The Chief Rabbi isn't coming to Limmud

In an extraordinary development, the new Chief Rabbi has registered to attend Limmud next week, the cross-communal festival of Jewish learning that is one of the most innovative educational endeavours to have ever emerged out of the British Jewish community. Lauded by participants, presenters and journalists alike, Limmud’s educational model has been replicated in almost sixty different communities worldwide, and, according to a 2011 study, has served as the inspiration for thousands of Jews to engage more deeply in Jewish life.

Given its astonishing success, one might be forgiven for wondering precisely why it has taken so long for the Chief Rabbi to turn up. Someone with his standing and commitment to Jewish learning should surely have regarded this event – almost above all others – as a major priority in his calendar. And it seems he finally has. It has taken a change of personnel in his office, but now, thirty-three years after Limmud’s establishment, the Chief Rabbi is finally coming.

Except the Chief Rabbi is not coming to Limmud. In fact, the Chief Rabbi can never come to Limmud.

Let me explain. Limmud has several core principles. It embraces the diversity that exists within the Jewish community, seeing it very much as part of its richness. It encourages everyone to be ambitious about their contribution to Jewish life. It creates opportunities for Jews to connect with one another.  And, to achieve this, it carefully minimises any hierarchical gaps that commonly exist between people.  At Limmud, everyone should be accessible to everyone else, irrespective of title, position or standing.

One of the ways Limmud accomplishes this is by putting aside titles. The name tags everyone wears have only two things on them – first name and surname. That way, everybody becomes seen, primarily, as simply their name. And I mean everybody. Lord Winston is Robert. The Israeli Ambassador is Daniel. And the Chief Rabbi, when he comes, will be Ephraim.

Some might consider this disrespectful. But its purpose is to break down barriers. How many of us feel intimidated when standing in front of a world-renowned scientific, political or religious authority? But if that individual becomes his or her first name, it reduces the distance between us, and breaks down the formal barriers that exist. The great authority suddenly becomes more approachable, and an atmosphere is created in which anyone can connect with anyone else.

Furthermore, Limmud has no ‘green room.’ There is nowhere for Robert, Daniel or Ephraim to disappear off to when they are not presenting. They are no more special than anyone else. And, when they are not teaching, the expectation is that they will participate in sessions run by others, and learn from them. Indeed, at Limmud, everyone should be a student, because everyone – even a chief rabbi – has something to learn. And everyone can be a teacher too – Limmud’s strongly believes that any participant should feel empowered to teach their Jewish passion. In essence, the hierarchical boundary that usually exists between teacher and student is minimised at Limmud, which is part of what makes it such an empowering communal experience.

Of course, it can be quite threatening. Some authorities find it unsettling because they can’t hide behind their title. They might attract a crowd initially because people know who they are, but people vote with their feet if the substance doesn’t match the presenter’s reputation. But anyone who gets it right – irrespective of their position or title – quickly achieves iconic status. People with outstanding levels of knowledge, the humility to learn from others, and a genuine willingness to engage with anyone, have the commodities that carry the most currency.

It can be pretty threatening for novice presenters too, because they never know who is going to walk into their session. An undergraduate student may teach something they are learning at university, and Robert, Daniel or Ephraim might turn up. But that dynamic is critical to Limmud too. It can be extraordinarily empowering for a young presenter to have someone like that learn from them, and to receive constructive feedback afterwards.

So in reality, the hullabaloo about the Chief Rabbi coming to Limmud is nonsense. The truth is the Chief Rabbi will be going AWOL for a few days next week. He will be nowhere to be found. But if you wander around Limmud for a few days, you might find someone called Ephraim knocking about – teaching a bit, learning a bit, and maybe just hanging around having a conversation with one or two people in the bar.

(Also published in The Jewish News)

Jewish life in Europe: Impending Catastrophe or Imminent Renaissance?

There is much debate over the future of Jewish life in Europe. Some Jewish commentators, observing rising levels of antisemitism and Islamic extremism, maintain that Europe is becoming an increasingly treacherous place for Jews to live. Others, witnessing changing modes of Jewish identity and the emergence of innovative forms of Jewish communal activity, argue that Europe offers a fertile environment in which Jewish life can thrive. And, in the midst of this debate, demographers bring data about Europe which demonstrate that the nature of both the Jewish and wider populations is undergoing significant change.

My new policy paper, published by the Institute for Jewish Policy Research, examines these hypotheses and assesses their veracity. In doing so, it brings new data into the discussion. In 2012, after winning a competitive tender from the European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights (FRA), JPR, working in partnership with its multi-national team of Associate Fellows and the global research agency Ipsos MORI, undertook a pan-European survey of Jewish perceptions and experiences of antisemitism. The findings have now been published by the FRA. The data comprise arguably the largest dataset ever gathered on Jews in Europe, and shed new light on our understanding of contemporary reality.

To read my paper, click here.

To read the FRA report, click here.

Is criticism of Israel antisemitic?

It’s the debate that seems to rage continually in political discourse, the media, on online forums, university campuses and in Jewish communal circles. It has been going on for some time, it has led to diplomatic incidents, court cases, tribunals, verbal insults and physical violence, and no small measure of psychological distress. It’s fraught with political tension, it’s littered with innuendo, and it’s extraordinarily divisive. Is criticism of Israel antisemitic?

In many respects, the question has become rather hackneyed, and tends to yield a sense of exasperation among many, so I raise it with a considerable degree of caution. But the recently published results of the European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights (FRA) survey of discrimination and hate crime against Jews in EU Member States, conducted by the research team at JPR in partnership with Ipsos MORI, sheds new and important light on it, that ought to be brought to bear when discussing the question in future.

The survey is the largest ever conducted of Jews in Europe. It covers the Jewish populations of nine EU Member States, which, collectively, are home to over 90% of Europe’s Jews. It was conducted in eleven languages, thereby allowing optimum opportunity for all to participate. It was undertaken as part of the FRA’s efforts to survey minority populations across Europe, and is designed to be used by policy makers at all levels – European, national and local – to inform anti-racism policy going forward.

Because it is extremely difficult to create a common sampling frame for Jews in each of the countries surveyed, the researchers could not use random probability sampling for the survey. Whilst this means that further work is required to determine whether the percentages reported in the FRA’s report can be generalised to the Jewish populations of Europe as a whole, the academic team responsible for the survey is clear that the results broadly reflect the communally-involved and engaged sections of the populations.

So what did it find? Respondents were presented with fourteen statements, and asked about the extent to which they would consider them antisemitic if expressed by, or observed in the behaviour of, someone who is not Jewish. The response scheme was “Yes, definitely”; “Yes, probably”; “No, probably not”; “No, definitely not”; and “Don’t know.” The statements included various common antisemitic canards, as well as more ambiguous attitudes and ideas. Among the fourteen statements tested was one which asked the Jewish respondents if they would consider a non-Jewish person antisemitic if he or she “criticises Israel.”

