm is linked to another one, mentioned earlier: Formal European evening clothes

The Egyptian city of Noh Amon, mentioned in the Bible, was identified by the ancient rabbis as Alexandria, cf. Jonathan Ben Uziel’s translation of Jer. 46.25; Bereishit Rabba 1:1. Thereafter, rabbinic texts employed the Biblical name to refer to that city. 72 Ta'alumot Lev, vol. III, 58c. 73 Ibid., 58b. The expression “rose to revel” [va-yaqumu leSaheq] refers to an especially grave transgression: it alludes to the Biblical description of the sin of the golden calf: “they sat down to eat and drink, and then rose to revel” (Exod. 32.6). 71



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are different from formal morning clothes, and specifically the evening clothes were considered suitable for dancing. In any case, we have before us a social transformation, in the context of which the ceremony of marriage had become secondary, in a sense, to the agreeable end of a titillating and enjoyable social function.74 From the writings of the rabbis of Egypt it emerges that these transformations had further consequences. Because dancing became a vital part of the “social event” of marriage, people could no longer hold the marriage ceremony in their homes, as they used to do previously, since dancing requires a much larger space than is available in a residential house. Families that could afford it rented a fancy hall in a hotel. But when this was not possible, whether because the family was less well-to-do or because a hall in a hotel was not available,75 a coffeehouse or tavern was rented for the evening of the marriage. However, holding the ceremony in undignified surroundings open to scrutiny by the local population had grave consequences, as Rabbi Ben-Shim’on explains: We have become disgraced in the eyes of our neighbours. For there is none among the nations that does so. For the Christians do not hold their weddings anywhere but in their churches, which are places of modesty. And the Ishmaelites – even more so, do not hold weddings anywhere but in private quarters. And so, it is only the Chosen People who have thus destroyed the boundaries of modesty.76 The rabbis of Egypt did not attempt to combat the very existence of social dancing; as Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan explained above, he did not want “to say a thing that is not heard.” But the rabbis did seek various ways of ameliorating what they perceived as a travesty of the marriage ceremony. When the physical settings of those ceremonies led to the Jews being disgraced in the eyes of the other religious/ethnic groups in Egypt, Rabbi Ben-Shim’on found an ally in the leadership of the Jewish community, which was very sensitive to maintaining a positive and respectable public image of the community: It should be noted that traditional Jewish life did not lack dancing. But these dances had a different quality from the social European dance in the late nineteenth century. About dancing in the Jewish community in which Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan grew up—that of Jerusalem—see: Zvi Friedhaver, “haMahol baYishuv haYehudi biYerushalayim Lifnei Milhemet ha'Olam haRishona” [Dancing in the Jewish Community of Jerusalem Before World War I], Mehqarei Yerushalayim beFolqlor Yehudi [Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Folklore], no. 11–12 (1990), pp. 139–51. 75 For example, at the height of the tourist season, as Rabbi Ben-Shim'on writes in Nehar Mitzrayyim, 179b. 76 Nehar Mitzrayyim, ibid. 74

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When matters came to the disgrace and desecration of the people’s honour, the seven heads of the community arose and agreed to help us prevent this desecration of The Name.77 And so, the following communal regulation was accepted in Cairo in the year 1906: According to the decision of the [Rabbinic] court of justice, and the decision of the seven heads of the community, we have made this rule and decreed this decree: that from this time (1906) forth no son of Israel shall be permitted to hold the huppah [wedding ceremony] in any hotel of any kind, and all the more so not in taverns or coffeehouses, God forbid, but only in the house of the bridegroom or in the house of the bride. And if their abode is too small to contain the people – they can choose a synagogue that they favour … after having gotten permission from the gabbai [chief administrator] of that synagogue. Or if their place is far [from any synagogue], they can take a yard that is completely empty of tenants and have the huppah there, if the place is secluded. And other than this, one may not hold the huppah and the qiddushin [the betrothal ceremony] in any place. And God forbid that this boundary be breached and that Israel and its religion be brought to disgrace and shame among the nations, God forbid.78 The emphasis in this regulation is on holding Jewish ceremonies and Jewish celebrations in places that are concealed from the eyes of strangers since revealing (some) of the Jewish (European-influenced!) behaviors before the other peoples of Egypt causes sacrilege and disgrace. Using an “empty yard” is a last resort; it is preferable to use the family home (as we remember, this is how Rabbi Ben-Shim'on characterized the Muslim custom above) or a synagogue (which is how the Christian custom was characterized).79 Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, too, managed to align the heads of the Alexandria community on his side, arguing inter alia that holding the huppah at night contradicted local custom: We have decreed, in agreement with the holy heads of the community, God preserve them, to restore the original custom, i.e. holding the huppah perforce during the day. And we have already done so several times, and we have seen that by virtue of this, there are no breaches of propriety in our places. And especially when the huppah is held in a

Ibid. Ibid., 179b–180a. 79 About the response of the rabbis of Egypt to the possibility that using a synagogue for this purpose should be forbidden under the category of “the laws of the nations,” see Chapter 9. 77 78



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synagogue, then the women arrive glowingly attired in respectable dress and covered in a scarf according to the holiness of the place.80 This regulation does not limit the site of the function but its time: the huppah must take place by day. Nevertheless, this change of timeframe does indeed undo the link between the marriage ceremony and a dancing ball as dancing balls in the cultural context we are discussing were held only at night. The two regulations—of Cairo and of Alexandria—were successful in that they were executed consistently (according to the chief rabbi of each town). But it is their success that reflects, symbolically, the dividing of the life of Egypt’s Jews into “two worlds”: the sacral arena, focused on the synagogue, which was quarantined from contemporary social developments, and the secular arena, in which a new social world was forming, very different in character from that of traditional Jewish society. This novel world was increasingly void of any dimension of sacredness and halakhic norms.81

Bars While the “high society” of the community was out having balls, the other strata of society were not sitting idly by. Among them, too, were Jews who were attracted to new ways of recreation. Here is a description that reflects how some Jews in Port Said spent their free time, c. 1890: On Sunday night, the second of the month of Nissan, I was passing by the bar owned by the woman Hannah Rosa, daughter of Qalman, in the ninth hour before midnight, and with me was David Avraham, may God preserve him. And we saw there Ze'ev Ben-Yonah, may God preserve him, sitting by the table and before him glasses of beer. And by his side was seated the maiden Hannah, daughter of Hayyim, and her mother also was sitting across from them. And they were drinking beer … and we came in together and sat drinking beer for half an hour or so. And the aforementioned Ze'ev was flirting with the aforementioned maiden Hannah in a frivolous way. And while doing so, he took her hand under the table, and we heard these things said: “you are consecrated to me according to the Law of Moses and Israel” [= the Jewish betrothal formula].82 Reading the full account in Ta'alumot Lev it becomes apparent that the Cf. Ta’alumot Lev, vol. III, fol. 58c. For more on developments in the realm of the synagogue, see Chapter 9. 82 Ta'alumot Lev, vol. II, laws of divorces (gittin), responsum 3. 80 81

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dramatic moment described above was a desperate attempt by a young man to win a damsel who had captured his heart. For some time she led him on and had caused him to hope that if he persisted in courting her he would have a chance of marrying her. The unrequited suitor testified that a day before this incident he had suddenly realized that he had no chance: I went there and sat with the girl, and I said to her, does she want to finish this business and get married to me? And she answered me: “why is marriage necessary? I am just as your wife, with no marriage!” and I said “this I know, but I want it to be with sanction [= halakhically permitted]”. And she said to me: “I will not take you as my husband, at all!” (ibid.) One must note the differing religious-normative positions that are revealed here: the young woman makes it clear to her suitor that there is in fact no need for marriage in order for him to be able to have intimate relations with her: “I am just as your wife, with no marriage!” But it is the man who shows a deeper commitment to traditional norms and refuses this arrangement as it is forbidden according to the Torah: “I want [to have intimacy] with sanction,” he replies. Nevertheless, as we will see below, the young woman’s willingness to have intercourse without marriage does not mean that she attaches no significance to the act of qiddushin [= halakhic betrothal]. In any case, this refusal on the maiden’s part did not stop her from turning to the enamored young man the next day and complaining: “[Why] do you not give me any gifts, like the uncircumcised men give me each time?” (ibid). And later, when testifying before an ad-hoc beit din (rabbinic court) that was constituted in Port Said to gather testimonies on this matter, she explained that when the young man slipped the ring onto her finger she did not think at all that this was for the purpose of betrothal but rather believed that this, at last, was the anticipated gift. Let us, for a moment, reflect on the components of this picture: a bar in a port town, run by a middle-aged Jewish woman, apparently widowed or divorced. Her daughter pours beer and waits on the tables while frivolously flirting with the customers. Moreover, the mischievous maiden tends to encourage the customers to develop more intimate relations with her while linking this with an expectation of an appropriate “gift.” All this is in the mother’s sight and with her consent. And who are the customers at this pub? Both non-Jews (“uncircumcised”) and Jews who habitually come into the pub and spend hours drinking bottle after bottle of beer, while talking to the proprietress and to her “maiden” daughter, Hannah, the daughter of Hayyim. What, then, is new in this description? Not the fact that Jews spend their free time in a drinking establishment, as there always had been



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elements in Jewish society, especially simple folk, who spent their time in similar ways. Furthermore, even in Egypt—despite its being mainly a Muslim country—there were “taverns,” which served alcoholic drinks, in addition to the coffee houses that were the more common pastime. But both in the coffee houses and in the “taverns” of Egypt it was inconceivable that the establishment should be managed by a woman and even less acceptable that her daughter should be pouring the drinks and serving them to the tables.83 It would seem, then, that the description quoted above indicates the permeation of European-style bar-rooms into Egypt. Quite possibly, the location is not coincidental: Port Said is the northern terminus of the Suez Canal, and through it passed merchant vessels from all over the world whose sailors and passengers sought places of recreation on shore while waiting for passage through the canal. This hypothesis is strengthened by the maiden’s mention of the gifts she is habitually given by the “uncircumcised,” i.e. the Christians. In any case, the characters in our story are Jewish; even if we say that these were rather “marginal” elements (in the general Egyptian society, too, those who spent their times in taverns were relatively marginal elements, according to Toledano), the existence of such elements could not but radiate onto the society as a whole. Recognition of this can be seen in Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan’s explanation of the need for a quick and unambiguous verdict on the validity of the betrothal ostensibly performed at the bar: For the wayward girl is openly sitting in this licentious place and is quite content to be wanton … therefore I have hurried myself to reply as soon as possible, for if, God forbid, the betrothal was valid, and she has the halakhic status of a married woman – this should be publicized so that no one will lapse with her.84 That is, the rabbi feels it his duty to protect the men of the community from the severe transgression of sexual relations with a woman married to another. His concern reveals an implicit assumption, i.e. that presumably some of the men of the local community habitually consorted with prostitutes, and therefore it was important that they should be advised to stay clear of this particular woman, if she was indeed married. Clearly, then, mainstream Jewish society was not at all hermetically separated from more “marginal” local Jews.

About taverns in Egypt, a few decades before the end of the nineteenth century, see: Ehud R. Toledano, State and Society in mid-nineteenth century Egypt, Cambridge University Press, 1990, pp. 243–7. Of women, he writes: “Women … were barred from coffeehouses and taverns.” 84 Ta'alumot Lev, ibid., 38b 83

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Prostitutes Through the discussion of recreation in bars we have moved, then, to discuss another kind of recreation, namely: Jewish men making use of Jewish prostitutes.85 It is untrue to maintain that Jewish men calling on prostitutes or Jewish women involved in illicit sexual activities were phenomena unknown in pre-modern Jewish society.86 Still, it seems that Jewish women’s involvement in prostitution did indeed increase considerably during the nineteenth century. This should be attributed mainly to the crises suffered by many Jewish communities in that period, particularly in Europe, crises that caused the tearing of the fabric of many families’ lives while hurling hundreds of thousands of Jews to the ends of the world and cutting them off from their homes and the communities in which they were born and raised. Many daughters were cut off from their parents and many wives from their husbands. Under these circumstances there was an increase in the number of women who— sometimes as victims of various kinds of swindlers and con men—turned to prostitution.87 As in the Jewish world in general, so too in Egypt.88 “In this time, when Like many “leisure” activities, for one of the parties this is recreation while for the other it is an occupation. 86 See, for example: Yom Tov Assis, “Sexual Behaviour in Medieval Hispano-Jewish Society,” A. Rapoport-Albert and S. J. Zippersten (eds), Jewish History: Essays in Honour of Chimen Abramsky, London, P. Halban, 1988, pp. 25–59. With regard to medieval Ashkenaz, see Avraham Grossman, Hasidot uMordot, Jerusalem, 2001, p. 229–57. 87 About this issue see, for example: Edward Jay Bristow, Prostitution and Prejudice – the Jewish Fight Against White Slavery, 1880–1939, Oxford, Clarendon Press,1982. And also: Official Report of the Jewish International Conference on the Suppression of the Traffic in Girls and Women, held on April 5th, 6th and 7th, 1910, in London, Wertheimer, London, 1910. The phenomenon of prostitution among Jewish women who immigrated to the United States in the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth, and in Jewish neighbourhoods in Eastern Europe, is described in Irving Howe, World of Our Fathers, New York, 1976, pp. 96–8. The case of Jewish men exploiting young Jewish immigrant women in Argentina is well known; see: V. A. Mirelman, “The Jewish Community Versus Crime: The Case of White Slavery in Buenos Aires,” Jewish Social Studies XLVI, 2, 1984, pp. 145–8. For a more recent treatment of aspects of the reality in Buenos Aires, see: Mir Yarfitz, “Uprooting the Seeds of Evil: Jewish Marriage Regulation, Morality Certificates, and Degenerate Prostitute Mothers in 1930s Buenos Aires,” Thinking Gender Papers, UCLA Center for the Study of Women, UC Los Angeles, 2011 (available online at http://escholarship.org/uc/item/16t3596n). Economic crises also precipitated the prostitution of women even absent the emigration factor. For example, with regard to Damascus, see: Yaron Harel, “Al ha'Meshorerot', ha'Menagenot' ve-ha'Meranenot' haYehudiyyot beDameseq,” Tova Cohen and Shaul Regev (eds), Isha baMizrah, Isha miMizrah, Bar Ilan 2005, pp. 109–27; With regard to Jerusalem during the First World War, see: Margalit Shilo, Etgar haMigdar—Nashim ba’Aliyyot haRishonot, Hakibbutz haMeuchad, 2007, pp. 219–40. 88 On prostitution, including Jewish prostitution, in Egypt, see: Margot Badran, Feminists, Islam, and Nation: Gender and the Making of Modern Egypt, Princeton, 1995, ch. 10 “Traffic in Women” (pp. 192–206). Slouschz (note 12 above) reports that, before the intensification 85



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traffickers in women are frequent …”89 writes Rabbi A. M. HaCohen, concerning a phenomenon that was widespread at the time: women who were separated without a get [religious divorce] from their husbands overseas came (or were brought) to Egypt to serve as prostitutes. So too, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, when explaining why he had ordained a specific halakhic restriction in relation to Jewish prostitutes, explains that “during this time there is the fear that … there are married women (zonah gemura) among these prostitutes.”90 From the writings of these three rabbis—Hazan, HaCohen, and Ben-Shim'on—emerges an unmistakable difference of principle between their attitude to Jewish women providing sexual services and their attitude to married Jewish women doing so. The involvement of unmarried women in this occupation did not seem to them a cardinal problem; however, they regarded the involvement of married women in prostitution as an extremely severe matter. The major difference, of course, is the severity of the transgression according to the halakhic scale of values: when a man has sexual intercourse with an unmarried woman, the halakhic transgression is relatively trivial.91 On the other hand, having sexual intercourse with a woman who is consecrated/married to another is a very grave transgression for both parties.92 In so far as prostitution continued on the margins of Jewish society, the rabbis did not fight it, even when married women were involved, as they recognized their inability to obliterate the phenomenon: “we cannot object on account of the freedom and the liberty.”93 This was not so when these women wanted to express themselves in a visible way in the sacral sphere. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on recounts:

of pogroms in Eastern Europe, those Jews that came to Egypt from that area (especially Romania) were by and large individuals who had run afoul of the law or had acquired an unsavoury reputation in their community of origin; prominent among them were prostitutes and men who were involved in the flesh trade. 89 Yad Re'em, 139a. 90 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 100a. The term zonah gemura indicates a married woman who fornicates (Hebrew: zonah) with others. This is distinct from the non-legal, conventional use of the word zonah as meaning prostitute. 91 On condition that, if she is Jewish, she has been immersed in the mikveh as required. Compare Assis (note 72 above). This is contrary to the social norm accepted by many in traditional Jewish society, even today, according to which any sexual activity without marriage, and especially by women, is a grave transgression. 92 It is interesting to note that, according to Yehezkel Kauffman, this difference in attitudes is found also in Biblical sources on prostitution/fornication. See Toledot haEmunah haYisreelit [The History of the Faith of Israel], vol. 2, pp. 561–2. In any case, in the halakhic sources of the Talmud and the Middle Ages there is indeed a completely different assessment of the gravity of the transgression of prostitution when the female transgressor is married and when she is single. See, for example, Shulhan 'Arukh, Orah Hayyim, ch. 153, paragraph 21, the Glossa of the Rema and the commentators ad loc. 93 Nehar Mitzrayyim, ibid.

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It happened here [in Cairo] that a prostitute dedicated a parokhet [curtain] for the synagogue’s Ark of the Law from new cloth. However, this wicked woman wrote her name on it in gilded flagrant letters that were visible and readable from afar. And I told the heads of the community, may God preserve them, that this was very ugly and repulsive. All the more so, since this prostitute still practices her occupation, and there are, in our many sins, many Jewish young men who have become caught in her net. And so, if her despicable name is written on the holy curtain – why, then, when these [young men] are in synagogue, and they raise their eyes to the curtain and see her name, they will undoubtedly come to sinful thoughts even during the prayers. And so [by permitting such a curtain to hang on the Ark] we [the heads of the community] are leading the public to sin, God forbid, aside from the very thing itself being loathsome, i.e. having such a reminder of sin, lust and sordidness in the house of God.94 There are two arguments, then, supporting Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s resolute position. First, prostitution in and of itself is a “sin of lust and sordidness,” and so hanging a curtain, the fruit of prostitution, in the synagogue contradicts the sacred character of the place. Second, although it is known to all that young men of the community habitually consort with this prostitute, it is the duty of the heads of the community to prevent, as far as possible, these young men thinking of this matter while they are in the synagogue during services. From the sequel it becomes apparent that Rabbi Ben-Shim'on believes the second reason to be the main one, as he admitted that in fact there was no halakhic norm “on the books” requiring the rejection of donations from prostitutes for the sake of the synagogue. The condition he established, therefore, was that the donor’s names should not be mentioned on their donation: It is proper for the gabbaim [officials] of congregations to care for the honor of their Maker. And if these wicked people [prostitutes] should dedicate a curtain, or a Torah, or decorations for the Torah, and so on – they [the gabbaim] should accept it from them on the condition that their name is not written or mentioned on the holy artefacts … and thus, when a certain prostitute dedicated a Torah to the synagogue, we accepted it, on the condition that her name was not written or mentioned … [and so we applied the principle that:] “It is the glory of God to conceal a matter” (Prov. 25.2).95

Ibid. 12a. Ibid.

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The donation of a Torah is no small matter: Of all the religious artifacts in a synagogue, the cost of a Torah is the highest. The ability to donate a Torah indicates, therefore, an especially high financial ability; in a society that limits women’s participation in many financial arenas, one of the only ways in which they can independently achieve the financial ability to donate a Torah is through prostitution.96 Two significant elements should be noticed in the halakhic decision quoted above. First, the prohibition of a prostitute’s name appearing on an artifact she donates is an innovation. Earlier decisors clearly permit the acceptance of gifts to the synagogue donated by women who are prostitutes and do not stipulate that such permission is contingent upon the donors’ anonymity.97 In this context we must understand the use that Rabbi Ben-Shim'on makes of the maxim “it is the glory of God to conceal a matter,” which is part of a verse from Proverbs.98 The Talmud made use of this phrase in a manner unlike its straightforward meaning: viz. that it is advisable to hide a lenient law of the Torah from the public if the motivation is to thereby uphold the honor of the Torah in the eyes of the people.99 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on uses this expression in its Talmudic meaning: Apparently he feels that writing the donating prostitute’s name on her donation, although permitted by halakhic sources, would compromise “the glory of God” in the eyes of the people, and so he forbids it. What had changed, then, between the time of the earlier halakhic decisors, who permitted writing the prostitute-donor’s name and did not see this as a compromise to the glory of God, and the times of Rabbi Ben-Shim'on? Apparently, public convention had become more squeamish about the mention of prostitution and deviant sexual activity. Possibly, this change should be attributed to what we know about norms typical of the Victorian period in England, the same Victorian England that ruled over Egypt in Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s time. If so, this halakhic innovation of Rabbi Ben-Shim’on reflects influence of Victorian-English notions of moral propriety on the judgment of a halakhic decisor in Lord Cromer’s Egypt. A second significant element expressed in the halakhic decision before us is Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s attempt to “protect” the synagogue from the permeation of “ugly” influences from the mundane life of the community’s members. This attempt reflects two complementary considerations: first, As an example one can note the situation in the Jewish community of Damascus about this time (early twentieth century) where the excellent financial welfare of prostitutes was common knowledge. See: Avraham Elmaliah, haYehudim beDameseq uMatzavam haKalkali vehaTarbuti [The Jews in Damascus and their Financial and Social Situation], Jaffa, 1912. And see Harel (note 87 above). 97 See Shulhan 'Arukh and commentators (note 92 above). 98 Prov. 25.2. The straightforward (pshat) meaning of the verse is moot and is taken by leading commentators (e.g. Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Radaq) to mean that it is not advisable to advertise to all the details of the exalted glory of God. 99 See: Bavli, Shabbat 153b. 96

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that a rabbi cannot change the mundane behaviours of his congregants through the power of halakhic rulings—all the more so in the period of “freedom and liberty”; and second, that the correct strategy in this new “powerless” situation is to try to cordon off and maintain a “sacral arena” in which holy and pure behavior will prevail in accordance with the rabbi’s guidance and supervision. This area would be, ipso facto, clearly distinct from the routine of mundane life. The regime of “freedom and liberty” with regard to individual private preferences was introduced to Egypt by the British, and it is, of course, an import from Europe. In Europe this regime expressed a socio-political worldview according to which there should be a distinction between private and public and between “religion”—believed to be a private/personal matter, depending on conscience, and not to be regulated by law—and the area of the responsibility of the “state,” which was concerned with maintaining the public sphere for the welfare of all citizens. This is to say: This notion of government recognizes, on the one hand, the essentially secular nature of civil life and, on the other hand, promotes the secularization of society. The halakhic decision that we discussed expresses, therefore, both the recognition by the decisor of a fundamental transformation occurring in the society in which his community is situated—i.e. the formation of a more clear-cut distinction between holy and secular realms—and the rabbi’s choice of the means he deems appropriate for providing religious guidance for a Jewish community in an era of secularization.

Conclusion We began this chapter by discussing halakhic decisions that involve recognizing certain issues as secular—whether in principle or in practice. With regard to such matters, Egyptian rabbis accepted contemporary reality as a “given” that a decisor should acknowledge and recognize that he cannot change. Thus the units of length, counting the hours, and even counting the months and the years were acknowledged as secular matters.100 Clothing was also excluded from the decisor’s realm; thus, the way a person dressed in his daily life was recognized (de facto) to be a matter for individual discretion even if it involved the ban on kilayim. Similarly, the laws of mourning were modified in light of transformations in fashion. Other transformations that were not to the liking of the religious teachers in Egypt—like shaving beards, exposing married women’s hair, revealing dress for women, mixed dancing—were recognized de facto as matters effectively outside the rabbis’ jurisdiction. The course taken by these decisors was the

Except, of course, with regard to the determination of Jewish holidays.

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attempt to prevent infiltration of these behaviors into the area that they had defined as sacred. In his book 'Im Hilufei Tequfot [With the Change of Eras], Azriel Shohet treats the beginning of secularization among the Jews of Germany.101 Almost all the phenomena we noted in Egyptian Jewry during the period of our discussion occurred in German Jewry as early as the beginning of the eighteenth century: a crisis in education that caused widespread ignorance of Jewish sources;102 men dressing in the clothes of the non-Jewish surroundings;103 women wearing revealing fashionable clothing;104 shaving of men’s facial hair with the unmarried men leading the way;105 the baring of women’s hair;106 mixed dancing;107 passing time in drinking-houses;108 and even an increase in prostitution.109 Even more interesting than the correlation between the phenomena noted in Germany and in Egypt during the secularization processes of a traditional society is the clear contrast between the rabbis’ responses to these phenomena. All these phenomena, with no exception, were the target of harsh diatribes—and of attempts at active prevention through halakhic decisions and communal enactments—by the rabbis of Germany and Central Europe.110 But, as we have seen, the Sephardic scholars in Egypt adopted a different approach. Ultimately, the dynamic begun in eighteenth-century Central Europe played itself out into internal religious schisms, leading to the contemporary denominational world of European Jewry and its descendants in North America, Israel, and other Ashkenazic diasporas. In Sephardic lands, communities remained unified, despite a significant degree of internal heterogeneity, until extended exposure to Ashkenazic-Haredi models began to create the phenomenon of Sephardic ultra-Orthodoxy in the second half of the twentieth century. How should we go about explaining these differences? One view, held by some Orthodox scholars, and explicated with great clarity by Benjamin Brown,111 attributes virtually all such differences to historical Shohet, ‘Azriel, 'Im Hilufei Tequfot [With the Change of Eras], Jerusalem, Dvir, 1960. The book’s title page bears the subtitle “Beginnings of Haskalah among German Jewry.” However, upon reading the book, one shortly discovers that it discusses trends of secularization in all the areas, and the intellectual one (Haskala) is merely one among many others. 102 Ibid., pp. 123ff. 103 Ibid., pp. 52–3. 104 Ibid., pp. 54–5. 105 Ibid., pp. 55–6. 106 Ibid., p. 55. 107 Ibid., pp. 162–3. 108 Ibid., pp. 37–9. 109 Ibid., p. 167ff. 110 Indeed, these decisions and regulations are among Shohet’s important sources for determining the existence of the phenomena themselves. 111 Benjamin Brown, “Sephardic/Mizrahi Rabbis and Religious Extremism: Towards a Re-Appraisal” [Hebrew], Akdamot 10, 2000, pp. 289–324. For a more developed and 101

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social-political context. In other words, given the nature of European non-Jewish politics, society, and culture, the harsh response of European rabbis to deviation from traditional norms—and the Orthodox/Reform schism—was a virtually inevitable outcome. Conversely, given the nature of Muslim politics, society, and culture, Sephardic rabbinic non-schismatic accommodation of modern developments could not have been otherwise. In brief: the more radical the confrontation with secular modernity, the more radical the negative rabbinic reaction—and vice versa. Another view, which I espouse, considers such explanations to be empirically flawed and both methodologically and philosophically unsound. Empirically flawed—because if so, radically securalized France (and not Germany) should have been the original hotbed of Orthodox rejectionism while the radicalized urban centres of European Jewry should have bred the most reactionary forms of ultra-Orthodoxy (which in fact formed in the least modernized, most traditional provinces of Hungary).112 Methodologically/philosophically unsound—because reducing differences in cultural response to differences in external stimuli eliminates intervening variables such as the values, beliefs, and worldviews of the responders; on such accounts, rabbinic responses to change are effectively determined by external contexts. My own view is that, while external conditions have an effect on the considerations of halakhic authorities, they do not determine the nature or the specifics of the rabbis’ decisions. In interpreting and explaining these decisions, greater weight should be attributed to the extent they are affected by internal cultural traditions. That is: In our case, the nature and quality of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Sephardic religious culture and tradition are best interpreted as a continuation, mutatis mutandis, of attitudes and values stemming from the Sephardic/Oriental classic culture of medieval times. So, too, modern Ashkenazic rabbinic culture significantly expresses motifs and basic attitudes grounded in the ethos of medieval Ashkenazic tradition.113

sustained presentation of his position on this matter, see: idem, “Qeshet haTeguvot haOrtodoqsiyyot: Ashkenazim uSepharadim,” Aviezer Ravitzky (ed.), Shas – Heibetim Tarbutiyyim ve-Ra’ayyoniyyim, Tel Aviv, Am Oved, 2006, pp. 41–122. 112 I argue this more extensively in my rejoinder to Brown, published in Akdamot 11, 2001, pp. 139–51. 113 For a fuller development of this argument, see the final chapter of this book. And see also: Jose Faur, “Sephardim in the Nineteenth Century: New Directions and Old Values,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research, vol. XLIV, 1977, pp. 29–52; Norman A Stillman, Sephardi Religious Responses to Modernity, Harwood, 1995.

9 The Synagogue: Changes and trends

In the previous chapter we saw that a sharp differentiation was formed in the lives of Egypt’s Jews between the secular and the sacred realms. Egypt’s rabbis recognized that the course of secular life in Egypt was determined by a wide gamut of factors and could not be significantly affected by rabbinic regulation. Under contemporary conditions, active affiliation with a religious community was a voluntary manner,1 and while most persons of Jewish origin did identify as Jews, very few of them would choose, for example, their calendar, hairstyle, and clothing in accordance with rabbinic dictate. As we saw above, the rabbis were well aware of their lack of coercive power, even with regard to such radical situations as a married woman working as a prostitute: “we cannot object, on account of the freedom and the liberty.”2 How should rabbis relate to congregants whose lifestyle choices were beyond their control and whose behavior, in many cases, was at odds with the conventions of Jewish tradition? As we saw in the previous chapter, the rabbis of Egypt made a strategic choice in favor of an inclusive policy; they decided to employ the manifold options available within the broad parameters of halakha to accommodate the widest possible range of individuals under the umbrella of the communal framework. In parallel, they devoted significant attention to the cultivation of a sacred realm in which Jewish tradition and values could be appropriately expressed. It was an obvious choice for the synagogue to be designated as this sacred space.3

With the exception of matters of personal status: The 40 or 50% of Jews who were not under foreign “protection” were under the jurisdiction of the rabbinical courts on these matters. 2 Nehar Mitzrayyim, ibid. 3 Until 1890, there were 11 synagogues in Cairo, of which 10 were in the Jewish quarter and one in the neighborhood of Old Cairo (the former town of Fustat). As the economic condition of many Jews improved, they moved from the Jewish quarter to new, more attractive neighborhoods, primarily 'Abassiya and Isma'iliyya. This led to 1

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The rabbis of Egypt proceeded to construct this sacred realm by two complementary modes of action. The first was dealing with the challenge posed by customs and popular religious activities common among the indigenous Jews of Egypt but that the rabbis identified as off key with regard to the tone of religious behavior that ought to prevail in the synagogue. The second mode of action was to expand the range of religious activities performed in the synagogue. Let us consider each of these modes in greater detail.

Rabbinic attitudes toward popular customs and religious activity Jewish presence in Egypt began in the seventh century bce4 and continued until 117 ce when the entire community was almost completely destroyed during the suppression of the “Diaspora Revolt.”5 From c. 300 ce the community was renewed and existed continuously until our time. Thus, many of the indigenous community’s popular customs and folkways may well have begun many centuries before the period we are discussing. Indeed, some of these customs were enthusiastically endorsed by the rabbis of Cairo and Alexandria. A prime example is Rabbi Refael Ben-Shim'on’s enthusiasm with regard to the Tawhid custom that took place every spring, on the first day of the month of Nissan:

the construction of two synagogues in the 'Abassiya neighborhood—Neve Shalom (1890) and 'Etz Hayyim (1900)—and one in the Isma'iliyya neighborhood—Sha’ar haShamayyim (1903). See: Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on, Tuv Mitzrayyim, 1908. On the synagogues of Cairo in general, and especially on the Sha'ar haShamayyim synagogue and the way in which its architecture and decorative motifs reflect Egyptian Jewish identity, see: Hana Tarragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven’ (Sha'ar Hashamayim) Synagogue in Cairo (1898–1905): On the Contextualization of Jewish Communal Architecture,” Journal of Jewish Identities 2009, 2(1), pp. 31–53. An article by the same author relates to Egypt’s synagogues in general and also discusses several additional specific synagogues: Hana Tarragan, Batei haK'nesset, Nahem Ilan (ed.), Mitzrayyim, Ben Zvi Institute, Jerusalem, 5768/2008, pp. 139–50. 4 The Judean community in Elephantine was founded well before the Persian conquest of Egypt in 525 bce. Yochanan Muffs sums up: “Opinions concerning the origins of the Jewish community range from the fall of Damascus in 732 [bce] to the reign of Amasis (659–26 bce).” Quoted from idem., Studies in the Aramaic Legal Papyri from Elephantine, Brill, 2003, p. 1, note 5. 5 For a brief account of this revolt, see: Alan K. Bowman, Peter Garnsey, Dominic Rathbone (eds), The Cambridge Ancient History: The High Empire, A.D. 70–192, Cambridge, 2000, pp. 669–71. And see now also: James J. Bloom, The Jewish Revolts Against Rome, A.D. 66–135: A Military Analysis, Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010.