Interestingly, it came bottom of the list. Across the eight countries reported, two-thirds of respondents said criticism of Israel is either “probably not” or “definitely not” antisemitic. The proportions varied slightly from country to country, but in no country did a majority feel it to be either definitely or probably antisemitic.

However, that’s not the end of the story. Other statements listed included comments related in some way to Israel or Israelis. Notably, respondents were asked to rate the statements “Israelis behave ‘like Nazis’ towards the Palestinians”, and “Supports boycotts of Israeli goods/products.” And, faced with these statements, the respondents reacted very differently. 81% of them considered the Israeli-Nazi parallel to be definitely or probably antisemitic, and 72% considered support for a boycott to be so. Whilst there is by no means unanimous agreement on either one, not least because both comments are, on occasion, voiced by Jews themselves, it is clear what the majority view is for respondents in every one of the countries investigated.

The implication is that most Jews surveyed appear to hold the view that whilst criticism of Israel is not antisemitic per se, it can become so when it is manifested in particular ways. In essence, criticism of the Israeli government is by no means off the table. Like any other government, the Israeli government should be held to account for its actions, as it is regularly by Israelis themselves in the country’s media, civil society and polling booths. But when the nature of that criticism tips over into these more hostile or aggressive realms, it is experienced as much more prejudicial.

In general terms, the survey found disturbingly high levels of anxiety and fear among Jews in Europe. Three-quarters of respondents feel that levels of antisemitism have increased over the past five years. Almost half are worried about falling victim to verbal insult or harassment. Two-thirds hide their Jewish identity – at least on occasion – because they are concerned about being identified as Jewish. Almost a third have contemplated emigrating. They are particularly concerned about antisemitism online and in the media, both of which they say have increased in recent years. The overarching impression is that they believe antisemitism is becoming more culturally acceptable in Europe, particularly in parts of the political left and parts of the Muslim population. And, not surprisingly, they’re worried.

It is totally unacceptable that any minority in twenty-first century Europe should feel like this. It’s probably even more unacceptable that Jews should feel like this given their history on the continent. Antisemitism has famously been described as “the longest hatred.” It has existed for at least two thousand years. It has led to forced conversions, expulsions, pogroms and genocide. It’s enough. Criticism of the Israeli government is legitimate; plenty of Israelis criticise it every day. But the vitriol around the criticism has to stop. It’s not solving the problem, it’s creating a new one.

My prayer for Rosh Hashana, 5774

That we become:

More secure in who we are, and more free to become who we ought to be;

More dedicated to sustaining the Jewish world, and more committed to giving to those outside of it;

More conscious of making sense of our past, and more engaged in building a sensible future;

More aware of our contemporary realities, and more visionary about our dreams;

More engaged in our quest for personal meaning, and more immersed in communities that enable us to give meaning to others;

More creative and sensitive in our efforts to address the problems of the world, and more steadfast and courageous in our attempts to solve them.

Stability and Change

At first glance, the census data appear to demonstrate that the UK Jewish population has grown over the past ten years.  The figures released by the Office for National Statistics (ONS) last week show a Jewish population of 263,346 for 2011, compared to an equivalent count of 259,927 for 2001.  The increase is small – just 3,419 people or slightly more than 1% - but it is an increase nonetheless.

However, before we start claiming that the UK Jewish population has risen, we should be conscious that these figures (both for 2011 and 2001) are just for England and Wales. We don’t yet have 2011 data for Scotland or Northern Ireland, although regional demographic trends suggest that the Jewish populations of both will have declined somewhat since 2001, thereby potentially offsetting part of the small increase we see for England and Wales.

Moreover, neither of the numbers quoted above for England and Wales take into consideration the undercount.  The religion question on the census form from which all this data is derived was voluntary.  People did not have to answer it.  So as in 2001, the 2011 figure needs to be adjusted to account for that.  We know that in 2001 Jews chose not to answer the question in slightly higher proportions than the UK population as a whole, but we don’t yet know the proportions for 2011.  Until further data are released by the ONS next year, it is impossible to draw reliable conclusions.

In addition, people could identify themselves as Jewish by ethnicity on the census form, and, in 2001, 2,594 people who did this did not identify themselves as Jewish by religion.  The equivalent 2011 figure needs to be added to the overall count, and even a small reduction from the 2001 number could potentially affect the current picture of growth.

In short, at this stage it is too early to draw any conclusions.  Until it is possible to accurately calculate the size of the undercount and add in the Scotland, Northern Ireland and ethnicity figures, we should keep the champagne on ice.

Nevertheless, it seems probable that the UK Jewish population has at least remained static over the past ten years.  This is an extraordinary finding in and of itself.  The UK Jewish population has been declining for over half a century; it reached its historical peak of approximately 410,000 in the mid-1950s, and has contracted ever since, to an estimated 291,000 in 2001.  The decline has been reflected in the titles of books such as Wasserstein’s Vanishing Diaspora and Sacks’s Will We Have Jewish Grandchildren?, both of which capture the dominant narrative of recent decades.  The British Jewish community is on its way out.  Slowly but surely we are withering away.  Yet these data appear to challenge that story.  It seems we may not be doing so badly after all.

The question is, why?  And the answer, while still requiring more detailed data to really substantiate it, can begin to be discerned by looking at what is going on in Jewish populations at the local and regional levels.  Three Local Authority Districts in particular stand out: Hackney, Salford and Gateshead.  Taken together, the Jewish population of these three places – all centres of the haredi population – has increased by 50% in just ten years.  This corroborates with other data on haredim which show a doubling of numbers over the past eighteen years, and probably can be largely explained by a simple factor: babies.  In many respects, the demographic equation is very simple: if the number of births outstrips the number of deaths, the population will grow.  And this is exactly what is going on in the UK’s haredi population in an extraordinary way.  Household size figures capture it perfectly.  The average household size in the UK is 2.4 people; in the haredi population of Hackney, it is estimated to be 6.3.

In contrast, other parts of the Jewish population are not faring so well.  The combined populations of Harrow, Redbridge, Camden, Westminster and Brent, all of which appeared in the top ten Jewish population centres in 2001, have declined by 21%.  Provincial communities show a similar pattern – Leeds, Brighton and Hove, Liverpool and Southend-on-Sea have collectively declined by 19%.  The hypothesis in all these cases is much the same: first, death rates outweigh birth rates, and second, a proportion of the affiliated and engaged is migrating to the growing centres of Jewish life, particularly Barnet and Hertsmere.

Other factors are certainly at play, but when we look at these patterns together, it seems possible that growth in the haredi and strictly Orthodox sectors could be counterbalancing decline elsewhere. What this means is that the character of the British Jewish population is changing, and likely to become more Orthodox over time.  While long-term projections should be made with caution, it seems entirely probable that the British Jewish community of the future will look rather different to that of today.

This has important policy implications for all Jewish charities, schools, synagogues and local organisations.  We remain a small community – just 0.5% of the UK population – with limited human and financial resources.  How we deploy these is critical to our future.  Policy makers at all levels should look at these data to inform their thinking and planning.  An empirical understanding of Jewish population trends can help us to make good, informed decisions that both honour our past and build our future.

As more census data are released in the coming months, the scope to understand community dynamics at the local level will become increasingly refined.  The National Jewish Community Survey (NJCS), a JPR project planned for early 2013, will add depth and nuance to our collective understanding.  By next autumn, we will have sufficient access to both datasets to generate data tables and charts to assist organisations working across the community.  The UK Jewish community is extremely fortunate to have access to data of this quality and accuracy – very few Jewish communities worldwide are in our position.  Let’s make sure we use them well.

 

(Also published in The Jewish News, 20 December 2012)

Jewish Journeys: Between Motion and Stability

Limmud's strap line, “wherever you find yourself, Limmud will take you one step further along your Jewish journey” - has an intriguing resonance with this week's parsha, and indeed, with Avraham's life as a whole, which is punctuated by Jewish journeys throughout.  Indeed, it is bookended by two commands to lech lecha: the first, this week, to leave his home, and the second, next week, to sacrifice his son. In between, the journeying continues – in fact, Yeshayahu Leibowits characterises his life as one of “wandering… from Aram Naharayim to Canaan, from Canaan to Egypt, and back from Egypt to Canaan; even in Canaan he ‘went on his journeys,’ ‘journeying and going on’ from one place to the next, dwelling in Beit El, then in Gerar, then in Beer Sheva, then in Hebron.”  In short, Avraham never seems to stand still.  But is there any connection between his journeys, and the ones captured in Limmud’s strap line?

Examining his journeys literally, it’s difficult not to be struck by his nomadic lifestyle, and the amount of physical travelling he does.  Yet there are also extended periods of his life when he settles down and lives in a single place.  He spends time seeking out new vistas, certainly, but he also spends time dwelling and consolidating.  In fact, the end of the parsha seems to indicate that Avraham spent almost quarter of a century living in a single place.  So his literal journeys are not a constant in his life; they are balanced by periods of stability.

However, Limmud's reference to journeys is far more metaphorical than literal; it is less about practical geography than it is about Jewish purpose and fulfilment.  In fact, in many respects, it appears to resonate with the contemporary journey concept the American sociologist Robert Wuthnow calls “religious seeking.”  Religious seeking, writes Wuthnow, “emphasizes negotiation: individuals search for sacred moments that reinforce their conviction that the divine exists, but these moments are fleeting: rather than knowing the territory, people explore new spirituality vistas, and they may have to negotiate among complex and confusing meanings of spirituality.”  Wuthnow contrasts this with “religious dwelling,” a form of spiritualty that “emphasizes habitation: God occupies a definite place in the universe and creates a sacred space in which humans too can dwell; to inhabit sacred space is to know its territory and to feel secure.”

Thinking about Avraham’s life in these terms, should we characterise him as a seeker or a dweller?  As with his literal journeying and resting, the answer may well be that he is both.  We see his emphasis on negotiation when he challenges God over Sodom and Amorah; we see his obedience to God’s place in the universe when he submits to God’s will and sets off to sacrifice Yitzchak.  We see further contrasts in his personality when, on the one hand, he peacefully resolves the tension between his and Lot’s herdsmen, and on the other, he goes to war to free Lot after he has been taken captive.  It seems as if Avraham understands that there are times for seemingly divergent positions – to travel and to stand still, to argue and to submit, to negotiate and to fight.

So what exactly is a Jewish journey? Is it just those moments when we are travelling from one place to another, exploring new horizons and negotiating or arguing with power?  Is it just those moments of religious seeking, when we search for those dimensions of Jewishness that are most meaningful to us and where we embrace complexity, nuance and confusion in order to try to figure out what makes the most sense?  Or does it include those moments when we situate ourselves in a single place, hold our ground, and fight for the things which matter most?  Does it include those moments of religious dwelling, when we put down roots, commit to stay put, and put our faith in a singular authority, community or idea?

It is tempting to say that a Jewish journey only equates to moments of religious seeking.  But Avraham’s life story suggests that his religious dweller moments act as an essential counterbalance to those times when he responds to the lech lecha call.  He needs to move, negotiate and seek, but he also needs to stand still, submit and dwell.  Both of these together constitute essential parts of his journey.

Both constitute essential parts of our journey too.  A Jewish life with exclusive emphasis on habitation and devoid of exploration, experimentation and the quest for personal meaning, runs the risk of descending into fundamentalism; a Jewish life spent in constant flight, devoid of permanence, stability and collective obligation runs the risk of descending into vacuousness. We need to do both.

As for taking one step further, Jewish steps sometimes involve movement and sometimes involve standing still.  Rather like the amidah, that begins and ends with small steps forward and back, but necessitates standing perfectly still, they are strange like that.  And, in the midst of those moments between motion and stability, between seeking and dwelling, our Jewish journey moves on.

(Written for Limmud) 

Go Back

Ten years ago, in the midst of the Second Intifada and just a year after 9/11, I was asked to give a d’var torah (sermon) during the Kol Nidre service on Yom Kippur at New North London Synagogue. Ten years on, the world may have changed, but the ideas, I think, still stand. I am re-posting it here as some Yom Kippur reading, and in memory of the nine people murdered in the suicide bombing at the Frank Sinatra café at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem on 31 July 2002.


Just before Rosh Hashana last year, two young women – Marla Bennett and Amanda Pogany - both of whom were learning at Pardes Yeshiva in Jerusalem, sat down together to look over and learn the famous Unetaneh Tokef prayer. They read and re-read its famous words together: mi yichyeh u-mi yamut – who will live and who will die?; mi v’kitzo u-mi lo v’kitzo – who will die at their predestined time, and who before their time? Of course, for both Marla and Amanda – two young women in their twenties - the text must have been pretty metaphorical – this time of year is all about self-reflection, and developing a consciousness of one’s own mortality is a key part of that process.

This year, however, when Amanda looked again at the Unetaneh Tokef, it was all too real. Her friend Marla, aged just 24, was murdered in the bomb that went off in the Frank Sinatra cafeteria at the Hebrew University a few weeks ago. For her, and for all too many others, mi yichyeh u-mi yamut – who will live and who will die – has taken on an entirely different, and frighteningly real meaning this year.