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It is an ancient custom here in Cairo that the Tawwahid6 service is performed with great crowds and light on the eve of the first day of the month of Nissan. There is an order of study, including the reading of the [biblical text regarding the] Pascal offering from the section “This month is unto you”,7 which is relevant to the first of the month of Nissan and its sanctity and virtues. And they also sing a song relating to qiddush haHodesh [sanctification of the new month] and recite the Hallel haGadol [= Ps. 136] and additional piyuttim [liturgical poems set to music] in honor of the Torah and the merit of Israel who studies it. And upon finishing reading all of the above in sweet tunes and a pleasant voice, the cantor, whose voice is pleasant and clear, stands up and recites the Seder haYihud [order of unification] in literary Arabic, relating the greatness of the Creator and His unity, His wonders and His many kindnesses to those whom He created. It is phrased in clear language that excites the hearts and astounds the mind with the force of its logic and the depth of its ideas, with enthusiasm regarding the unity of the Creator and His wondrous deeds. And at the end of the Yihud he says a prayer in Arabic that is heartrending in its pleas, fiery in the pleasantness of its words, pouring forth a plea before the most high Creator that He should have mercy on His flock and grant favor to its remnants, to return sons to their Father’s table and restore the Temple service to the Holy of Holies … And I was greatly pleased by this custom: Happy are those who gave birth to it, happy are those who established it and happy are those who support it.8 Rabbi Ben-Shim’on’s positive and enthusiastic attitude toward this custom reflected a finely honed religious intuition: as Ezra Fleisher has shown, the Tawhid custom was a direct continuation of the praxis of the “Palestinian” Jewish community in thirteenth-century Cairo—who in turn were preserving the custom of Beit haVa'ad of the Yeshiva of the Land of Israel dating from the Geonic period (and perhaps even from as far back as the period of Byzantine rule in late Roman Palestine) where it was their custom to ceremoniously declare the sanctification of the new month of Nissan, even after the Jewish calendar had been preset on the basis of astronomical and other calculations.9 At the end of his description, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on expressed his sorrow at the weakening of the custom at the end of the nineteenth century, as a result of the migration of most of the

Tawwahid is the pl. form of Tawhid, lit. “unification” (i.e. expression of and manifestation of belief in the Unity of God). Most sources discussing the custom described by Rabbi Ben-Shim’on use the singular form. 7 Exod., ch. 12. 8 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 27a–b. 9 For more on this custom and its ancient roots in Jewish tradition, see: Ezra Fleischer, “Seder Altawahid, Gilgul Meuhar shel Minhag Eretz-Yisraeli Qadum,” Pe'amim 78, winter 1999, pp. 75–99. 6

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Jewish community to Cairo’s new suburbs, and his hope that the custom would be revived in the future: To my great sorrow the pillars of this pleasant custom have become feeble because the city has greatly expanded, its borders have moved out and its streets and lots have multiplied. And the community leaders and elite have moved out to the suburbs where the air is fresh. And no one is concerned to strengthen the foundation of this beautiful custom that dwells only in Cairo. But my faith in the Lord is strong that when the numbers of the community in the suburbs grow, this nice and pleasant custom will once again renew its youth like an eagle.10 It is interesting to note that Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s hope was not entirely disappointed. This custom continues to exist even in our time (c. 2012) among Jewish communities of Egyptian origin, both in Israel and in the United States. In Israel, the custom was continued by Yosef Yehezqel, who had been a paytan [liturgical singer] and hazzan [cantor] in Cairo. In the United States, the custom was initiated in the late 1960s by Joseph Hamaoui, who had emigrated from Egypt to Brooklyn in 1961. However, this continued for only a few years, and the Tawhid was revived again in 1986 by Joseph Mosseri after he experienced it during a 1985 visit to Israel. It has been held every year since then in the Ahaba ve Ahva synagogue of expatriate Egyptian Jews in Brooklyn:11 Around every Rosh Hodesh Nisan, Ahaba celebrates “Seder Tawhid” a proud Egyptian tradition from several hundred years ago, to recognize the beginning of this very special time of the year. The Tawhid was a time to learn, reflect, and read about Korban Pesah [= the Pascal sacrifice]. Over time, mizmorim [liturgical songs] were added, with great singing and joy … It was believed that the tradition was lost, but [in fact it has been] … growing stronger in our thriving Egyptian community in Brooklyn. Great hazanim [cantors] have since joined the celebration … with live violinist and band accompaniment.12 Another pre-modern custom described by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on was not applauded (as was the Tawhid) but was accepted as valid.13 He writes Nehar Mitzrayyim, 27b. As we noted in Chapter 7, the simile of restoration of youthfulness “as the eagle does” is based upon Ps. 103.5. 11 Personal information received from Mr. Mosseri. For audio and video recordings from the “al-Tawwahid” services held in the Ahaba ve Ahva synagogue of former Egyptians in Brooklyn, see: http://www.ahaba.org/zemandetail.asp?id=3 12 From the synagogue’s website; cf. http://ahaba.org/about.asp. Audio and video recordings of Tawhid events are available online at: http://ahaba.org/browsemedia.asp?id=2. 13 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 2a; this custom existed also in Alexandria, as noted by Rabbi Hazan in Neve Shalom, 25a. 10



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that, during the afternoon preceding the advent of Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), the synagogue of the indigenous Egyptian Jews in Cairo (elMasriyyun) was attended by masses of Jews; when one prayer service ended, another one began.14 During these afternoon services, all the men used to put on tefillin (phylacteries) although no halakhic requirement exists for this to be done at that time. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on had never seen such behavior before: And I asked: What is the reason for this custom? And they said: Because there are many among the simple folk who come to the synagogue to pray only on the High Holidays. And they put on talith (a prayer shawl) and tefillin today so that on the Day of Judgment they will not be in the category of “a head that wears no tefillin”.15 Phenomena such as attending synagogue only on the High Holidays, or not putting on tefillin during most days of the year, are assumed by many today to be the result of modern secularization. But the custom just described is certainly not an expression of a “modern” consciousness. Rather, it reflects a fear grounded in two convictions: first, recognition of Yom Kippur as the day on which each person’s judgment is sealed, and second, an awareness of the terrible fate in hell awaiting those who leave this world while in the category of “a head that wears no tefillin,” so graphically described in the Talmud: [After death] the criminals of Israel in their bodies and the criminals of the nations of the world in their bodies descend into hell where they are judged for twelve months. After twelve months their bodies are destroyed and their souls are burnt, and wind scatters them beneath the feet of the righteous. … “Criminals of Israel in their bodies” – who are they? Rav said: “A head that wears no tefillin”.16 Thus, on the ninth of Tishrei every man must fear that on the upcoming morrow of Yom Kippur his death sentence might be sealed. A person aware of the fact that he has not put on tefillin recently is filled with a special dread of the terrible fate that awaits him if the heavenly court should sentence him to death. The solution offered by the custom described above is to save oneself by putting on tefillin at this last opportunity before the onset of the Day of Judgment. Such quasi-magical thinking is not consistent with a modern consciousness but rather expresses a pre-modern folk religiosity.17 Clearly, then, in pre-modern Egypt there Nehar Mitzrayyim, 43b. Ibid., 2a. 16 Rosh ha-Shana, 17a. 17 This determination is strengthened by the fact that the locus of this custom in Cairo was

14

15

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were not insignificant sectors of the indigenous Jewish community who rarely visited the synagogue or put on tefillin; had these sectors not existed, there would have been no reason for this custom to exist. As we have seen, this popular custom aroused the attention and surprise of the rabbis, but their tendency was to leave it in place. As Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan wrote: “It is a decent and correct custom for some people so they will not be in the category of ‘A head that wears no tefillin’.”18 The case described above indicates that it is well to be wary of the assumption that gaps existing in modern times between the halakhictraditional ideal and the actual praxis of a specific Jewish society were the result of exposure to European culture and influence. Another example of a pre-modern religious reality that was far from ideal may be found in the comments of Egyptian rabbis with regard to the knowledge level of public readers of Torah. Torah scrolls that are read in public during synagogue services must be fully accurate. If a scribal mistake is discovered during the reading, it may be halakhically necessary to immediately cease using that scroll and to replace it with another scroll from the synagogue’s ark. The decision whether or not to do so requires halakhic knowledge and judgment, and both Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan and Rabbi Refael Ben-Shim’on agreed that the communal readers of the Torah, while proficient in chanting the sacred text, could not be relied upon to reach a correct decision on this matter.19 Each of them explained this by referring to the Torah readers’ halakhic ignorance, and Rabbi Ben-Shim’on remarked in this context that “now, sadly, most of the prayer leaders have no acquaintance with halakhic literature.” Reading these words, one might think that this was a new phenomenon, but a close look at the halakhic sources mentioned by these two rabbis reveals that they base themselves upon a decision rendered by Rabbi Eliyahu Israel, who

specifically the synagogue of the indigenous Jews who had lived in Egypt for many generations, long before the advent of European influence and of the immigration to Egypt of “foreign” Jews. According to Dobrinsky, this custom was followed in the twentieth century by Jews descending from the Syrian-Aleppan community but not among the Moroccan or Spanish and Portuguese communities. See: Rabbi Herbert C. Dobrinsky, A Treasury of Sephardic Laws and Customs, New York, Ktav, 1986, p. 333. Rabbi Shem-Tov Gaguin writes that this custom can be found among Jews in the Land of Israel, Turkey, Syria, and Egypt, and he hypothesizes as to its source, while basing himself on the words of Rav Hazan here. He writes that Rabbi Caro mentioned the custom in Beit Yosef but that he cannot recall where. The only written source to which Gaguin refers is Neve Shalom (Shem-Tov Gaguin, Keter Shem Tov, vol. 6, Jerusalem, 1998, p. 272.). However, from the words of Rabbis Ben-Shim'on and Hazan it is apparent that before coming to Egypt they were unfamiliar with this custom, and therefore it seems clear—pace Gaguin—that it was practiced neither in Eretz Israel (where both Hazan and Ben-Shim'on had lived and studied) nor in Turkey (where Rabbi Hazan was born) nor in Morocco (where Rabbi Ben-Shim'on was born). 18 Neve Shalom, ibid. 19 Neve Shalom, 8b; Nehar Mitzrayyim, 8b.



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served as rabbi in Alexandria in the years 1773–84. 20 In other words, even before Napoleon set foot on Egyptian soil, the Torah readers were regarded as insufficiently versed in halakha.

Negative traditions Until this point we have seen support by the rabbis for one custom— Tawhid—and recognition of the validity of another—tefillin on the day before Yom Kippur. This is not surprising in light of the tendency of religions to validate longstanding praxis and custom. Indeed, Rabbi Moshe Sofer, the leading figure in the establishment of Orthodoxy in early nineteenth-century Europe, held that loyalty to Judaism must be expressed in total fealty not only to halakhic sources but to all accepted customs. Thus, in 1835 he admonished the rabbi of Trieste: How do you allow yourself to stretch out your hand against the customs of Israel? Those that you think are based on ignorance are wells dug out from the Source of Living Waters, streams of Lebanon21 … do not make light of Jewish customs whose justification is unknown to you, for they flow from the Source of Living Waters. And it is my wont to declare: “Any person who casts aspersion upon our praxes and customs should himself become the object of investigation”.22 However, such ideological defense of the status quo ante was not the path charted by the rabbis of Egypt. Seeking to re-make the synagogue into the sacred realm of Egyptian Jewish life, they strove to refine the religious lives of Egyptian Jews in general, and synagogue life especially, by overcoming instances of traditional-popular custom that they regarded as incommensurate with the holiness of the synagogue and with fundamental values of Torah. A perfect example of this policy was the reaction of Rabbi Ben-Shim’on to the mode in which Simhat Torah had been customarily celebrated by part of the Jewish community in Cairo. Simhat Torah—“The Rejoicing of the Torah”—marks the end of the yearly cycle of liturgical reading of the Five Books of Moses in the synagogue and the beginning of the next yearly cycle. It was established in Gaonic times to be held on the 23rd day of Tishrei. The great kabbalist, Rabbi Isaac Luria (1534–72), who was active in Safed

Cf. Rabbi Eliyahu Israel, Qol Eliyahu, vol. 1, Orah Hayyim, responsum 18. Cf. Song of Songs 4.14. 22 Responsa HaTam Sofer, vol. 1, Orah Hayyim, responsum 51. As Noah Efron paraphrases Sofer’s overall position: “even folk customs, once accepted by Jews, could never be forsaken, not for all eternity” (idem., Real Jews, Basic Books, 2003, p. 21). 20 21

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toward the end of his life, was inter alia a major innovator of ritual. He introduced into the Simhat Torah festivities the performance of seven haqafot (processional circuits within the synagogue), a practice originally associated with the seventh day of the Sukkot festival. Approximately 150 years passed from his death until the custom spread to Jewish communities outside the Land of Israel.23 Many of the communities that adopted this custom combined it with elements drawn from local culture. Here is Rabbi Ben-Shim’on’s description of how it was celebrated in some Cairene synagogues: On the night of Simhat Torah after midnight they arise to perform haqafot. And all the breachers of propriety gather together: the hoodlums of our generation and a medley of women, men and maidens. And night is when evil spirits have license;24 and a tumult is heard in the camp,25 with drum and singing and alcohol and licentiousness that cannot be contained. How many mishaps have resulted! And synagogues have incurred damage from the breaking of benches and the theft of holy vessels and the like.26 The holding of haqafot at midnight is highly exceptional, almost without parallel in any other Jewish community throughout the world.27 Let us pay attention to the details provided by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on. We are told of a community of people who go to sleep early on the night of the festival, getting up especially at midnight in order to celebrate. Those at the center of the festivities are “hoodlums,” and alongside them are a mix of men, women, and “maidens.” In writing “night is when evil spirits have license,”

23 See: Avraham Ya'ari, Toledot Hag Simhat Torah, Mossad Harav Kook, Jerusalem, 5724 (1963/4), pp. 266–8. 24 The notion that evil spirits roam at night and pose danger has ancient sources in Jewish texts. See Ps. 91.5 as interpreted in Bemidbar Rabba, Naso 12:3; Tractate Megila 3a; Geonic Responsa Coronel responsum 83. 25 Qol hamulah ba-mahaneh. The phrase qol … ba-mahaneh alludes to Exod. 32.17–18, where these words are employed to describe the unruly festivities conducted in honor of the golden calf. 26 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 49a. 27 “This custom has no grounding in any ancient custom,” writes Ya'ari (note 23 above, p. 284). He adds that haqafot were held after midnight in only one other community in the entire world: the community of Senneh (Sanandaj) in Kurdistan. He relies in this matter upon the article by Yoel Yosef Rivlin, “Hag haSukkot beYahadut haMizrah,” Mahanaim 61, Sukkot 5722 (1961), pp. 52–5, where Rivlin writes (on p. 55): In Senneh they used to organize the haqafot after the Ma'ariv prayer in one synagogue, and after midnight in another synagogue, and the young people would participate in both. The youth, as is their nature, particularly liked the late haqafot. After they were finished they used to hold a banquet with singing and dancing. Typical of articles in Mahanayim in those years, Rivlin does not cite any source for this description.



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Rabbi Ben-Shim'on gives the event a demonic aura just as he emphasizes the dimension of sexuality and licentiousness that are characteristic, according to him, of what goes on in the Cairo synagogues on this night. As noted above, many of the communities that adopted this custom combined it with elements drawn from local culture. Was there anything in local culture in Egypt that bears any similarity to the character of these haqafot? Most certainly: Significant similarities exist with a genre of popular celebrations prevalent throughout all of Egyptian society, among both Muslims and Copts: the celebration of Mawalid (singular: Mawlid). Nadia Abu-Zahra writes: “Mawalid are indigenous Egyptian cultural events. Muslims have their Islamic mawalid, the Copts have their Coptic mawalid.”28 As a general introduction to the nature of the mawalid celebrations, Abu-Zahra writes: The seven days of celebrating a mawlid are a liminal period during which people abandon their responsibilities, their inhibitions and enjoy liberties prohibited in everyday life. The rule of segregation of the sexes is relaxed inside the mosque and abandoned outside of it. People’s activities range from worship to prostitution. Lack of order during the mawlid is proverbial, to the extent that it is used to describe any chaotic situation.29 From Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s description it is apparent that the haqafot included elements such as night celebrations, vocal and instrumental music, licentiousness, unruly/ecstatic behavior leading inter alia to damaging furniture of a holy site, theft, mixing of men and women—in a way that deviates from the norm in a society that was usually strict about separation between the sexes—and promiscuous sexual behavior. All of these elements appear in Abu-Zahra’s description of the celebrations occurring during the important mawlid of Al-Sayida Zainab in the mosque bearing her name in Cairo.30 We can now appreciate that these popular celebrations described by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on were an Egyptian-Jewish event, in which local Jews celebrated Simhat Torah in ways congruous with behavior generally accepted also by other communities in Egypt during joyful folk religious festivities. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on was horrified by this phenomenon and turned to the community leaders demanding that they intervene. The leaders—who until then had apparently regarded these celebrations as completely normal—responded to his plea. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on sums up:

Nadia Abu-Zahra, The Pure and the Powerful: Studies in Contemporary Muslim Society, Reading: Ithaca Press, 1997, p. 208. 29 Ibid., 205. 30 Ibid., especially on pp. 217–68. 28

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Blessed are the leaders of the synagogues and the heads of the holy nation who helped me to uproot this evil custom of performing the haqafot in the blackness of a dark night and deep darkness that draws iniquity with cords of falsehood. The merit of the many depends upon them, may they be protected by their Rock and may He be their protector and comforter.31 The phrasing of this passage is rich in allusion. “Blackness of a dark night” (b-ishon layla) alludes to Prov. 7.9, where a young man is warned against a wanton woman seducing him under cover of night; “deep darkness” (afeila menudah) alludes to Isa. 8.22; and the phrase “that draws iniquity with cords of falsehood” (ha-gorer ‘avon be-havli ha-shav’) alludes to Isa. 5.18, where, earlier in the same chapter, the prophet complains in verses 11–12 against “them … that tarry late into the night, till wine inflame them! And the harp and the psaltery, the tabret and the pipe, and wine, are in their feasts; but they regard not the work of the Lord, neither have they considered the operation of His hands.” Thus Rabbi Ben-Shim'on conveys to his educated readers the depths of sinful, immoral behavior that had been going on during the midnight haqafot under the guise of religious activity. He also notes that the community’s leaders identified with his perception of this custom and took action to suppress it. Just as the nature of the nocturnal festivities on Simhat Torah was congruent with the Egyptian context, so too the Rabbi’s reaction was congruent with the “reformist” school of Islam, current at that time among Muslim religious leaders in Egypt. They sought to purify Islam from what they regarded as the dross and superstitions that had adhered to it over the past several centuries and to return it to its original pristine purity. At or near the top of the list of phenomena they identified as outright corruptions of Islam were the Mawalid described above, and they acted against the Mawalid both by enlisting public opinion of the educated classes and by convincing the guardians of public order to suppress what they regarded as the most outrageous negative activities conducted during those festivities. Islam was the official religion of Egypt, and Egypt at the time was under direct European rule; the public face of Islam was thus simultaneously one of the faces of the Egyptian state and the face of Islam and Egypt toward the world of Europe. Suppression of public “negative” and “superstitious” manifestations of Islam thus expressed not only internal preferences within Islam but also a projection of a certain image of Islam as commensurate with the character of Egypt and with a religion worthy of respect from a

Nehar Mitzrayyim, ibid.

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modern, non-Egyptian perspective.32 These latter considerations do not appear in Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s writing, nor are they implied. However, the inclination of Egypt’s rabbis toward a re-affirmation of classic Sephardic paradigms of a Judaism in harmony with rationality and the highest human aspirations could not but have been strengthened by the religious and cultural tendencies of contemporary Egyptian public discourse. To sum up, much of the gap between what Egypt’s rabbis identified as halakhically ideal synagogue life and the actual praxis current in Egyptian synagogues originates in customs dating to the pre-modern period. By the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, we note an increased perception of this gap as posing a challenge to religious life, with the rabbis making efforts to repair religious practices that they identified as problematic. 33 In addition to this trend of strengthening and improving synagogue life, Egypt’s rabbis endeavored to enhance and expand the role of the synagogue as the focal point of the sacral dimensions of community members’ life. It is to these endeavors that we now turn our attention.

Expanding the functions of the synagogue In their effort to fashion the character of the synagogue so as to better serve as the focal point of religious practice and of the sacral dimension, distinctively set apart from the secular lives of community members, Egyptian rabbis were aided by the fact that the Jewish public’s basic attitude to the synagogue—including those who were lax in observance of halakha—was one of reverence. On the basis of this primary attitude it was possible to fashion a context in which important Jewish values, nearly absent from the community’s daily life, could be realized.

On the various considerations and the religious, social, and political forces affecting attitudes toward Mawalids and similar manifestations of Islamic tradition, see, inter alia: Meir Hatina, “Religious Culture Contested: The Sufi Ritual of Dawsa in Nineteenth-Century Cairo,” Die Welt des Islams 47, 1 (2007), pp. 33–62; Samuli Schielke, “Hegemonic Encounters: Criticism Of Saints-Day Festivals And The Formation Of Modern Islam In Late 19th And Early 20th-Century Egypt,” Die Welt des Islams 47, 3–4 (2007), pp. 319–55. 33 For an additional instance in which Rabbi Ben-Shim'on related negatively to a custom prevalent among Egyptian Jews, explicitly noting the custom’s roots in Egyptian popular culture, see his harsh critique of professional mourning women in Nehar Mitzrayyim, 140a–b. His description of the role of these women, as well as his critique of their activities and behaviors, are conspicuously parallel to descriptions found in Abu-Zahra, note 28 above, pp. 62–6. 32

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Educating the younger generation The synagogue as the exclusive place in which youth studied Torah In the previous chapter we noted the poor condition of Torah study in Egypt.34 It was an ancient custom in Jewish communities to devote the time between the Shabbat day meal and the Minha (afternoon) service to a sermon by the community rabbi on matters of halakha and aggada.35 Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan initiated a change in the use of this time, which became dedicated to the “study of Bible and Mishnah,” with the participants comprised of “youth from the schools and many individuals.”36 Rabbi Hazan was proud to report to his readers that this custom, which first began in the synagogue named for Baron Ya'akov ha-Levi Menashe, had expanded to an additional central synagogue, Qehilat Eliyahu ha-Navi.37 From the tone of his words it is evident that he saw this as a significant achievement. And no wonder: This was the only framework for learning Torah in the Alexandria community geared to persons beyond the age of the Talmud Torah! Before the creation of this program, school-age youths had no opportunity to experience any traditional mode of Torah study. The establishment of this program during time previously allocated to a sermon, as well as its expansion to include another major synagogue, is an instance of the policy of making the synagogue into a place where religious functions, which were no longer being met in their traditional contexts, could be fulfilled.

Education for Torah reading as a means for teaching Bible Rabbi Ya'akov Fraji Mahma (c. 1660–1730) served as Chief Rabbi of Alexandria during the first decades of the eighteenth century.38 He trained teenagers to serve as public readers of the weekly Torah portion during Shabbat morning services. He explained that he sought, by starting from an early age, to train Torah readers who would reach a level of exemplary

Near notes 11–18. See, for example: Shulhan 'Arukh, Orah Hayyim, ch. 290, paragraph 2. 36 Neve Shalom, 16a. 37 To download photos of these synagogues, which were architecturally the most attractive in Alexandria, see: http://www.nebidaniel.org/documents/Synagogue%20Alexandrie%202006. pps/ For more on the Eliyahu Hanavi Synagogue, see: Yoram Meital, Atarim Yehudiyim beMitzrayyim, Jerusalem, Ben-Zvi Institute, 5755 (1994/5), pp. 140–2. 38 For more on Rabbi Mahmah, see: Shlomo Zalman Havlin, haYetzira haRuhanit, Jacob M. Landau (ed.), Toledot Yehudei Mitzrayyim baTequfa ha'Uthmanit, Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalayim, 1988, pp. 284–7. 34 35



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precision in pronouncing the words of the Torah. 39 But at the end of the nineteenth century, the question was no longer whether the Torah readers would be able to read with exemplary precision, but rather: Would there be anyone in the younger generation who could read the Torah at any level of precision? In these circumstances Rabbi Mahma’s custom became a basic tool for teaching and education: “Come and let us acknowledge the initiative of the Rabbi [Mahma] of blessed memory,” writes Rabbi Hazan, “thanks to whom the Torah has not been forgotten from Israel.”40 By employing the latter expression41 Rabbi Hazan compares the influence of Rabbi Mahma’s initiative to the influence of the educational undertaking of the great Tana Rabbi Hiyya of late antiquity, of whom it is told in a Baraita that he acted to institutionalize the teaching of Torah to small children, and, as a result, “Torah has not been forgotten from Israel.”42 But this, of course, was a retrospective reading of Rabbi Mahma’s innovation; only in the nineteenth century did the preparation of youth to read Torah in the synagogue become a central means for teaching them Bible. It seems that it was precisely the opportunity to perform in public before the congregation that motivated the youth to study the weekly portion properly. Thus, the synagogue context provided a motivation to observe a mitzvah—albeit for an ulterior motive (she-lo lishmah)—and this was used as leverage for youth education.

Choir A similar phenomenon is the choro (chorus) that became a regular part of the Shabbat and holiday experience in the synagogues of Alexandria. The choro, explains Rabbi Hazan, “is a group of singers made up of children and youth who chant a number of verses and psalms and a number of tunes in the Holy Tongue.” Obviously the members of the choir had to participate in rehearsals, to practice in their homes, etc., thereby guaranteeing that they become familiar with the order of prayers and with the prayer-book, and also regularly attend prayer services. Here too the wish to appear before the congregation served as an ulterior motivation, providing incentive for the youth to become connected to Jewish tradition and to communal prayer.43

Cf. his responsum printed in Ginat Veradim, Orah Hayyim, kelal 2, responsum 23. Ta'alumot Lev, vol. 3, fol. 96c. 41 “thanks to whom the Torah has not been forgotten from Israel.” 42 Bava Metzi'a, 85b. 43 Similar utilization of a synagogue choir for involving boys in synagogue life and for educational purposes is described by Naftali (Walter) Zenner in his article: “haHayyim haPenimiyim shel Yehudei Suria,” Pe'amim 3, 5740 (1979/80), p. 56. The establishment of choirs for the singing of baqqashot in mid-nineteenth-century Jerusalem was also geared to the involvement of children; see: Edwin Seroussi, “leReishit Shirat haBaqqashot b'Yerushalayyim baMeah ha-19,” Pe'amim 56, 1993, pp. 106–24. 39 40

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The establishment of choirs in the synagogues of Alexandria is also an expression of the absorption of influences from European Jewry, in this case from Italian Jewry—where synagogue choirs were introduced already in the seventeenth century.44

Sitting in the sukkah Torah commands Jews to dwell in a sukkah during the fall harvest festival of Sukkot.45 Traditionally, each nuclear or extended family constructed such a temporary, booth-like structure in their yard or on the roof of their house, where they dwelt—or at least ate their meals—during the holiday. Changes in Egyptian urban architecture severely limited the outdoor space available to urban residents, resulting in a drastic decline in the number of Jewish families who put up a sukkah.46 Consequently, the sukkah in the synagogue began to function as the only sukkah available to most members of the community. Rabbi Hazan tended to relate more forgivingly to this development than did Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, who was concerned that the Jewish home was losing its central expression of the Sukkot holiday.47 In any case, the trend was clear: The biblical commandment of sukkah, which traditionally had been performed in the context of the family and the home, disappeared from this realm and became an adjunct to the “sacred realm” of the synagogue. The synagogue’s functions were expanded, and its centrality in the religious life of the community was enhanced as rituals that previously had been part of family and home life became incorporated therein.48

44 On the influence of Italian Jewish liturgical music upon other Mediterranean Jewish communities, including Alexandria, see: Edwin Seroussi, “Livorno – a crossroads in the history of Sephardic religious music,” Elliott Horowitz, Moises Orfali (eds), The Mediterranean and the Jews; Society, Culture and Economy in Early Modern Times, Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2002, pp. 131–54. 45 Leviticus 23.42. 46 See: Zvi Zohar, Masoret uTemurah, Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 1993, pp. 270–2. 47 See: Neve Shalom 26a; Nehar Mitzrayyim 46a. 48 Rabbi Shem-Tov Gaguin, writing in the first decades of the twentieth century, discusses at length the practice of the community building a sukkah in the courtyard of the synagogue, and finds ample ancient and medieval sources and precedents for this phenomenon. But this was in addition to the sukkah that families had at their home. He then notes the tendency of many families (in some places, since medieval times) to refrain from building a sukkah at their home and to rely entirely upon the communal sukkah adjacent to the synagogue; however, he has great difficulty finding justification for this praxis (see: Keter Shem Tov, vol. 7, Jerusalem 1998, pp. 24–30). In any case, the rabbis of Egypt identified this not as a long-standing local custom, but as a recent development.



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Kiddush The great Talmudic sage Sh'muel asserted that “kiddush may be recited only at the site of the meal.”49 Therefore, the ceremony must be performed at home and not in synagogues. In ancient times, however, it was usual for traveling Jews to be lodged in rooms adjacent to the synagogue, and since the synagogue was “the site of their meal,” and since they might not have had their own wine, it was ordained that the cantor recite the kiddush in the synagogue for the benefit of these guests before the end of the Sabbath evening prayer. In later times, the synagogues no longer served for lodging; the custom of reciting kiddush in the synagogue was nevertheless maintained among Ashkenazi Jews, on the assumption that even when the original reason for an enactment is no longer relevant, the enactment remains in force. In the Shulhan 'Arukh, however, Rabbi Yosef Caro ruled: “It is better to establish the custom NOT to recite kiddush in the synagogue.”50 In his opinion, since circumstances had changed and the synagogue was no longer the site of anyone’s meal, the reality for which the rabbis formulated their ordinance no longer existed, and they never intended the enactment to apply under such changed circumstances. The synagogues of Cairo followed Rabbi Caro’s ruling and refrained from performing the kiddush ceremony.51 The same was true for Alexandria until Rabbi Hazan learned from some of his congregants, shortly after taking up his post as rabbi of Alexandria, that: [M]any honorable speakers of foreign tongues who come to synagogue on the eves of the Sabbath and of the Festivals to hearken to the singing and the prayer subsequently return to their residences, and when they come to their homes they sit down to eat without making kiddush. Some of them [do so because they] do not have kosher wine. And also, many of the folk today do not know how to pronounce even one word in the Holy Tongue.52 The term “speakers of foreign tongues” ('am lo'ez) refers here to European Jews living in Egypt. On the one hand, they attended synagogue services on Friday night, meaning that they were not radically estranged from Judaism. On the other hand, they did not recite kiddush at their shabbat table. Rabbi Hazan offers two explanations for this: They have no kosher wine and consider it better not to say kiddush at all than to say it over Pe'sahim, 101a. Orah Hayyim, 169:1. 51 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 14b. 52 Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, Ta'alumot Lev, vol. 3. Alexandria, 1903, fol. 39d. I discuss this ruling by Rabbi Hazan also in my article “Teleological Decision Making in Halakha: Empirical Examples and General Principles,” Jewish Law Association Studies XXII (2012), pp. 331–62. 49 50

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such [non-kosher] wine; and/or they do not know any Hebrew and think that kiddush can only be said in Hebrew. Neither of these reasons holds up from a halakhic perspective.53 It thus seems likely that Rabbi Hazan wished to represent the subjective motivations of these Jews without attributing to them disrespect or disregard for the kiddush ceremony. The information he received, characterizing them as individuals who care enough to attend synagogue services but who do not recite the Friday night Kiddush, led him to a halakhic re-assessment of the situation. As a Sephardic rabbi, it would have been the natural and accepted option for him to rule in accordance with Rabbi Caro—all the more so since the actual praxis in Alexandria was not to recite kiddush in the synagogue. However, the Shulhan 'Arukh’s reasoning for desisting from the recital of kiddush in synagogues was that times have changed, and travelers no longer eat in the synagogues following the service; Rabbi Caro did not even consider the possibility that individuals might return home on Friday night after services and not recite kiddush at their Shabbat table. Rabbi Hazan considered it eminently reasonable that—following Rabbi Caro’s lead in responding to historical change—it was within bounds for him (Rabbi Hazan) to reinstate the recital of kiddush on account of changed socialcultural conditions: It was good in my eyes to ordain that in the Eliyahu HaNavi and Menashe synagogues,54 where these people attend services, kiddush should be recited on shabbat and holidays … for it seems to me that it should be considered a mitzvah to institute the recital of kiddush in the synagogue … to enable the fulfillment of this commandment by a person who is unknowledgeable [in Hebrew] and by one who has no wine and also to benefit those women (who have a biblical obligation to fulfill the mitzvah of kiddush) who come to synagogue to hear kiddush …55 Rabbi Hazan identifies precedents for his decision to rule contrary to Sh’muel and the Shulhan 'Arukh by citing authorities whose positions on the recital of Kiddush had previously been sidelined, such as the Talmudic sage Rav (third century ce) and the medieval scholar Jonah Gerondi (1200– 63). And he concludes: These scholars are worthy to be relied upon in such an hour of pressing

First, if there is no appropriate wine, the evening kiddush can be said over bread. Second, according to halakha, kiddush can be recited in any language. It seems, therefore, that these Jews did not consult anyone on these matters but rather followed their own intuitions. It is also possible that their actual reasons for not saying kiddush were different and were not known to Rabbi Hazan. 54 With regard to these synagogues, see note 37 above. 55 Hazan, note 52 above. 53



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need (sh'at ha-d'haq) and in current times when our generation is not in good state. And so that the practice of kiddush not be forgotten by these people, and, of course, by their young children.56 The issue of kiddush in the synagogue thus reflects three aspects of halakhic decisions by Egyptian rabbis in the modern era. First: expansion of the functions of the synagogue in order to fill a void created by the weakening of the cultural-religious function of the family and home. Second: accommodation (rather than exclusion or disregard) of Jews of marginal communal status. Third: willingness to make independent and original halakhic decisions, relying on minority opinions and going against the Shulhan ‘Arukh and accepted custom—out of a deep conviction that in the present reality such rulings were necessary in order to implement the highest values of Judaism and Torah.

Holding weddings in the synagogue As mentioned in the previous chapter, both in Cairo and in Alexandria wedding celebrations tended to include elements that aroused the rabbis’ displeasure, among them: women’s revealing evening dress, mixed dancing of men and women after the ceremony, and the holding of wedding ceremonies in hotel halls, coffee houses, and even taverns, bringing shame upon Judaism in the eyes of the other religious groups in Egypt. In the previous chapter we also discussed the solutions proposed by the rabbis in Cairo and Alexandria in order to prevent these negative phenomena, among which was the holding of the wedding ceremony in the synagogue. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on writes that: In Egypt [Cairo] we now perform the huppah in the synagogue because it is a holy place, and reverence for the holiness of the house of God saves the holy people from a number of obstacles which are better left unwritten.57 However, his colleague Rabbi Hazan had no such hesitation in explicating these issues: It is much better to conduct it [the wedding ceremony] in the synagogue, which is a holy place … For in doing so we prevent two evils: the first, that they don’t perform the huppah at night [and follow afterwards with mixed dancing] because the ceremony in the synagogue is held only during the day; And second, that men and women come in honorable dress out of respect for the holy place and sit there reverently – which

56 57

Ibid., 40a. Nehar Mitzrayyim, 179b.

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is not the case [if the wedding is held] in another place, as we have explained.58 Thus the synagogue serves as a bastion of holiness in the midst of a secular society. In a generation in which Jews from both the lower and higher classes of society were moving away from observance of classic Jewish norms and from traditional patterns of Jewish life, the rabbis utilized the synagogue to guarantee the propriety and the continuity of the religiousritual dimension of Jewish life.