During the yamim noraim – Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur – we are meant to feel a sense of fear and trepidation about our own futures. Much of the imagery surrounding this time of year pushes us to consider our own frailties, and in light of our immense weaknesses and shortcomings, demands of us that we reflect on our own behaviour and resolve to do teshuva – to return to the ways of God. On Yom Kippur, our life almost depends on it – the imagery of the closing gates during the Neilah service tomorrow as we seek desperately to be entered into the sefer chayim – the book of life – is immensely powerful and deeply awe-inspiring. Today, our task is to take a good long hard look at our selves, and to resolve to do more, to be more in the year to come.

But when I look ahead at the year to come, I cannot but help to feel a sense of anxiety and apprehension about it. The past year has been so full of terror and tragedy that it has become increasingly difficult to see beyond the horrific images that have littered our television screens. Two particular events stand out for me: the horrifying attack on the seder at the Park Hotel in Netanya, in which 29 people were murdered including several survivors of the Shoah; and the more recent attack at the Hebrew University, in which eight people were murdered, including a friend of several people in the community this evening – Marla Bennett. For me, there was something about both of these incidents that was somehow even worse than the countless terror attacks on restaurants and buses. I think it was the fact that these incidents were not simply random terror attacks on innocent civilians; they seemed instead to have much deeper and more insidious motive behind them. In the case of the Hebrew University, it was the notion that this was not just an attack on innocent people, it was an attack on values – on the values of learning, on educational pluralism, on cultural diversity that the university is so well known for. And in the case of the Netanya seder, it felt like an attack on Judaism itself, and the very notion of being able to practice Judaism in freedom, in our own homeland. I’m not sure that it is appropriate to pass comment on the legitimacy of the Palestinian cause, but there is no doubt in my mind that all suicide attacks are the ultimate chilul Hashem – the ultimate desecration of God’s name – and they can never, and should never be legitimised in any way, shape or form.

But, however wrong they may be, it seems almost inevitable that we’re not over this stage yet. In spite of the fairly sporadic coverage in the British media recently, incidents are still occurring on a daily basis. Perhaps most disturbingly, a couple of days before Rosh Hashana, the Israeli army intercepted a group of Palestinians attempting to bring a 600kg bomb into Israel. I don’t know a whole lot about bombs, but suffice it to say, the controlled blast, when the bomb was detonated, was heard 25 kilometres away. So when I reflect back on all of this and then think ahead to the year to come, I cannot help but feel that we are standing on the edge of an abyss, almost waiting for the next tragedy to unfold. It feels like it is no longer a question of whether it will happen, but rather just a question of when it will happen.

As each one of the tragedies unfolded over the past year, it was difficult not to feel that sickeningly raw sense of shock, bewilderment and outrage that is becoming all-too-familiar. My questions are always the same. What is this? How do we get out of this mess? How can we stop the bloodshed? How can we ensure that Israel survives this wave of unprecedented terror, not to mention the impending threats from Hizballah, Iraq, Iran, Syria? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything that I can do? The lack of vision that seems to exist at the moment is really frightening. Where on earth will we find the strength and courage required to ensure that the names of all those who ought to be inscribed in the Book of Life today, achieve their deepest and most profound wish?

These kinds of questions though, are not simply limited to the realm of Middle Eastern politics. They are also the kind of questions we ask in our personal lives – the kind of questions we often ask in times of personal and individual distress and tragedy. When we become seriously ill, when we lose a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a friend or a child, when our relationships and our marriages break down, we ask: what is this? How do I possibly get beyond this? How can I stop the suffering and the pain? How can I survive this? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything I can do?

These are also the questions of Yom Kippur. What are we? How do we transform our selves from what we are, to what we ought to be? How do we make the changes we all know we need to make in our lives, to enable us to live the kind of lives we all know that we have the potential to live? How do we become the kind of parents, the kind of spouses, grandparents, siblings, friends that we should be, that, if we genuinely put our minds to it, we could be? Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything that I can do?

In thinking about these questions, I was drawn to the story in Bereishit, in the Book of Genesis, that we read in shul at the very beginning of this ten-day process, on the first day of Rosh Hashana. The story begins after Hagar, Avraham’s concubine, and Yishmael, Hagar and Avraham’s son, have been banished to the desert by Sara, Avraham’s wife. Before long, Hagar and Yishmael find themselves lost in the wilderness of Be’er-sheva without any water. In a state of utter desperation and despair, Hagar places her young son Yishmael in the shade of a bush, in the full knowledge that he will die of thirst there, and then she distances herself from him, so she doesn’t have to witness his suffering. And she sits down, completely resigned to the tragedy that is about to unfold, weeping and wailing, and crying desperately to God.

And then, in the midst of this tragic scene, God hears Yishmael’s weeping and He intervenes, and He calms Hagar down with the reassurance that Yishmael is not about to die. God tells Hagar that Yishmael’s destiny remains unchanged: he is to be the father of a great nation. And then the text relays that “God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. And she went, and filled the skin with water, and gave to the boy to drink.”

I’m intrigued by this story. I’m intrigued because it’s a story that begins in a desperate place. There’s no hope. Death is imminent. There’s no way out. And yet, just a few pasukim later, just a few verses later, the story has changed to one that is infused with hope, optimism and the possibility of future greatness. It seems to me that this brief story may just have something to teach us about how to transform our own lives from a state of desperation to the possibility of future hope – both on an individual and very personal level, and on a collective, even global level.

Let’s look at the story a little more closely. At the beginning, Hagar is desperate. She is lost. Her son is about to die. She is weeping. There is no hope. Like the Netanya seder, like the Hebrew University cafeteria, like September 11, like those awful moments most of us have experienced in our personal lives at one time or another, it’s almost impossible to see even a glimmer of hope.

How does Hagar respond? She weeps. She wails. She beseeches God. From the text, Yishmael appears to weep too, although his crying is inaudible. So they both genuinely feel their pain and cry out to God. And it seems to me that this is an important part of the story – the tears, the expressions of genuine suffering, the physical and tangible images of pain, and the pleas for help. All of these things are important parts of the process of transformation – having the ability and the opportunity to express the pain that we feel when people are murdered in Israel, or when terror strikes at the heart of America, or when personal tragedies strike at the heart of our own lives, and then articulating our desperation in our prayers and our pleas for help. This appears to be stage one.

But of course the story doesn’t end there. It goes on. Hagar and Yishmael’s suffering is witnessed by God, and Hagar hears God’s voice. “What ails you Hagar? Fear not. For God has heard the voice of the child where he is. Get up, pick up the boy, and hold him in your hand, for I will make him a great nation.”