Egyptian Rabbis and European orthodox Halakhic decisions regarding the synagogue Is it not forbidden to hold a Huppah in the synagogue? We have discussed the decision of Egyptian rabbis to conduct wedding ceremonies in synagogues. Many rabbis in nineteenth-century Europe also decided that it was a good idea to move the wedding ceremony into the synagogue where it could be held with appropriate respect and reverence. By and large, these were rabbis associated with the Reform movement. Conversely, those rabbis who identified as Orthodox vehemently opposed this new initiative and ruled definitively that it was completely forbidden to hold a huppah in a synagogue.59 In our discussion of Iraqi rabbis in modern times we saw that they were acquainted with contemporary European rabbinic scholarship. Was this true also of Egyptian rabbis? Specifically, did the rabbis of Egypt rule in favor of celebrating weddings in the synagogue in ignorance of the trends in European Orthodox halakha, or were they aware of these trends and none the less ruled as they did? If we should find that they were unaware of the controversy in Europe, it could be claimed that had they known the opinions of Orthodox rabbis there the rabbis in Egypt would have retracted—and that their ruling on this matter does not reflect fundamental disagreement with Orthodox positions. But if we should discover that the decision of the Egyptian rabbis to hold wedding ceremonies in the synagogue was pronounced despite what they knew had been ruled in Europe, then we clearly have before us an example in which the Egyptian

Ta’alumot Lev, vol. 3, 59b. For an extensive summary of the opinions and reasoning of these Orthodox rabbis, see: Rabbi Hayyim Hizqia Medini, S'de Hemed, New York, 1949–53, vol. 6, Ma'areket Hatan ve Kala, pp. 2472–80. 58 59



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rabbis responded in a non-Orthodox (but also non-Reform) manner to challenges posed by the process of modernization facing Jewish society. The following question, posed to Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, enables us to begin responding to the issue at hand: One of the dignitaries of our community—may God protect him and save him—asked if he could hold his daughter’s wedding in the synagogue. … Although he saw many people holding weddings in the Eliyahu [haNavi] synagogue. … [H]e was nevertheless greatly troubled because an Ashkenazic rabbi told him that the great author of Tiferet Yisrael wrote that it is halakhically forbidden. And he went on to ask if he could hold the wedding on a Sunday because the same rabbi told him that that too is forbidden because it is “statutes of the gentiles” (huqqot ha-goyyim).60 This question posed to Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan points to a salient influence of European Jewish emigration to Egypt: Some of the emigrants were versed in Jewish knowledge and saw fit to criticize the religious life of Egyptian Jewry in light of the rulings of European rabbis. Egyptian Jews—among them, as we have seen, some of the community leaders—paid heed to this criticism and asked the Egyptian rabbis to justify the difference between European Orthodox rulings and the decisions of the Egyptian rabbis themselves. As a prelude to understanding the significance of Rabbi Hazan’s answer, it should be noted that the European Orthodox rabbis presented two alternate justifications for their opposition to conducting weddings in a synagogue. The one held that Jews had always held huppot under the open sky, and therefore the transition to holding the ceremony in the synagogue was a dangerous innovation, which was at least in part an imitation of the gentiles—and should thus be forbidden.61 The second held that indeed Jews in the past used to perform wedding ceremonies in the synagogue. None the less, because the custom had developed among gentiles to hold weddings in the church, Jews were commanded to annul their original custom in order to separate and distance themselves from “the statutes of the gentiles.” As an illustration of this second position, we shall bring the words of Rabbi

Ta’alumot Lev, vol. 3, fol. 58a-b. The term huqqot ha-goyyim derives from Lev. 20.22–3, where the Torah instructs the Israelites to follow only the statutes and laws of God and not the statutes of the nation (huqqot ha-goy) that He is evicting from the holy land because of their extreme pagan and sexual misconduct (and compare ibid., 18.3–5, 26, 30). 61 This is the method used by Rabbi Yisrael Lipschutz (Germany, 1782–1860), author of the Tiferet Yisrael commentary on the Mishna, whose position was cited in the conversation between the Ashkenazi rabbi and the wealthy Alexandrian man (above). Rabbi Lipschutz went to great lengths to contradict any evidence that might imply that Jews in the past indeed used to hold weddings in the synagogue. See in his introduction to his commentary on Seder Mo'ed, under the heading “Rules of Celebrations.” 60

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Yehuda Aszod, one of the leaders of Orthodoxy in Hungary in the second half of the nineteenth century: With regard to holding it [the wedding ceremony] specifically in the synagogue, I’m afraid this is forbidden by the Torah because of “do not walk in their statutes”. Thus, the Torah forbade setting up a [devotional] pillar (matzeva) even though the Holy One Blessed Be He regarded them favorably in the days of our forefathers …62 And in any case there is no proof at all to be derived from the custom of Mainz cited [in the book of customs written] by Mahari"l [who wrote that in Mainz weddings were held in the synagogue].63 For who can say that in Mainz at that time there was a permanent custom and statute among the uncircumcised, requiring them to perform their weddings specifically in their house of prayer?! [And his son, Aharon Aszod, concludes]: Since now it is a statute among the gentiles [to marry in church], it is in the category of “do not walk in their statutes”.64 In other words, just as God first approved of devotional pillars and then— after these had been adopted by the idolaters—forbade them, so too it had been permissible to hold marriages in synagogues as long as the gentiles did not do so in their houses of worship, but once they adopted this custom, it ipso facto became anathema to Jews. In his responsum, Rabbi Hazan deals with these claims. He determines: a. It is an ancient custom among the Sephardic-Oriental communities to hold a wedding inside a building and not necessarily under the open sky. Even if the historical claim of the author of Tiferet Yisrael is correct with regard to Ashkenazic Europeans, it is not relevant for Sephardic Jews. b. Furthermore, the gentiles [in Egypt] have no statute that weddings should be held in their house of worship. While some do so, it is merely to make use of the large space. And many others hold their

The prohibition of matzeva appears in Lev. 26.1 and Deut. 16.22 even though Jacob set up such pillars in honor of God (Gen. 28.18, 31.45, 35.14), as did Moses (Exod. 24.4). From here it is learned (see, for example, Tosafot on 'Avoda Zara 11a, s.v. V'i huqqah hi) that the adoption by gentiles of a ritual practice may lead to an obligation of Jews to desist from that practice even though it had been permissible in the past. 63 MaHarIl = Rabbi Ya'akov Moellin (1360–1427) vividly describes how marriages were held in Mainz and clearly locates the wedding ceremony as held within the main prayer hall of the synagogue, with the bride and groom standing on the podium (bima). Cf. Sefer Maharil, Warsaw, 1874, p. 64. 64 Responsa Yehuda Ya'aleh, section Orah Hayyim, responsum 38 and the comments of Aharon ben Yehuda Aszod ad loc. 62



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weddings in their homes. And on this basis there is no reason to forbid it on the grounds of “do not walk in their statutes”.65 In other words, for the Jews in Islamic countries there is nothing new about holding weddings in the synagogue; furthermore, in these countries holding weddings in the house of prayer cannot be considered following statutes of the gentiles, for the gentiles themselves have no such statute. With these two claims Rabbi Hazan renders the decisions of the European rabbis—on the specific issue posed to him of whether it is proper to hold a wedding in a synagogue—irrelevant for Jews in Egypt. But his argument up to this point does not negate their decision in principle: One might still hold that, while their decision was not relevant to Jews in Muslim lands, the European rabbis decided well for the Jews of Europe, whose original custom was to hold weddings only outdoors or (alternatively) whose custom had indeed been to hold weddings in the synagogue, but, after the gentiles in Europe established the statute of holding weddings in church, this became forbidden for their Jewish neighbors. However, Rabbi Hazan sought to clarify unequivocally that his approach differed in principle from that of his European Ashkenazic peers. He refers the reader to a comprehensive and fundamental responsum on the issue of “statutes of the gentiles,” composed by Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan.66 The conclusions of that responsum are that: a. The prohibition of acting in accordance with “statutes of the gentiles” applies only to rules that the gentiles follow as an a-rational “given” and/or that involve licentiousness and immodesty. b. If gentiles perform acts—including religious rituals—that have a rational, understandable reason, Jews are allowed to act similarly.67 Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan writes that he is in complete agreement with these conclusions and adds his own personal touch: If in every generation we were to forbid all things that develop among the uncircumcised and the gentiles, we would inevitably forbid some things that are permitted. And this is not the appropriate age and time to add new prohibitions that did not cross the mind of earlier generations. It is enough that we should be able to maintain what we already have.68

Ta'alumot Lev, vol. 3, fol. 60a. Whose views on Arabic and on European vs. Oriental culture we discussed in Chapter 7. 67 Rabbi Y. M. Hazan’s lengthy and detailed responsum was published in his opus Kerakh shel Romi, Livorno, 1876, responsum 1. 68 Ta'alumot Lev, ibid., 59a–b. 65 66

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These words of Rabbi Hazan include two distinct considerations: a. In light of Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan’s findings with regard to the fundamental definition of “statutes of the gentiles,” it makes no sense to place every act of the gentiles in the category of “their statutes,” and one cannot generalize from the case of the devotional pillar (matzeva) to other norms and behaviors. Each case must be judged on its own merits, on the basis of relevant criteria. b. Given the current political-social-cultural interaction between halakhic Judaism and the modern world, it is a strategic mistake to respond by adding restrictions and prohibitions. The method of imposing restrictions and prohibitions in order to cope with the challenge of modernity was, of course, the method chosen by European Orthodoxy, which crystallized under the leadership of Rabbi Moshe Sofer who coined the slogan: “The New is forbidden by Torah.” Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan’s words imply a surprising reversal of this slogan: While Rabbi Moshe Sofer and his colleagues maintained that “The New is forbidden by Torah,” Rabbi Hazan maintained that “Torah scholars in the modern era should not make up new prohibitions.” Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan’s practical conclusion was, as noted, not only that it was permissible for Jews to hold weddings in the synagogue, but that it was religiously preferable and correct to do so: It is much better to perform it [= a wedding] in the synagogue, which is a holy place … God forbid that a Jew who holds a wedding in a synagogue is doing so in imitation of the gentiles. On the contrary, his purpose is to be sanctified in a holy and blessed place”.69 Thus, both the chief rabbis of Egypt’s two main cities—Cairo and Alexandria—agreed that, pace the rulings of Ashkenazic Orthodoxy, the synagogue was the preferred location for holding wedding ceremonies.

Synagogue design—the place of the Bima Another issue around which there was heated debate within European Jewry in the nineteenth century related to the internal design of the synagogue. In the Mishneh Torah Maimonides ruled that the most appropriate place for the bima (podium) is in the middle of the synagogue.70 But Rabbi Yosef Caro, in his commentary Kesef Mishneh (ad loc), stated that with regard to

Ibid., 59b–60b. Hilkhot Tefila, ch. 11, section 3.

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the location of the bima—“its positioning in the middle is not obligatory, rather it is contingent upon the place and time.” In nineteenth-century Europe it became common practice in the Reform movement to position the bima at the front of the synagogue hall. In reaction, the Orthodox rabbis, led by the Hatam Sofer, ruled that there is an unequivocal obligation to situate the bima only in its traditional place—i.e. in the middle of the synagogue.71 This reaction reached its height in 1886, when 100 rabbis signed a declaration excommunicating anyone who prayed in a synagogue in which the bima was not located in the center.72 In 1896, Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on was asked to rule with regard to the location of the bima. He discussed this question in response to a query by his community’s leaders on an issue that greatly troubled them. Since most of the community—and especially, most wealthy individuals— had moved to the suburbs, not enough congregants remained in the old Jewish quarter to maintain services in all the remaining synagogues.73 Two of these synagogues were adjacent, with a joint wall separating them: The “Rabbi Ishm'ael” synagogue, named in memory of Rabbi Ishm'ael haCohen Tannoudji, was just to the west of the “Rabbi Ya’aqov” synagogue, named after Rabbi Ya'aqov Abu-Sha'arah.74 In 1896 it was proposed that the wall between these two adjacent synagogues be knocked down, thereby creating one large prayer space, a more numerous congregation and less overhead.75 Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on was asked if this was permissible. He responded positively and in this context related to the following question: In Cairo (as in many other places) the holy ark of the synagogue (containing the sacred scrolls of Torah) was on the eastern wall of the synagogue. When the two synagogues would be joined together, they would no longer need two holy arks. The ark that belonged to the more eastern synagogue would remain, and the ark of the more westerly synagogue would be removed. The place where that ark had been would now be open floor-space, somewhere in the middle of the synagogue. Should that space be treated with any special respect or consideration because in the past it had been the site of a holy ark? Rabbi Ben-Shim'on replied that, from a formal halakhic perspective, once the ark was removed, no special holiness remained in that place. Nevertheless, everything else being equal, it would be very appropriate to Responsa Hata"m Sofer, Orah Hayyim, responsum 28. See: Sde Hemed (note 59 above), vol. 4, Ma'arekhet Beit haKnesset, section 13 (fol. 758a). 73 For my discussion of additional issues related to the migration of Jews from the old Jewish quarter to the new suburbs, see Masoret uTemura (note 46 above), pp. 272–80. 74 Cf, Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on, Tuv Mitzrayyim. Jerusalem, 5768/1908, p. 34b. Rabbi Tannoudji was originally from Tunis and served as Chief Rabbi of Cairo in the mid-sixteenth century. Rabbi Abu-Sha'arah lived in Cairo during the first decades of the seventeenth century. 75 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on states that Rabbi Abu-Sha'arah had arrived in Egypt in 1620, and that that was “276 years ago.” Cf. Responsa umiTzur Devash, Jerusalem, 5672/1912, fol. 3c–d. 71 72

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situate the bima of the joint synagogue on the floor-space where the ark had been. But, he added: If situating the bima in that place would impair the beauty of the synagogue, or, if in that location the bima will lack clear light, such that the Torah reader will not be able to read comfortably and will not be able to peruse the letters of the Torah scroll and to verify that the spacing [between the letters in the scroll] is as it should be, then that which is lost is greater than that which is gained – for it might cause members of the congregation [called up to the reading of the Torah] to recite benedictions in vain, such as: if the reading was conducted in a scroll that should have been be disqualified, but he [the reader] could not notice that because there was not enough light. Thus, it seems, in my humble opinion … that the bima should be set in the place most conducive to the fulfillment of its functions.76 In sum, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s stance is that the place of the bima should be determined according to two considerations: a. The functional consideration: The bima is intended for reading the Torah, and it should be put in the place in which this function can best be properly fulfilled. b. The aesthetic consideration: The interior design of the synagogue should provide a pleasant visual experience for congregants. Beauty is an important religious-halakhic value in planning the synagogue. Therefore, when deciding where to put the bima, it is important to consider the overall aesthetic effect upon the space of the prayer hall. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on was familiar with the halakhic works of the Hatam Sofer77 as well as with the works of his son Abraham Sofer;78 both opposed any change in the positioning of the bima. Thus, his response was formulated as it was despite his awareness of the views of these (and other) leading European Orthodox rabbis with regard to the location of the bima. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s ruling is consonant with the position taken on this issue by Rabbi Yishma'el ben Avraham Yitzhaq haCohen (1723–1811), one of the greatest Italian rabbis of modern times. In his book Zera' Emet79 a question is referred to him “concerning a synagogue that had

Ibid., fol. 3b. He quotes Rabbi Moshe Sofer in, e.g. umiTzur Devash (op. cit.), Yoreh De'ah, responsum 4 (fol. 47d) and responsum 16 (fol. 62a). 78 He quotes Rabbi Avraham Sofer in ibid., Orah Hayyim, responsum 11. 79 Livorno 1786, vol. 1, responsum 26. 76 77



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a dukhan [= podium] in the middle, and the synagogue was destroyed. And when rebuilding it, they wanted to situate the dukhan on one side. But some object.”80 Rabbi Yishma'el haCohen had before him the same sources that were before the Hatam Sofer: on the one hand the words of the Maimonides in Mishneh Torah and, on the other, the words of Rabbi Yosef Caro in the Kesef Mishneh. But while Rabbi Sofer essentially decided against the Kesef Mishneh and made it obligatory to place the bima in the middle of the synagogue—concluding his answer with the statement “the principle is: That which is new is forbidden by the Torah in all places”—Rabbi Yishma'el haCohen did exactly the opposite. He regarded Rabbi Caro’s comment (“Everything is in accordance with the time and the place”) as the halakhically authoritative explanation of Maimonides’ position and concluded with the decisive words “there is nothing more to discuss on the matter.” This position of the Rabbi of Modena, “the last of the rabbis of Italy recognized as a halakhic authority by rabbis of the entire Jewish diaspora,”81 was known to Rabbi Ben-Shim'on82 and was one of the sources for his decision to give precedence to functional and aesthetic considerations in determining the location of the bima. Rabbi Ya'akov Shaul Elyashar (1817–1906), who at the time was serving as Rishon le-Tziyyon, was asked by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on to provide support and endorsement for his responsum permitting the unification of the two old synagogues. The Jerusalemite rabbi supported Rabbi Ben-Shim'on on most counts and permitted the destruction of the shared wall. But it is interesting to note that he, in explicit consideration of the position of the Hatam Sofer—and in opposition to the view of Zera' Emet—ruled that the bima must be located in the middle of the synagogue. He totally disregarded the aesthetic consideration raised by Rabbi Ben-Shim’on, and, while recognizing that lack of natural illumination might be an issue, proposed (without checking if this was structurally possible) opening skylights over the bima in order to provide light to the Torah reader.83 What led the Rishon le-Tziyyon to rule in accordance with a decision reflecting the internal Ashkenazic debate between Orthodox and Reform? It seems not unreasonable to propose that this reflects a degree of influence that Ashkenazic Orthodox views had upon the religious atmosphere in Jerusalem toward the end of the nineteenth century. Immigration of European Jews to Jerusalem increased greatly over the course of the nineteenth century, and by the end of that century a majority of Jerusalem’s Jews were of European origin. These included hundreds of rabbis, virtually all of whom identified religiously with contemporary European Orthodoxy; some of these did not hesitate to express harsh criticism and antagonism Ibid., fol. 36c. This is how he is described by Moshe Samet in Encyclopedia Judaica 1, vol. 9, p. 83. 82 Via its citation by Rabbi H. D. Azulai in Mahziq B'rakha 150:5. 83 Rabbi Elyashar’s responsum is brought in full in umiTzur Devash, fol. 4c–5d. 80 81

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toward the veteran Sephardic leadership.84 Thus a situation was created in which it was easier for a Sephardi rabbi from a more peripheral community to be faithful to the ethos of Sephardi posqim who preceded him than it was for the Rishon le-Tziyyon himself.85

Emending and fine-tuning the prayer-book A third issue that reflects the influence of European Jewish controversies on the world of the Egyptian Jewish synagogue was the question of correcting and fine-tuning the text of the traditional prayer-book (siddur). Already by the end of the eighteenth century, and especially in the first half of the nineteenth century, this was a “burning” issue among European Jewry. At first, the focus was on minor emendations of the wording of the prayers on the basis of manuscripts and grammatical rules. Later, Reform rabbis initiated more radical changes in the prayer service. In response to this, Orthodox rabbis declared that as a matter of religious principle Judaism was opposed to any and all changes in the text of the traditional siddur.86 Around 1906, the Alexandrian publisher and printer, Faraj Hayyim Mizrahi, planned to publish a new edition of the siddur. Before proceeding with this initiative, he decided to consult with Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan and ask if it was permissible to incorporate into the siddur certain linguistic emendations that (in Mizrahi’s opinion) were required in order to bring the text into line with the rules of Hebrew grammar and with medieval manuscripts of the prayer service. In his response Rabbi Hazan surveys various halakhic sources on this issue and formulates an independent halakhic policy—ignoring Ashkenazic rulings that were promulgated in reaction to Reform.87 The principles that underlie his decision revolve around two axes: first, the (limited) chances that a contemporary critique is correct; second, the confusion that will result if various printers each decide to emend the traditional wording of the siddur, especially the wording of central, well known passages. With regard to the first issue, he determines that in principle it is indeed logically possible to critique the traditional text on the basis of grammar

For more on the Ashkenazic community in Jerusalem at that time, religious trends and the influence of extremists, see: M. Friedman, Hevra veDat: haOrtodoksia ha-lo-Ziyyonit beEretz Yisrael, 5778–96 (1917/18–1935/36), Jerusalem, Yad ben-Zvi, 5738 (1977/78), and especially in the introductory chapter, pp. 1–22. 85 On the influence of Ashkenazic radical Orthodoxy in Jerusalem on the views of Aleppan rabbis who immigrated to Jerusalem in the late nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth century, and through them on rabbis in Aleppo itself, see Chapter 4. 86 On this matter more generally, see: J. J. Petuchowsky, Prayerbook Reform in Europe, New York, 1968. 87 The only Ashkenazi source cited by him is of Rabbi Yehezqel Landa, author of Noda' biYehuda, who lived before the era of Reform. 84



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and philology. However, the likelihood that such criticism will be correct is small. This follows from the linguistic proficiency and expertise of Sephardic/Oriental rabbis of recent centuries, as attested by Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, who wrote: In all these places – Aleppo, Persia, Morocco and Algeria, the holy city of Jerusalem (may it speedily be rebuilt), Hebron (may it speedily be rebuilt), Cairo, Istanbul, Izmir, Tunis and all the cities of Italy – there were learned rabbis who were great experts in Hebrew grammar, yet they made no changes in the customary prayer.88 If so, Hazan argues, these rabbis in effect endorsed the traditional formulation of the siddur and considered it to be in full accordance with the rules of language and grammar. It follows that persons who in the present time advance grammatical critiques with regard to the accepted formulations of the prayer book are in disagreement on matters of linguistics with the learned rabbis of the communities mentioned above. Given the expertise of all those rabbis, it is unlikely that all of them were mistaken and a contemporary critic is in the right. However, Rabbi Hazan acknowledges that it might nevertheless be the case that a contemporary scholar would be able to point out a mistake that had eluded previous generations. Even so, he argues that this should not lead to a change in the printed texts—because of the disruptive effects such changes would have upon congregational prayer services. Rabbi Hazan points out that traditional congregants of the synagogue are intimately familiar with the conventional words of the central parts of the prayer service and in fact know them by heart. Were printers and/ or prayer-leaders to insert various “corrections” into the wording of the traditional service, this would be a source of great confusion and would undermine the public’s feeling of ease with the service. Unity and uniformity of the central texts of communal prayer should be regarded as of greater value than the quest for grammatical and linguistic purity. Therefore, writes Rabbi Hazan: With regard to the accepted formulations that the public knows by heart, it is improper to change them and confuse their reading. And the prayer leader is certainly not allowed to change the usual formulation. He who initiates change has no defense and should be harshly reprimanded.89 Hayim Yosef David Azulai, Responsa Yosef Ometz, responsum 10. Cited by Rabbi Hazan in Ta'alumot Lev, part 4, at fol. 60b. In Chapter 7 we saw Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan’s penchant for expertise in Hebrew linguistics and his view that this was a realm of major importance for rabbinic scholars. 89 Ta’alumot Lev, ibid., fol. 60c. 88

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Prima facie, Rabbi Hazan’s opposition to change in the formulation of communal prayer seems identical to the stance of Orthodox Ashkenazic rabbis on this issue. It is precisely against this background that his next words stand out: [A] person praying as an individual, who is well-versed in grammar, may perhaps emend the wording and thus pray with greater clarity … And in any case, even such a person should not fault the ancient formulations as long as it is possible to justify them – even in a forced manner. According to Rabbi Hazan, the wellbeing of congregational prayer does not require suppression of individual conviction. If a person individually recites the prayers in accordance with what he considers to be a more exact wording of the text, this presents no challenge to the authority of tradition. Therefore, this is the appropriate dimension for each person to express his/ her individual truth in accordance with his/her deep conviction, based on knowledge and education. The channel thereby opened up for an individual to pray in what is in his opinion a more exact version of the prayer—even if it differs from the congregation’s official usage—deviates from mainstream European Orthodox rulings on this issue. In sum, Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan’s position on this matter may be seen to reflect a convergence of two cultural influences: Modern Western influence with regard to the value of an individual’s freedom of conscience in his personal relations with his God; The influence of the “classical” school in Sephardic Jewish culture that recognizes the right of the educated individual to perform (in accordance with his learned consideration) “variations” on the theme of the prevalent, normative prayer-text.90 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on also relates to the issue of corrections in the wording of the prayer service. In a chapter of his book Nahar Mitzrayyim, in which he deals with laws and customs of Yom Kippur, he writes: The good-hearted will conclude not to heed those who emend the prayers and the supplications and the confessions and the like that we have before us, originating with our great scholars and rabbis of Spain (may their memory protect us amen), who composed them for us thanks to their holy spirit and to the breadth of their understanding and wisdom with regard to the depths of our holy and sublime tongue … These amenders dare, with their limited knowledge of the poetic depths of our language, to edit their [= the ancients’] words and to print their corrections in the margins of their books, as if to state that they are wiser than them … A person whose heart is touched by God will distance himself

Cf. Rabbi Yosef Caro, Responsa Avqat Rokhel, responsum 20 and Rabbi Hayyim Yosef David Azulai, Responsa Tov 'Ayin, responsum 7.

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from this path of foolishness and will pray according to the formulation as composed before us.91 The linguistic stature of the authors of yore was so great that members of the present generation have no realistic chance of being able to critique them intelligently (in this his position differs from that of Rabbi Hazan above). Anyone who thinks otherwise is an insolent fool, and it is clear in advance that his proposals can have no validity. Unlike his Alexandrian peer, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on is not concerned lest contemporary emendations undermine the formal authority of early generations, nor does he offer an opening for the individual to privately change the wording of his prayers. In his opinion, the problem represented by the emenders is solely that of intellectual hubris, and what holds for the congregation holds for the individual as well. Whether according to Rabbi Hazan’s relatively complex and sophisticated analysis or according to the more simple analysis of Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, a significant difference seems to exist between the way that they dealt with the issues posed by proposed corrections of the standard prayer book and the path chosen by European rabbis. The rabbis of both Egypt and Europe were interested in protecting the traditional formulations against proposed changes; but while the European rabbis tried to achieve this objective by asserting their authority—excommunication, threats, etc.—the Egyptian rabbis present rational arguments in support of their position that the wording of the communal prayer-service should be maintained “as is.” In other words, the Egyptian rabbis respond in a non-authoritarian way to a phenomenon that (at least implicitly) might be regarded as threatening the authority of tradition.

The influence of European Culture on strengthening the role of the synagogue At the beginning of this chapter we saw how the synagogue in Egypt was re-fashioned so as to serve as the nexus of the sacred in the Jewish community’s life, thus creating a counterweight to the weakening of the sacral dimension in the mundane life of the community. We saw that with regard to a number of central issues the Egyptian rabbis withheld from structuring synagogue patterns in accordance with Ashkenazic Orthodox halakhic decisions that originated in the context of a conflict with the Reform movement and preferred options characteristic of the more open Sephardic halakhic tradition. Thus, in our chapter, European influence—whether

Nehar Mitzrayyim, 45a.

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general or Jewish—has appeared until now mostly in a negative light: first as a force for secularization that narrowed the scope of the sacral and channeled religious experience into an over-reliance on the synagogue, and then as a force for Orthodoxy that threatened to shape synagogue life in ways that Egyptian rabbis regarded as counterproductive or uncalled for. We shall conclude this chapter with an example of a positive influence that European cultural values had on synagogue life in Egypt, indicating how dialectic the influence of modernity was upon the lives of Egyptian Jews. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on writes: In recent years, a new custom was introduced in Cairo: to accompany a new Torah scroll to the synagogue with festivity and song during the day. And candles are lit before it in honor of the Torah scroll. And this was not like the original custom, which was to bring it to the synagogue in the latter part of the night, while it was still dark. (And this first custom was justified: because of the power of Exile at that time, the force of the troubles and the jeering of the gentiles, they could not bring it to the synagogue joyously during the day.) Whereas now, when (thank the blessed Lord) freedom and liberty reign in the land, and Jews enjoy advantage in the Kingdom of Egypt (thank the blessed Lord), and also the gentiles now respect the Torah of Moses – it is no longer right to follow the original custom of bringing the Torah scroll in darkness and secrecy. Rather, it is meritorious to bring it to the synagogue publicly, with honor and dignity … and this is the honor of the religion and the honor of the nation that takes pride in its religion and its Torah that was given us from the heavens.92 In the past, the public domain in Egypt was a place of danger for Jews, in which public manifestation of Judaism exposed one to derision—or worse. But at present, writes Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, the situation is very different, thanks to “the freedom and liberty that reign in the land,” i.e. the granting of equal rights to adherents of the different religions, with governmental protection of their right to publicly express their religious identity.93 In the eyes of Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, this equality was tantamount to Jews “[E] njoying advantage in the Kingdom of Egypt.” Moreover, the gentiles not only reluctantly tolerate the Jewish presence, they even respect the Torah of Moses (this probably relates first and foremost to the English rulers and the circles close to them). We thus have a classic example of how freedom of religion and recognition of equal religious rights—which reigned in Egypt thanks to the liberal-European principle of “freedom and liberty” in

Nehar Mitzrayyim, 118a–b. Cf. the words of Rabbi Somekh above, chapter 1, after note 40, on “the sweetening of the exiles.” 92 93



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matters of religion introduced by the British presence—reinforced the status of the synagogue as the focal point of vibrant and open sacred life, free from the fear of harassment by members of other religious communities.

Conclusion In the previous chapter we saw another way in which Egyptian rabbis related to the principle of “freedom and liberty” when they claimed that, due to this policy, they were unable to prevent individuals from committing transgressions or to protest at their objectionable behavior.94 That is to say: The political-social situation that included modern-secular influence on life in Egypt and that subsequently caused a dilution of the sacral dimension in the daily lives of members of the Jewish community was also that which led the rabbis of the community to restructure the role of the synagogue in order to fill the “sacral vacuum” created by the secularization of daily life. However, this very same situation also created—simultaneously—beneficial legal-social conditions, which made it possible for the synagogue to more openly manifest its presence in community life and thereby to fulfill the task designated to it by the rabbis.95 The Egyptian rabbis, for their part, tried to identify within modern socio-cultural reality elements with positive potential and to utilize these elements in order to cope with challenges this reality posed to the continuity of the Jewish dimension in the lives of community members. In the two following chapters, we shall discuss in depth two cases in which Egyptian rabbis responded boldly to challenges posed by transformations affecting the Egyptian Jewish community. First, in Chapter 10, we shall present and discuss Rabbi Ben-Shim’on’s response to a suicide epidemic among young Jews in Cairo. Then, in Chapter 11, we shall discuss the response of Egyptian rabbis to the increased interest of the younger generation in marriage between Karaite and Rabbanite Jews.

See Chapter 8, after note 93. For additional expressions of this duality, see: Masoret uTemurah (note 46 above), pp. 96–7, 132–7, 141–2. 94 95

10 Halakha, suicide, and social policy1

In the preceding chapters we have come to know Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on (Rabat 1848–Tel Aviv 1929), who served as Chief Rabbi of Cairo for 30 years (1891–1921). In a wide variety of cases and situations, he attempted to create fitting halakhic responses to emerging modern Middle Eastern realities in a manner that would best express the inherent capabilities of halakha to respond creatively to phenomena and processes characteristic of modern Egyptian and Jewish society. We have also frequently referred to (and quoted from) his seminal halakhic work Nehar Mitzrayyim. When Rabbi Ben-Shim'on began working on this book, he intended to compose a compendium of Cairene Jewish customs but in the course of its writing it grew to cover “[A]ll matters that are necessary for the public, and of frequent concern, and matters that people need to know as required by the generation and the times.”2 One such matter turned out to be—somewhat surprisingly, at first glance—the issue of youthful suicides. The Bible and the Talmud do not take an unequivocal stance prohibiting suicide in all cases.3 However, post-Talmudic Judaism, as concretized in halakha, generally takes a very negative stand toward suicide.4 A proven

A draft of an earlier version of this chapter was read by Shlomo Fischer, Harvey Goldberg, Norman Stillman, and Walter Zenner, and by two anonymous lectors. I gratefully acknowledge their valuable and enlightening comments and critiques; any mistakes in the current version are, of course, my own. It should be noted, that the Hebrew term for suicide is “M'-abed 'Atsmo L' Da'at,” lit.: [one who] “Annihilates himself knowingly/intentionally.” It may well be that the meaning of this term is not completely coterminous with “suicide,” which means, of course, “self-killing.” However, an investigation of this matter is beyond the scope of the present chapter. 2 From the author’s introduction to Ben-Shim'on, Nehar Mitzrayyim, Alexandria, Farag Hayyim Mizrahi, 1908. 3 See, for instance: 1 Sam. 31.4. And see Bereishit Rabba 34:13 for an approach that permits suicide under certain circumstances. 4 The post-Talmudic negative attitude to suicide derives from Tractate Semahot (a work 1

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suicide should be buried with an absolute minimum of rites at the edge/ perimeter of the cemetery, ostracized in death by the community whose central value—the sanctity of life—he spurned. However, precisely because of the extreme and final nature of such a move (once buried, it is considered virtually impermissible to move a body to another site), rabbinic custom was to try to characterize self-inflicted deaths as tragic mistakes or as caused by momentary insanity or by intolerable pain: in short, as not truly a “suicide” in the halakhic sense.5 As we have had many occasions to see, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s general attitude toward modern realities reflects his deep belief in the innate flexibility and openness to change that characterize halakha at its best. Yet, in the case at hand, he rejects the time-honored convention of de facto leniency toward self-inflicted death and specifically applies truly harsh sanctions. In this chapter, I present and analyze Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s reasoned justification of his policy, bringing to bear not only halakhic material but also, inter alia, the implications of Durkheim’s classic work on suicide and the socio-historical findings of a little-known paper by René Maunier (1930). Here is how Rabbi Ben Shim'on describes the nature and quality of the phenomenon facing him in Cairo: My Witness is in the skies, and Heaven shall bear testimony, that in my first years on the Seat of Instruction [= as rabbi] in this lively city of Cairo,6 my heart melted like wax and I was seized with trembling because of the evil that I beheld. For suicides were a very prevalent sorrow. And many destroyed themselves because of some petty reason or because of loss of so-called honor or because they had failed to fulfill a lust after some filthy fornication or for other similar reasons marked with the sign of ignominy … For I saw that this affliction had infiltrated from the cities of Europe and that they had learned from the sons of aliens to imitate the most degenerate of the nations whose way is for hundreds and thousands to destroy themselves for reasons of slight significance. For they have no belief in the remaining of the soul, nor of an accounting in the underworld (to which he is destined), nor fear of God. And therefore, when time afflicts them even ever so slightly, they do not accept with love the modelled after the style and structure of the Mishna, whose date of final redaction is unknown). On Jewish attitudes to suicide in general, see: Sidney Goldstein, Suicide in Rabbinic Literature, Hoboken, Ktav, 1989. For a brief, more sophisticated analysis, see: Noam Zohar, Alternatives in Jewish Bioethics. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997, pp. 54–8. 5 For what may be regarded as reflecting conventional halakhic views on these matters, see: Y. M. Tukacinsky, Gesher Ha-Hayyim, vol. 1. Jerusalem, Solomon, 1960, pp. 269–73. An analysis of the sources cited by Tukacinsky indicates that reticence in declaring a person who apparently died at his own hand as a “suicide” is reflected already in Tractate Semahot. 6 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on became rabbi of Cairo in 1891. As he speaks here of his “first years,” I have assigned 1895 as an approximate date for the policy decision he describes below.



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decree of Heaven but in a brief time set themselves free by invoking death. Not such is the portion of Jacob, for we are warned against murder of the self and commanded to preserve it. And we believe in reward and punishment for all acts after death. Blessed is our God, Who has separated us from the misguided.7 Rabbi Ben-Shim'on describes suicide as disturbingly prevalent within the Jewish community of Cairo. He claims that attitudes conducive to suicide were not indigenous; rather, they reflected socio-historical change deriving from external influence. Specifically, he links such change in Egypt to similar, earlier developments in Europe.

Socio-historical change and suicide: Maunier’s findings on Egypt Not infrequently, rabbis addressing an issue of concern may present the issue in hyperbole in order to impress their readers with the gravity of the matter at hand. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on makes two assertions: first, suicide had become increasingly prevalent in Cairo; second, the cause of this change was European influence. Are these assertions essentially factual or hyperbolical? René Maunier’s pioneering work on the topic of suicide in Egypt8 provides a fascinating insight on the matter at hand. Maunier writes that the incidence of death by suicide in the indigenous population of Egypt is the lowest compared to all countries for which data is available. Within Egypt dramatic differences exist between the rural and the urban populations. Thus, in any given year, the incidence of attempted suicide was radically higher in major urban centers than in rural areas, and the incidence in Cairo was significantly higher than in Alexandria. Analysis of the data for the years 1913–17 for all of Egypt’s provinces shows the attempted rate of suicide per one million of population, in four main geographical blocs: Upper Egypt 4 Nile Delta 9 Alexandria 112 Cairo 130 Maunier argues that this data, representing the second decade of the twentieth century, should be read and understood in the broad context of the preceding half-century. During that period of time, the incidence of

Nehar Mitzrayyim, fol. 141b. René Maunier, “Notes statistiques sur le Suicide en Egypte (1887–1918),” Melanges de Sociologie Nord-Africaine, Paris: Felix Alcan, 1930, pp. 198–220.

7 8

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both attempted and successful suicide in Egypt increased tremendously. Thus, during the entire year of 1871, there were only six cases of suicide in the entire population of Egypt; of these, four were foreigners. In the years 1887–90, 54 deaths due to suicide were recorded in Lower Egypt (including Cairo, Alexandria, and the Nile Delta region, but excluding Egypt’s Southern provinces) and none at all in Upper Egypt. Of these, however, 37 were of foreign citizens and only 17 of the local populace. Thus, the annual average for all of Egypt was slightly less than 14. After 1900, however, the suicide rate began to increase dramatically, and by 1910 suicide had become an epidemic; indeed, in that year, for the first time, the Egyptian penal code related to suicide—forbidding assistance to suicide attempts. At the time Maunier composed his study, in 1917, there were over 200 such attempts per annum in Egypt, of which some 40 were “successful,” which results in a rate of about five successes per million inhabitants per year for Egypt in toto. Until the beginning of the twentieth century, the absolute number of suicides in the ranks of foreigners in Egypt was higher than amongst the local population. By 1917, this was no longer true, but the relative incidence of suicide amongst foreigners was incomparably greater than amongst the locals. Thus, the 1917 figures for the indigenous population were 225 attempted suicides and 30 successful suicides, while the figures for the foreign population were 38 attempted suicides and 14 successful suicides. One can calculate the significance of these figures on the basis of the Egyptian census of 1917, which shows a total of 12,512,306 local subjects and 205,949 foreign subjects.9 Thus, the incidence of attempted and successful suicides for the local and the foreign population of Egypt in that year, per million, are as follows: Local population Foreign population Ratio attempted suicides 17.98 184.51 1:10.26 successful suicides  2.40  67.98 1:28.32 As noted above, the overall figures for the indigenous population do not reflect the situation in Alexandria and Cairo; in those cities, the figures more resemble those for foreigners, with an attempted suicide rate of 130 per million for Cairo and 112 per million for Alexandria. Maunier’s explanation for the general rise in the incidence of suicide in Egypt (in general) in the half-century before 1917, and for the specifically extreme

Census of Egypt, 1917, cited according to quotation in: S. Shamir (ed.), The Jews of Egypt, A Mediterranean Society in Modern Times, Boulder and London, Westview, 1987, p. 51. Maunier only had access to preliminary data based on this census—as he writes in: Maunier, p. 207. 9



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rise in its incidence in the two metropolitan centers, has direct bearing on our discussion. He writes: “L’afflux des peuples etrangers fut sans doute la cause qui fit plus frequentes les morts volontaires.”10 In his opinion, this is also the explanation for the relatively high incidence of suicide within the indigenous population of Cairo and Alexandria, compared to the rural areas: Il apparait par la, que les progres du suicide dans la population indigene sont l’effet du contact et de l’example des etrangers.11 In other words, he postulates a causal link between the exposure of local Egyptians to foreigners and their influence—an exposure that increased over the years, especially after Egypt came under direct British domination in 1882—and the rise of the suicide rate within the local populace. Therefore, the relatively greater exposure of the Egyptian urban populace to foreigners, who were concentrated mainly in the capital city of Cairo and the great seaport of Alexandria, also explains the higher suicide rate in the populations of these two cities.12

The Egyptian Jewish community Let us now remind ourselves of the relevant characteristics of the Egyptian Jewish community in the half-century leading up to 1917. The Jews, who had been primarily an urban element in Egypt since late antiquity, were even more densely concentrated in Cairo and Alexandria during these years. As we noted in previous chapters, one response to the economic prosperity and the stable and relatively benign attitude of the regime toward minorities that existed in Egypt under British domination was an influx of Jews from abroad. At the same time, there was a significant improvement in the general economic welfare of virtually all classes of the local Jewish community. Jews entered new professions and new spheres of economic activity characteristic of the expanding Egyptian economy; their ability to do so stemmed, to a significant extent, from the relatively high level of European-type educational opportunities available to them in both Jewish and other (European-sponsored) frameworks. This educational background also contributed to the adoption of European languages (especially French and Italian) as the main vehicles of discourse and culture for most Egyptian Jews during this period.13 Ibid., p. 199. “The influx of foreign peoples was without doubt the most frequent cause of suicides.” 11 Ibid., p. 208. “It thus appears that the increase of suicide in the indigeneous population is due to contact with foreigners and their example.” 12 The notion of the “explanation” presented by Maunier lacks clarification. He has noted a correlation between Egyptians’ exposure to European influence and a rise in their suicide rate—and hypothesized a causal link. However, he does not explicate this cause. Such an explication is attempted by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, as I note below. 13 The literature on the Jews of Egypt during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries is 10

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As noted in Chapter 8, several synergetic factors combined resulted in an outstandingly high level of exposure of Egyptian Jews to European influence: urbanization, education, language, involvement in modern economic activities—and the presence of a significant number of European émigré Jews. Following Maunier’s thesis, it seems quite reasonable to expect that the Jewish community of Egypt in general, and of Cairo in particular, would during this period experience a significant rise in the incidence of suicide due to European influence. This is exactly what Rabbi Ben-Shim’on, writing over two decades earlier, describes as being the case. Thus, Maunier’s research serves simultaneously as context for Rabbi Ben-Shim’on’s description and analysis and as corroboration of their veracity.