What’s happening here? For me, the critical factor is that Hagar is being reminded of God’s promise to make Yishmael a great nation. She’s being reminded that her life, that Yishmael’s life was not meant to end like this. She’s being reminded that the future could be different. That the future should be different. That the future will be different. Suddenly, there’s a vision, an alternative scenario, a new possibility. And now the tears dry up, as they often do when we begin to imagine new possibilities, when we begin to imagine new hopes and new dreams. So the second stage of the transformation process then, appears to be to recall the vision. To recall the idea on a collective level that when we think about the State of Israel, we’re not meant to instantly see images in our minds of tragedy, bloodshed and despair, but are rather meant to recall the beauty of the land, the vast achievements of our remarkable State, and the profound values and principles upon which it was built. We’re meant to recall the compelling and inspirational words of David Ben Gurion – that the State of Israel was to “prove itself not by material wealth, not by military might or technical achievement, but by its moral character and human values.” And, on a much more personal and individual level, it’s about reminding ourselves that our lives need not be as they currently are. That, at some point in our lives at least, we had real dreams for ourselves, we had genuine hopes and desires that we would be better people than we know we currently are. Recalling that vision of ourselves – a strong and compelling image of ourselves as the kind of people we ought to be – that’s the next step in the transformation process.

But then the visionary image alone isn’t enough. For Hagar, the vision enables her to see something that has been there all the time, but, in her despair, she has been unable to see thus far. She sees a water well. She sees a way out. She identifies a course of action that might just work. And for us, and for Israel, this too surely becomes a possibility from the moment we remind ourselves of the vision of what we could, of what we should, of what we must become. And the course of action that Hagar identifies is not complicated – all she has to do is get up, go to the well, draw some water, and give it to her son. So, I believe, it could be for Israel if the vision was a little clearer, and certainly so it can be in our own personal lives. The right course of action is often simple and obvious – in our heart of hearts we probably know what we have to do. It’s just that sometimes, even when the solution is staring us squarely in the face, we just can’t seem to take the small step that we know we need to take.

But that is what the fourth and final stage of the process demands of us. It wasn’t enough for Hagar to cry out to God in her despair. It wasn’t enough for her to recall the vision of Yishmael as the father of a great nation. It wasn’t even enough for her to, on the basis of that vision, to determine an appropriate course of action. To genuinely transform her situation, she had to do one more thing – she had to act. She had to actually get up, walk over to the well, draw the water, and give it to Yishmael to drink. And so it is with us. Israel needs to act, and we in our personal lives need to act. Until we do so, we have not completed the process. And yet this is often the hardest part – having the courage to act, when we are almost transfixed in fear by the possible implications of our actions – that’s really tough. Yet if we are to transform our situation, we have to do it. There is no other way.

At the end of the story, Yishmael is not a great nation. Actually, the Torah tells us simply that he grew up, lived in the desert, became a great archer, and got married. But the important thing about the story is that, in just five pasukim, in just five verses, we’ve witnessed a situation being transformed from one that is immersed in utter despair, to one that is infused with a profound sense of possibility. How did it happen? Hagar cried out to God in pain and anguish; Hagar recalled a different vision of an alternative future; on the basis of that vision she identified a course of action; and finally she took the critical steps that needed to be taken.

Put another way, Hagar used three devices that are extremely familiar to us. She prayed to and beseeched God – tefilla. She returned to the path and the vision that God had determined – teshuva. And she gave water to Yishmael to drink – tzedakah. And through these acts, she ma’avirin et ro’a ha-g’zerah - she averted the severity of the decree.

At certain times in our lives we can all feel a sense of fear or desperation, and perhaps more of us feel that at this moment than usual. For some, it may simply be a general sense of fear about the state of our world. For others it may be something small – the apprehensions associated with starting a new school, university, job, or life stage. For others it may be a much deeper sense of desperation – the fear of losing someone close to us, the fear of confronting a serious illness, the fear of a possible relationship or marriage break up. On Yom Kippur, all of these fears come into sharp focus, as we stand here in the presence of God, with all our frailties and weaknesses on display.

But the story of Hagar and Yishmael should remind us that we can transform our own lives. We need to cry and we need to pray. We also need to envision a different future for ourselves – a future in which we are part of a goy kadosh u-mamlechet kohanim – a holy nation and a kingdom of priests – and a future in which we are all, every single one of us, made b’tzelem Elohim – made in the image of God. And we need to identify, on the basis of the power of these revolutionary and visionary ideas, the small things that we can all do in our lives that will make a difference both to ourselves and to others around us. And then we need to act – to perform the type of simple and basic mitzvot or deeds that, over the course of time, have the power to change the world.

And perhaps this year, we are even more compelled to change our selves than usual. If we are standing on the brink of yet more destruction and devastation, it is surely even more incumbent upon us, every one of us, to repair our lives. Because if we don’t, who will? Our every deed matters, because our every deed has the potential, in its own small way, to affect change in the world.

I should add one final comment in parentheses. There is clearly something ironic about building a Yom Kippur message around a story about Hagar and Yishmael – two characters traditionally associated with Islam. And yet I do so unashamedly and unapologetically. I do so because the story teaches us both that we can learn from the texts of our own tradition, and that we can learn from individuals outside of our own tradition – even those we might regard as our enemies. But perhaps we can learn most from those who have been afflicted by tragedy. When a friend of Marla Bennett’s introduced herself to Marla’s mother at the funeral in San Diego, her mother, with great warmth in her words, said to her: “Go back to Israel next year. Don’t even think about not going back. Marla would have wanted you to go back. It would be a waste of Marla’s life and everything she stood for if you don’t go back.” If we are to transform our lives this year, we too must go back – to Israel, to Judaism, to our true inner selves – because that is the essence of teshuva – that is the true essence of Yom Kippur.

Red Chairs

Two weeks ago, in commemoration of the terrible 44-month long siege of Sarajevo that began exactly twenty years ago this month, 11,541 empty red chairs were lined up along Titova Street, Sarajevo's main thoroughfare, to symbolise the number of men, women and children killed by Bosnian Serbs during those long dark days. The images are extraordinarily powerful - the lines of chairs seem to go on and on, creating an image of a river of blood running through the heart of the city.

The siege of Sarajevo was only part of the Bosnian War; in total, an estimated 100,000 people lost their lives in the Balkan conflict. The Bosnian Serb policy of ethnic cleansing, and, in particular, the massacre of some 8,000 Muslim men and boys in Srebrenica, made it abundantly clear to the world that genocide did not end with the defeat of Nazism in 1945.