Proliferation of suicide as a modern European phenomenon: Cultural and sociological analyses Maunier notes that, despite the relative increase in suicide in Egypt, its rate was still much lower there than in various countries of the “Western world” (e.g. 30 per million in Ireland; 63 per million in Italy, 124 per million in Australia and 232 per million in France). What was it that led so many people in modern Europe to take their own lives?14 At least two avenues of response present themselves: the cultural and the sociological.15 According to the cultural approach, the rise of suicide in modern Europe was linked to changes and developments in European culture. According to the sociological approach, social factors heavily influenced the incidence of suicide.16

substantial; see especially: Jacob Landau, Jews in Nineteenth Century Egypt, New York, New York University Press, 1969; Gudrun Kramer, The Jews in Modern Egypt 1914–1952, Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1989; Shimon Shamir, 1987 (see note 9 above). 14 A possible response might be the negation of the soundness of the “fact(s)” being discussed, e.g. “Who can know that suicide increased in Europe in modern times?” This fundamental critique was indeed closely argued by Jack D. Douglas, The Social Meaning of Suicide, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1967. It may well be that Douglas’s critique is cogent. In the current context, I shall bracket the “factual” issue by focusing on what observers of society held to be the case. Durkheim, Maunier, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on and others in the nineteenth century all believed that in the society with which they were familiar suicides had/were indeed proliferating significantly. The sense of suicide as being on the increase and constituting a major social problem is expressed and reflected in the many works (for example, in French, German, and Italian) written in the nineteenth century dealing with suicide (see: A. Giddens, “The Suicide Problem in French Sociology,” The Sociology of Suicide, London: Frank Cass, 1971, pp. 36–51, esp. notes 6 and 7). 15 A third avenue is, of course, the psychological. However, psychological approaches, in general, tend to focus on the individual in a way that is not historically contextualized, and such an approach would be completely unhelpful in interpreting Rabbi Ben-Shim'on. 16 To my understanding, these two modes of explanation are neither contradictory nor mutually exclusive.



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A number of scholars present the cultural grounds for the increase in suicide in modern Europe, for example H. G. Schenk. In his work,17 Schenk entitles the sixth chapter “The Romantic Malady of the Soul” and the seventh “The Lure of Nothingness,” in which he writes: Romantic nihilism did not in fact mean the complete absence of hope or belief of any kind. If the nihilists did not believe in anything else, they firmly believed in nothingness itself. If they lacked any other hope, they still hoped for utter extinction. Faith and hope, no longer able to cling on to life in this world or the next, fastened on to death, or more precisely: to death conceived as the negation of all manner of life. … an eternal sleep, an everlasting general anaesthesia, an insensibility to all kinds of pain and suffering … death thus pictured appeared as the only salvation to those suffering from the unredeemed Weltschmerz.18 Kaplan and Schwartz19 would contend that the Romantics were not tremendously innovative in their attitude toward suicide; rather, that attitude was a resurgence of a deep cultural orientation stemming from Greco-Roman civilization, an orientation that, in medieval times, had been suppressed by Christian, biblically-grounded views. However, they would agree with Schenk in attributing the increase in suicide to change in cultural attitudes. Durkheim’s work, Suicide, (1966) is a classic example of the sociological approach.20 Summing up a wide range of data, he concludes that there had been a “… tremendous aggravation [of suicide] during the past [= the nineteenth] century … it is general in Europe, and more pronounced the higher the culture of European nations.”21 Durkheim found that differences in the incidence of suicide exist not only between states but also H. G. Schenk, The Mind of the European Romantics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979. 18 Ibid., p. 63. 19 Kalman J. Kaplan and Matthew B. Schwartz, A Psychology of Hope, Westport and London: Praeger, 1993. 20 Originally published in 1897, Durkheim’s work has been extensively criticized and/or revised; a concise overview is presented by Ronald Maris, “Social and Familial Risk Factors in Suicidal Behavior,” Suicide 20(3) 1997, pp. 519–50. Nevertheless, it continues to serve as a reference point for subsequent theorists—none of whom seem to have come up with a theory that has been generally accepted as supplanting Durkheim’s. Indeed, certain recent research indicates that Durkheim’s concepts and analyses are valid and useful in interpreting current empirical data; see: T. Thorlindsson and T. Bjarnason, “Modeling Durkheim on the micro level: A study of youth suicidality,” American Sociological Review 63(1) February 1998, pp. 94–110. 21 Emile Durkheim, Suicide, New York: The Free Press, 1966, p. 367. He continues: “In fact, it rose 411% in Prussia from 1826–90, 385% in France from 1826 to 1888, 318% in German Austria from 1841–5 to 1877, 238% in Saxony from 1841–75, 212% in Belgium from 1841 17

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between provinces within each state, between rural settlements and city, and between various social groups and categories. Rather than explain these differences on the basis of the accumulated idiosyncrasies of the thousands of individual cases, Durkheim sought a social explanation, that is, one based on the general differences between societies and between their sub-groups and categories. He went on to identify three main categories of suicide: egoistic, altruistic, and anomic. In our context, the relevant category is that of egoistic suicide, which Durkheim understands/defines as suicide deriving from a condition in which: … the bond attaching man to life relaxes because that attaching him to society is itself slack. The incidents of private life which seem the direct inspiration of suicide and are considered its determining causes are in reality only incidental circumstances. The individual yields to the slightest shock of circumstance because the state of society has made him a ready prey to suicide.22 In societies where the individual’s commitment to and involvement with religion, family, and polity are high, rates of egoistic suicide are low; and vice versa: Low religious, familial, and political integration correlates with high rates of suicide.23 “Social solidarity” is the term Durkheim coined for this commitment, involvement, identification, and integration of the individual with larger social groups. Durkheim recognized the existence of the Romantic philosophical and cultural tendencies noted above but regarded these currents themselves as deriving from the malaise of social integration: “they are an effect, rather than a cause; they merely symbolize … distress of the body social … they are the echo of a general condition.”24

Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s Explanation of the Suicide Epidemic Amongst Cairene Jews Durkheim’s characterization of the “direct” motivations for egoistic suicide as “incidental circumstances” in which “the individual yields to the slightest shock of circumstance” is congruent with Rabbi Ben-Shim’on’s characterization of the motivations typical of the cases of suicide he encountered in Cairo:

to 1889, only 72% in Sweden from 1841 to 1871–5, 35% in Denmark during the same period.” 22 Ibid., pp. 214–15. 23 Ibid., p. 208. 24 Ibid., p. 214 and note 48 ad loc.



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… many destroyed themselves because of some petty reason or because of loss of so-called honor or because they had failed to fulfill a lust after some filthy fornication or for other similar reasons marked with the sign of ignominy.25 Ben-Shim'on’s claim that in Europe “hundreds and thousands … destroy themselves for reasons of slight significance” is also compatible with Durkheim’s statistical and motivational description of European realities. However, in his discussion of the underlying basis that enabled such an extreme response to such ultimately trivial circumstances, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on opts for a cultural model, much closer to Kaplan and Schwartz than to Durkheim. As we saw above, he explains that people in Europe (and those imitating them in Egypt) commit suicide, because: … they have no belief in the remaining of the soul, nor of an accounting in the underworld (to which he is destined), nor fear of God. And therefore, when time afflicts them even ever so slightly, they do not accept with love the decree of Heaven but in a brief time set themselves free by invoking death.26 Thus, Ben-Shim'on goes beyond Maunier in attempting to explain the nature of the link between European influence and the rise of suicide in Egypt, at least among Egypt’s Jews. He argues that a segment of the Jewish population had internalized a Europe-originated rejection of central components of traditional monotheistic religion: belief in an afterlife, belief in retribution after death, and fear of God.27 This internalization is what “freed” those Jews from an overriding commitment to live life as it is, taking the thick with the thin—and, as a result, “objectively trivial” problems sufficed to evoke suicidal reactions. At this point, I note in passing one of the values mentioned by Rabbi Ben-Shim'on as leading to suicide: loss of “so-called honor.” Interestingly, Ben-Shim'on subsequently invoked shame/disgrace as a major lever in his campaign to forestall suicide. I shall later return to a discussion of this matter; but first, let us see how Rabbi Ben-Shim'on responded to the challenge presented by the epidemic of suicide in the ranks of Cairo’s Jews.

Nehar Mitzrayyim, 141b. Ibid. 27 Of course, rejection of belief in an afterlife would seem to preclude belief in post-mortem retribution. “Fear of God,” however, might well not be another redundancy as Ben-Shim’on may be referring not to fear of retribution but to a type of qualitative attitude in this life toward God’s conduct of this world—an attitude compatible with the “acceptance with love of the decree of Heaven” cited further on. 25 26

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Halakha as applied social policy Having discussed the phenomenon facing Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, let us read and analyze his response: I girded my loins and decided in my heart to repair this breach, if Heaven be with me, He Who seated me upon the seat of judgment. And, when the first such case came before me, and after I had verified that he had destroyed himself in anger and in froth and was not drunk or confused, I applied to him the full severity of the law, as detailed by MaHaRiCas of blessed memory.28 And I did not endeavor to scout and to search-out the words of the poskim [= rabbinic decisors] to find an aspect of leniency, which I might discover in their words. For my heart was exceedingly distraught … And then again, shortly after, there occurred another case of suicide, which I also verified as such; and also towards him did I incline the full severity of the Law, in all its stringencies and publicly. And the whole city was in uproar.29 As noted in the opening section of this chapter, rabbinic custom was to try to characterize self-inflicted death as not truly a “suicide” in the halakhic sense. Apparently, this had also characterized the policy of the Cairene rabbis who preceded Ben-Shim'on. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on, therefore, stressed that he well knew that grounds for milder conduct toward suicide exist in rabbinic literature—and, nevertheless, intentionally refrained from such leniency. After he reacted in a similarly severe way to a second suicide, the Jewish public realized that this was a determined policy decision—“And the whole city [i.e. the entire Jewish community] was in an uproar.” We have no knowledge regarding the sentiments expressed by the public in this uproar. It does not seem likely that the “uproar” was caused by the existence of a significant sector of the public that supported suicide as a normative possibility. Rather it seems that, while concurring, in principle, with the Rabbi’s negative view on suicide, the Jewish public was aware that Ben-Shim'on’s policy differed radically from conventional rabbinic usage, and they regarded his decision as outrageously harsh. However,

MaHaRICas is an acronym for Rabbi Ya'akov Castro, Cairo, c. 1525–1610. Rabbi Castro authored several halakhic works, one of them—'Erekh Lehem– consisting of elaborate annotations and commentary on the Shulhan 'Arukh. In his notes to section 345 of Shulhan 'Arukh Orah Hayyim, he explicates the rites denied to a suicide: The body is not washed nor clothed in shrouds; the funeral procession is not led by candle-bearers, nor is the burial service recited. He is buried in a Jewish cemetery but at a significant distance from the graves of community members, and the traditional circumambulations of the grave are not performed. Rabbi Castro stresses that all this should be publicly accentuated “so that the rest will hear and take fear.” 29 Nehar Mitzrayyim, 141b. 28



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Rabbi Ben-Shim'on had a specific target group in mind: those who might be prone to considering suicide as an option. How were they affected by his ruling? Here is how he responded to that question, over ten years after his bold move:30 And when those of slight faith saw all this, that this severe punishment would bring disgrace/shame [= herpa] upon them and upon their families after them, for they would be denied all manner of honor towards the dead – since then, they ceased their travail. And, thank God, the breach was almost totally sealed.31 At the bottom line, then, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on reports his policy as having been highly (although not totally) effective: the breach was almost totally sealed. In and of itself such an outcome is noteworthy, especially taking into account Maunier’s assertion that, within Egyptian society as a whole, the rate of suicide increased dramatically in the first decade of the twentieth century.32 However, even more interesting is the social dynamic through which this effect was achieved. To appreciate the matter more fully, let us return for a moment to Durkheim’s opus.

Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s introduction to Nehar Mitzrayyim was completed in the month of Elul 5708, which month began on 28 August, 1908. 31 Ibid., 141b–142a. 32 Several readers of a draft of this chapter raised a similar query at this point: How can we know that the rabbi’s policy indeed met with success? Perhaps his claim to that effect reflects wishful thinking but not historical reality? The import of these questions is amplified by the fact that I have not been able to locate independent documentation of matters pertaining to Jewish suicides in Cairo during these years. After careful consideration, it seems to me that Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s report may be considered as factually sound, for several reasons. First and foremost, this is not a posthumously published account that remained hidden from the eyes of the community it was describing until the decease of all living witnesses who might contradict it. Rather, the Rabbi’s claim that Jewish suicide had dramatically decreased was openly published in 1908 in a book intended by the author to serve as a normative guide for Jewish religious life in Cairo. It seems unreasonable to suppose that the author would risk making a claim that could immediately be refuted as empirically false by the very public to whom the book was addressed—a claim that might brand him as a liar in the eyes of the community he had no intention of leaving and that, indeed, he continued to serve for another 12 years. Second, other aspects of Rabbi Ben-Shim’on’s report—for example, his description of the increase in suicide in Egypt, and his attribution of this increase to European influence— were corroborated by an independent source (Maunier). If we do have corroboration for much of a document, and we have no facts disproving the rest of that document, it seems methodologically sound to accept it in toto. Third, as discussed below, the power and importance of honor and shame in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern society render plausible the claim that consideration of the shame incurred by the family of a suicide might significantly curtail the inclination of young men to consider such an option. For these reasons, therefore, I accept Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s account of the effectiveness of his policy as historically sound. 30

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The social effects of denying rites to suicides: Europe vs. Cairo Durkheim was not only a social scientist; he was an involved social scientist. Consequently, toward the end of his study, he writes: “All proofs combine, therefore, to make us consider the enormous increase in the number of voluntary deaths within a century as a pathological phenomenon, becoming daily a greater menace. By what means shall we try to overcome it?”33 After considering—and dismissing—the suggestion that legal penalties be applied, Durkheim offers a better alternative: “For all these reasons, only moral penalties could be decreed. The only possible thing would be to refuse the suicide the honors of a regular burial …”34 Descended from a long line of rabbinical ancestors, Durkheim initially prepared himself for the rabbinate.35 It is not unreasonable to assume that the notion of denying the suicide the honors of a regular burial derives from his Jewish background.36 Be that as it may, Durkheim proceeds to argue that such a measure “could never have more than a very secondary influence” basically because contemporary society in general feels much less revulsion toward suicide than was felt in the past. Indeed, he writes, “Our excessive tolerance with regard to suicide is due to the fact that, since the state of mind from which it springs is a general one, we cannot condemn it without condemning ourselves; we are too saturated with it not partly to excuse it.”37 Ultimately, Durkheim concludes, no remedy will work until the very source of the malady ceases, that is, until social solidarity is restored.38 Returning now to Nehar Mitzrayyim: How can one best comprehend why a policy that Durkheim explicitly considered only to dismiss as hopeless proved so effective when employed toward Cairo’s Jews?

Social solidarity, suicide, honor, and shame The crucial words in Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s explanation of his policy’s success seem to be those describing the consideration that led potential Durkheim, p. 370. Ibid., p. 371 35 Encyclopedia Judaica, Jerusalem, Keter, VI, 1972, p. 308; Ivan Strenski, Durkheim and the Jews of France, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1997. 36 Of course, a similar policy was also adopted by Christian churches. In 346, the Coptic church (Egypt) decided to deny funeral rites to suicides. Two centuries later, in 563, the Council of Brega adopted a similar decision, denying suicides Christian burial. 37 Durkheim, p. 372 38 Durkheim’s own view was that religion, the polity, and the family, which had in the past formed the ground of social solidarity, would not be able to fulfil that function in modern times. He believed that trade unions might be able to do so, if wisely constituted and vitalized. 33 34



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suicides to desist, after realizing the social effects of his initiative to “go by the book” lest their suicide “bring disgrace/shame upon them and upon their families.” At this point, our discussion impinges upon a major topos in anthropology: honor and shame.39 Much of anthropological literature focuses on honor related to or derived from sexual conduct—especially with the effects of women’s sexual purity/ impurity upon the honor of their menfolk. Yet it seems both reasonable and clear that honor and shame derive not only from sexual conduct but from a wide range of behaviors. Thus, writing of an Egyptian Bedouin society, Zeid reports: A man is considered “a man of honour” if he displays honesty in his personal dealings and contacts, if he keeps his promises and sticks to his word, if he revolts against injustices and declines to comply with any form of oppression, and if he shows sufficient eagerness and readiness in defending his own interests as well as those of his kin group and his neighbours. Shame, on the other hand, is ascribed to those who fail to observe the rules of good manners in general: the unreliable, the treacherous, the spiteful and the unfaithful to both their spouses and their friends.40 Most of the literature follows the theme of the above paragraph in dealing with honor as pertaining to the individual (e.g. Stewart, 1994). However, the significance of the family in this context is crucial. With regard to the link and interplay between personal and family honor, Pitt-Rivers writes: … while honour is a collective attribute shared by the nuclear family, it is also personal and dependent upon the will of the individual; individual honour derives from individual conduct but produces consequences for others who share collective honour with this individual.41

39 A work of significant impact was that of J. G. Peristiany (ed.), Honour and Shame, The Values of Mediterranean Society, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1965. Of course, as F. H. Stewart, Honor, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1994 and others demonstrate, these values are not limited to Mediterranean society but appear in a very wide range of human societies. 40 A. A. M. Zeid, “Honour and Shame among the Bedouins of Egypt,” in Peristiany (ed.) Honour and Shame, pp. 245–59, quote at p. 245. 41 J. Pitt-Rivers, “The Moral Foundation of the Family,” The Fate of Shechem, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1977, pp. 71–93, quote at p. 78. So too: “Honor belonged in solidum to the family or the lineage as such … it could be accreted or depleted by individual members, men or women, through their laudable or shameful behavior” (Maria Pia di Bella, “Name, blood and miracles: the claims to renown in traditional Sicily,” J. G. Peristiany and J. Pitt-Rivers (eds), Honour and Grace in Anthropology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 151–65, quote at p. 151).

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Describing the realities of late twentieth-century Cairo, Singerman observes: The question of honor and respect permeates discussions within the community. It is important for both individuals and families that others respect them … Individuals are seen as members of a family, and the respect given or withheld from an individual reflects upon his or her household and extended family.42 Anthropologists and other students of society have noted salient differences between the West and the Middle East with regard to the construction and focus of social reality. Singerman concisely explains the issue: Individual spirit, ambition and independence are valued and honored in the political culture of Western liberalism … In the Middle East the family, rather than the individual, continues to be the more relevant unit of society.43 Returning to the Jews of Cairo, a significant segment of Cairene Jewry apparently felt a simultaneous commitment to both Western and Middle Eastern social values and norms.44 In previous chapters, we have seen a variety of ways in which this was manifest. To understand the socialhistorical background of this reality and to begin answering the question we raised as to why a policy rejected by Durkheim as doomed to failure worked so well for Jews of Cairo, we should remind ourselves of one important difference between the social grounds of modernization in Europe and in the Middle East. In Europe, modernity was endogenous. Internal scientific and technological advances, together with local types of economic entrepreneurship, enabled the Industrial Revolution, which, in turn, led to vast socio-economic upheavals, urbanization, changes in class structure, changes in political forces and alliances. Against this background,

42 Diane Singerman, Avenues of Participation: Family, Politics and Networks in Urban Quarters of Cairo, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1995, p. 53. It should be noted that the extent to which “discussions within the community” of Cairo actually make use of the concept of honor is directly contradicted by Unni Wikan, who argues that “honor” is much more a theoretical construct of anthropologists than an actual presence in Cairene social discourse (Unni Wikan, “Shame and Honour: a contestable pair,” Man, New Series, 19(4), 1984, pp. 635–52). 43 Ibid., p. 45. 44 I refrain from characterizing Cairo’s Jews by using terms such as “hybrid” or “Levantine” because of the wide range of meanings and overtones these terms carry for different schools of thought and current ideologies. For my purposes it suffices to suggest that Pospisil’s thesis with regard to legal systems—“the same individuals may be subject to several legal systems different in the content of their law to the point of contradiction”—applies, mutatis mutandis, to normative systems as well. See: Leopold Pospisil, Anthropology of Law: A Comparative Theory, New York: Harper and Row, 1971, p. 107.



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the Reformation fits in as a “natural” response, in the religious-theological realm, to these tremendous changes. All these, taken together, ultimately undermined social solidarity, on the one hand, and on the other prepared the ground for ideational trends and philosophies that explicated and justified individualism (in general) and account (in particular) for what Schenk referred to as “the Romantic malady of the soul.” In this European context, it seems quite reasonable to maintain, with Durkheim, that such philosophies are “an effect, rather than a cause; they merely symbolize … distress of the body social … they are the echo of a general condition.”45 In the Middle East, in contrast, modernity was exogenous. The changes and upheavals that characterized Western and then Central Europe in the fifteenth to nineteenth centuries impinged, in many ways, on the fortunes of the Ottoman Empire—but internal socio-economic, religious, and political life did not undergo changes similar in degree to those of Europe during this time. When, especially from the mid-nineteenth century, urban, educated Egyptians came into increasingly intensive contact with European modes of production, education, and thought, these Egyptians were not at all in a European-type condition of undermined social solidarity. For them, European philosophies and worldviews advocating extreme individualism, atheism, and nihilism et al. were causes contributing to alienation and not “echoes of a general condition.” For educated Egyptian Jews, social solidarity at this time was grounded in two vehicles: family46 and ethnic-religious community.47 The third vehicle of social solidarity—religion, and specifically religious praxis—was, as we have seen in previous chapters, on the decline in the late nineteenth century, especially within the more Europeanized sector of the Egyptian Jewish community. As noted above, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on claimed the suicide epidemic in the Cairene Jewish community was caused by the internalization of European cultural orientations that countered traditional Jewish religious beliefs. This claim seems reasonable in light of our sources: The religiosity of educated Cairene Jews had, in fact, declined significantly due in the main not to indigenous Egyptian influences but rather to contact with European thought and attitudes. Furthermore, contact with such thought and attitudes was also the cause in Egypt of the suicide epidemic, unlike the case in Europe, where the general malaise of social solidarity was most likely the cause of both the suicide epidemic and the philosophies that justified it. For a sector of Western-educated Egyptian Jews, there came to be, then, a dissonance between aspects of European thought and attitudes Note 20 above, at p. 214, and note 48 ad loc. Since the extended family was strong, Egyptian Jewish families had “high density,” in Durkheimian terms, and their integrative power was great. 47 Taking such community as the functional equivalent—in a non-national state—of Durkheim’s “political society.” 45 46

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that they had internalized and their situation of relatively high social integration, based on family and community. Before Rabbi Ben-Shim'on arrived in Cairo, this dissonance had little practical effect with regard to potential suicides; since rabbinic custom refrained from applying heavy sanctions, the “social price” of suicide was mild. Thus, a person contemplating suicide in consonance with European/individualistic culture (if, for example, his honor had been irredeemably breached according to a Western code of honor) had no cause to assume that if he took his own life his family’s standing would be seriously damaged. Indeed, since the rabbis refrained from distinguishing the funerary rites of suicides from those who died of “natural” causes, the suicide had every reason to believe that his own memory (and his family’s standing) would remain honorable amongst the great majority of the community, who might never come to know the specifics of his case. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s dramatic decision changed the equation, forcing these Europeanized Jews to choose (at least with regard to the matter at hand) between individualistic and familial values. We can now appreciate that Ben-Shim'on’s policy decision was enabled by his ability to note (at least implicitly) the internal dissonance characterizing the partially Westernized Egyptian Jews who were claimed by both Western and local cultural frames of reference. This ability of Rabbi Ben-Shim'on is reflected in his recognition of the two different notions of honor/shame that affected the consciousness of these Jews. As we saw above, Rabbi Ben-Shim'on referred disparagingly to “loss of so-called honor” as one of the misguided considerations motivating people to commit suicide. In his policy decision, however, he builds upon a notion of shame and honor, which he regards as a positive Cairene Jewish value and which he assesses as so powerful and pervasive that it could override the false, destructive concept of honor that had gained vogue under European influence. Significantly, while the “false” concept of honor pertains to the individual per se, the positively regarded notion of shame/honor relates to both him and his family.48 Having come this far, we are now also in a position to offer an explanation for the contrast between Durkheim’s assessment that a policy of denying burial honors to suicides “could never have more than a very Years after publishing an earlier version of this chapter, I came across the following description of Egyptian Jewish young men in the 1890s—the period during which Rabbi Ben-Shim’on formulated and carried out his dramatic halakhic intervention to prevent suicide. Although written with an Orientalist tone, it seems to capture well the dissonance noted above—and also to identify the local, non-Western, familial aspect as more powerful than the external Europeanized traits: The vacuity and superficiality of French education, that bears not fruit but only flowers, have stuck to most of the younger generation. As true monkeys, they imitate the French outside, while at home and inside they remain complete Asians. (Nahum Slouschz, “haYehudim be-Mitzrayyim” [The Jews in Egypt], Ahiasaf 5, 1898, p. 109). 48



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secondary influence” and the success of such a policy in Cairo at the very time his book was first published! In Europe, where suicide was linked to low family/polity integration, a policy based on the consideration potential suicides might have for family and community would not have been effective, especially with regard to those in high “egoistic” suicide risk categories. In Egypt, where family/community integration remained high, the “same” consideration proved extremely effective; that is, for most indigenous Western-educated Jews, it proved sufficient to outweigh the influence of European individualistic attitudes and philosophies that had led many to take their own lives. In other words, Durkheim’s judgment seems to have been sound for the society he was discussing—which was significantly different from that of Egypt. Rabbi Ben-Shim'on also knew his society well; indeed, his sensitive reading of his community’s complex reality enabled him to utilize the prime functioning base of social solidarity—commitment to family—as the Archimedean point on which he rested the lever of halakhic policy, drastically curtailing the European-influenced suicide epidemic.

11 Rabbanite–Karaite intermarriage in twentiethcentury Egyptian Halakha

In the four chapters so far devoted to rabbis of Egypt, we have seen how they dealt with a wide range of issues. A common denominator of many such rabbinic responses was a striving for inclusiveness: keeping the widest possible range of Jews within the fabric of the community. In most cases, the means they employed to realize this goal were the application of the less restrictive, more lenient options enabled by halakha. However, in some instances they opted for the application of stringent norms. The case discussed in the previous chapter is an example of such a tactical decision: Rabbi Ben-Shim'on analyzed the dynamics of the relationships between potential suicides and their families and concluded that, by applying stringent, harsh norms to one or two cases of suicide, he would be able to achieve the overall goal of keeping many young persons within the fold— literally, by deterring them from taking their own lives. In the current chapter, the basic issue of keeping persons within the fold receives an unexpected twist and becomes linked to questions such as: What are the boundaries of “the fold”? Who are those persons we wish to include within it? And, should rabbinic perspectives on this issue develop in response to changes in socio-cultural reality? These major issues emerge in the course of halakhic consideration by Egyptian rabbis of the possibility of marriage between Rabbanites and Karaites. By way of introduction, a few words on these two groups and the relationships between them until the end of the nineteenth century.

Rabbanites and Karaites During Second Temple times, a significant variety of belief and practice existed within the Jewish people. A plethora of religious views and groups

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existed both within the Land of Israel and in the Diaspora. After the failure of the Great Revolt against the Roman Empire (66–70 ce) and the subsequent failure of the Diaspora Revolt (115–17 ce) and the Bar Kokhba revolt (132–5 ce), this situation changed dramatically. Rabbinic Judaism effectively emerged as the sole continuation of Judaism, represented in a great corpus of intellectual creativity including the canonic works entitled Mishna, Tosefta, and Jerusalem Talmud in the Land of Israel and the Babylonian Talmud in Mesopotamia, as well as a wide range of Midrashic works whose site of redaction is moot. A basic tenet of rabbinic Judaism was that, in addition to the divinely revealed or inspired books of the Bible (= the Written Torah = Torah she-bi-Khtav), additional unwritten information (= the Oral Torah = Torah she-b’al-Peh) had been received from God with regard both to the proper interpretation of those books and to other important guidelines on leading a Jewish life. However, in the seventh century a number of sects and movements began to emerge challenging the validity of rabbinic Judaism. By the ninth century some of these had disappeared, and the rest coalesced into Karaite Judaism.1 A major theological difference between them was with regard to the authority of the Oral Torah: In contrast to Rabbinic Judaism, Karaites maintained (and maintain) that only the Bible has the force of revelation, and all the rest is no more than human attempts at understanding God’s word.2 On this view, there is no good reason for Jews living in the present to defer to interpretations proffered by Jews living in the past, and the upshot is that the post-biblical works regarded as canonic by Rabbanites should have no binding authority upon contemporary life. Karaism enjoyed great success for several centuries, and many Jews in Middle Eastern lands adhered to it. Subsequently, its numbers waned. By the nineteenth century, Cairo remained as home to the largest community of Karaite Jews in the world.3

On Karaite Judaism in general, see: Meira Polliack (ed.), Karaite Judaism: a guide to its history and literary sources, Leiden: Brill, 2003. 2 An accepted explanation of the word “Karaite” links it to the Hebrew term for the written bible: Miqra. 3 On Egypt’s Karaite community in modern times, see: Murad al-Qudsi, The Karaite Jews of Egypt 1882–1986, second edition, 2006; Joel Beinin, “The Karaites in Modern Egypt,” Meira Polliack (note 1 above), pp.  417–430. Another work by al-Qudsi, Just for the Record—in the History of the Karaite Jews of Egypt in Modern Times, Lyons, NY: Wilprint, 2002, is a detailed critique of writing on the Karaites of Egypt by al-Gamil (note 32 below) and by Joel Beinin. 1



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Marriage between Karaites and Rabbanites In analyzing the complex relationships between Rabbanites and Karaites, it is important to distinguish several levels of interrelation: the polemic, the halakhic and the social. Historically, heated polemics did not always mean actual estrangement and distance but may in fact reflect closeness; controversy may in certain cases reflect an intensity of involvement and contact. Thus, in the High Middle Ages, while the disputes and debates between Karaites and Rabbanites over Torah interpretation and modes of Jewish practice were very heated and intense, close connections between these groups continued on the social level, and halakhic authorities found ways to enable the communities to remain in contact. The touchstone case was that of marriage between Rabbanites and Karaites. This issue is surveyed and discussed by Simha Assaf in his article, “The History of the Karaites in the Middle East,” published in the first volume of Zion in 1936.4 On the issue of marriage between Rabbanites and Karaites, Assaf distinguishes several subperiods. In the High Middle Ages there were, according to Geniza evidence, several cases (and there must have been many more unknown to us) in which a Rabbanite Jew took a Karaite wife, or vice versa, with conditions being stipulated in the ketubba (the marriage contract) delineating how and in what manner each of the spouses would continue to observe his or her own tradition while living together as a married couple. Thus, in those times—the tenth, eleventh, twelfth centuries—it was considered possible, and a viable option also halakhically (legally), for an intercommunal marriage to occur in which neither of the partners gave up his or her original beliefs and practices but managed to live together despite the differences.5 This possibility is also mentioned and taken for granted, if not enthusiastically approved, by Maimonides in his Responsa.6 From the thirteenth century on, however, growing estrangement seems to have occurred between the two groups. This is recorded also by the Arab historian Taqi al-Din al-Maqrizi and quoted by Assaf. Al-Maqrizi reports great enmity between the Rabbanites and the Karaites: “They do not marry each other, do not converse with each other, and do not set foot into the synagogue of their rivals.” During this period it seemed obvious that a Rabbanite man or woman could not marry a Karaite who remained a Karaite, and the question now became whether or not a Karaite who renounced his previous beliefs and desired to become a full-fledged member of the Rabbanite community could do so. A famous case reported by Eshtori Hafarhi in his book Kaftor va-Ferah was that of a large group of

Simha Assaf, “Le-Toldot ha-Qara'im be-Artzot ha-Mizrah,” Zion 1 (1936), pp. 208–35. Ibid., pp. 209–21. 6 Maimonides' Responsa (ed. Frieman), Nos 161, 168. 4 5

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Egyptian Karaites who converted to Rabbanite Judaism at the beginning of the fourteenth century, in the time of the Nagid Rabbi Avraham the Second, and subsequently married into and became part of the Rabbanite community’s leadership and elite.7 However, this issue was not resolved in a clear-cut manner and in the sixteenth century became the focus of great controversy among the rabbis of Egypt. Whereas some held that it was permissible to marry a Karaite who had reverted to the true Rabbanite faith, others felt that even if Karaites renounced their previous persuasion, they could not be accepted as part of the Rabbanite community. The reason given was that, although Karaite marriages were or might possibly be valid according to Rabbanite halakha, their divorces were certainly not valid. Because any child born to a Karaite woman who had divorced according to her rite (that is, invalidly by rabbinic standards) and married someone else would be a mamzer according to rabbinic law, and because any Karaite might be a descendant of such a second marriage, all Karaites were to be considered as “suspect mamzerim.” Jews of good standing may not marry a mamzer, and therefore even if they accepted Rabbanite praxis, Karaites would not be eligible for marriage.8 It is interesting to note that, whereas there was intense controversy among various outstanding Egyptian rabbis on this subject during the course of the sixteenth century, rabbinic authorities in Safed, Istanbul, and Salonica were unanimous in their refusal to permit marriage with a Karaite—even when the Karaite wished to become part of the Rabbanite majority.9 After the sixteenth century, this issue ceased to occupy the attention of rabbis both within and outside of Egypt. As Assaf states: “The estrangement and alienation between the Rabbanites and the Karaites increased and deepened, and cases in which Karaites wished to join the Rabbanite community simply did not exist.”10 Rabbinic opinion from the seventeenth century on was that under no circumstances could a member of the Karaite community join the Rabbanite community or marry a member of that group because all the Karaites were suspected of being mamzerim. This attitude was supported both by Ashkenazi authorities and by the Sephardic rabbis of the period. The Ashkenazim followed with diligence the uncompromising position stated by the Rema, Rabbi Moshe Isserles,11

See: Kaftor va-Ferah, Jerusalem, 1897, p. 70; Rabbi David ibn Abi-Zimra (Radbaz), Responsa, vol. 1, no. 73. 8 For a survey of this controversy, see: Assaf, pp. 212–16; and Michael Corinaldi, The Personal Status of the Karaites, Jerusalem, 1984 [Hebrew], pp. 110–21. 9 Assaf, p. 216; Corinaldi, p. 122. 10 Assaf, ibid. 11 Rabbi Moshe Isserles (1530–72), an outstanding sixteenth-century scholar, composed glosses to the Shulhan 'Arukh of Rabbi Yosef Caro. These glosses were accepted as authoritative by all Ashkenazi Jews. 7



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in his “Comments to the Shulhan 'Arukh.” He wrote at the end of Even ha'Ezer, chapter 4: “One may not marry the Qara'im. All of them are possibly mamzerim, and we do not accept them even if they voluntarily wish to join the fold.” On the Sephardic side, the prevailing position was summed up by Rabbi Hayyim Hizqia Medini, one of the great Sephardic rabbis of the late nineteenth century, who quoted the telling phrase with which the early nineteenth-century Rishon le-Tziyyon, Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem Moshe Suisine (d. 1835), absolutely rejected any Karaite attempt to rejoin the Rabbanite fold: “ha-Qara'im eynam mit'ahim le-'olam,” a play on words signifying that the brotherhood of Rabbanites and Karaites is irrevocably torn and can never be mended or joined.12 This broad historical movement of growing estrangement between the Karaites and the Rabbanites culminating in the absolute rejection of any possibility of reconciliation (as far as the Rabbanites were concerned), a stand that persisted from the seventeenth century up to the end of the nineteenth century, sets the stage for our discussion of developments in Egypt during the twentieth century. As we shall see, these developments represent a significant reversal, in interesting and to a certain extent unexpected ways, of the trend mentioned above. The case that seems pivotal in historical retrospect is the last case cited by Assaf,13 which will also serve as the beginning of the chain of our discussion.

The Berdugo case and its implications A Jew of Moroccan extraction, Yemin Ben Ya'akov Berdugo, having come to Eretz Yisrael from the town of Meknes, wished to marry a woman of Karaite extraction. He was living at that time (1904) in the town of Beit Shean (Beisan), south of Tiberias. He and his fiancée approached unnamed rabbis in Tiberias who directed them to the outstanding rabbinic personality in the area, the aging Rabbi Yitzhak Moshe Abulafia of Damascus.14 They asked Rabbi Abulafia to see if he could possibly facilitate the acceptance of this woman as a Rabbanite Jewess so that she could marry Berdugo. In a responsum from the year 1904, Rabbi Abulafia declared that upon investigation he had indeed been able to find a way to enable this woman to join

S'de Hemed, P'at haSadeh, ma'arekhet Bet, section 34, paragraph 15. In the 1949 Brooklyn edition, published by Kehot publication society, this is located in vol. 7, fol. 1579. According to the anonymous author of the supplement to the 1847 (Lemberg /Lvov) edition of David Gans’s Tsemah David (at p. 50), this very phrase was employed in the early 1790s by Rabbi Samuel of Kremenitz in denying the possibility of re-accepting the Karaites. I have been unable to corroborate attributions of this phrase to earlier sources. 13 Assaf, p. 217. 14 We have already “met” Rabbi Abulafia in our discussion of Syrian rabbis; see Chapter 4, especially at note 28. 12

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the Rabbanite community.15 Upon receiving this responsum, the woman entered the Rabbanite community and was married to her groom in the city of Beit Shean. Another rabbi who at first supported the lenient position was Rabbi Yosef Yedid ha-Levy (1867–1930), originally of Aleppo but at the time of the incident already in Jerusalem.16 However, the reaction of the other Sephardic rabbis of Eretz Yisrael, beginning with Rabbi Aharon al-Hadif of Tiberias17 and on to the rabbinic leadership in Jerusalem,18 was one of overwhelming negation of Rabbi Abulafia’s position. First, it transpired that there were certain objective problems specific to this case; for instance, the Karaite woman had been previously married to a Karaite man according to the Karaite rite, and their marriage had been attended by guests of the Rabbanite persuasion. This raised the question of whether their marriage might in fact have been valid as the presence of Rabbanite guests who might be considered valid witnesses might have halakhically validated the marriage. The woman had subsequently been divorced from her original Karaite husband, a ceremony at which no Rabbanites were present and that was conducted according to the Karaite rite and therefore was unquestionably invalid according to Rabbanite procedure. Therefore, according to Rabbanite halakha, this woman was possibly still married to her original Karaite husband. How then could she now remarry a Rabbanite? This would be a clear case of a married woman committing a bigamous act! Aside, however, from this specific complication, the source of the tremendous outburst of indignation with which Rabbi Abulafia’s permissive decision was greeted was the completely negative approach of the rabbis in Eretz Yisrael to the possibility of any Karaite marrying any Rabbanite, whatever the previous marital state of that specific Karaite had been. The rabbis of Jerusalem together issued a decree stating that, according to their tradition, based on statements attributed to Rabbi Moshe Suisine19 and decisions of other Sephardic authorities of the past hundreds of years, it was absolutely impossible for any Rabbanite to marry a Karaite. Therefore, they decreed, all rabbis and all authorities should do whatever they could to prevent Berdugo from living together with his new wife and to force them under penalty of herem (excommunication) to become divorced. The rabbinic public’s indignation and wrath was such that aging Rabbi Abulafia

See: Rabbi Yitzhak Moshe Abulafia, P'nei Yitzhaq (responsa), vol. 6, Even ha-'Ezer, no. 7. Responsa Yemei Yosef, vol. 1, Even haEzer, responsum 1. See Corinaldi, op. cit., pp. 125–6. 17 Rabbi al-Hadif (died 1909) was a well-known rabbi in Tiberias and a contender for the position of hakham bashi of the town. See: Moshe David Gaon, Hakhmei ha-Mizrah be-Eretz Yisrael, vol. 2, Jerusalem, 1938, p. 47. 18 Including the Sephardic Rabbinic Tribunal and the Rishon le-Tziyyon Chief Rabbi Ya’akov Shaul Elyashar (See: Aharon al-Hadif, Mi-Pi Aharon, fol. 103d). See also the support given this position by the famous Rabbi Shelomo Eliezer al-Fandari, al-Hadif, fol. 111–15. 19 Cf. note 12 above. 15 16



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of Damascus beat an ignominious and servile retreat, declaring that he retracted his previous permission for the woman to join the Rabbanite community and explaining that he had not known of the woman’s previous marital connections; Rabbi Yedid haLevi also retracted his lenient decision on the matter.20 The rabbis of Tiberias, seeking support for their rejection of Rabbi Abulafia’s unusual decision, wrote to various Sephardic rabbinic authorities of the time, among them Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan of Alexandria.21 Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan’s response was quite different from those of the rabbis of Tiberias and Jerusalem.22 He made several points. First, the fact that Rabbanites were present at the original wedding ceremony of the Karaite woman does not by itself signify anything of halakhic importance. It remained to be clarified if they were material witnesses, what exactly they saw, and to what extent the ceremony carried out there was “kosher” according to rabbinic formulation. Without a specific investigation of the empirical facts, it was impossible to determine that the woman had been legally married (according to Rabbanite halakha) to her Karaite husband. Second, reports of the severe opposition ostensibly voiced by Jerusalem rabbis (such as Rabbi Moshe Suisine) to the possibility of Karaites rejoining the Rabbanite fold were inconclusive; these reports themselves had to be critically examined. Nothing on this issue had been preserved in writing from Rabbi Moshe Suisine. His position had only been quoted by Rabbi Medini, the quote itself being (significantly) vague and based on an incompletely recalled childhood memory. How could this be sufficient evidence for a definitive and unquestionably negative stance on the question of the acceptance of Karaites? As a matter of fact, said Rabbi Hazan, the social relationships between the various Karaite communities and the Rabbanite communities were complex, and therefore the case of each specific group of Karaites had to be examined individually in order to determine the justification of defining them as safeq mamzerim (the status of being perhaps mamzerim), a definition that would preclude their future integration into Rabbanite communities. To the extent that the Karaite community in any location was an autonomous, self-sufficient community with its own rabbi, its own teachers, its own leadership and ritual services and not dependent on the Rabbanite community—to that extent, all the ritual activities carried out by them were to be regarded as divorced from Rabbanite reality, and by virtue of this very isolation, their rituals were invalid according to Rabbanite halakha. Therefore, if any such Karaite community existed, its members could not possibly be safeq mamzerim because their marriages had never been valid. 20 For Abulafia’s retreat, see: Mi-Pi Aharon, fol. 103d–104a. For Yedid ha-Levy, see note 16 above. 21 Rabbi Hazan figured prominently in earlier chapters. See Chapter 8, 8 note 23 and passim. 22 See: Responsa Ta'alumot Lev, vol. 4 (1907), responsa 6–7 (fol. 6c–16d). See also appendix to vol. 4 (fol. 123ff.).

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The upshot would be that members of such communities who chose to rejoin the Rabbanite majority could be accepted by the Rabbanites. This, however, had to be investigated in every case per se, and no general statement could be made. The position taken by Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan is one that also represented, with regard to the pre-existing halakhic opinion among Ashkenazim and Sephardim, a radical return to positions advocated during the sixteenth century by those who believed in the possibility of Karaites reentering the Rabbanite community under certain clear conditions. What is more, although Rabbi Abulafia had backed down in response to public pressure following the furor his decision had generated, Rabbi Hazan stood firm and continued to maintain the justice and the rationale of his attitude despite the herem and the intense opposition voiced by the rabbis of Jerusalem.23 Thus, the issue raised by Yemin Berdugo’s marriage in Beit Shean at the very beginning of the twentieth century reopened the option of recourse to halakhic views maintained in Egypt three centuries earlier and thereby created an opening for the reintegration of the Karaite and Rabbanite communities. The legal reasoning that in Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan’s opinion justified the possibility of accepting Karaites who wished to join the Rabbanite fold was based on the sociological isolation of the Karaite community of Egypt from the local Rabbanite community, an isolation not characteristic of Karaites in other centers such as Istanbul. Rabbi Hazan characterized the Karaite community in Egypt of his time as follows: There are many of them, and they do not at all come near or approach the Rabbanite group but, on the contrary, keep their distance and insult the Rabbanites and openly act in ways that flaunt Rabbanite tradition. And they have their own ritual circumcisers, and they do not circumcise in the same manner as the Rabbanites, and they have sexual relations with impure women [because their women do not immerse themselves in ritual baths], and they have a deviant hakham [rabbi] who arranges their marriages and instructs them in ways of evil behavior contrary to the good paths of the Rabbanite tradition.24 According to Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, this isolation served an important legal function, enabling the Karaites subsequently to rejoin the Rabbanite majority if they so chose: Since their marriage ceremonies were not held in the presence of individuals from the Rabbanite community, they were witnessed only by Karaites and were therefore invalid, for according to Rabbanite halakha qiddushin requires the presence of two valid Rabbanite witnesses.

23 24

Ibid., fol. 126a–127b. Ta'alumot Lev, ibid., fol. 14b.



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Twentieth-century developments The alienation between Karaites and Rabbanites at the beginning of the twentieth century was attested to also by the Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi of Cairo, Aharon Mendel haCohen, who wrote: I, myself, when I first came to live in Egypt, when I even heard the name Karaite mentioned, I would spit on the ground and I would say, “Impure! Impure! He is a mamzer!”, and I took care to not even touch the walls of the houses along their street. And not only I myself used to behave in this way but all those who considered themselves God-fearing would take care to avoid any contact with whatever had to do with the Karaites.25 These rabbis may be seen as expressing the norms that obtained in the Rabbanite and Karaite communities and the mutual relationships between them during the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. At the very end of the nineteenth century, Nahoum Slouschz noted an ambivalent situation: on the one hand, both Rabbanites and Karaites expressed to his ears negative sentiments about the other group.26 On the other hand, he states that nowhere in Europe had he seen such closeness between the two groups as there existed in Cairo; they lived in close physical proximity and interacted daily. The Karaite Chief Rabbi, Shabbetai Mangoubi, also told him that negative feelings between Rabbanites and Karaites in Egypt were much less than elsewhere.27 Slouschz writes that, after his visit with Rabbi Mangoubi, he thought to himself: Anyone can see that unlike the Karaites of the Crimea, those of Cairo are of one and the same stock as the Rabbanites. These two closely related groups in Cairo have been separated by religious zealotry; “shall the sword of religion and historical fatalism devour forever?”28 In retrospect, Slouschz’s visit seems to have been on the cusp of change. By the beginning of the twentieth century, four powerful social and cultural forces—the exact delineation between them not being always completely clear-cut—were combining to lower the boundaries and break down the barriers between the two groups. The first force that should be mentioned was the strengthening of the economic and social power of the Rabbanite community of Egypt, specifically in Cairo. The general upswing in the fortunes of the community and in 25 Rabbi Aharon Mendel haCohen, Yad Re'em, Tel Aviv, 1960, fol. 112. For more about him see Chapter 8, note 25. 26 Nahoum Slouschz, “haYehudim be-Mitzrayyim” [The Jews in Egypt], Ahiasaf 5, 1898, p. 111. 27 Ibid., pp. 113–14. 28 Ibid., pp. 114–15. The phrase “shall the sword … devour forever?” is an allusion to II Samuel 2.26 which refers to an internecine war between the troops of David and those loyal to the fallen King Saul.

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economic conditions in Egypt at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century resulted in the emergence of a small but very prominent group of Jewish bankers, industrialists, and international merchants who not only led the Rabbanite community but also became very powerful and central figures in the Egyptian capital. This change in the fortune of the Jews was of course also connected to the great improvement in the status of all minorities in Egypt, which began as a result of the Tanzimat and was subsequently extended by the British to include equality and in certain cases even preferential treatment for the various minorities who were relatively open to European influence and connections. Another factor in the strengthening of the Rabbanite community was the influx of Rabbanite Jews from Europe; this swelling of the Rabbanite ranks made the Karaite community, which had always been in the minority, even less significant in comparison. The second force, mentioned by Rabbi haCohen,29 was the policy of the British government in Egypt, which recognized only one leadership as representative of the Jews. The British regarded the hakham bashi of Cairo as the religious representative of the Jews and the president of the Cairo community as their political representative. Thus, whatever dealings the Karaites had with the government could only be conducted under the auspices of the accredited Jewish representatives, who were Rabbanites.30 The third force was secularization, which, although not so radical as in Europe, had the overall effect of bringing many (especially urban) Egyptians of the twentieth century to attach relatively less importance to differences, fine points, and polemics on the theological-religious level. This led inter alia to the moderation and softening of the religious-ideological confrontation between the Karaites and the Rabbanites and to a tendency of many in both groups to play down the differences between them.31

Below, at note 35. This account of the official status of the Egyptian Karaite community is not in consonance with Karaite sources. Thus, Murad al-Qudsi, a leading figure in the Karaite community of Cairo who later re-located to the United States, writes that “in 1890 the Egyptian government acknowledged the Karaite community as separate and independent from the Rabbanite community” (idem., The Karaite Jews of Egypt 1882–1986, second edition, 2006, p. 32). However, there are counter-indications. Although the British occupied Egypt in 1882, they and the Khedive continued the policy of acknowledging formal Ottoman suzerainty until 1915. But up to 1900 the Karaites of Istanbul themselves did not enjoy millet status; in that year they were granted an official firman bestowing autonomy upon them as a separate millet (see Corinaldi, note 6 above, p. 143). Because British rule in Egypt began in 1882, prior to the recognition of the Karaites by the Porte, it seems correct to assume that the British administration continued to maintain the status quo ante on this matter. Furthermore, I have seen no proof that the Karaites of Egypt were redefined out of the Jewish millet after 1900. Rabbi haCohen’s statement (c. 1918) that “the Government considers also the Karaites to be Jews” thus seems to me historically valid. But I (and Rabbi haCohen) may be mistaken on this point; Ron Shaham, in his article “Jews and the Sharī’a Courts in Modern Egypt,” Studia Islamica, 82 (1995), pp. 113–36, argues (in note 23) that I am, indeed, mistaken. 31 Compare L. Nemoy’s conclusion in his article, “A Modern Egyptian Manual of the Karaite 29 30



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The fourth force was the rise of Arab nationalism in Egypt, and in the Middle East in general. For many people, the rise in nationalism brought about a perceptual change in the definition of self and others. Instead of perceiving society as based on millets, that is, the religio-ethnic differentiation of Copts, Sunni Moslems, Shi’ites, Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholics, and other groups, people now tended to perceive the national factor as transcending religio-ethnic differentiation. This rise in nationalism acted in two ways as far as the relations between Rabbanites and Karaites were concerned. On the one hand, it caused both groups to feel growing alienation from the Arab-Egyptian milieu, which seemed to be coalescing into a common Arab-Islamic national consciousness that excluded them. On the other hand, the idea that the national factor should be one that united people of different religious-ideological persuasions within the same nationality, and that nationality was a trans-religious factor that should be of primary significance, introduced in these communities a growing recognition of, or a growing stress on, the common Jewish nationality of both Karaites and Rabbanites.32 These four factors—the increase in the wealth and welfare of the Rabbanite Jewish community, the recognition by the government of the Rabbanite leadership as representative of all Jews in Egypt, the secularization process, and the rise of national consciousness in the Middle East—operated synergetically to create a dynamic of breaking down the isolation and the alienation between the Karaite and Rabbanite communities and encouraging tendencies toward their integration. As the Karaites were in the minority, the vector of forces (as is usually the case in such instances) was such that the members of the minority tended more and more to be assimilated within the majority; that is, there was a growing tendency among Karaites, apparently most especially among the younger generation, to seek to become assimilated within the larger Rabbanite majority. In the late 1890s two Karaite families from Helwan had applied to become Rabbanites but were rejected by Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on.33 However, in the early twentieth century a new attitude was gaining ground in Cairo and a new tone could be heard within the community. This is quite clearly expressed in the following report by Aharon Mendel haCohen, the Ashkenazic rabbi in Cairo: Faith,” Jewish Quarterly Review, 62 (1971), pp. 1–11: “the overall impression is one of mildness, of a gentle but powerful tendency to avoid the limelight of conflict by retreat into peaceful and comfortable obscurity—a tendency which in the modern period of history applies as well to Karaism as a whole.” 32 Rabbi al-Gamil’s summary of the tendency toward rapprochement on the level of national consciousness, (Yosef al-Gamil, Toledot ha-Yahadut ha-Qara'it, vol. 1, Ramla, 1979, p. 160 ff.) is based on a review of the journals of the period and seems basically sound. The subsequent involvement of Rabbanite and Karaite youth in joint Zionist activities during the late 1940s and early 1950s is well established. See also: al-Gamil, p. 167ff. 33 Slouschz, p. 111.

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Now that freedom prevails in our country and the government considers also the Karaites to be Jews and we have great influence in the government – the Karaites are in need of us. As a result of this, they have grown very close to our community, and have come to realize that truth is with us. Therefore they (at least, many of them) wish to enter under the wings of the Shekhina [= Divine Presence].34 And the president of our community reports to me that the majority of the Karaites wish to enter [our community] so that we might become one nation. And why indeed should we cut off a tribe from Israel? Why should these Karaites be inferior to all the gentiles who are not of the sons of Israel and who can convert to Judaism, while these, who come from the stock of our ancestors, cannot benefit even by immersion and conversion?35 To sum up: From the beginning of the twentieth century, a conjunction of historical, social and cultural processes ameliorated the degree of isolation and alienation that previously existed between Karaites and Rabbanites. As a result, a de facto rapprochement between the two communities began, and psychological and public pressures were exerted upon the religious leadership to in some way grant de jure recognition to this change, that is, to enable Karaites to join the Rabbanite community and especially to marry into that community. Such de jure recognition involved a significant departure from the halakhic consensus toward the Karaites that had crystallized in the rabbinic world, both Sephardic and Ashkenazic, over the previous centuries. However, because rabbis and religious leaders usually tend to be conservative and prefer to remain loyal to practices and precedents created in the past rather than to embrace willingly the contingencies of the present, there was no great enthusiasm among the religious leadership in Egypt to undertake the steps that the rank and file and the political leadership of the community seemed to be pressing for. Nevertheless, after careful examination of the situation, the rabbis of Egypt did reach new halakhic formulations independent of, and in opposition to, the existing halakhic consensus. The second part of this chapter will discuss the inner logic and the modes of reasoning employed by each rabbi individually. In general, the common factor in all their positions was a tendency to subordinate the formal-legal level of discussion to guiding principles drawn from an appreciation of the religious and ethical goals of Torah and Judaism in toto. According to their understanding, it was inconceivable that the Torah would totally deny Karaites any option of rejoining the rabbinic majority, for only by such mergers could one hope to reunite the diverse elements of the Jewish people and to forge a unified community in the contemporary world. 34 “To enter under the wings of the Shekhina” is a metaphor for entering the Jewish community. See: Avi Sagi and Zvi Zohar, Transforming Identity: The ritual transition from Gentile to Jew – structure and meaning, Continuum, 2007, pp. 122–3. 35 haCohen, op. cit., fol. 112a.



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The 1918 decision by Cairo’s leading Rabbis The unwavering position taken by Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan was the first in a series of bold decisions taken by the rabbis of Egypt enabling the reintegration of Karaites into the Rabbanite community. A key event took place in the spring of 191836 when the three leading rabbis of Cairo, Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on,37 Aharon Mendel haCohen, and Mas'ud Hai Ben-Shim'on,38 jointly issued an official halakhic decision stating that all Egyptian Karaites should be considered eligible to join the majority Rabbanite community if they so choose. Although I have not been able to locate the full original text, enough details have been preserved in reports and paraphrases by other rabbis to enable the reconstruction of the central arguments forming the backbone of the decision.39 In analyzing the decision, we can distinguish between a formal argument and a substantive one. The formal argument was intended to counter the claim that the weight of halakhic precedent precludes the possibility of contemporary rabbis adopting a lenient (that is, pro-integration) position on the matter. The rabbis of Cairo argue that they are not formally bound to consider all or any opinions on the Karaite question. As rabbis of Cairo, they are bound primarily by Egyptian precedent, and the weight of that precedent is overwhelmingly in favor of reacceptance of Karaites. They write that, given the fact that the great and illustrious Egyptian rabbinic leaders of the twelfth through the sixteenth centuries advocated reintegration of Karaites: Who is he who, here and now, in this city and in these times, deems himself to be girded with such strength that he would be more severe in this matter than were our masters of yore and declare that Karaites of Egypt to be possible mamzerim – God forbid!40 This statement is intentionally rich in implications, including the following: a. Rejection of the right of non-Egyptian rabbis to pronounce halakhic opinions on “internal” Egyptian-Jewish matters; reservation of halakhic sovereignty in such issues to local rabbis alone. According to Rabbi Maslaton (note 39 below), this event occurred during the first third of the month of Nissan. 37 Rabbi Refael Ben-Shim'on has figured prominently in the chapters of this work. For a biographical note, see Chapter 8, note 11. 38 Rabbi Mas'ud Hai (1869–1925), the younger brother of Rabbi Refael Aharon, served as a rabbinic judge (dayyan) in Cairo. He wrote a three-part code of Jewish personal law (Cairo, 1912–19, in Arabic). See: Zvi Zohar, “Ben-Shim'on, Mas'ud Hayy,” IJIW, vol. 1, pp. 421–2; idem., Halakha uModernizatia, Jerusalem, 1981, pp. 191–5; idem., Masoret uTemura, according to index. 39 The main source is: Rabbi Yehuda Maslaton, Responsa Ve-Zot li-Yehuda, Cairo, 1937, fol. 142ff. 40 ibid, fol. 144a. 36

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b. Self-identification (of the Cairo rabbis) as an organic continuation of the great chain of local rabbinic masters and ipso facto as invested, to a certain extent, with the authority and/or the obligation to follow their rulings even if such rulings are unconventional in the eyes of others. c. Placing the onus of novelty, discontinuity, and usurpation of authority upon the shoulders of anyone who suggests rejection of Karaite reintegration (although such rejection had been unanimous practice for more than three centuries!). Having established the formal legitimacy, authority, and justification of a “lenient” ruling, the rabbis of Cairo moved on to their substantive argument. Stating that they were taking into account the specific character and practices of the Karaite community of Egypt, they determined that it was prima facie the case that no marriage ever contracted by members of that community had been halakhically valid. Therefore, there was no justification for attributing to the Karaites of Cairo the status of “suspect mamzerim.” The classic bar to their reacceptance into the Rabbanite community, then, simply did not exist. In fact, it had never existed – but had only erroneously been assumed to exist. Regarding the reasons given for halakhic invalidation of Karaite marriages, one can discern two distinct lines of reasoning present in the 1918 ruling. The first line of reasoning was a conscious reiteration of a position held by several sixteenth-century Egyptian authorities: No marriage ceremony can be halakhically valid unless witnessed by two competent and reliable witnesses. A Jew who does not follow the central praxes of the halakha according to traditional rabbinic interpretation, or who rejects in toto the authority of rabbinic tradition—e.g. a Karaite—cannot be considered a competent and reliable witness. Because Karaites are invalid witnesses, and because the Karaites of Egypt were isolated and alienated from the Rabbanites, no Karaite marriage was ever witnessed by competent witnesses; ergo, no such marriage had ever been halakhically valid. This line of reasoning, advocated by Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on,41 had the advantage of precluding the need for any further investigation of the specifics of Karaite (sectarian!) rites and beliefs. Its weakness lay, however, in its exclusive reliance on the mutual alienation of the Karaite and Rabbanite communities just at a time when social realities were beginning to belie such alienation—in fact just at the time when the empirical social rapprochement between the communities was motivating the rabbis to reexamine their former negative stance and come out with this very ruling permitting reintegration!

Cf. Ve-Zot li-Yehuda, Cairo, 1937, fol. 144a. This represents a significant change in his halakhic position: As noted above, Rabbi Ben-Shim’on had in the 1890s flatly refused to accept Karaites into the Rabbanite fold.

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The second line of reasoning for invalidating Karaite marriages was more novel and daring. Advocated by Rabbi Aharon Mendel haCohen,42 it involved a careful analysis of Karaite legal texts and a series of empirical observations of Karaite marriage ceremonies, carried out by members of the Cairo (Rabbanite) beit din. The study of Karaite texts and participation in their rites were acts entailing outright disregard of Rabbanite norms prohibiting intellectual or religious involvement with sectarians. Rabbi haCohen was fully aware of this, yet consciously took full responsibility for his highly unconventional course of action: I will state the truth, and not deny it; even to this day my heart is not completely at rest regarding my having involved myself with them and my having studied a bit from their books, as was necessary for this matter. But I consider that I have performed a transgression for the sake of God [‘avera li-shmah], for my intent was for the sake of heaven. And I believe that God will not consider me a sinner in this matter.43 The concept of “a transgression for the sake of God” is a phrase heavy with connotations in the literature of Jewish thought. First appearing in the Talmud,44 it signifies the acknowledgment by masters of halakha that in certain situations the ultimate values and goals of Torah can be upheld only by outright contravention of halakhic detail.45 In our case, the rabbi of Cairo is implying that the possibility of healing an age-old wound in the national fabric by communal-religious reunification is of such great value that it must overrule obedience to specific halakhic dictates designed to maintain and perpetuate that very breach. The data Rabbi haCohen collected from Karaite texts and from empirical observation led him to the inescapable conclusion that the great bulk of previous rabbinic deliberation on the subject had been misinformed scholasticism: Rabbennu Shimshon46 said that they were all “possible mamzerim”, for while their marriages were according to the valid [rabbinic] mode, their divorces were not; then Radbaz47 came to permit them by legalistic devices. After that, new authorities rose up to forbid them on the grounds haCohen, fol. 112a ff. Ibid., fol. 112a. 44 Talmud Bavli, Nazir 23b, Horayot 10b, and parallels. 45 For modern discussions of this issue, see: Eliezer Berkowitz, Not in Heaven, New York, 1983, pp. 57–70; Nahum Rakover, “Violation of the law in order to preserve it: gedolah averah lishmah,” Jewish Law Association Studies 6 (1992), pp. 107–23. 46 Traditionally identified as the twelfth-century French Rabbi Shimshon ben Abraham of Sens, this identification is now in doubt. See: Corinaldi, p. 102, note 5. 47 Rabbi David ibn Abi-Zimra, leading rabbinic authority of sixteenth-century Egypt. Cf. Responsa Radbaz, vol. 1, no. 73; vol. 2, no. 796. 42 43

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that rabbinic witnesses might have been present at their weddings while recently some have proposed a lenient ruling, claiming such rabbinic participation to be implausible. But in reality, the facts are exactly the opposite: there is absolutely no doubt that their marriage cannot be even remotely considered valid by rabbinic standards. I myself with my own eyes witnessed, as did the other rabbis of our city, when we went together to observe the mode of their marriages, that their procedure would not be [rabbinically] valid even if great rabbinic authorities were to be standing there all through the ceremony.48 The reason, he explains, is that Karaite marriage rites are totally different from rabbinic ones: According to Rabbanite halakha, a man betroths a wife by presenting her with an object of some value (usually a ring) in the presence of two witnesses while reciting the formula: “You are hereby consecrated to me [as wife], according to the religion/law of Moses and Israel.” However, in the Karaite ceremony, the groom gives nothing directly to the bride and says nothing to her throughout the ceremony. The whole rabbinic debate over the validity of Karaite marriages thus stems from a projection onto the Karaites of the Rabbanite marriage rite—a projection only possible due to the total alienation that prevailed between the sects. Proceeding to quote extensively from Karaite texts in proof of his position,49 Rabbi haCohen shows how very different Karaite marriage rites are from those of the Rabbanites. In conclusion he attempts to explain why certain rabbis so vehemently opposed the reintegration of the Karaites while others so warmly welcomed Karaite “converts” to rabbinic Judaism. The crux of the matter, he explains, was a geographical variation in the Karaites’ attitude to the Rabbanite community and heritage: In certain places they abused the Rabbanites vociferously and with impunity, thereby eliciting a rabbinic counter-reaction of absolute rejection. In other areas, the Karaites’ attitude toward the Rabbanites was decent and not disrespectful, and in these places the rabbis sought to return them to the fold: And so too we, here in Egypt, seeing as we do that the Karaites are not rebellious or underhanded, may rely with full force upon the great rabbis of yesteryear who resided in Egypt and who accepted Karaites wishing to join our community. And the merit of those rabbis will justify us on the Day of Judgement, for we have decided the case according to their ruling. And by virtue of this, may God gather in all members of our dispersed and

haCohen, fol. 112a. Rabbi Mendel cites Aderet Eliyahu, written by the fifteenth-century Karaite scholar Eliyahu Bashiezi (Odessa, 1871) and quotes verbatim from Gan ‘Eden, by fourteenth-century Aharon ben Eliyahu of Nicomedea. 48 49



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distant people from the four comers of the earth … May peace be on all Israel, amen.50 In addition to the formal argument and to the dual lines of material argument, the rabbis of Cairo appended to their ruling two pragmatic considerations of no mean weight: 1 Because great Egyptian rabbis of the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries had actually accepted many Karaites into the Rabbanite fold,51 the Rabbanite Jews of modern Egypt were in many cases descendants of mixed lineage. Impugning Egyptian Karaites as possible mamzerim would mean, by implication, impugning all members of the indigenous Rabbanite community as being of the same status—a completely unacceptable conclusion. 2 Because of the complex legal situation in Egypt, with many contradictory and overlapping jurisdictions between religious courts, Egyptian courts, “mixed” courts, and consular courts, rejection of a Karaite as ineligible for “conversion” and for membership in the Rabbanite community would not effectively prevent him (or her) from marrying a Rabbanite spouse.52 Their children would subsequently be registered by the authorities as “Jews” (the government did not differentiate between internal Jewish sectarian affiliations) and in the future would find ways to enter the ranks of the community in a manner circumventing rabbinic control. Therefore, if a valid option existed enabling them to be accepted overtly according to halakha, this would clearly be preferable. These pragmatic arguments were not in and of themselves a validation of the logical correctness of any legal-halakhic line of reasoning. Nevertheless, given the inherent pluralism and multivalence of halakhic discourse, the fact that negating the acceptance of Karaites—while a valid halakhic

haCohen, fol. 114b. Cf. note 7 above. 52 In Maslaton (note 39 above) at fol. 143a; the following argument is attributed to Rabbi Refael Aharon Ben-Shim'on: Im lo neqablehu, ve-yinnase 'im yisraelit 'al pi ha-memshala she-takir be-nissuin ele, ve-ha-banim yurshemu be-pinkes ha-memshala be-tor yehudim rabbaniyyim, ve-i-efshar le-hakiram aharei khen. [If we will not accept him, and he will marry a Rabbanite Jewess according to the government—which will recognize this marriage—and the children will be written in the government records as Rabbanite Jews, then it will be afterwards impossible to identify them.] To the best of my knowledge, Egyptian civil law did not in fact enable civil marriage at that time (c. 1918). Currently, civil marriage is possible only for non-Muslims who do not belong to the same religion, denomination, or sect (see: Nathalie Bernard-Maugiron, “Divorce and Remarriage of Orthodox Copts in Egypt,” Islamic Law and Society 18 (2011), pp. 356–86, at note 34). One way of making sense of Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s words is to understand them as referring to options open to holders of foreign citizenship, who, as we have noted (in Chapter 8, note 19), comprised half of Egypt’s Jews. 50 51

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option—would entail severely unattractive consequences, surely made the alternate option offered by the rabbis of Egypt c. 1918 seem all the more compelling and convincing.