Two weeks on and it is Yom HaShoah, the day in the Jewish calendar when we commemorate the genocide perpetrated against us. Part of the philosophical and historical discourse that has surrounded the Shoah includes the question of uniqueness - whether the Holocaust represents a unique event in human history or not, and, if it does, what makes it so. In many respects, and perhaps particularly since the war in the Balkans, the debate seems perverse. What does it really matter? For the families of the victims of Sarajevo or Srebrenica, as for the families of the victims of Theresienstadt or Treblinka, the effects are no more or less horrific. The pain of such meaningless, cruel and incomprehensible loss is much the same. One empty red chair is one too many.

Yet today is Yom HaShoah, so my thoughts turn to the six million. And it occurs to me that the sheer scale of the Shoah does in some way mark it out from Bosnia. If one red chair is one too many, 11,541 red chairs is utterly unbearable. 100,000 red chairs is beyond comprehension. But six million red chairs? Six million? There are no words.

There is, however, an image. The 11,541 chairs in Sarajevo, laid out in 825 rows, stretched to almost an entire kilometre in length. But six million chairs laid out in the identical formation would require almost 430,000 rows, and would cover practically the entire length of the State of Israel, from Eilat in the south to a few kilometres short of Metulla on the Lebanese border. That is no exaggeration. It would extend that far.

(Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, begins at sundown on Wednesday 18 April)

Trust and Suspicion

It seems like the overarching story will run and run. As the UK's Jewish Chronicle uncovers incident after incident of Jewish individuals and organisations 'fraternizing with the enemy', the mutterings in opposition to its stance grow louder and louder. You can almost see the two sides drawing their swords, shaping up for battle, determined to prove at all costs the objective truth of their position. I don't think this is going to end well.

Perhaps, fundamentally, the issue is about the extent to which we view the world with suspicion or trust. It is undoubtedly possible to regard the organisation London Citizens with suspicion - there are, apparently, individuals involved who have said appalling things about Israel, and who have been associated with others who have said and advocated even worse. It is equally, if not even more possible to view the East London Mosque with suspicion - preachers expressing sentiments that are abhorrent to many within the Jewish community are clearly given a platform there.

However, London Citizens is not defined by extremist Islamists. Indeed, the vast majority of people who are involved have never spoken about Israel or Jews, and are more than happy to engage in dialogue with members of our community both for its own sake and for the benefit of the people of London. They are open to learning about Judaism and Jewish life, and interested to hear about our range of opinions about Israel. There is no reason to be suspicious of them, and every reason to trust. The East London Mosque is a more complex case, but even there, it is simply wrong to stereotype. We should be aware, for example, that construction work taking place at the mosque was stopped on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur so as not to disturb Jewish worshippers at the Fieldgate Street Great Synagogue, which backs onto it. Indeed, there are both members and trustees of the mosque who are genuinely open to engagement with Jews, and welcome the opportunity to do so; they are willing to listen to Jewish perspectives, and appreciate the chance to discuss Israel. In the course of discussion, we may not always agree, but we may come closer to an appreciation and understanding of one another's narratives, and, in this way, add an important human dimension to what is so often a fractious and damaging political debate.

On the spectrum of suspicion and trust, the JC seems to sit closest to the suspicion end. They are not wrong to choose to sit there; certainly there is much about which to be suspicious, and there are genuine dangers lurking for Jews which we would be naive and foolish to ignore. However, the questions are: to what extent should we allow that suspicion to cloud all of our interactions with others? To what extent should we feel compelled to do our due diligence on everyone and anyone, just in case they may have associated with an unsavoury individual at some point in the past? To what extent should we assume the worst about people until they prove to us the opposite? In short, how suspicious do we really need to be?

One reading of our recent past would argue we should be highly suspicious. It would point to the Shoah, Arab states' history of seeking to delegitimize and destroy Israel, two Palestinian intifadas, 9/11, 7/7 and Iran's determined efforts to secure nuclear weapons, and conclude that we have no choice but to be. However, an alternative reading of our recent past would highlight the facts that we live at a time in which an All-Party Parliamentary Group Against Antisemitism exists and has published a ground-breaking and highly influential report on the issue, a high profile Holocaust denial trial has been fought and won, Holocaust Memorial Day has become part of the UK's annual calendar, learning about the Holocaust has become an established part of the national curriculum, and a controversial decision to provide a platform for the leader of the BNP on the popular TV programme Question Time, resulted in him being ridiculed and humiliated. Viewed from a historical perspective, ours is almost certainly the most accepted and socially-integrated generation in all of Jewish history.

It is possible, indeed it is entirely legitimate, to read our contemporary circumstances in this way, and to situate ourselves on the 'trust' side of the spectrum. That is the side that Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg naturally leans towards – perhaps even feels compelled to lean towards – and I love him for it. It is what allows him to continually invite people into his home, to constantly reach out to those in need both within and beyond his community, and to actively seek out opportunities to engage across political and religious divides. It is what drove him to write to the Chairman of an Orthodox synagogue in his neighbourhood at a time of particular difficulty and sadness within that community, simply to say he was thinking of them. It is what spurred him on during his recent fundraising walk from Frankfurt to London (yes - you read that right - he walked), when he stopped off numerous times on his journey to meet with Christian leaders to discuss with them, in impeccable German, how to heal the centuries-old rifts in Christian-Jewish and German-Jewish relations. It's why he recently wrote to Stephen Lawrence's parents, Doreen and Neville, to let them know that there are people within the Jewish community who feel their pain, and support and respect the tremendous courage and dignity they have shown in their pursuit of justice. And it's what motivates him to be part of London Citizens. It provides a framework for him to genuinely engage with others many of us rarely bother to meet - people from different socio-economic backgrounds, people from different ethnic backgrounds, and yes, even the odd Moslem or two. In each and every one of these instances, there was a possibility that his good intentions may have been spurned or used, and no doubt they have been on several occasions, but how much poorer would our community, indeed our world be, without his profound belief in the good of humankind? If that makes him a “useful idiot,” I aspire to such useful idiocy.

Trust and suspicion are both human imperatives; they are not either/ors. Ultimately, a balance appropriate to the circumstances needs to be struck between them. The wholly suspicious individual values safety above everything, and therefore never engages with anyone outside her closest circle for fear of what may happen, and remains eternally isolated. In her apprehension, she sees only the dangers of caricatures and stereotypes, and loses the opportunity to expand her horizons beyond her warm, all-embracing and protected shell. In contrast, the wholly trustful individual values relationship above everything, and pursues those blindly despite the inherent risks, engaging with everyone and anyone in an on-going and possibly naive pursuit of redemption. In his openness, he sees just human beings, and seeks to build bridges, even when those with whom he is trying to engage are simultaneously blowing those bridges up. It is the rare individual who sits at the extremities of the spectrum, and none of the characters writing, or being written about in the JC situate themselves there; they, and most of us, are more than aware of the foolishness of doing so. But each of us must find our place on that truth/suspicion spectrum; each of us must determine how we are to balance these two imperatives of human existence. And if we find ourselves leaning in one direction or the other, we should listen carefully to the voices on the other side. As my teacher and friend Yonatan Ariel said recently: “You will rob people of the richness of the educational grappling if you don’t bring a range of views to bear. There are idiots on the other side that disagree with you, but I promise you there are also smart people. And I promise you too there are idiots on your side, whatever your side is.”