The Leon Cohen case and its resolution Returning to developments within the halakhic world of the Rabbanite community, it seems that although the 1918 decision enabled acceptance in principle of any Karaite acknowledging the tenets of Rabbanite tradition, its application was in fact limited mainly to the resolution of problem cases in which intermarriage had already occurred and pressing considerations existed for post facto legitimization. In a most interesting and revealing correspondence dating from 1933 between the Cairo Rabbinate and the Sephardi Chief Rabbinate of Eretz Yisrael,53 the rabbis of Cairo mentioned several instances in which Karaite spouses had been accepted into the Rabbanite community.54 Individuals as yet unmarried had, however, been rejected by the Cairo beit din, according to these letters. They went on to say that recently a Karaite youth who had been so rejected had visited Jerusalem, where he had been granted an audience by the Rishon le-Tziyyon, Rabbi Ya'akov Me’ir.55 Rabbi Me'ir had responded to the youth’s plea by stating that he personally was sympathetic to Karaites reverting to Rabbanite Judaism and intended in due course to sanction this option and legitimize it halakhically. Encouraged by the Rishon le-Tziyyon’s position, the young man returned to Cairo and demanded that the local beit din reconsider his application. The beit din wrote, asking Rabbi Me’ir’s advice: Would he lend his support to Rabbi Ben-Shim'on’s 1918 ruling and authorize them to accept this Karaite as a full-fledged “convert” to Rabbanite Judaism even though no “special” considerations made this acceptance an overwhelming necessity?56

This correspondence was printed in Maslaton. Rabbi Maslaton refers to two such cases: in the month of Tammuz 5685/1925 a rabbinic court headed by Rabbi Aharon Mendel Ha-Cohen accepted a Karaite man who had fathered five daughters and one son with a Rabbanite woman, and in Tammuz of 5690/1930 another court accepted a Karaite man who had fathered three sons and one daughter with a Rabbanite woman (Maslaton, p. 142). 55 Rabbi Me'ir (1856–1939) was born in Jerusalem and was the outstanding disciple of Rabbi Elyashar (mentioned above, note 18). He was elected Rishon le-Tziyyon in 1906 but was subsequently deposed due to the machinations of conservative elements in the Sephardic community opposed to his openness to modernity and Zionism. He was chosen as Chief Rabbi of Salonica and later returned to serve as chief Sephardic rabbi of Eretz Israel (1921–39). See: David Ashkenazi, From Jerusalem to Saloniki: Rabbi Jacob Meir’s leadership as Haham Bashi in Jerusalem and Grand Rabbi in Saloniki, Ph.D. thesis, Bar Ilan, 2008 [Hebrew]; Ya'akov Elazar, HaRav Ya'akov Meir haRishon leTziyyon, Jerusalem, 1997. 56 Maslaton, p. 142 (end of letter sent to Jerusalem). 53 54



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The reply from Jerusalem is most instructive. First, in its authorship: Not the Rishon le-Tziyyon but one of his associates, Rabbi Ben-Zion Koenka,57 composed the document. The reason given was Rabbi Me’ir’s state of health, but this may well have been an excuse: Realizing the controversial nature of the question, the Rabbinate considered it best that the Rishon le-Tziyyon’s personal statement to the Karaite youth not be confirmed in a written responsum that Rabbi Me’ir himself could not deny. It fell to the lot of Rabbi Koenka, then, to diplomatically extract the Sephardic Chief Rabbinate from this delicate situation while at the same time encouraging the Cairo religious authorities to adopt an independent position on the matter. In a carefully worded responsum, Rabbi Koenka cited the prevailing negative position held by the great majority of recent and current authorities in the halakhic world and summed up his situation saying: “Therefore, for me to come out with a permissive ruling on this matter is well nigh impossible.”58 However, he added, for the rabbis of Cairo to come out with such a decision was another matter entirely. Quoting at length from the 1918 ruling, he explained that the Egyptian rabbis could regard themselves as on firm halakhic ground if they chose to follow it “and therefore, when you do in fact convert the Karaite, you should follow exactly the procedure outlined by your predecessors.” The ball was now back in the court of Chief Rabbi Haim Nahoum59 and his av bet din [chief judge], Rabbi Yehuda Maslaton.60 Just as the Rishon le-Tzyyion delegated his deputy to compose his reply, so Chief Rabbi Nahoum elected Rabbi Maslaton to continue the complex negotiations along the Jerusalem–Cairo axis. Thanking Rabbi Koenka for his basically positive reply, the Egyptian rabbi proceeds to reveal one of the central reasons for the ambivalence of the Cairo Rabbinate: “The [heads of the] Karaite community oppose this [proposal], and his Excellency the Chief Rabbi Haim [Nahoum] does not wish to take action counter to their will.”61 The dynamic forces mentioned above as having produced an impetus for communal reconciliation had also, we see now, some unexpected

Rabbi Koenka (1867–1936) was founder and editor of the rabbinic journal Hame'assef (Jerusalem, 1896–1915). In 1933 he was serving as dayyan of the Sephardic Rabbinic Tribunal in Jerusalem. See: Gaon (note 17 above), pp. 608–14. He wrote an illuminating autobiography (Sefer haZikhronot ve-haToladot, Jerusalem, 1938), aspects of which have been discussed in an article by Avriel Bar Levav, “Food for Thought: Two Meals, Two Rabbis” [Hebrew], Yossi Goldstein (ed.), Yosef Da'at: Studies in Modern Jewish History in Honor of Yosef Salmon, Beer Sheva, Ben Gurion University Press, 2010, pp. 277–88. 58 Cf. Maslaton, p. 143b. 59 Rabbi Nahoum (1872–1960), formerly Chief Rabbi of the Turkish Empire (1908–20), served as Chief Rabbi of Egypt from 1925 until his death. Cf. Aksel Erbahar’s article in EJIW, vol. 3, pp. 547–8 and sources listed there. 60 Born in Damascus (1872), Rabbi Maslaton emigrated to Egypt in 1923 and served as a dayyan in Cairo, and for a time as av beit din, until his death in 1945. Cf. Li-Qedoshim Asher BaAretz, 3rd expanded edition, Jerusalem, 2009, pp. 320–1. 61 Maslaton, p. 145b. 57

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consequences. The recognition of the Chief Rabbi of Cairo as representing (vis-à-vis the Egyptian authorities) all local Jews62 made the Karaites explicitly dependent, politically, upon the Rabbanite leadership—thereby encouraging “assimilation.” Simultaneously, however, it had the concomitant of casting the chief rabbi in the role of protector of the Karaite faith, making him disinclined to assume the unadulterated Rabbanite position that Karaism was pure heresy and that Karaites should repent and return to the Rabbanite camp. What is more, Rabbi Nahoum, acting in the less restrictive, more pluralistic vein of contemporary attitudes toward religious controversy, had developed close personal ties based on mutual appreciation and admiration with “progressive” elements in the Karaite community, especially with Murad Farag with whom he also shared a passion for classical Arabic literature.63 And Murad Farag, while advocating within the Karaite community the possibility of intermarriage with the Rabbanites and acknowledging the positive side of modern Egyptian Rabbanite attempts to enable such intermarriage, was loud and clear in his rejection of the halakhic rationale underlying the rabbis’ 1918 decision: The rabbis certified the marriage and accepted the Karaite woman into their community and legitimized the offspring. However, they based this decision on the grounds that Karaite marriages are by religious law invalid, their lineage remaining therefore unsullied even if their divorces be insignificant, or on the grounds that the Karaites are a separate religious community, equal to any other (non-Jewish) religion. This is what led us recently to lecture on this subject among the Karaites, especially since some of them [Karaites] have been inclining to join them [Rabbanites] and to marry under their auspices; I wanted therefore to clarify [to the Karaites] just what their worth is according to Rabbanite religious law – for no Karaite can be content that it be written of his group they have no effective marriage or that they are one of a host of other religious groups, that is, they are non-Jews. This be true, even if by [such a definition] there is an “out” from the stain of sullied lineage – which is the explicit consideration given in the Rabbanite writings.64 Whether as protector of the official Karaite old-guard leadership or as associate of Karaite “progressive” elements, Chief Rabbi Nahoum felt constrained from one-sidedly forging ahead with the implementation of a halakhic policy encouraging “Rabbanization” of Karaites. However, Rabbi Koenka’s reply,

But see note 30 above. See: L. Nemoy, “A Modern Karaite-Arabic Poet: Mourad Farag,” JQR, 70 (1980), pp. 195–209, who writes of Farag: “He … won the friendship of the Rabbanite Chief Rabbi of Egypt, Haim Nahoum … the second volume of his massive comparative Arabic and Hebrew etymological dictionary is dedicated to the Chief Rabbi Haim Nahoum” (p. 197 and note 4). 64 Murad Farag, Al-Qaraiyyun wa['l]-Rabbaniyyun, Cairo, 1918, p. 157 (my translation). 62 63



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effectively sanctioning such a course for the Egyptian Rabbinate, made Cairo’s rabbis uncomfortable about blocking the possible acceptance of the Karaite youth whose insistence had initiated the negotiations. Rabbi Maslaton’s answer to the Jerusalem rabbi continued therefore with a suggestion: Because the Egyptians are unwilling to deal with the matter head on: I would like, then, to ask of you, most exalted Torah authority, if it is permissible that the Karaite named Leon Cohen travel together with his Rabbanite fiancée – and present himself before your Excellency so that he may conduct himself according to your decision and be married there … Please tell us what [documents] the Karaite should bring with him; he can obtain a certificate of bachelorhood from the consulate here since he holds a French passport, and the bureau of the Rabbinate here will issue to his Rabbanite fiancée a document certifying that she is unmarried. I look forward to your hopefully speedy reply.65 Rabbi Koenka’s reply was prompt, terse, and unambiguous: I have received your letter sent five days ago … regarding your suggestion that you send the Karaite to me – no such thing, my friend! For if he comes here, I shall not deal with his case at all, for I have no wish to stick my neck between the great mountains. I wrote to you already that the rabbis of Egypt can rely upon all those great local rabbis who acted [according to the “permissive” approach] whereas we cannot but follow the majority of authorities who opposed it. Please give my warmest regards to the Great Rabbi Haim Nahoum.66 The issue had reached an impasse. The Sephardic Rabbinate of Jerusalem, while sympathetic toward the bid to open the path to “conversion” of Karaites, felt unable to tackle the negative stance of the majority of “recent” halakhic writers. However, it justified and supported the rabbis of Cairo in just that policy. The Cairo rabbis, for their part, although fully aware of the halakhic option open to them, felt compelled by other intercommunal considerations to refrain from acting upon it. The newly improved relations with the Karaites prevented the Cairo Rabbinate from pursuing a policy that would undermine the Karaite leadership—even as those very relations were breeding a situation in which the reconciliation of Karaites with the Rabbanite majority, so long an unfulfilled (Rabbanite) hope, now began to appear a feasible reality.

Maslaton, p. 145b. Ibid., p. 146a.

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Fortunately (or perhaps by hidden design?),67 a deus ex machina appeared in the guise of the beit din of Alexandria. As Rabbi Maslaton puts it: “Since the great beit din of Jerusalem refrained from taking action on this matter … I, too, in all modesty, refrained from performing the marriage. And the marriage was carried out by the beit din of Alexandria, may God preserve them.”68 Geographically removed from the focal area of Karaite–Rabbanite institutional politics in Cairo and with only a handful of local Karaites to relate to, the rabbis of Alexandria did not have to feel hampered in their application of purely “partisan” Rabbanite considerations and could unequivocally advocate “conversion” of Karaites and their reintegration into the (Rabbanite) majority. Geographically situated within Egypt, the rabbis of Alexandria could allow themselves to disregard openly the conventional halakhic approach and to follow the “classic” Egyptian position recently rehabilitated (in 1918) by the (previous) rabbinic authorities of Cairo. And last but not least, the beit din of Alexandria enjoyed the bold, innovative halakhic leadership of Rabbi Ya’akov Moshe Toledano, an authority willing to take clear, unconventional stands on some of the most controversial halakhic issues of his day.69 The fortunate availability of access to the Alexandrian beit din thus got the Cairo Rabbinate off the hook and enabled Leon Cohen to join the Rabbanite community and marry the bride of his choice in an open and legitimate way.

Karaite views on marriage with Rabbanites Before proceeding with a discussion and analysis of twentieth-century Egyptian rabbinic halakha on the issue at hand, let us note that the question of Karaite–Rabbanite intermarriage was also raised within the Karaite

It seems to me that the Alexandrian court could not have taken the matter up without the approval of Rabbi Nahoum and may well have done so at his initiative. 68 Maslaton, p. 146a. 69 Rabbi Ya'akov Moshe Toledano (1880–1960) was born and educated in Tiberias. He early on showed a tendency toward independent scholarship, integrating his Sephardic rabbinic background with modern methods of study. In 1921 he represented Tiberias in the convention establishing the Chief Rabbinate of Palestine. He subsequently served as rabbi and dayyan in Tangier (1926), Cairo (1929), and Alexandria (1933). In 1942 he was elected Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv, and in 1958 he became minister of religious affairs in the government of Israel. See: Zvi Zohar, “Sephardic Halakhic Tradition on Galut and Political Zionism,” Yedida K. Stillman and Norman Stillman (eds), From Iberia To Diaspora: Studies in Sephardic History and Culture, Leiden, Brill, 1999, pp. 223–34; Itzhak Bezalel, “The First Levantines in the Ottoman Period in Eretz Israel” [Hebrew], Pe'amim 125–7, 2011, pp. 75–96; Moshe 'Ovadia, “The 1937 Partition Plan of Eretz Israel as Viewed by Rabbi Ya'akov Moshe Toledano” [Hebrew], Pe'amim 122–3, 2009, pp. 177–91; idem., Rabbi Ya'akov Moshe Toledano’s Biography and His Contribution to Jewish Historiography, M. A. thesis [Hebrew], Bar Ilan University, 2003. 67



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community of Cairo in a manner that mirrored to a certain extent the intraRabbanite debate on the subject. By way of historical background it should be noted that Karaite halakha forbade marriage with Rabbanites. Rabbi al-Gamil quotes 'Anan, the founder of Karaism, as the initiator of this policy.70 This position was held also by other Karaite legal authorities such as Benjamin of Nahawend (ninth century), Sahel ben Matzliah (tenth century), Mordekhai ben Nissan (seventeenth century), Simha Yitzhak Lutzki (eighteenth century), et al.71 However, as we have seen, relations between the two communities improved in the first decades of the twentieth century; al-Gamil writes that: [T]he relations between the two communities was so harmonious that rumors spread to the effect that the leaders of the two communities were conducting secret talks with the goal of unity. However, in both communities there was stiff opposition to this tendency.72 Whether or not such talks were taking place, it is clear that there was a group of Karaites advocating the abrogation of the negative attitude toward marriage with Rabbanites. Murad Farag, the leader of this group, wrote as follows (c. 1944) to the chief Karaite rabbi of Egypt: The complaints of our Rabbanite brothers against us, and our complaints against them, have already been buried; in other words, the gate has been closed upon them, long ago. There is no necessity or need to exhume them. What we need at this time is love and purity of heart; more than enough hatred and enmity is now being directed by others towards our Rabbanite brothers.73 There is no need to recall if they harassed us in the past, for there can be no doubt that at present they love us with the purity of their heart and act towards us graciously: They feed our poor, receive the sons of our poor into their schools, and heal the sick of our poor in their hospital.74 Farag held that the Karaites must find ways to enable marriage between the two communities. Indeed, the minutes of the Karaite community council in the mid-1920s reveal that in 12 instances members of the Rabbanite community had expressed interest in becoming Karaites, mostly for the

Rabbi Yosef al-Gamil, Pirqei Tuviyya: Aharon Hakhmei haQaraim be-Mitzrayyim, Ramleh: Center for Research on Karaite Judaism, 1998, vol. 1, p. 131. Rabbi al-Gamil indicates 'Anan’s Sefer haMitzvot section 56 as the source for this law. 71 See al-Gamil, ibid., note 3, for details. 72 Idem., haYahadut haQarait be-Mitzrayyim ba-'Et haHadasha, Ramleh, 1985, p. 29. 73 Writing in 1944, Farag refers here, of course, to the persecution of European Jewry at that time. 74 Farag’s words are cited in a letter of response sent to him by Rabbi Babovitch in September 1944. The letter was published by al-Gamil in Pirqei Tuviyya (note 69 above), vol. 2, p. 374. 70

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purpose of marrying Karaite women. Historically, of course, Karaism had in its heyday attracted many non-Karaites and accepted them. However, a 1910 decision reached in the town of Eupatoria (Russia) by the World Council of Karaites forbade conversion to Karaism. Although Murad Farag and the chief Karaite rabbi of Cairo, Hakham Abraham Cohen,75 indicated that Egyptian Karaites might well consider disregarding the Eupatoria decision, they were unsuccessful in convincing influential conservative community leaders to do so.76 Rabbi Tuvia Babovitch was born in Russia (Crimea) in 1879, where he also acquired his religious knowledge. He arrived in Cairo in June 1934 and served as chief rabbi of the Karaite community until his death in 1956.77 Already in August 1934 Farag wrote to him asking for his support in this endeavor; unsatisfied with the reply he received, he sent a second letter on the same topic.78 Rabbi Babovitch was not a die-hard conservative who held that Karaite halakha must remain immutable under all circumstances; in principle he advocated religious rulings that took into consideration contemporary social reality and technological developments.79 However, he disagreed with Farag’s position on this issue and held that the Karaite community of Egypt could not unilaterally go against age-old Karaite tradition forbidding such marriage. Therefore, in November 1934, after his initial exchanges with Farag on this topic, Babovitch broached the idea of raising the marriage issue at a Karaite World Congress.80 With this in mind, he consulted on this matter with the highest Karaite authority in Eastern Europe, Seraya Shapshal/ Szapszal, who at that time (1935) was residing in Vilna.81 Shapshal replied: Born in Istanbul in 1860, he served as Chief Karaite Rabbi of Cairo from 1920 until his death in 1933. See: al-Qudsi (note 3 above), pp. 297–300. 76 Cf. al-Qudsi, pp. 76, 299. 77 See al-Qudsi, pp. 300–2. An extensive work dealing with his biography and his activities and including some of his writings and correspondence is Pirqei Tuviyya (note 70 above). 78 See ibid., pp. 615–16; and also in vol. 1, p. 142. 79 Ibid., vol. 1, pp. 226–32. And see also his letter to Habib Yomtov, one of the community’s elders, ibid., vol. 2, pp. 351–71. 80 Pirqei Tuviyya, vol. 2, p. 556, letter of Rabbi Babovitch to Prof. Ananiasz Zajaczkowski in Warsaw, November 30, 1934. 81 Seraya Shapshal (1873–1961) had an extremely variegated career as Russian diplomat, tutor and advisor to the Persian Shah, teacher of Turkish and Azeri at St. Petersburg University, bank clerk and Pan-Turkish activist in Istanbul, librarian, kolkhoz member, and researcher at the Soviet/Lithuanian Academy of Sciences. Between 1928 and 1939 he served as hakham of the Karaites of Poland and Lithuania. He conducted religious and cultural reforms aimed at severing Karaite religion and tradition from its Hebrew and Jewish roots and shaping for the Karaites a new Turkic-Khazar identity. Under this ideology, the Karaites of Eastern Europe and the Crimea were not and never had been part of the Jewish people, and the relationship of their religion to Judaism is analogous to the relation of Christianity to Judaism. Inter alia, Hebrew language and letters were irrelevant to Karaite life; therefore, Shapshal instigated the complete exclusion of Hebrew language and literature from the curriculum of Karaite schools, and the Karaite language was thereafter written in Latin letters with Polish transliteration (hence Szapszal). On Shapshal, see: Golda Akhiezer, “Shapshal (Szapszał) Seraya Ben 75



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In response to your letter of December 6th, I have the honor to reply that marriage between Karaites and Rabbanites has been completely forbidden since the 8th century, i.e., since the establishment of Karaite Judaism. During the first few centuries after that, Rabbanites could join the Karaite fold, but since the 11th century such matters have been completely forgotten. In 1917, several Rabbanite young men and women turned to the Karaite administration in the Crimea and asked to join the Karaite community. But the General Congress in Eupatoria completely rejected this application.82 It is not clear to what extent Babovitch realized that Shapshal’s insistence upon total non-acceptance of Rabbanites was part of an overall strategy of denying the Jewishness of Karaites and Karaism.83 In any case, after receiving the above reply from Shapshal, Babovitch addressed the following circular to all Egyptian Karaites in early 1936: To all the Karaite Jews of Egypt: I hereby bring to the attention of all community members that the issues of intermarriage between community members and others, as well as the possibility of others accepting the Karaite worldview, will not be performed by me, unless after being agreed upon by all members of the Egyptian Karaite community and also by all Karaite communities outside Egypt. For this is a matter whose solution cannot be reached except by agreement of all Karaites at a World Congress.84 Rabbi Babovitch reiterated this position in his halakhic work on matters of personal status:

Mordechai,” Encyclopedia Judaica, 2nd edition, available online at http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/judaica/ejud_0002_0018_0_18216.html; Dan D. Y. Shapira, “A Jewish Pan-Turkist: Seraya Szapszal (Sapsaloglu) and his work “Qirim Qaray Türkleri” (1928),” Acta Orientalia (Budapest) 58,4 (2005), pp. 349–80. The success of this initiative led to a radical difference in identity and culture between European Karaites and those of the Middle East, who continued to regard themselves as part of the Jewish nation and religion (albeit not of the Rabbanite denomination), to use the Hebrew language in study, prayer, and writing, and to do so, of course, using the Hebrew alphabet. The consequences of this difference for the remnants of European Karaites interested in re-establishing Karaite life in post-Soviet Lithuania were manifold; see: Tapani Harviainen, “Signs of New Life in Karaim Communities,” M’hammed Sabour and Knut S. Vikør (eds), Ethnic Encounter And Culture Change, Nordic Society for Middle Eastern Studies, 1997, pp. 72–83. 82 The original letter (in French!) is presented in a small, somewhat blurred copy in al-Gamil’s Toledot ha-Yahadut ha-Qara'it (note 32 above), p. 146. A Hebrew translation is printed in Pirqei Tuviyya (note 70 above), vol. 1, p. 142. 83 See note 81 above. 84 Ibid., vol. 1, pp. 142–3.

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Recently an idea has gained currency among our people to receive under the wings of the Shekhina of the Karaite religion men and women who have expressed their wish and will to enter into the Karaite religion and marry with them. However, this idea cannot be realized and applied unless by a General National Congress.85 In other words, Babovitch did not totally reject the possibility in principle of a change in Karaite halakha on this matter but in fact deferred the possibility of such a development to a vague and unclear future at such time as a World Congress of Karaites would be convened, and all present would give their consent to this change. In any case, marriage with Rabbanites could be possible (if at all) only if the Rabbanite would accept the Karaite religion. However, the current state of Karaite halakha did not enable the acceptance of any non-Karaite into the fold, and thus such marriages were impossible. Personally, Rabbi Babovitch was in favor of enabling conversions to Karaism, thus also enabling the Karaite community to broaden its ranks: We have shut our doors and sealed them up. The result is that there is only flow away from us to the outside, with no incoming flow. According to life’s iron laws, no living organism can survive if it continuously suffers loss and nothing is added to it. Therefore, I think that we must deviate from the policy of closed doors, and – like all other peoples upon earth – we must go over to a policy of open doors.86 His personal views notwithstanding, Babovitch would not apply such a dramatic revision of Karaite halakha on his own. Thus, in 1935, two applications were refused by the Karaite community of Cairo: one, of a Karaite man seeking to convert a Rabbanite woman to Karaism and marry her; and the other, of a Rabbanite woman seeking to accept the Karaite religion.87 So, too, when Babovitch was informed that a certain Karaite woman intended to marry a Rabbanite man, he ruled unequivocally: A Karaite Jewish woman is not permitted to marry anyone outside of the community of Karaite Jews. If she marries out of the community, she cannot return … she will no more belong to the religion of Karaite Jews … thence on, she shall belong to the religion of her husband. Such is the decision, and such is the ruling, as it is written in the Torah: “There shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel, nor a sodomite of the sons of Israel” (Deut. 23.18).88 Ibid., Ibid., 87 Ibid., 88 Ibid., 85 86

vol. 2, p. 293, note 172. p. 574, letter to Prof. Zajaczkowski, April 2, 1937. vol. 1, p. 153. pp. 151–2.



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Since no religiously permissible relationship is possible between Karaites and non-Karaites, sexual relations between them are illicit and thus harlotry. They also entail irrevocable estrangement between the erstwhile Karaite and her original community. In sum, two Karaite positions on marriage with Rabbanites can be identified and a third surmised. The old guard of the Karaite community wished to preserve the norms that had maintained the boundary between the communities and to prevent any intermarriage; they were supported in this by Rabbi Tuvia Babovitch. A second group, led by Murad Farag, wished to reopen lines of communication and discourse with the Rabbanite community and promoted an inclusive view of Karaism. Therefore, they fought for official legitimization by the Karaite leadership of the possibility of conversion into the Karaite fold—one consequence of which would be enabling “mixed” marriages.89 A third group—who may well have been the silent majority—were significantly affected by secularization processes and moved toward de facto neglect of their Karaite heritage and absorption into the Levantinized bourgeoisie of the Egyptian metropolis. It is probable that a certain affinity between members of this third group and Rabbanite Jews in the same situation led to “intermarriage” based not on any real conversion of conviction but on disinterest of both parties in the religious heritage of their communities. Given the staunch opposition of Karaite leadership to receiving outsiders into their community, and their rejection of intermarriage with Rabbanites, it is clear that intermarriage could only be possible for members of this third group by acceptance of the Karaite partner into the Rabbanite fold.

The rationale of the Senai case decision The last case we shall examine here is one in which the Cairo beit din, with the encouragement and active support of Rabbi Nahoum, decided to accept a Karaite woman by the name of Senai into the Rabbanite fold. Of special interest in this case is the clear dichotomy expressed in the court’s ruling between the formal-legal argument permitting her conversion and the religious-ethical considerations motivating the rabbis to accept her. As a halakhic precedent, the case is significant also for its extension of the 1918 permissive ruling to include Karaites of Turkey (Istanbul). What moved the 1940 Cairo beit din to accept Senai, when only seven years earlier such effort was devoted to escape complicity in the conversion of Karaites? Possibly the 1930s had wrought a change in Jewish collective consciousness, causing unity and integration to appear a more pressing imperative than maintenance of unruffled relations with the official Karaite Their struggle has been summed up by al-Gamil (note 32 above), pp. 145–6 and pp. 160–4.

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anti-integrationist leadership. Possibly the fact that the prospective convert hailed from Turkey and in any case had no roots or deep ties in the local Karaite community made the Cairo Karaite establishment less inclined to actively oppose her “conversion.” And perhaps personal changes in the bench of the Cairo beit din were of no mean significance, the new court being more activist and less hesitant than that of the early 1930s. One thing is clear: The Chief Judge of the Cairo rabbinic court, Rabbi Nissim Binyamin Ohanna,90 cites the 1933 case only to claim that Rabbi Koenka supports reacceptance of Egyptian Karaites, while turning a blind eye to his own predecessors’ equivocations on the subject. At the same time he points to the 1918 Cairo decision as the authoritative source for modern Egyptian Rabbanite activism in this area. However, Rabbi Ohanna takes up a central point in that decision and radically reinterprets it, thereby legally redefining the status of the Karaite sect and providing for all branches of that community the halakhic opportunity of “rejoining” the majority (Rabbanite) persuasion. As we saw above, one of the halakhic arguments for invalidating past Karaite marriages was grounded in the alienation prevailing between the Karaite and Rabbanite communities. Such alienation was not a general phenomenon however: Although true of the situation in Crimea and (formerly) in Egypt, it could not in sincerity be said of other Karaite centers. Thus the Karaites of Turkey (Istanbul) were explicitly described as enjoying close relations with local Rabbanites.91 Initially, the 1940 Cairo beit din circumvented this by accepting the “witness” of Rabbi Nahoum, who claimed personal knowledge that also in Istanbul the Karaites were a completely isolated group. Flying in the face of both precedent and other evidence, this basis for accepting Senai seemed obviously weak. Rabbi Ohanna, in a bold move, decided to push the analysis of the problem one logical step back: Because the Karaites were clearly not believers in Rabbanite Judaism, what grounds at all were there for considering their qiddushin as prima face valid? Obviously, because of the general halakhic principle that “[A]n Israelite, even though he be a sinner, is still [legally] an Israelite,”92 the Karaites, even though heretics, were still Israelites; therefore their qiddushin could be valid. And indeed, the Shulhan 'Arukh states that a Jew who abandons Judaism for another faith is nevertheless halakhically Rabbi Nissim Ohanna (1882–1962), born in Algeria and educated in Jerusalem, was rabbi in Malta during the First World War, then rabbi and dayyan in Port Said (1918–35). In 1935 he was appointed av beit din and vice-chief-rabbi of Cairo, where he remained until 1947. In that year he was appointed Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Haifa, a post he held until his death in 1962. His discussion and analysis of the Karaite issue was published in his collected responsa Na'e Meshiv, Jerusalem, 1958. For more about him, see: Aharon Rahamim Ohanna-Ronen, The Book of Rabbi Nissim Binyamin Ohanna’s Family: Anecdotes, Memories, Stories, published by the family, Jerusalem, 2001 [Hebrew]. 91 See Assaf, pp. 218–23; Hazan, fol. 14a. 92 See Menahem Elon, Ha-Mishpat ha-'Ivri, vol. 1 (1973), pp. 145–6; Jacob Katz, “Af 'al pi she-Hata Yisrael Hu,” Tarbitz 27 (1958), pp. 203–17. 90



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an Israelite, and qiddushin concluded by him are prima facie valid.93 Close reading of the relevant section of the Shulhan 'Arukh, however, enabled Rabbi Ohanna to reach a radical conclusion: The above was true only of a first-generation convert, that is, one who, having himself been born a Jew, converted to an alien faith: But their children, and their children’s children, who hold fast to the ways of their (apostate) fathers who turned the religion of Israel into a different faith … are no more called “Israelite apostates” and do not fall under the provision: “An Israelite, even though he be a sinner, is still an Israelite” – but they are complete gentiles. And even should they conduct a marriage ceremony in the exact form prescribed by our rabbis … and even were “kosher” Israelite witnesses to be present – the qiddushin are invalid … since if a gentile man were to betroth a gentile woman in the presence of Israelite witnesses and recite to her (the marriage formula) “you are betrothed to me by this ring, according to the faith of Moses and Israel”, this would not be a valid marriage, for he does not believe in the faith of Israel!94 Having thus distinguished between first-generation apostates (still “Israelites”) and their subsequent descendants (complete gentiles), Rabbi Nissim Ohanna proceeds to apply these findings to the case under discussion: Thus, the Karaites, who separated themselves from the community of Israel, whose Torah exegeses stem from the whims of their heart, and who do not have faith in the Oral Torah that has been handed down to us over the generations man from man, deriving from Moshe our master – that very Oral Torah that is the grounds of the covenant God made with Israel, as our rabbis have taught us. … Their sons and the sons of their sons, until our time, have deviated from the ways of the transmitted Torah. They do not have faith in the Oral Torah and have changed the practices instituted by the rabbis. [Therefore], they do not have any more the status of “an apostate Israelite”, rather they are considered to be complete gentiles. By virtue of this, if they retract and come to “convert” and to take upon themselves the “yoke of mitzvot” just as other Jews do – we accept them.95 On the formal-legal level, Rabbi Ohanna’s move is brilliant in its simplicity: He has redefined the specific halakhic category of Karaites out of existence, fully incorporating members of the Karaite group into the general halakhic

Shulhan 'Arukh, Even ha-'Ezer, section 44, paragraph 9. Rabbi Nissim Ohanna, Na'e Meshiv (note 90 above), p. 114. 95 Ibid., p. 115. 93 94

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category of “gentiles.” As such, Karaites—be they from Egypt, the Crimea, or elsewhere—were now freely eligible to convert to the Jewish (Rabbanite) faith and to marry into the Jewish people. By removing the Karaites from the vague penumbral area of pseudo-Jewish status, he removed from them in one fell swoop any possible safeq mamzer stigma. Paradoxically, this redefinition of Karaites as gentiles came at the very historical moment when (as we have seen above) the socio-cultural boundaries between the two communities were radically dissolving—because, to no small extent, of the strengthening of their mutual self-perception as being both part of a larger entity, the Jewish nation. How then could Rabbi Ohanna identify Karaites as gentiles, that is, a completely foreign, absolutely non-Jewish group? Was he totally out of touch with the socio-political environment in which he lived? In the final paragraph of his responsum we find the answer to these questions. Proceeding to address the very same persons he had just defined as gentiles, Rabbi Ohanna wrote: May the Bnei Miqra96 not blame me for considering them gentiles. For this was for the good of the entire people (letovat ha-k'lal), to mend the torn fabric (le'ahot et ha-gra'im) and to release them from their imprisonment so that they may enter the community from now on without any problem. And we find a similar instance with regard to King David of blessed memory. For in the time of King Saul they wanted to distance him and to prevent him from entering the community, until they investigated and found that they had a received tradition from the beit din of [the prophet] Sh'muel HaRamati: “A male Ammonite [is forbidden to join the Jewish people] and not a female Ammonite; a male Moabite [is forbidden to join the Jewish people] and not a female Moabite”, and they permitted him [= David, to be considered an Israelite].97 And about this King David of blessed memory said: “I am your servant the son of your maidservant; you have released my bonds”.98 And what led me to this was that “All the ways of Torah are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are paths are of peace”.99 And so too He says: “Peace, peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near [saith the Lord; and I will heal him]”.100 This short paragraph is full of phrases and quotations that reveal Rabbi Ohanna’s teleological considerations and the sources and values on which he relies. In the first sentence he clearly establishes that he recognizes a Lit. “Sons of Scripture,” i.e. Karaites. Cf. Deut. 23.4 and BT Yevamot 76b ff. 98 Cf. Ps. 116.16, Yeb. 77a. 99 Cf. Pro. 3.17 100 Cf. Isa. 57.19. 96 97



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human collective entity (k'lal) that includes all Karaites and all Rabbanites; Rabbi Ohanna’s goal in this halakhic ruling is to promote the good of this collective (tovat ha-k'lal). Clearly, this entity is not coextensive with those who are halakhically Jewish since Rabbi Ohanna has just argued that halakhically Karaites are not Jews. It follows that in his mind’s eye Rabbi Ohanna recognizes a broader human group, including both persons who are halakhically Jews and those who are not, but who ought to be brought into the fold. As long as Karaites were considered “possibly illegitimate” (safeq mamzerim), their status was frozen as liminally Jewish. Rabbi Ohanna’s hermeneutic innovation enables a positive dynamic: paradoxically, the formal exclusion of the Karaites has the telos of their complete inclusion. Rabbi Ohanna more than hints that the Talmudic-midrashic account in tractate Yevamot regarding the halakhic tradition that was “discovered” in the time of King David and allowed him to be accepted as a Jew despite his Moabite ancestry should be understood as a teleological ruling; the “discovery” that this had been the tradition of the prophet Samuel’s court is analogous to Rabbi Ohanna’s “discovery” that the Shulhan 'Arukh itself determines that the descendents of the original Karaites are complete gentiles. Such interpretive-teleological discoveries, Rabbi Ohanna writes, are an expression of halakhic scholars’ way of actualizing God’s will to liberate those who suffer from the “imprisonment” and distress that stem from the conventional halakhic interpretation.101 That such is God’s will is shown by two biblical verses that formulate overarching principles of the halakhic system. The first verse—“Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace”—is interpreted in Talmudic and post-Talmudic sources both as a general principle and as a directive that interpretive options leading to negative consequences be rejected in favor of alternate interpretations that promote peace.102 The second verse is the word of God spoken by the prophet Isaiah: “Peace, peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near, saith the Lord; and I will heal him.” It seems that Rabbi Ohanna is alluding to the midrashic interpretation of this verse: To teach us that God brings those who are far nearer to Him and supports the far as He does the near, even greeting the far with peace

It is interesting to compare this positive portrayal of creative halakhic discovery of new meanings in ancient texts with the creativity that is the hallmark of the ideal halakhic decisor according to Rabbi Yosef Hayyim of Baghdad (see Chapter 3). 102 As a principle characterizing the entire Torah, see e.g. Gittin 59b. As a directive to prefer halakhic interpretations that promote peace, see e.g. Sukkah 32a–b; Yevamot 15a; Responsa of Rabbi Gershom Meor Hagola, responsum 31; Responsa of Maharam of Rothenburg (Prague edition), part 4, responsum 926; Terumat Hadeshen, part 1, responsum 223. On the application of this principle as a major halakhic guideline, see: Eliezer Berkowitz, Ha-Halakah Kohah ve-Tafqidah, Jerusalem, 1981, pp. 84–8. 101

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before so greeting the near, as it is written (Isa. 57:19) “Peace, peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near [saith the Lord; and I will heal him]”.103 The will of God, says the Midrash, is to grant peace first of all to those who are far, according them preference over those who are already near.104 Rabbi Ohanna sought to “heal” the status of the Karaites, but their nearness (being part of the Jewish people but possibly of illegitimate birth) prevented their inclusion. Paradoxically, it is specifically their characterization as far-off (i.e. their definition as non-Jews) that may enable them to be brought fully near—i.e. fully reconciled with their Rabbanite brethren.

Conclusion Assaf described a millennium-long trend of increasing estrangement between Rabbanites and Karaites, a tendency quite clear both on the social-historical and the normative-halakhic levels. Our examination of twentieth-century Egyptian responsa has shown that this trend was reversed in modern Egypt: The thrust of rabbinic responsa of this country was to make possible various options for reintegration of Karaites into the (Rabbanite) majority of the community. However, the basic correlation emerging from Assaf’s portrayal remains: that is, the close correlation between positive sociocultural relations and open halakhic options for “intermarriage.” Whereas in the past the relationship between social reality and halakha was quite dialectic, making it difficult sometimes to distinguish cause from effect, the twentieth-century situation seems more clear-cut in this respect: historical change—demographic, economic, political, and cultural—preceded (and provided the impetus) for halakhic development. The response of Egyptian rabbis to their rapidly changing environment was not “modern” but rather, if any epithet applies, “classic.” Operating within the traditional mode of religious-normative discourse, the halakha, their idiom, and their method of argumentation were in consonance with the time-hallowed canons of responsa literature developed and elaborated by Jewish jurists for centuries, since the Geonic period (seventh to eleventh centuries). Yet their conclusions are obviously very much influenced by the realities of the present, and they were clearly in touch with the social and cultural situation of their community and sympathetic to certain characteristics of the times (such as the quest for national unity transcending

Bamidbar Rabba 8 (Vilna edition). This verse is the midrashic basis of the famous saying according to which those who have repented (those who were “far” and came “near”) are closer to God than the righteous (who were always “near”). See the statement by Rabbi Abahu in Sanhedrin 99a (and its parallels). 103 104



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sectarian division). Perceiving themselves as present-day heirs to the great rabbinic tradition, they were confident that, by adapting the specific argumentation of their responsa to serve the realization of important religious-ethical considerations, they were serving in good faith the telos of Torah and the general good of the Lord’s people. Examined in this light, their halakhic response to modernity has significance not only for historians of society and culture but also for anyone concerned with the viability of Judaic life in our times.

12 Freedom engraved on the tablets

The diverse rabbinic sources discussed in the chapters of this book reflect ways in which leading Sephardic-Oriental rabbis—from Iraq, Syria, and Egypt—responded to the challenges of modernity in a creative and interesting fashion. Their modes of response were not in line with the policy of “the New is forbidden by Torah,” nor did they adopt other European Jewish strategies for responding to modernity, e.g. Reform Judaism.1 In trying to account for the differences between European and Middle Eastern modes of response, it is useful to distinguish between two types of explanation: contextual-environmental explanations and immanent/intratraditional explanations. Let us consider each in turn.

Contextual-environmental explanations This type of explanation assumes that the most important variables influencing rabbinic responses are external, i.e. they derive from the context and environment in which the rabbis operate. In the following paragraphs several such explanations are presented.