As for me, fundamentally I choose to situate myself alongside the trusting and inspiring presence of Rabbi Wittenberg, whilst ensuring too that I read the editorial line of the JC from time-to-time. I am no longer young enough to know whether that is the ‘right’ thing to do. But I don't want to live in a world of suspicion, nor do I feel it is necessary to do so. Whilst I fully acknowledge the importance of protecting the interests and security of the community, I don't want my Judaism to be constantly on the defensive. It is possible to play the game by putting everyone behind the ball, but it offers no guarantees and it severely hampers our chances of scoring any goals. And I want a goal-oriented Judaism that is committed to affecting change for the better, determined in its efforts to build a better world, dedicated in its pursuit of justice not just for Jews, but for all humanity. That, I'm afraid, involves taking some risks. Perhaps the most important question facing the Jewish People today is whether or not we are courageous enough to do so?

Tears for Gilad Shalit and Israel

Sometimes it is just too hard to hold back the tears. Like during the unetaneh tokef of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur when contemplating the simple words “who will live and who will die; who at their predestined time and who not at their predestined time” and trying to come to terms with our extraordinary vulnerability. Or while singing hayom harat olam after hearing the blasts of the shofar on Rosh Hashana – “today is the day of the world’s creation” – and trying to behold just how beautiful our world can sometimes be. Or when watching our young children’s sheer delight on entering the sukkah for the first time and seeing the world for an all too brief moment through their eyes.

And then there is Gilad Shalit’s release. It’s impossible to imagine what he has endured for the past five years and four months since his capture. It seems that he was treated well and has returned in good physical health, but the psychological scars inflicted by living in near solitary confinement and in the knowledge that his life hung in the balance every single moment are just too much to contemplate. What his parents must have been through too is simply unimaginable – to have your own child taken away from you in that way and to live with the constant possibility of tragic news is too horrendous for words. I could not hold back the tears this morning upon hearing the news that he had been safely released; I have never met him or any members of his family, but the relief and gratitude I feel upon his return overwhelms every other emotion. Gilad Shalit is free.

I am aware, of course, that there is another side to his release. 1,027 Palestinian prisoners are also being released, over one hundred of whom are hard core militants. Amongst them include the perpetrator of the Park Hotel bombing in Netanya, who was given 29 life sentences for his despicable crime, as well as many others who contributed to similar atrocities. The tears shed by the friends and families of the victims of these attacks are immeasurable. Not surprisingly, the details of those being released and the 1027:1 ratio has been the cause of much debate and considerable anger in Israel. There can be no doubt whatsoever that the risks involved in this deal are huge; it seems not only likely but probable that Israelis will lose their lives as a result of it. And this is not an isolated incident; Haaretz journalist Bradley Burston notes that the overall ratio in these prisoner exchange deals now stands at 13,509:16.

I have watched the debate from the sidelines for the past week, partly in the media and partly via friends’ postings on Facebook. And amidst all the relief, the anger, the joy, the vengefulness and the often sickening way in which people engage with one another online, I am struck most by the casual nature of discourse about “us” and “them” and “life” and “death”. Some have chosen to quote Hasan Nasrallah’s infamous line – “the Jews love life and we love death” as proof text of the inhumanity of “them”. A dialogue included the insight that whereas “life is cheap for them”, “life is dear to us”. One person almost gleefully noted that even Hamas agrees that 1000 terrorists = 1 Israeli life. Another called for a law to be made now: “for every Israeli kidnapped, we will execute 1,000 terrorists”. Many have called for the death penalty to be instituted in Israel for terrorist acts. And arguably the quote of the week comes from former IDF Chief Rabbi Avihai Rontzki who stated the terrorists like those who killed members of the Fogel family “should just be shot, exterminated. They were terrorists that murdered people and should be killed in their beds". If this is the voice of a Jewish moral authority deserving the title “Chief Rabbi” of anything, then I cry tears of despair for Israel’s future that vastly outweigh any emotions I feel for Gilad Shalit and his family.

There is a culture of death that exists in parts of Islam and the Arab world. It is not all pervasive, it is held only by a small minority, but it is there. There is no question about that. But there is an imperative that sits at the heart of Judaism that holds the opposite position that should be repeated and repeated and repeated again: "I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that both you and your seed may live." We cannot change others; only they can do that. But we can live up to the core principles of Judaism – that life trumps death. Every time, in every instance.

I don’t deny for one minute the difficulties that entails sometimes. “Choose life that both you and your seed may live” is not always a simple proposition. But we choose life. That is who we are. We don’t kill people in their beds. We don’t indiscriminately kill 1,000 people, irrespective of who they are and what they have done. And we don’t institute the death penalty. Why? Because we choose life. Every time, in every instance.

If we struggle to hold back the tears of joy we feel on seeing the sheer delight of our own children at play, if we struggle to hold back the tears of anguish we feel as we contemplate the enormity of the words of unetaneh tokef and the vulnerability of our lives, if we struggle to hold back the tears of relief we feel on seeing Gilad Shalit returned to his family, we have no right to deny others the opportunity to shed similar tears. Indeed, we have a responsibility to ensure that our belief in life compels us to guarantee those rights at all times, not just for us, but for all humanity.

In the first interview with Gilad Shalit after his release, he said he missed three things during his captivity – family, friends and freedom. When push comes to shove, they are all that matter. May his release cause us to renew our commitment to ensure that all people – Israelis, Palestinians, and all humanity – are entitled and able to live their lives with these three immeasurable gifts that were denied to him for so long.

Exams and jobs the key concerns: Reflections on the National Jewish Student Survey

It is difficult to avoid the impression that British universities are a hotbed of anti-Israel sentiment to be approached with considerable caution. The issue has even caught the attention of Matthew Gould, Britain's ambassador to Israel, who has questioned the validity of the hypothesis, and noted that it is deterring Israeli students from studying here.

Our research provides, for the first time, the students' eye view on the issue. In addition to the study of Jewish students, JPR ran a parallel survey of students in general and learned that a majority of those at British universities actually have no feelings either way about Israel. They are neither pro nor anti; they are indifferent.

Of the remainder with an opinion, they are evenly split: half have negative feelings, and half have positive feelings. Only four per cent are "very negative". This supports Israeli ambassador to Britain Daniel Taub's assertion that the impression created by anti-Israel campaigns "is disproportionate to the size and the core of people that are involved".