Variation in the pace of modernization One explanation that may help explain differences between European Orthodox halakhic scholars and rabbinic scholars of the Middle East relates to the pace of modernization and the extent of time during which As we saw in Chapter 4, rabbis of the Aleppan community adopted an activist stance against developments they regarded as a threat to religious continuity, and in this were closer to Ashkenazic Orthodox positions than were many other rabbis in the Middle East. Nevertheless, their overall strategy was different from that of the Ashkenazic Orthodox, as we pointed out in the latter part of that chapter. 1

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its vector became apparent. The process of modernization in Europe was gradual, extended, and circuitous. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries Europeans would arguably have been hard put to point to a specific factor indicating the transition of Europe into modernity; the watershed event that impressed this transition upon the minds of many was the French Revolution, which took place toward the end of the eighteenth century. So too for the rabbis of Europe: Prior to the French Revolution, European rabbinic leaders would have found it difficult to conclude that they and their communities were in the midst of an historic and decisive change in direction leading to a fundamental change in the status of halakha in Jewish life. In this light one can explain the rationale for their response to Jews who adopted behavioral patterns typical of contemporary non-Jewish Europeans: Regarding such behavior as a temporary upswing of deviant behavior in the community, these rabbis expected that a firm negative response would cause the sinners to retract and restore deviance to its previous, limited proportions.2 By the beginning of the nineteenth century it was already clear—in the wake of the French Revolution and its results and in the wake of expanding emancipation—that change in Europe was deep and fundamental, involving inextricable consequences for Europe’s Jews. Such realization might have prompted halakhists to question whether their previous confrontational approach was still suitable in the new reality: Had the time perhaps come to chart new pathways for Jewish halakhic life in an open and diverse world, in which no religious establishment has coercive power or legal autonomy? However, before such re-assessment could occur, the first decade of the nineteenth century saw the emergence of the Reform movement and the formation—in response—of Ashkenazic Orthodoxy, whose rationale (“The New is forbidden by the Torah”) derived from the confrontation with Reform and ipso facto constrained decisors from halakhic flexibility on other fronts. In the Middle East, in contrast, things were different: Long before modernity achieved significant influence in the Ottoman Empire after the 1839 Hatt-i Sherif Gulhane, its vectors had already become clear in Europe, and the contrast with the pre-modern world was manifest. A symbolic expression of this contrast was the meeting of Napoleon, his army, and the scientific mission that accompanied them, with the populace and leading scholars of Cairo at the end of the eighteenth century. The radical difference between the French-European world of knowledge and technology and that of Cairo and the Middle East was no less than striking. Accordingly, Sephardic Middle Eastern rabbis realized that these were not temporary, transient phenomena and understood that a policy insisting upon total

These firm negative responses were briefly outlined toward the end of Chapter 8, on the basis of 'Azriel Shohet, ‘Im Hilufei T'qufot [With the Change of Eras], Jerusalem, Dvir, 1960. 2

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conformity with the past and increased stringency was not the appropriate response to contemporary conditions. As Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan writes: “Now is not the time for adding new prohibitions that did not occur to earlier generations.”3

The Muslim context: Absence of anti-religious agitation and of a radical reform movement An additional reason that could be advanced to explain why SephardicOriental Middle Eastern rabbis did not advocate a general policy of resistance to change as did important leaders of Ashkenazi Orthodoxy is the lack of an atmosphere of radical reform in local Islamic (and Jewish) cultural life. In contrast to modern European Enlightenment anti-clericalism, processes of modernization in Middle Eastern countries and North Africa did not include a salient anti-religious component. Islamic modernist reform as advocated by, e.g. Muhammad 'Abduh was less radical than many Reform Churches in Europe, and the most radical Sunni antiestablishment Islam was advocated by the Wahabiyya movement – that it would be difficult to characterize as modernist. Indeed, many critics of the existing socio-cultural state of Middle Eastern Muslim society made a point of presenting their criticism and proposals for change as being in the spirit of Islam and the sources of Shari'a.4 Similarly, in Middle Eastern Jewish society it was not fashionable to attack Judaism and observance of the commandments as being inherently primitive, and no indigenous Jewish movements developed that proposed an alternative, non-halakhic Judaism.5 As a rule, even those within the community whose lifestyle was far from devout observance—as well as those who advocated alternative ideologies such as Socialism, Communism, or Zionism—did not try to build themselves up by publicly putting down the community’s spiritual leaders and tradition.6 One upshot of all this may have been that the absence of an outspoken, antagonistic attitude to

Responsa Ta'alumot Lev, vol. 3, fol. 59b. Thus, for example, Qasim Amin called for women’s equality in many areas of life and for annulment of the veil as an expression of devotion to the original spirit of Islam. 5 A very exceptional event from this perspective was Rabbi Refael Katzin’s attempt to establish a “Reform” community in Aleppo; cf. Yaron Harel, “Spiritual ferment in the East: The founding of a reform community in Aleppo 1862,” HUCA 63, 1992, pp. 19–35 [Hebrew]. 6 There were of course occasions in which rabbis were publicly criticized, but the criticism related to their specific behavior and not to the tradition that they represented. Thus, for example, groups in the Cairo community expressed piercing criticism of their chief rabbi in the early 1920s; toward the end of the 1940s a large demonstration was organized in Baghdad against the city’s rabbi, who (the demonstrators claimed) ignored the distress of his community and did not intervene on their behalf with the hostile governmental authorities. 3 4

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rabbis and to tradition enabled the rabbis to refrain from adopting a siege mentality and from an inclination to close themselves (and halakha) off from processes of change. On this line of reasoning, an additional factor that may have contributed to the moderation of Middle Eastern rabbis was the confirmation by the Ottoman Empire and by Egypt of the rabbis’ official status and of the authority of the rabbinic courts. They may therefore have felt less threatened by modern developments than the rabbis of Europe, who acted with keen awareness that the judicial autonomy previously enjoyed by the Jewish community had been abolished due to the annulment of the corporative legal structure in the modern era.7

Non-hostile attitude to Europe—and perception of European Jews as positive mediators of change For many Muslims in general, and for 'ulama and religious leaders in particular, the boundary between countries under Islamic rule and other countries was not merely a political border but the boundary between two qualitatively different realms: the domain of the believers and the domain of infidels. The Christian European world was perceived as being fundamentally contrary and antagonistic to the Islamic world, and to the extent that Europe became influential this was perceived as an affront to the honor and prestige of Islam. The nadir of Islamic prestige and honor was reached in the event of direct European-Christian occupation of Muslim lands, such as took place in Egypt in 1881/2 and in Syria and Iraq during and after the First World War. Improvements in economic wellbeing and in technology, to the extent that they took place, were by and large perceived as useful—but as of marginal positive value from the perspective of Islam when measured against the humiliation and the undermining of the proper world order that resulted from the rule of European Christians over the domain of Islam. In contrast to such Muslim perception of Christian successes, Middle Eastern Jews had no reason to feel religiously despondent in response to increasing European influence or direct European rule. Indeed, information reaching them from Europe decades before Britain invaded Egypt led them to recognize that emancipation in Europe had resulted in major improvements in the status of the Jews and that Jews in early and mid-nineteenth-century Western and Central Europe enjoyed a higher status than they did in the Ottoman Empire. One result of the improved status of Jews in European countries was that during the nineteenth century European diplomats in the

7

See: Elon, Jewish Law, p. 1319ff.

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Middle East often acted to protect the Jews from attacks and persecution by other religious groups or political forces. This and more: For Muslims of the Middle East all Europeans were strangers and foreigners, essentially antagonistic to the interests of the local population and the local elites. This was not the case for Middle Eastern Jews; for them, some Europeans were brothers and allies—members of their own people and religion. Furthermore, important segments of European Jewry felt a sense of solidarity with Middle Eastern Jews. After acting on various occasions on an ad hoc basis (such as in response to the suffering of Damascus Jewry during an 1840 blood libel), prominent European Jews organized a variety of frameworks to act on behalf of Middle Eastern and North African Jewry. A prominent example of this tendency was the formation in 1860 of the Alliance Israelite Universelle. These organizations acted to provide their Middle Eastern brothers with protection from outright persecution and discrimination, but an even more important contribution was in the area of education. European Jews established networks of schools that combined general and Jewish curricula. As we noted in several chapters of this book, leading Sephardic-Oriental rabbis held a positive view of the integration of general and Jewish studies, and some of them even sent their sons and grandchildren to study in these institutions.8 In sum, while Middle Eastern Muslims had clear and understandable reasons for antagonism toward the intervention and influence of (Christian) Europeans in Islamic lands, local Jews had equally good reasons to regard European influence as beneficial. While they may have been critical of certain aspects of European and European Jewish influence—as we saw in, for example, Chapters 4, 5, 7, 9, and 10—Sephardic rabbis of the Middle East did not have cause to regard modernity as an overall threat. This too may have been a contributing factor to their moderate, non-rigid halakhic policies of response to modernity.

Immanent explanations The variety of contextual-environmental explanations outlined above support the following conclusion: Conditions created by external factors 8 See Chapter 3 at note 33, Chapter 5 at notes 4–8, Chapter 7 at note 3 and passim. And see also: Dafna Tsimhoni, “Qavim le-Reshit ha-Modernizatzia shel Yehudei Bavel ba-mea ha-19 'ad shenat 1914” [Aspects of the beginning of modernization of the Jews of Babylonia in the nineteenth century until 1914], Pe'amim 36, 1988, pp. 7–34 (at p. 26); Norman A. Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands in Modern Times, Philadelphia and New York: The Jewish Publication Society, 1991, pp. 34–5; Nili Gabai, “Hinukh B'not ha-Qehilla ha-Yehudit be-Bagdad,” [Education of girls in the Jewish community of Baghdad], Pe'amim 82, 2000, pp. 94–118 (at p. 101).

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made it possible for rabbis of Iraq, Syria, and Egypt to take stances that differed from those taken by their Ashkenazic Orthodox peers in Europe. But this is not enough to explain why they adopted the stances described in this book; the fact that a certain position is possible cannot be a sufficient explanation for why it was chosen. It is appropriate at this junction to reiterate what I wrote at the end of Chapter 4: Any attempt to explain variance in religious-halakhic positions solely on the basis of external/ contextual variables assumes, even if implicitly, that intellectual-spiritual phenomena are a direct function of empirical socio-economic-political reality. This is equivalent to regarding the world of ideas, values, and norms as a mere epiphenomenon of such empirical reality. But is this not absurd and contrary to human experience? Individuals living in the same environment often disagree with one another about what positions and worldviews should be adopted. A preferable way of viewing this matter would be to recognize that a given historical reality poses a variety of challenges that must be met by individuals and communities living in that specific context. In addition, socio-economic reality may well have a significant influence upon setting outer parameters for the set of responses to contemporary issues that will be considered as live options in that specific reality. Nevertheless, socio-economic reality does not fully determine those outer parameters, not does it determine which of the many options within those parameters will be advocated by a particular individual or group (in our case: by a particular rabbi or group of rabbis) living and acting in that time and place. Rather, the realm of worldviews, values, and opinions is significantly autonomous and far from totally dependent upon external factors. That being said, let us now turn to immanent factors affecting the rabbinic responses we saw in this book, i.e. the worldviews with regard to halakha and Torah that guided leading halakhic scholars discussed in this book. By understanding these views we may come closer to comprehending why these Sephardic-Oriental Middle Eastern rabbis adopted the halakhic policies and attitudes presented in the chapters of this book.

Halakha as a dynamic religious tradition according to Sephardic-Oriental Halakhic scholars Study of the writings of Sephardic-Oriental rabbis reveals that it was not only the case that they had no external reason to advocate a policy such as “the New is forbidden by Torah.” Rather, many of them held that such a policy would be contrary to the inherent nature of halakha and Torah. According to this view, the greatness and eternality of Torah is revealed specifically in its capacity to promote the realization of the highest values in a variety of ways, each fully in tune with the conditions of a (different)

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specific time and place. This view is eloquently expressed by Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, who we met in several chapters of this book as rabbi of Alexandria. In his early twenties Rabbi Hazan was sent by the Jewish community of Jerusalem on a fundraising mission to Western Europe, where he met in 1870 with rabbis and philanthropists in Italy, France, and England.9 Two years later, he was sent on a more extended mission to Algeria, where he had occasion to observe a Sephardic community in the throes of powerful currents of change, caused primarily by the recent unilateral bestowal of French citizenship on all Algeria’s indigenous Jews. These experiences led Rabbi Hazan to compose a book combining elements of a dialogue and a novel, entitled Zikhron Yerushalayyim, dealing with contemporary religious and theological issues facing Jews of the world at that time.10 About midway through the book, the leader of Tunisian Jewry convenes a world conference attended by representatives of a variety of contemporary Jewish worldviews. One of these representatives states that the time had come for a reconsideration of the validity of Maimonides’ 13 fundamental articles of faith,11 one of which was belief in the immutability of the Torah received by Moses. He argues that, by forgoing this belief, Judaism could be more flexible and thus cope more capably with the challenges of the continuously changing contemporary world. Another participant in that conference was a young rabbi from Jerusalem—representing the voice of the author, Eliyahu Hazan. Responding negatively to the above suggestion, the young rabbi explains with great passion that Torah as received by Moses is eternally immutable—but this in no way limits its ability to respond to the widest variety of human realities: Since the Holy Torah was given to humans of flesh and blood, who are always subject to changes stemming from the passing of times and eras, rulers and edicts, natures and temperaments, countries and climates – therefore, all Torah’s words were given in marvelous, wise ambiguity; thus, they can receive any true interpretation at any time and era … Indeed, the Torah of Truth, inscribed by God’s finger, engraved upon the Tablets will not change nor be renewed, for ever and ever.12 By using the phrase “engraved upon the tablets,” Rabbi Hazan alludes to a powerful midrash. The Bible describes the tablets that Moses received on Mount Sinai with the following words: “And the tablets were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of

See his report in HaMaggid 15(3), pp. 20, 25, Tevet 5631 [= 18 January 1871]. Rabbi Eliyahu Hazan, Zikhron Yerushalayyim, Livorno, 5634/1874. 11 Maimonides (d. 1204) was the greatest scholar and intellectual of Judaism in medieval times (and, arguably, of all times). His “thirteen articles [or principles] of faith” were widely believed to represent views that should be held by all Jews. 12 Ibid., p. 57. 9

10

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God, engraved upon the tablets [harut 'al ha-luhot].”13 The midrash comments pithily: “‘engraved upon the tablets’—do not read harut [= engraved] but heirut [= freedom].”14 Rabbi Hazan here offers a deep reading of this midrash, building upon the contrast between harut—that is, engraved in stone [i.e. eternal, immutable]—and heirut—freedom [i.e. indeterminate and open-ended]. On his reading, harut and heirut express two contrasting but complementary aspects of Torah: The language of the Torah is indeed harut/engraved, i.e. eternal and unchanging; but the meaning of the Torah is eternally open to interpretation. Indeed, God invested the Torah with an infinite richness of alternate meanings, by virtue of which halakha can be adapted to any and all of the tremendously diverse situations in which the Jewish people found—and will find—themselves during the course of their long history. It is the task of halakhic decisors in all generations and locations to identify and apply that interpretation of Torah that is most appropriate to the specific reality of their time and place. Thus, halakha is not a fixed and constant given that halakhic scholars can identify merely by acquiring knowledge of the halakhic decisions made by earlier rabbis in previous generations. Rather, halakha is an ever renewing religious cultural project, the product of ongoing creative intellectual activity that each generation is obligated to undertake. We can now see the link between the non-determinate nature of halakha and the qualities of the master decisor, portrayed by Rabbi Yosef Hayyim of Baghdad, that we discussed in Chapter 3.15 As we saw there, Rabbi Hayyim portrays two types of halakhic respondents. The first regards halakhic literature as a treasure-house of precedents containing the sum total of possible halakhic options. The second respondent relates to existing halakhic literature as a cultural-intellectual field whose possible meanings are not exhausted by the existing inventory of precedents and discussions. Discussion of a halakhic question provides this respondent with an opportunity to develop new meanings in the field of halakhic discourse by looking freshly at each of the relevant halakhic issues and matters and by making new connections between them. In this way he arrives at an original perspective on the issue under discussion, enabling him to make Exod. 32.16. This Midrash is cited by several rabbis, each relating it to a different issue. Thus, in Mishnaic tractate Pirqei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers, chapter 6:2) Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi derives from this midrash the message that “there is no free individual, except for he who occupies himself with the study of Torah,” i.e. the tablets represent the Torah, and the study of Torah bestows spiritual-religious freedom. In the Talmud (Tractate 'Eruvin 54a) Rav Aha bar Ya'aqov provides another interpretation: had the Divinely engraved tablets not been broken (cf. Exod. 32.19), “there is not a nation nor a people that could have ruled over them [over the people of Israel], for it says … freedom [on the tablets],” i.e. the Divine tablets would have assured freedom from political domination. 15 See Chapter 3 near note 4ff. 13 14

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a decision that is not a pointer to an already existing precedent but is an original contribution that innovatively enriches the halakhic world. It is clear from Rabbi Yosef Hayyim’s words that he regards this second type of respondent—the innovative and original decisor discovering new and previously unknown interpretations of halakha—as embodying the highest form of halakhic activity. In light of the halakhic ideals advocated by Rabbis Eliyahu Hazan and Yosef Hayyim, it is possible to understand the grounds of the attitudes expressed in the works and writings of many other Sephardi-Oriental Middle Eastern rabbis discussed in the chapters of this book. Clearly, these rabbis have a deep religious commitment to the organic continuity of Torah, halakha, and Judaism; at the same time, they do not identify that deep commitment as entailing automatic continuity of all past specific applications of halakha and Jewish custom. In the following section of this chapter, I suggest that the prevalence of this view among Sephardic-Oriental rabbis in recent centuries, and (conversely) the prevalence of the view “The New is forbidden by Torah” among Ashkenazic Orthodox rabbis, derives from significant internal religious-cultural differences between these two traditions.

Between “classical” Judaism and “romantic” Judaism In an illuminating chapter in his book The Other Jews: The Sephardim Today,16 Daniel Elazar develops—with an interesting shift in emphasis—the insights of Abraham Joshua Heschel, who in his work The Earth is the Lord’s17 contrasted between two fundamental cultural-religious traditions of the Jewish people: the Sephardic and the Ashkenazic. He characterized these two traditions as a “classical” tradition and a “romantic” tradition, respectively. As summed up by Elazar, classical tradition is characterized by four cultural values: aesthetics, simplicity, balance, and emotional restraint. These values lead to a search for wholeness that integrates form and content, intellect and emotion, the inner and the outer; in this tradition, extremism in any direction is considered a fault.18 In contrast, the Ashkenazi culturalreligious tendency is “romantic”: It sees total submission as the highest

Daniel J. Elazar, The Other Jews: The Sephardim Today, New York: Basic Books, 1989, pp. 30–9. 17 Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Earth is The Lord’s: The Inner World of the Jew in East Europe, New York: Schuman, c. 1950. 18 Recall Rabbi Israel Moshe Hazan’s critique of “this European plague—the illness of the two extremes—that has infected Europe for years” (Chapter 7 at note 16). 16

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form of human existence, along with full expression of emotion and a striving to fully realize the absolute.19

What are the cultural horizons of the ideal Jew? In continuation of Elazar’s analysis, I suggest that our discussion of the roots of the internal cultural differences between the halakhic-religious worlds of Ashkenaz and Sepharad worlds can be advanced by relating it to the way in which each of these cultures envisioned the horizons of knowledge and of cultural interest of the ideal Jew. The great halakhic scholars in medieval Ashkenaz (northern France and Germany), who laid the foundations of Ashkenazic Jewish culture, encouraged the learning of Jewish religious texts of several types, including the Babylonian Talmud, Bible, Halakha, Midrash, and poetry (piyutim).20 Avraham Grossman, arguably the greatest living scholar of early medieval Ashkenaz, writes: Philosophical and Theological studies do not exist at all in the extent writings of early Ashkenazic scholars, despite the fact that these realms of thought were being dealt with in other Diaspora communities at the time, such as Babylonia (since the days of Rabbi Sa'adiah Gaon), North Africa and Spain, and despite the fact that in Christian Europe they had also become the object of increasing interest. The spiritual awakening of the eleventh century led to an increase [among Christians in France and Germany] in Scholastics … most of them employed philosophical-dialectical thought for theological purposes. Moreover, Jewish merchants, who brought with them the responsa and halakhic works of the Babylonian Geonim, could easily have also brought over parts of Rabbi Sa'adiah Gaon’s philosophical works, and it is possible that they indeed did so. The Ashkenazic scholars certainly knew about the philosophicaldialectical works of their Christian neighbors …21 If in the Diaspora communities in Islamic countries (whose halakhic works were known to Ashkenazi Jews) philosophical-theological creativity was

Heschel makes this distinction by way of praise of Ashkenazic Judaism, most specifically in praise of the Hassidic movement begun in the mid-eighteenth century by Rabbi Israel Ba'al Shem Tov; he praises this total, complete spirituality in contrast to the formal, restrained, and intellectual world of the Sephardim. Elazar turns these preferences on their head in his comparison of the two cultures. 20 See Avraham Grossman, Hakhmei Tsarfat ha-Rishonim [The Early Scholars of France], Jerusalem, Magnes, 1995; for a comprehensive overview of the realms of creativity of these rabbis, see ibid., p. 580. With regard to the works of the rabbis of Ashkenaz, see: Avraham Grossman, Hakhmei Ashkenaz ha-Rishonim [The Early Scholars of Germany], Jerusalem, Magnes, 1981. 21 Ibid., p. 424. 19

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common among Jews who absorbed it from the elite culture of the society in which they lived, and if in Ashkenaz it was common among Christian intellectuals, why was it not accepted and internalized by Jewish scholars in Ashkenaz? Avraham Grossman raises this question, and replies: The disregard of this intellectual and literary realm was conscious and deliberate … the fact that also afterwards [after the eleventh century] one finds no sign [of philosophical theological writing] in Jewish society in Ashkenaz … teaches us that this [absence] must be attributed first and foremost to the tendency of Ashkenazic Jews to close themselves off from their surroundings, a tendency that increased in the second half of the eleventh century, the time during which there was an increase in their [Christian] surroundings of philosophical-theological creativity.22 In other words, the rabbis of Germany and France held that a Jew’s purpose in life was to engage in Torah, and the meaning of “Torah” was co-extensive with those particular genres of canonical literature that are not open to the non-Jewish cultural-religious world. The ideal Jew is that person who devotes himself completely and wholeheartedly to the study of this Torah. Indeed, for some leading Ashkenazic rabbis of the twelfth century, study of Torah became co-extensive with the study of one great canonical work: the Babylonian Talmud. Thus, while the third-century Talmudic master Tanhum Bar Hanilai states that a scholar should divide his daily study into three: a third for study of the Bible, a third for study of Mishna, and a third for study of Talmud,23 the greatest Jewish scholar of twelfth-century France held that study of Talmud per se was enough: “Rabbenu Tam [Ya'akov ben Meir, d. 1171] considers that we, who study only the Babylonian Talmud, are doing all we should be doing since that work itself is a mixture of Bible, Mishna and Talmud.”24 Very different from this was the vision of the horizons of knowledge and of the cultural interests of the ideal Jew held by Jews of the Islamic Middle East and North Africa, including Muslim Spain. These Jews too advocated study of Bible, Talmud, Midrash, and Halakha, but not only did they not reduce it all to the study of Talmud, rather even study of all these topics was, in their opinion, far from sufficient. Their cultural ideal was of a Jew whose cultural horizons encompass not only Judaic sources but also the entirety of human knowledge and wisdom: Grammar and poetry, mathematics and astronomy, medicine, natural sciences, and philosophy. Indeed, all these realms were regarded as interconnected: Without knowledge of universal human culture, one’s understanding of Judaic religious literature would be

Ibid. ‘Avoda Zara, 19b. 24 Tosafot ad loc., s.v. Yeshalesh Adam Shenotav. 22 23

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flawed and lacking. The ideal Jew is he who encompasses all branches of knowledge and integrates them well; it is he and the likes of him that God desires. Acquaintance with the best of human culture requires, of course, the ability to interact with the intellectual elite of the non-Jewish milieu; thus, medieval Jewish rabbis and intellectuals in Muslim lands acquired knowledge of Arabic and indeed composed major philosophical and religious works in that language.25 The classic expression of this worldview is found in the “Parable of the Palace” in Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed (3:51), and it lay at the foundation of religious Jewish culture as it crystallized under Muslim rule in the Middle East, in Northern Africa, and in Spain. To a somewhat lesser extent, this ideal persisted also in Christian Spain and the post-1492 dispersion of Sephardic Jewry and those communities influenced by them in the sixteenth century. Active involvement in the study of non-Jewish sources of knowledge declined among Sephardic-Oriental scholars in Muslim countries from the seventeenth century onward, but the classic Sephardic cultural ideal remained, even if in latency. From time to time we see it emerging, such as in the Beit Vega academy, established for Jerusalem’s leading scholars in 1658 by Rabbi Ya'acov Hagiz (1620–74), where secular sciences and Spanish were studied in addition to Jewish texts; Rabbi Hagiz himself studied philosophy, astronomy, medicine, and grammar. Another expression of this cultural ideal is found in a fascinating tale related by Rabbi Yitzhak Farhi, one of the most important rabbis of the Sephardic community in Jerusalem in the first half of the nineteenth century.26 The story is set in the last quarter of the eighteenth century and describes a close friendship and deep mutual esteem that were formed between Moshe Galante, Chief Rabbi of Damascus (d. 1806) and a highranking Damascus Sufi Sheikh. The ground for the friendship and mutual esteem between these two emblematic religious figures was their joint love for “the Seven Wisdoms,” i.e. the realms of universal culture included in the classic humanistic curriculum: grammar, rhetoric, logic, mathematics, geometry, music, and astronomy.27 Rabbi Farhi’s audience included Jerusalem’s Sephardic community of the early 1800s as well as readers of his book, published in 1842. He thus conveys to his audience—and expects them to agree—that the ideal Jewish scholar (Rabbi Galante is praised by Farhi as the greatest rabbi of his time) is he who has mastery not only over Judaic sources but also of universal human knowledge in general. I have not heard of any works in Latin by rabbis of medieval France and Germany. Safed 1789 – Jerusalem 1853. See: Yaron Ben Naeh, “Farhi, Isaac”, EJIW, vol. 2, pp. 193–4. 27 For a translation, analysis and discussion of this source, see: Zvi Zohar, “The Rabbi and the Sheikh,” Jewish Studies Quarterly, 17 (2), 2010, pp. 114–45. 25 26

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When Jewish Enlightenment emerged in late eighteenth-century Europe, its advocates were hard pressed to identify medieval Ashkenazic rabbis in whose footsteps they could claim to be following. Sephardic rabbis could do so with ease, as did (for example) Rabbi Yitzhak Dayyan of Aleppo whose heroes were “the early analytical scholars of Spain” amongst whom he counts “Rabbi Sa'adya Gaon, Rabbi Shmuel Ben Hofni, the author of Hovot Ha-Levavot, Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi—the poet and author of ha-Kuzari—Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra, Maimonides and others.”28 When Rabbi Mas'ud ben-Shim'on, Chief justice (dayyan) of the Cairo Rabbinical court, published in 1912 a halakhic work in Arabic detailing the laws of marriage and divorce, it included (as customary in rabbinic publications) approbations by several of his peers. One of these, Rabbi Avraham Abikhezir of Alexandria, praised him and his work as follows: Your opus, work of a wise man and a thinker, [serves] … to publicly sanctify The Name of Heaven … And, so that it not be as a sealed book for a person who does not understand our pure and holy tongue, you toiled – and succeeded – to edit it in the language spoken here in Egypt, the harmonious and pleasant Arabic tongue. In doing so you have followed in the footsteps of our early great masters, Rabbi Sa'adiah Gaon, Maimonides of blessed memory, et al. … The lawmakers and the lawyers, of all peoples and tongues, will taste of this honey-comb and say: “Hurrah! We have become warmed and enlightened by just laws and regulations!”; they will thank and praise your name, for you will be to them a father and a teacher of justice. And they will sanctify the God of Jacob, and give adoration to the Laws of Israel, saying: “What great people has laws so just as the laws of Torah which Moses set before the people of Israel?!”29 In other words, presenting halakha in literary Arabic, thereby building a bridge between the world of Torah and the cultural world in the context of which Egyptian Jews lived, is an exemplary religious act of the highest order—“Sanctification of the Name of Heaven.” The project is granted legitimacy by being regarded as continuous with the cultural tradition of the great rabbis of the past who thought and wrote in this language. The hope that this work will be acclaimed by non-Jews as reflecting “just laws and regulations” necessarily assumes that Jews and non-Jews share a common human moral sense that enables persons of different cultures to recognize just laws when they see them. Having expanded upon Elazar’s insight and having outlined the two basic views with regard to the horizons of culture characterizing the Chapter 5 at note 29. Introductory approbation by Rabbi Avraham Abikhezir (of Alexandria) to Rabbi Mas'ud Hai Ben Shim'on, Kitab al-Ahkam ash-Shar'iyyah fi-l-Ahwal ash-Shakhsiyyah li-l-Israiliyyin (Cairo, 1912–17). 28 29

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ideal Jew, I would like to relate these matters to Sephardic halakha: The Sephardic classical cultural tradition—for which the ideal Jew is one who integrates a knowledge of the Jewish Torah literature with knowledge of the best of general culture and who reads the Torah in light of insights drawn from his holistic understanding of reality—is what enables Sephardic halakhic scholars to distinguish among different levels of permanence within halakha. It enables them, indeed requires them, to distinguish between the immutable eternal Torah, to which they bear eternal and unshakeable fidelity, and its variety of interpretations and historical halakhic formulations. The rabbis’ commitment to these specific interpretations and compilations is also unequivocal— as long as the relevant contexts have not changed significantly. When contexts change significantly, application of specific past halakhic formulations is moot. In such circumstances, halakhic decisors must consider whether they are religiously called upon to creatively formulate variant halakhic rulings, so as to best realize the ideals and values of the Torah under current conditions. Under such circumstances, not only is the New not forbidden by Torah, it is fully mandated by deep commitment to the highest principles of halakha and Torah. In the chapters of this book we have seen a variety of decisions by Sephardic-Oriental rabbis exemplifying this approach. The ability to make such distinctions and apply halakha accordingly is consonant with the Sephardic “classic” model of Judaism, which is open not only to socio-cultural context but also to the best of human culture. In contrast, an insular model of Judaism can easily lead to a total, unconditional “Romantic” commitment to all of the details of halakha that have been formulated over the centuries: “God forbid that even the smallest of changes be made … And if you should find some heretics who say otherwise, the opinion of an imbecile is not an opinion.”30 Implementation of all details is thus in principle unconditional, even if their application in contemporary contexts produces results that are not in consonance with the original goals and values of Torah—or, even, indeed, if they produce results totally incompatible with those goals and values. This immutable ideal of Jewish religiosity can best be realized by the creation of enclaves that maintain an intentional disconnection from other cultures and peoples: “It is impossible for the Israelite People to be different from the rest of the nations, except if they separate themselves completely from them and from their ways.”31

Rabbi Shmuel Yitzhak Schorr, cited in the Introduction to this book at note 13. Rabbi Moshe Sofer, cited in the Introduction to this book at note 3.

30 31

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Epilogue I have tried in this book to give voice to significant Sephardic-Oriental rabbis in recent centuries, almost all of whom are unknown and unrecognized today. This in and of itself seems to me a worthy endeavor. However, over and above enabling these rabbis’ writings and thought to become known, I had two additional goals in mind. One was to raise the consciousness of both Jews and non-Jews to the fact that not only was Judaism a Middle Eastern phenomenon for most of its existence but also in recent centuries important and interesting aspects of Judaism developed in the Middle East. Recognition of this is important for the perception of Judaism by Jews— both by those who do not live in this area and by those who do live here but consider Judaism to be a European religion. It is also important for non-Jews, especially those who do live in the Middle East, to be able to regard this Jewish creativity in context, i.e. as part of the cultural and religious history of the modern Middle East. The second goal was to create awareness of the significance of the Sephardic-Oriental religious ethos for the current and future options of halakhic Judaism. Over the course of the past 50 years, the validity of the Ashkenazic “romantic,” radical, insular model of halakha has come to be regarded as virtually self-evident not only by Ashkenazic Orthodox rabbis but also by almost all rabbis of Sephardic-Oriental communities. The original Sephardic-Oriental “classic” model has become almost totally forgotten; it is not taught today at any yeshiva in the Jewish world. A Judaism without a vibrant, creative group of rabbis and congregations that embody and experience the Sephardic-Oriental halakhic ethos at its best is an impoverished, semi-atrophied manifestation of the halakhic tradition in its entirety. The Sephardic-Oriental cultural-religious tradition, expressed inter alia in the works of the rabbinic scholars I have discussed in the chapters of this book, is an extraordinary cultural treasure. It is significant for all who aspire to a living, breathing, intelligent, and responsive non-denominational halakhic Judaism, in organic continuity with the halakhic tradition at its best. It is my hope that the present work will contribute to the awareness of the very existence of this tradition, to its deserved appreciation—and to the chances of its resuscitation and future prosperity.

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387

INDEX

'Abadi, Mordechai 159, 169, 170, 197 'Abadi, Shaul Matloub 115, 128, 130, 153, 157–200 'Abduh, Muhammad 237, 357 Abikhezir, Avraham 367 Abraham (patriarch) 70, 71, 138, 190, 216 Abul'afia, Hayyim Nissim 240 Abul'afia, Meir 79 Abul'afia, Yitzhak Moshe 101–4, 323–6 Ades, Hayyim 112 Adler, Nathan 34 adoption (of children) 185–9 Adret, Solomon ben Avraham (RaShBa) 163, 173 Adrianopol 222 Aggada 136, 280 Ahronim (later scholars) 49, 71 Aleppo 6, 7, 44, 89, 93–128, 129–35, 138, 142, 143, 153, 154, 158–60, 162, 165, 166, 168, 170–2, 174–6, 179, 183, 185, 187, 190–3, 197, 274, 294, 295, 324, 355, 357, 367 Alexandria 85, 86, 204–6, 210, 222, 227, 232, 238–41, 245, 246, 249, 254, 256, 258, 259, 270, 272, 275, 280–5, 287, 290, 294, 297, 301, 303–5, 325, 340, 361, 367 Alfasi, Yitzhak 162–3 Alliance Israelite Universelle (AIU) 78, 93–5, 120–1, 124, 130, 191, 203, 204, 222, 359 Amasya (Turkey) 23 Amsterdam 205 Anatolia 64, 95 Apostate(s)/Apostasy 230, 231, 347

Arab(s) 216, 219, 223, 226–7, 242, 321, 329 Arabic 20, 30, 131, 140, 155, 159, 187, 190, 203–5, 210, 213–23, 226–7, 231, 234–7, 243, 289, 331, 366, 367 colloquial/spoken Arabic 1, 158, 168, 189, 204, 214, 231, 236, 245, 246 literary/written Arabic 75, 117, 119, 204, 214, 23, 235, 236, 271, 331, 338, 367 Aram Tzova see Aleppo architecture 270, 280, 282 Argentina 115, 121, 122, 181, 183, 184, 191, 262 Asher ben Yehiel (Rosh) 162, 163 Ashkenaz/Ashkenazim 1, 49, 131, 187, 251, 262, 322, 326, 364 Ashkenazic 3–5, 18, 28, 33, 41, 43–89, 94, 96, 107, 109, 111–4, 120, 124, 126, 131, 158, 163, 173, 174, 183, 191, 203, 209, 241, 251, 252, 267, 268, 283, 287–90, 293–4, 296–7, 322, 327, 329–30, 355–7, 360, 363, 364, 365, 367, 369 Ashkenazi, Avraham 85, 86 Asia, Asian 15, 34, 95, 98, 221, 244, 316 Assimilation 29, 63, 64, 118, 149, 235, 329, 338 'Atiya, Eliyahu 159, 160 'Atiya, Ezra 159 'Atiya, Yehuda 133, 134 authority/ies 3, 6, 15, 16, 25, 28–30, 45, 46, 49, 51, 53, 59, 69, 67–9, 79–82, 84, 86, 88, 101, 104, 106, 107, 111, 114, 117, 119, 120–2, 125, 129, 131, 134, 145,

390 Index

146, 148, 183, 187, 208, 268, 284, 293, 296, 297, 320–2, 324–5, 332–42, 346, 357, 358 autoemancipation 145, 153 Azulai, Hayyim Yosef David 49, 52, 83, 84, 86, 105, 187, 250, 293, 295, 296 Babovitch, Tuvia 341–5 Babylonia 13–18, 36, 38–40, 44–6, 50, 53, 55, 58, 63, 64, 74–6, 243, 359, 364 see also Iraq Baghdad 6, 7, 13–16, 18, 26, 28, 30–6, 38–41, 44–6, 48, 52–5, 57–61, 64, 65, 74–5, 77–82, 84, 88, 89, 102–4, 126, 226, 349, 357, 359, 362 Balkan(s) 44, 64 banks, bankers 31, 32, 328, 342 Bar/Bat Mitzvah 45, 82, 133, 154, 155, 186, 190, 192, 197 beard 179, 180, 252–4, 266 Behar, Yakir 109, 110, 118 Beirut 93, 94, 117 beit din see court, rabbinical beit midrash 14, 45, 78, 159, 162, 167, 192, 193, 238 Beit Shean 323, 324, 326 Beit Zilkha 7, 14, 60, 84 Bejarano, Hayyim 11, 113, 114, 126 Ben-Amozegh, Eliyahu 97–100, 138, 139 Ben-'Attar, Hayyim 51, 53 Ben-Shim'on, David 237 Ben-Shim'on, Mas'ud 331, 367 Ben-Shim'on, Refael Aharon 237, 242–9, 251–3, 255, 257, 258, 263–5, 270–4, 276–9, 282, 285, 291–3, 296–9, 301–3, 305, 306, 308–12, 316, 317, 319, 329, 331, 332, 335, 336 Benveniste, Hayyim 54, 57, 84 Ben-Zvi, Rachel Yannait 121, 122 betrothal 38, 39, 57, 186, 258–61, 326, 334, 346, 347 Bialik, Hayyim Nahman 4, 5, 145–51, 154, 195 Bible/Biblical 21, 74, 97, 98, 132, 134–6, 148, 149, 152, 163, 178,

190, 195, 209, 211, 212, 214, 217, 223–5, 228, 231, 256, 280, 281, 301, 320, 361, 364, 365 Bima (synagogue podium) 288–93 Bnai Brith 109–18, 120–1, 123, 125, 126, 129 Bombay 18–20, 27, 31–4, 36, 37, 39, 47, 76, 83, 85–8 Brazil 115, 132, 133, 165 bride 37–40, 160, 256, 258, 288, 334, 340 Britain, British 15–17, 19, 25, 28, 30, 34, 37, 120, 234–6, 252, 266, 299, 305, 328, 358 Brooklyn 116, 133, 135, 153, 157, 158, 161, 167–70, 178–82, 184, 189–93, 272, 323 Bruna, Israel 33 Buenos Aires 93, 121, 122, 161, 181–3, 191, 262 bureaucracy/bureaucratic 24, 25, 27, 29, 239, 339 burial 108, 179, 180, 240, 310, 312, 316 business 79, 151, 172, 185, 193 Cairo 6, 7, 183, 234, 235, 237, 238, 241, 242, 250–2, 258, 259, 263, 269–73, 275, 277, 279, 283, 285, 290, 291, 295, 298, 299, 301–6, 308–12, 314, 316, 317, 320, 327–9, 331–3, 335–42, 344–6, 356, 357, 367 Calcutta 18–20, 22–4 calendar 76, 241–4, 269, 271 capitulations 16, 239 Caro, Yosef 21, 47, 48, 50–2, 54, 59, 63, 71, 79–82, 84–6, 164, 187, 246, 250, 274, 283, 284, 290, 293, 296, 322 check 31, 32 Chehebar, Yitzhak 121, 122, 162, 181, 182 Chief Rabbi/Chief Rabbinate 5–7, 14, 27, 34, 44, 45, 83–5, 101, 107–11, 113, 114, 119, 122, 130, 133, 135, 173, 183, 184, 187, 205, 231, 237, 238, 240–2, 245, 251, 259, 280, 290, 291,

Index

301, 323, 324, 327, 336–8, 340, 342, 346, 357, 366 China 15, 95 Christians, Christianity 32, 35, 97, 117, 120, 124, 139, 198, 213, 230, 231, 244, 257, 258, 261, 307, 312, 342, 358, 359, 364–6 Catholic 205, 227, 329 Copt 245, 277, 312, 329, 335 circumcision 59, 131, 186, 188, 260, 261, 288, 289, 326 citizen/citizenship 204, 234, 239, 244, 266, 304, 335, 361 civilization, civilized1 37, 139, 147, 199, 200, 204, 215, 244, 307 classic/al 3, 22, 58, 77, 99, 132, 149, 153, 160, 163, 165, 189, 194, 197, 268, 279, 286, 296, 338, 340, 350, 363, 366, 368, 369 clothing 25, 26, 57, 82, 152, 165, 179, 180, 245–52, 254–6, 266, 267, 269 colonial/ism, colonies 15, 36, 183, 236, 238 commerce, commercial 13, 16, 24, 32, 33, 56, 95, 102, 107, 125, 131, 161, 166, 177 communication 17, 25, 26, 40 community/ies 40, 44–7, 58–60, 63, 65, 72, 73, 78, 80, 86, 93–6, 98, 100, 102, 104–27, 129–33, 135, 142, 150, 153, 158, 159, 161, 164, 166–72, 174, 175, 178–95, 197, 205, 209, 217, 223, 231, 233–6, 238, 240, 241, 246, 248, 253, 255–9, 261, 262, 264–7, 269–72, 274–80, 282, 287, 288, 291, 294, 295, 297, 299, 302, 303, 305, 306, 310, 311, 314–17, 319–22, 324–32, 334–8, 340–8, 350, 355–61, 364, 366, 369 conversion from Judaism see Apostasy conversion to Judaism see giyyur courts 3, 4, 335 courts, Karaite 235 courts, rabbinical 5–7, 59, 68, 78–80, 85, 87, 96, 102, 104, 105, 108–17, 119, 120, 125, 131, 134,

391

161, 162, 184, 189, 237, 241, 254, 258, 260, 269, 336, 337, 340, 345, 346, 349, 358, 367 courts, religious 100, 101 courts, secular 80, 101 courts, shari'a 100, 102, 328 culture Arabic/Oriental 35, 44, 203–32, 233–6, 243, 268, 277, 279, 314, 357, 367, 369 European 1, 16, 93, 203–2, 233, 234, 239, 240, 244, 252, 256, 259, 267, 274, 296–9, 305–9, 314–16 folk 37, 276, 277, 279 human 1, 3, 97, 148, 158, 365, 366, 368 Jewish (modern) 1–4, 6, 7, 13, 18, 44, 63–89, 97, 118, 123, 145–8, 152, 196, 235, 237, 285, 316, 357 Jewish (traditional) 1, 5, 6, 13, 35, 63–89, 143, 148–52, 162, 192, 194, 205, 233, 234, 237, 238, 316, 362 modern 2, 6, 7, 150, 160, 180, 284, 299 Sephardic 8, 44–62, 63–89, 97, 131, 149, 199, 203–2, 268, 296, 362–9 universal see culture, human curriculum see education custom(s) 4, 31, 33–40, 48, 51–5, 57–61, 84, 87, 94, 120, 131, 134, 158, 174, 175, 180, 181, 187, 190, 219, 239–43, 245, 246, 248–52, 254–6, 258, 270–83, 285, 287–9, 295, 296, 298, 301, 302, 310, 316, 363, 367 Damascus 94, 96, 98, 101–4, 109, 132, 158, 187, 204, 262, 265, 270, 323, 325, 337, 359, 366 dance, dancing 254–7, 259, 266, 267, 276, 285 Dangour, Elish'a 15, 59, 60 Dangour, Ezra 60, 61 Da-Silva, Hizqiya 52, 54 David (King) 131, 132, 348, 349 Day of Atonement see Yom Kippur

392 Index

Dayyan (rabbinical judge) 5, 235, 239, 241, 252, 253, 331, 337, 340, 346, 367 Dayyan, Yitzhak 128–55, 159, 164–6, 180, 195, 197, 199, 367 decision making lenience in 29, 40, 47, 52, 59, 171, 173, 174, 180, 182, 185, 187, 246, 265, 302, 310, 318, 324, 325, 331, 332, 334 severity in 47, 52, 174, 302, 310 decisor posek 3–5, 14, 16, 29, 33, 43–5, 48, 53, 63–9, 71, 72, 82, 87–9, 104, 125, 132, 153, 162, 164, 170, 173, 174, 178, 182, 184, 187, 224, 242, 248, 250–2, 265, 266, 310, 349, 356, 362, 363, 368 deviance 3, 39, 53, 65, 82, 106, 108, 112, 120, 123, 125, 129, 130, 132, 174, 255, 265, 268, 277, 296, 326, 344, 347, 356 Diaspora 15, 115, 129, 134, 138, 143–5, 161, 176, 191, 194, 203, 206, 267, 270, 293, 320, 340, 364 dignity see human dignity dina de-malkhuta dina 101–3, 126 divorce 78, 79, 85, 119, 254, 259, 260, 263, 322, 324, 325, 333, 335, 338, 367 dress see clothing Durkheim, Émile 302, 306–9, 311, 312, 314–17 Dwek, Avraham 104, 105 Dwek, Ya'akov Shaul 106–8, 113 Edah Haredit 123, 125, 248 education advanced 193, 204 modern (education of Jews) 6, 7, 34, 110, 121–4, 130, 134, 139, 140, 144, 145, 146, 151, 152, 186, 189–92, 222, 229, 231, 234, 236, 241, 280, 281, 305, 315–17, 359 traditional (Jewish) 2, 13, 14, 162, 190–3, 204, 237, 267, 280, 281, 296

girls/women 130, 191, 192, 204, 359 Jewish-Rabbinical 14, 85, 205, 222, 237, 238, 245, 340, 346 Egypt/ian 85, 86, 115, 122, 126, 141, 157, 201–351, 358, 360, 367 El'azar ben 'Arakh 69, 70 Eli'ezer ben Hyrcanus 69, 70 Elyashar, Ya'akov Shaul 293, 324, 336 emancipation 144, 145, 153, 248, 356, 358 emigration 7, 15, 16, 31, 36, 39, 40, 84, 92, 96, 102, 103, 115, 122, 124, 131, 135, 157–60, 168, 187, 205, 237, 240, 262, 272, 287, 337 enactment (s) 78–82, 88, 113, 184, 267, 283 England 34, 239, 265, 361 English 8–10, 15, 20, 21, 30, 32, 44, 130, 146, 158, 159, 205, 237, 265, 298 Enlightenment see Haskalah Equality 64, 127, 220, 236, 298, 328, 338, 357, 359 Erusin see betrothal Eruv 36, 165 ethics, ethical see moral Eurocentric 1, 2, 5, 8 European Jews see Ashkenazic exile 28, 44, 47, 95, 131, 139–43, 145, 146, 149, 154, 169, 170, 194, 195, 198, 209, 234, 298 extremism 120, 123, 191, 208, 267, 294, 363 family 6, 13, 15, 38, 39, 43, 44, 46, 58, 87, 115, 116, 130–2, 154, 161, 170, 175, 179, 185, 187, 188, 193–5, 216, 239, 257, 258, 262, 282, 285, 308, 311–17, 319, 329, 346 Farag, Murad 235, 236, 240, 338, 341, 342, 345 Farhi, Hillel 236, 237 Farhi, Yitzhak 366, Farhi, Yosef David 117 fashion 245, 246, 248, 253–2, 266, 267 fast days 55, 57, 175, 243 Feinstein, Moshe 72, 185

Index

female 186, 191, 255, 263, 348 finance/financial 6, 14, 15, 31–3, 100–15, 125, 185, 264, 265 fire, fire-fighting 17, 20, 22, 23, 27–30, 35, 97, 130, 141, 166, 199 food 16, 33–5, 40, 51, 52, 66, 106, 107, 121, 173, 230, 252, 337 France 1, 64, 79, 224, 268, 306, 307, 312, 361, 364–6 freedom 117, 118, 191, 195, 248, 263, 265, 266, 269, 296, 298, 299, 330, 355, 362 French 94–6, 109, 115, 116, 119, 130, 190, 204, 229, 233, 234, 236, 237, 305, 306, 316, 333, 339 343, 356, 361 Gaguin, Hayyim Avraham 83 Gaguin, Shalom Moshe Hai 240 Gaguin, Shem-Tov 274, 282 Galante, Moshe 366 Galicia 4, 77, 176 Galilee 38, 39, 70 Gaon, Geonic 44, 64, 136, 173, 209, 226, 271, 275, 276, 350 gentile(s) 25, 27–9, 56, 57, 80, 83–5, 87, 100, 104, 107, 109, 114, 120, 176, 180, 183, 184, 188, 189, 191, 194, 216, 227, 245, 298, 330, 347–9 Gentiles, statutes of 287–90 Gerondi, Jonah 284 girls see women Giyyur 164, 183, 184, 186, 188, 189 Government 233, 266, 298 Government, Local/Municipal 19, 29, 30 Government, National/State 16, 27, 75, 101, 103–5, 116, 119, 126, 198, 328–30, 335, 340, 357 grammar see linguistics Great Britain see Britain Greek(s) 141, 205, 213, 226–8, 329 groom 37–40, 239, 258, 288, 324, 334 Habad 43, 49, 58, HaCohen, Aharon Mendel 241, 242, 254, 262, 263, 327–31, 333–6

393

HaCohen, Yishma'el 292, 293 Hagiz, Ya'acov 366 hair 179, 180, 254, 255, 266, 267, 269 Hakham Bashi 6, 59, 60, 80, 104, 131, 324, 328, 336 Halakhic flexibility 39, 55, 302, 356, 361 Halakhic policy 5, 41, 96, 103, 104, 109, 124, 127, 128, 181, 182, 187, 255, 269, 275, 280, 294, 301, 302, 310–2, 314, 316, 317, 338, 339, 341, 344, 355–7, 360 HaLevi, Yehudah 136, 146, 367 Hamwi, Ezra 110–13 Haredi/m (ultra-Orthodox) 64, 94, 109, 111, 114, 120, 123–6, 154, 178, 187, 191, 248, 267 Harel, Yaron 6, 59, 95, 96, 98, 99, 101, 104, 105, 107, 110, 115, 125, 139, 135, 175, 262, 265, 357 Harrari, Moshe Ben Yitzhaq 102 Haskalah / Maskilim 1–3, 77, 78, 117, 128, 134, 136, 148–50, 152, 153, 199, 200, 203–6, 208, 217, 222, 224, 225, 231, 232, 244, 267, 357, 367 Hassid(ic) 1, 49, 58, 64, 364 Hayyim, Moshe 45 Hayyim, Yosef 33, 45–7, 49, 55–8, 61, 65–73, 75, 77, 78, 80, 82, 84, 88, 89, 103, 104, 153, 349, 362, 363 Hazan, Eliyahu 99, 100, 239, 245, 246, 252, 254, 256–8, 261, 274, 280, 283, 284, 287, 289, 290, 294, 296, 325, 326, 331, 357, 361, 363 Hazan, Hayyim David 99 Hazan, Israel Moshe 139, 203–32, 233, 238, 289, 290, 295, 363 Hazan, Shlomo 238 Hebrew 18, 32, 74–6, 118–21, 125, 126, 132, 133, 134, 140, 143, 145, 146–9, 152–4, 159, 160, 163, 166, 169, 189–93, 197, 199, 203–6, 208–6, 220, 223, 231, 232, 235, 242, 284, 294, 295, 301, 320, 338, 342, 343

394 Index

Hebron 84, 102, 103, 108, 126, 295 Hedaya, 'Ovadiah 197, 198 Herem (excommunication / ostracism) 80, 106, 109, 117, 118, 126, 291, 297, 302, 324, 326 Heresy, Heretic(s) 4, 98, 107, 119, 190, 226, 229, 230, 338, 346, 368 Heschel, Abraham Joshua 363, 364 Hillel, Avraham Moshe 80 history 1, 5, 9, 69, 74, 77, 97, 118, 134, 140, 141, 144, 145, 152, 159, 160, 190, 226, 227, 362, 369 Hol Hamo'ed (intermediate days) 24, 32 holiday(s) 17, 31–3, 35, 60, 74, 175, 237, 243, 253, 266, 273, 281, 282, 284 see also by name Holy Land see Israel (land) honeymoon 38, 39 honor 39, 71, 72, 77, 79, 80, 86, 102, 107, 110, 111, 116–18, 134, 144, 146, 148, 153, 154, 161, 163, 186, 197, 206, 236, 264, 265, 271, 276, 283, 285, 288, 298, 302, 309, 311–14, 316, 358 human dignity 36, 247, 249, 298 humanity 94, 137–40, 198, 199 Huppah see wedding husband see marriage Hutsin, Shlomo Bekhor 14, 58, 65, 74, 75, 77 Hutsin, Tzedaqa 44 Iberian Peninsula 44, 64 Ibn Ezra, Avraham 132, 136, 146, 265, 367 identification/identity 2, 29, 43, 44, 61–5, 71, 77, 82, 108, 113, 118, 120, 124, 132, 145, 152, 162–4, 166, 170, 176, 185, 190, 205, 218, 235, 243, 268, 270, 286, 293, 298, 332, 342, 343 idolatry 111, 172, 198, 226, 288 immersion see mikveh immigration 60, 158, 159, 179, 239–41, 262, 274, 293, 294 India 14–18, 20, 24, 28, 30, 31, 33–41, 47, 74, 75, 82, 84, 85, 87, 95

innovation 9, 16, 17, 19, 31, 61, 66, 67, 77, 78, 86, 100, 104, 107, 126, 129, 130, 162, 163, 166, 167, 172, 177, 184, 205, 240, 265, 278, 281, 287, 307, 340, 349, 363 intellect see reason interpretation 9, 15, 21, 60, 66, 67, 69, 71, 73, 75, 76, 80, 81, 84, 87, 97, 132, 135, 136, 146, 152, 155, 162, 163, 166, 167, 169, 176, 184, 196, 197, 214, 219, 229, 235, 245, 262, 268, 276, 306, 307, 320, 321, 332, 346, 347, 349, 361, 346, 349, 361, 362, 363, 368 Iran 14, 15, 95, 295, 342 Iraq 2, 7, 8, 13–89, 95, 126, 226, 235, 252, 286, 355, 359, 360 Ishmael (son of Abraham) 216 Ishmaelites 218, 231, 250, 252, 257 Islam, Muslim(s) 1, 8, 44, 78, 97, 102, 126, 139, 164, 203, 204, 218, 235–7, 239, 243–5, 252, 255, 258, 260, 268, 277–9, 289, 329, 335, 357–9, 364–6 reform(ist) 278, 279, 357 Israel (land) 5, 7, 8, 60, 84, 94, 103, 108, 112, 114, 121, 122, 126, 133, 153–5, 158, 159, 169, 170, 194–7, 205, 206, 213, 215, 217, 267, 271, 272, 274, 276, 320, 323, 324, 336, 340 Israel (people) 2, 14, 47, 51, 69, 70, 74, 79–81, 98, 104, 107, 109, 112, 117, 123, 133, 134, 137–44, 146, 147, 151, 152, 155, 159, 184, 194, 195–9, 209–12, 216, 228, 230, 250, 253, 258, 259, 271, 273, 275, 281, 287, 330, 334, 335, 344, 346–8, 362, 367, 368 Israel, Eliyahu 238, 249, 274, 275 Isserles, Moshe (Rema) 28, 50, 51–4, 57, 60, 79, 80, 81, 180, 250–2, 263, 322 Istanbul 6, 23, 26, 27, 54, 109, 209, 222, 295, 322, 326, 328, 342, 345, 346

Index

Italy, Italian 23, 167, 205, 206, 208, 212, 217–20, 227, 234, 236, 237, 240, 282, 292, 293, 295, 305, 306, 361 Izmir 51, 54, 85, 98, 99, 102, 126, 173, 205, 245, 295 Jerusalem 6, 9, 27, 83–6, 94, 96, 98–103, 108–15, 120, 123, 125, 126, 132, 133, 135, 139, 154, 155, 159, 160, 168, 169, 173, 190, 191, 197, 205, 206, 208, 210, 213, 215, 217–19, 222, 224, 225, 227–30, 232, 237, 240, 243, 245, 248, 256, 262, 281, 293–5, 323–6, 336, 337, 339, 340, 346, 361, 366 Jewish people (the) see Israel (people) journals/journalism 18, 44, 74, 75, 99, 117, 132, 178, 234, 236, 329, 337 Judeo-Arabic 204, 235 Judeo-Spanish see Ladino Kabbalah/Kabbalist 1, 46, 49, 60, 84, 96, 97, 105, 108, 132, 135, 136, 162, 166, 197, 206, 216, 275 Karaite(s) 235, 299, 319–51 Kassin, Yaakov 116, 135, 168, 184, 190 Katz, Jacob 3, 125 Kiddush 283–5 Kiddushin see betrothal Kilayim 246–8, 266 Koenka, Ben-Zion 132, 337–9, 346 Kosher, Kashrut 15, 27, 35, 50–4, 98, 106–8, 112, 114, 121, 129, 154, 173, 177, 178, 187, 191, 283, 284, 325, 347 kvod hab'riyot see human dignity Ladino 1, 204 language(s) 18, 76, 77, 108, 119–21, 125, 126, 140, 145, 152, 159, 160, 165, 166, 168, 189–93, 197, 203–32, 234–7, 245, 271, 284, 295, 296, 305, 306, 342, 343, 362, 366, 367 see also by name of language

395

law of the land see Dina de-Malkhuta law, legal system, litigation 1, 3, 4, 9, 10, 15, 21, 22, 25, 31, 36, 40, 46, 47, 52, 53, 55, 56–9, 70, 74, 78, 80, 81, 83, 85–7, 100–4, 106, 107, 119, 126, 131, 132, 142, 144, 162, 182, 185, 186, 189, 192, 210, 235, 239, 241–3, 246, 253–5, 258, 259, 262, 263, 265, 266, 270, 287, 296, 299, 310, 312, 314, 321, 322, 325, 326, 330, 331, 333–5, 338, 341, 344, 345–7, 356, 358, 367 leader(s), leadership 14, 15, 40, 44, 48, 50, 100, 103–5, 108, 109, 113–17, 121, 123, 124, 127, 130–3, 136, 149, 158, 164, 171, 172, 204, 210, 223, 224, 226, 236, 237, 240, 253, 257, 272, 274, 277, 278, 287, 288, 290, 291, 294, 295, 322, 324, 325, 328, 329, 330, 331, 336, 338–42, 345, 346, 356–8, 361 leisure 116, 124, 261 liberty 198, 199, 248, 263, 265, 266, 269, 298, 299 linguist/linguistic 132, 208, 209, 212, 213, 223–5, 235, 236, 294, 295, 297 Lithuania 64, 77, 81, 135, 342, 343 Livorno 49, 84, 97, 139, 205, 206, 217, 218, 231, 282, London 34, 205 Luzatto, Shmuel David 206 magic/al 171, 273 Maharil (Ya'akov Moellin) 56, 186, 288 Mahma, Ya'akov 280–1 Maimonides 21, 83, 94, 98, 136, 139, 151, 160, 163–6, 172, 176, 177, 186, 187, 200, 210, 212, 218, 226, 247, 248, 252, 290, 293, 321, 361, 366, 367 Mamzer 322, 323, 325, 327, 331–3, 335, 348, 349 mandate/mandatory 95, 109, 114–16, 120 Mani, Eliyahu Suleiman 36, 37, 47, 82–8, 94

396 Index

manners see mores marriage 6, 37–9, 112, 116, 119, 121, 133, 134, 160, 177, 183, 184, 186, 234, 239, 253, 254, 256, 257, 259, 260–3, 266, 267, 269, 288, 299, 319–51, 367 Maskil(im) see Haskalah Maslaton, Yehuda 331, 335, 336, 337, 339, 340 mathematics 132, 210, 365, 366 Maunier, Rene 302–6, 309, 311 meaning(s) 21, 41, 61, 66, 97, 131, 132, 135, 136, 138, 143, 147, 149, 159, 195, 199, 209, 212, 216, 251, 263, 265, 283, 301, 306, 314, 349, 362, 365 medieval 28, 51, 53, 75, 99, 146, 199, 203, 205, 227, 231, 248, 250, 251, 262, 268, 282, 284, 294, 307, 361, 364, 366, 367 Meir, Ya'akov 108, 110, 113, 126, 336 Meknes 139, 323 Mendelssohn, Moses 208, 209 merchant(s) 25, 30, 32, 36, 95, 206, 207, 217–23, 225, 227–31, 261, 328, 364 Mesopotamia 44, 320 Messiah 145, 230 Midrash (institution) see beit midrash, yeshiva Midrash (literary genre) 134–6, 141, 146, 148, 149, 152, 169, 171, 176, 196, 209, 211, 215, 228, 320, 349, 350, 361, 362, 364, 365 Mikveh 17, 19–24, 186, 188, 241, 263, 326, 330 Min see Heretic Minhag(im) see custom(s) minorities 49, 123, 158, 236, 305, 328, 329 minority opinion 68, 80, 106, 117, 285 Miqra see Bible modernity 2, 6, 93, 94, 129, 130, 233, 240, 268, 290, 298, 314, 315, 336, 351, 355, 356, 359 modernization 2, 124, 287, 314, 355–7, 359

monotheism 138, 139, 198, 216, 309 moral(s), morality 65, 74, 80, 88, 121, 137, 138, 152, 172, 210, 262, 265, 278, 312, 367 mores 34, 36, 47, 234, 239, 241 Morocco 51, 222, 237, 274, 295 Moses 2, 44, 72, 81, 135, 167, 171, 185, 259, 275, 288, 298, 334, 347, 361, 367 mourning 25, 27, 55, 57, 179–82, 243, 246, 248–52, 266, 279 Mumbai see Bombay mundane 18, 24, 32, 33, 125, 143, 148, 265, 266 Muslim(s) see Islam Musta'arabim 64, 131 mystic/mysticism see Kabbalah Nahoum, Haim 337–40, 345, 346 nation, Jewish see Jewish people nationalism Jewish see Zionism nations (non-Jewish) 2, 138–41, 144, 147, 152, 159, 172, 177, 194, 196–9, 211, 216, 244, 257, 258, 273, 302, 302, 368 nature, natural 2, 5, 16, 18, 20–2, 24, 33, 40, 95, 128, 133, 140, 143, 147, 148, 151, 168, 176, 186, 190, 212, 218, 219, 228–31, 266, 267, 268, 276–8, 284, 293, 302, 309, 315, 316, 360–2, 365 New York 93, 133, 153, 154, 158, 160, 175, 185 newspapers see journals norm(s) 2, 16, 31, 34, 35, 38–41, 53, 58, 61, 63, 82, 93, 96, 107–9, 124, 125, 129, 142, 176, 180, 181, 186, 187, 195, 219, 233, 234, 238, 239, 241, 246–52, 254–6, 259, 260, 263, 264, 265, 268, 277, 286, 290, 296, 310, 311, 314, 319, 327, 333, 345, 350, 360 North Africa 1, 9, 64, 85, 205, 357, 359, 364, 365 Ohanna, Nissim 346–50 Oral Torah 209, 210, 320, 347

Index

orient/al 5, 7, 8, 16, 109, 118, 126, 133, 203–32, 233, 268, 288, 289, 295, 316, 353, 357, 359, 360, 363, 366, 368, 369 Orthodox/y 1–5, 78, 96, 111, 113, 123, 129, 154, 193, 248, 267, 268, 275, 286–8, 290–4, 296–8, 355–7, 360, 363, 369 Ottoman 1, 6, 16, 25–30, 44, 51, 98, 100–4, 120, 126, 238, 239, 241, 315, 328, 340, 356, 358 Ottoman reform see Tanzimat pagan/ism 97, 113, 147, 226, 187 Palestine 158, 210, 271, 340 Panigel, Rephael Meir 27–9 Pardo, Moshe 85–8, 254 particular/ism 5, 97, 124, 200, 205, 212, 219, 244, 365 Passover see Pesah Penso, Eli 93–5, 120 Persia see Iran Pesah (holiday) 24, 35, 236, 272 philology see linguistics philosophy 1, 94, 97, 132, 135, 136, 146, 159, 160, 165, 166, 195, 205, 207, 221, 226, 229, 268, 308, 315, 317, 364–6 poetry 13, 44, 132, 134, 136, 145–51, 153, 162, 165, 166, 170, 199, 216, 221, 235, 296, 338, 364, 365, 367 Port Said 239, 259–61, 346 Posek see decisor prayer 27, 58, 60, 61, 74, 82, 154, 155, 158, 162, 174–6, 195, 200, 236, 253, 264, 271, 273, 274, 276, 281, 283, 288, 289, 291, 292, 294–7, 343 precedent 3, 4, 22–4, 28, 29, 33, 45, 66, 68, 78, 88, 89, 103, 104, 183, 252, 282, 284, 330, 331, 345, 346, 362, 363 press see journals/journalism profane see mundane profession/al 4, 7, 9, 29, 147, 279, 305 prostitution 261–5, 267, 269, 277 Purim 31, 34

397

purity 20–2, 53, 54, 66, 81, 110–12, 140, 152, 185, 187, 190, 193, 194, 199, 216, 219, 221, 223, 230, 239, 266, 277, 278, 295, 313, 326, 327, 341, 367 Qiddushin see betrothal Rabbenu Tam (Ya'akov ben Meir) 79, 224, 365 Rabbinical Court see court, rabbinical Rashba see Adret, Solomon rational/ity 18, 125, 136, 137, 140, 148, 163–5, 167, 170, 220, 223, 279, 289, 297 redemption 145, 154, 155, 190, 191, 193, 194, 197 reform (Islamic) 278 reform (Judaism) 1, 125, 268, 286, 287, 291, 293, 294, 297, 355–7 regulations see enactments religious observance 19, 33, 47, 106, 108, 111, 120, 124, 125, 129, 134, 135, 142–4, 178, 180, 181, 187, 194, 245, 246, 248, 250, 254, 279, 281, 286, 321, 357 Rishon le-Tziyyon 27, 28, 83, 85, 86, 99, 108, 110, 240, 293, 294, 323, 324, 336, 337 Rishonim 53, 67, 163, 212, 364 ritual slaughter 6, 14, 30, 50, 51–5, 60 Rosh see Asher ben Yehiel Sa'adiah Gaon 136, 160, 176, 364, 367 sacred, sacral 98, 189, 197, 248, 259, 263–6, 269, 270, 272, 274, 274, 275, 279, 291, 297–9 Safed 23, 102, 111, 114, 126, 275, 322, 366 Salonica 23, 54, 110, 209, 322, 336 Sanu'a, Ya'aqub 234, 235 school(s) see education science(s) 65, 74, 75, 77, 132, 151, 160, 221, 226–31, 242, 312, 314, 356, 365, 366 secular/secularization 1, 2, 5, 6, 65, 78, 100, 101, 109, 122–4, 130, 147, 150, 190, 204, 236, 240, 243, 244, 259, 266–9, 273, 279,

398 Index

286, 298, 299, 328, 329, 345, 366 Sepharad (Spain) 1, 43, 46, 79, 95, 131, 132, 136, 148, 199, 221, 296, 364–7 seventeenth of Tamuz see fast days sex(ual) 19, 112, 120, 179, 211, 212, 261–3, 265, 277, 287, 313, 345 Shabbat 17–19, 25, 32, 36, 37, 45, 47, 59, 70, 82–8, 106–9, 119–21, 124, 126, 129, 165, 167, 172, 194, 280, 281, 283, 284 Shabbetai, Hizqiyya 110, 183 Shari'a 100, 357 Shiva see mourning Siddur (prayer-book) 49, 236, 294, 295 Simhat Torah (holiday) 275–8 slaughter see ritual slaughter Slouschz, Nahum 237, 238, 262, 316, 327, 329 Sofer, Moshe 2, 3, 18, 50, 107, 275, 290–3, 368 Somekh, Abdallah 13–41, 42, 45–55, 58–61, 74–8, 82–7, 298 Sonnenfeld, Yosef Hayyim 11–14, 191 Spain see Sepharad statutes of the gentiles see Gentiles suburb(s) 252, 272, 291 suicide 301–17 Sukkot 24, 219, 276, 282 superstition 94, 199, 278 synagogue 6, 27, 28, 30, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 82, 87, 94, 122, 123, 162, 244, 245, 258, 259, 263–5, 269–99, 321 Syria/n 2, 7, 8, 89, 91–200, 226, 274, 323, 355, 358, 360 Tabernacles (holiday) see Sukkot Tam see Rabbenu Tam Tanzimat 16, 29, 100, 101, 104, 328 Taqqana see enactment Tawil, Moshe 121–2 Tchernichowsky, Shaul 145, 147, 148, 154, 195 teacher(s) see education technology/technological 16–18, 20, 22–4, 40, 241, 314, 342, 356, 358

Tefillin 146, 147, 273–5 Tel Aviv 132, 133, 139, 237, 301, 340 telegram 17, 25–7, 110, 112 temple 44, 56, 61, 87, 94, 141, 200, 215, 218, 243, 271, 319 Tiberias 108, 241, 323–5, 340 Tish'a b'Av (fast day) 173, 174, 176, 187 Torah 2, 4, 5, 20, 21, 36, 37, 41, 43, 58, 64, 72, 83, 84, 86, 87, 89, 97, 98, 100, 102, 104–8, 110, 112, 113, 115, 117, 120, 124, 125–7, 129, 133, 134, 137–44, 146, 148, 149, 151, 152, 157–200, 209, 210, 212, 219, 237, 242, 246, 247, 250, 252, 255, 260, 265, 271, 282, 287, 288, 290, 298, 320, 330, 333, 344, 348, 349, 351, 355, 356, 360–3, 365, 367, 368 reading 45, 46, 186, 274, 275, 280, 281, 292, 293 scroll 98, 264, 265, 274, 291, 292, 298 study 5, 6, 7, 13, 14, 43–5, 47, 61, 64, 67–9, 71, 72, 75, 77, 78, 94, 95, 115, 116, 119, 125, 134, 135, 151, 152, 157, 159–62, 164, 166–9, 171, 192, 193, 205, 228, 237, 280 trade 5, 15, 95, 244, 262 tradition/al 2, 5, 17, 35, 36, 39, 40, 43, 45, 47–51, 53, 54, 59, 61–4, 71, 77, 81, 82, 84, 85, 88, 93, 96, 97, 100, 103–5, 109, 116, 118, 122, 124, 125, 127, 128, 130, 134, 135, 137, 141, 147–50, 154, 157, 158, 162, 165, 168, 174, 179, 186, 190–3, 196, 197, 199, 209, 218, 223, 228, 229, 232, 235, 240–3, 245, 248, 249, 251, 252, 255, 256, 259, 260, 263, 267–9, 271, 272, 274, 275, 279–82, 291, 294–7, 309, 310, 313, 315, 321, 324, 326, 332, 336, 340, 342, 348–51, 355, 357, 358, 360, 363, 367–9 train(s) 17–19

Index

translation 8, 10, 36, 94, 136, 147, 220, 221, 226, 227, 235, 236, 241, 246, 343, 366 Tunis/a 252, 253, 291, 295, 361 Turkey 23, 28, 84, 85, 95, 111, 114, 126, 222, 240, 243, 274, 345, 346 Turkish 204, 205, 213, 342, 343 ultra-Orthodox see Haredi United States 115, 158–61, 166, 168, 169, 176, 179, 180, 185, 187, 192, 198, 200, 262, 272, 328 universal/ism 97, 137, 138, 141, 152, 194, 199, 204, 205, 228, 244, 365, 366 urban 29–31, 36, 84, 119, 240, 245, 268, 282, 303, 305, 306, 314, 315, 328 Uzziel, Ben-Zion 174, 183 Vilna 45, 342 water 17, 19–24, 35, 70, 178, 199, 200, 207, 209, 210, 218, 241, 275 wedding(s) 6, 37–40, 57, 254, 256–8, 285–90, 325, 334

399

Wessely, Naphtali Herz 208, 209 woman/women 19, 37, 38, 52, 53, 61, 78, 79, 108, 112, 120, 130, 171, 176, 184, 185, 239, 244, 254–6, 258–67, 269, 276–9, 284, 285, 313, 321–6, 336, 338, 342–5, 347, 357 Ya'akov ben Meir see Rabbenu Tam Yedid ha-Levy, Yosef 112, 115, 116, 135, 190, 191, 324, 325 Yeshiva/Yeshivot 6, 7, 14, 45, 60, 64, 77, 119, 121, 122, 125, 135, 149, 159–61, 163, 173, 186, 190, 192, 193, 237, 238, 253, 271, 369 Yohanan ben Zakkai 69, 70 Yom Kippur (holiday) 60, 61, 273, 275, 296 Yosef, Ovadiah 46, 178 zealot(s)/zealotry 98, 117, 123, 220, 327 Zion see Jerusalem Zionism 1, 44, 120–3, 125, 126, 143, 145, 154, 194–6, 336, 340, 357