It may also explain why relatively few Jewish students are worried about the issue: whereas 76 per cent are concerned about passing exams and 69 per cent about finding a job,
38 per cent are worried about anti-Israel sentiment at university. Furthermore, the vast majority are open about their Jewishness on campus.

So while we would be wrong to minimise the issue of anti-Israel sentiment, not least because Jewish students report that it is difficult to talk about Israel at university without inviting some degree of "grief", we should also put it into perspective.

The question of how anti-Israel hostility is reported and tackled is important. The community should be aware of the issues, and those tasked with combating it should be given the support they require to succeed.

However, it should not dominate our view, not least because over-emphasising it appears to be affecting the Jewish identities of this young generation.

They exhibit considerably higher levels of commitment to supporting Israel or combating antisemitism than they do to charitable giving, volunteering or supporting social justice causes, all positive Jewish values of which we, as a people, are rightly proud.

One wonders whether all the apprehension and negativity is causing us to lose sight of the most important questions: who are we, and what contribution should we be making, both to the Jewish and wider world?


(Also published in the Jewish Chronicle)

What kind of Jewish grandchildren will we have?

Almost twenty years ago, the Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks published a book with a title that asked a provocative and era-defining question: “Will we have Jewish grandchildren?” His work helped to launch an enormous programme of investment in Jewish education in Britain. Since then, Jewish day school enrolment in the mainstream sector has increased by almost 30%, participation in Israel Experience summer tours has averaged at over 1,000 Jewish sixteen year-olds each year, and the community as a whole has witnessed a renaissance of activity that has transformed much of its educational and cultural landscape.

However, twenty years on, we still do not know the answer to his question, and we will have to wait a few more decades before we do. Indeed, one of the great frustrations about education is how difficult it is to evaluate its effects; whilst one can measure knowledge levels, assessing the long-term impact of any educational intervention is a much more complex endeavour. Nevertheless, one of the most important contributions of JPR’s National Jewish Student Survey (NJSS) is that it provides us with some early indicators of how valuable all the investment has been. It may not tell us directly whether or not we will have Jewish grandchildren, but it provides some strong hints to help answer the interim question: will we have Jewish children?

Today’s Jewish students were born when the Chief Rabbi was developing his ideas and beginning to write them up. They have grown up in a Jewish communal environment heavily shaped by his agenda. Indeed, as a cohort, they have probably had more invested in their Jewish development than any previous group in British Jewish history.

So, what is the verdict? In many respects, the news is good. The vast majority of Jewish students feel comfortable with their Jewish identity, and they are open about it on campus. Most have positive feelings about Israel and exhibit a strong sense of Jewish peoplehood. Whilst their levels of Jewish practice diminish a little when they are at university, the shift is not dramatic; they are certainly not displaying signs of throwing away Jewish ritual practice at the first opportunity. Many have wide Jewish social networks and actively choose to live with other Jews when given the chance. In fact, their Jewish profile is strikingly similar to their parents, so if continuity is the long-term goal, the early signs look quite positive.

However, there are aspects of the students’ identity that have raised some eyebrows. Perhaps the most striking is that, despite all the Jewish educational investment in their generation, almost half does no voluntary work for Jewish or non-Jewish charities. Of those who do volunteer, most only do so once a month or less. Furthermore, over a third of Jewish students polled disagreed with the ideas that being Jewish is about volunteering, or donating to charity or supporting social justice causes.

What this suggests is that whilst the messages about Israel and Jewish peoplehood have been heard loud and clear, the notion that being Jewish requires one to make a personal contribution to Jewish and wider society has simply not been internalized to the same extent. It is as if the Judaism they have received has given clear primacy to the campaigning messages of supporting Israel and combating antisemitism over and above the fundamental values-driven behaviours that sit at the heart of Jewish practice.

We should be concerned about this for several reasons. First, it seems likely that young people’s Jewish identities are being shaped more by the negative forces that seek to do damage to the Jewish People than by Judaism’s own positive internal value system. Second, the apparent failure of some young people to understand their individual responsibility to contribute should give pause for thought to those who will rely on this group’s generosity in the future. However, third, and perhaps most important, it raises questions about the nature of this group’s understanding of Jewishness itself. Who are we if we are not actively committed to tikkun olam (repairing the world)? Whilst we may well be on the way towards having Jewish grandchildren, a more pressing question today is what kind of Jewish grandchildren are we going to have?


(Also published in the Jewish News, 6 October 2011)

Home and Away: Jewish journeys towards independence

JPR's latest report - based on the National Jewish Student Survey that was carried out in February and March this year. Aside from the findings themselves, it positions JPR where I think it ought to be - producing data on issues that are of direct importance to the UK Jewish community, and trying to offer open-ended commentary and questions designed to encourage debate.

Ki Tavo

“My father was a wandering Aramean, and he went down to Egypt and sojourned there with a small number of people, and there he became a great, mighty and populous nation. And the Egyptians ill-treated us and afflicted us, and they imposed hard labour upon us. So we cried out to the Lord God, God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil and our oppression. And the Lord brought us out from Egypt with a strong hand and with an outstretched arm, with great awe, and with signs and wonders. And He brought us to this place, and He gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.”

The Torah tells us that it was this text that we were required to recite at the moment we presented one of the kohanim with the first fruits of our harvest. Why this one? Of all the other obvious possibilities – Sh’ma Yisrael, aseret ha-dibrot – why this text?

In his remarkable book, Zachor, the Jewish historian, Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi z”l, calls this text “capsule history.” In effect, it takes the entire story of the Jewish People, and encapsulates it in just five verses. It deals with our origins, our development as a people, our history of persecution, our deliverance from slavery and our connection with God and the land of Israel. In short, it tells us who we are.

It does all this in an intriguing way. This is not history as we typically understand it today – there is no attempt to analyze historical events in order to establish their veracity or reconstruct precisely what happened to the Jewish People. There’s no detail, no evidence, no data. Instead, it is more accurately characterized as “collective memory” – it is our mythic narrative or shared story. And myths don’t need detail or evidence or data – their purpose is less concerned with truth and fact than it is with identity and purpose.

So, at that moment of great relief and gratitude – a moment when, after months of anxiety, we knew for certain that we would be able to put food on the table to feed our families – we were required to take our first fruits to the Temple and make a public declaration of our identity and purpose. At that moment of satiation, we had to acknowledge that they were not a given. It is as if the Torah recognizes that this was a particularly vulnerable moment for us – a time when the potential for us to forget ourselves and succumb to the ideas that we have control over nature and our needs come first. In order to counteract any such possibility, we were required to remember our origins, our story, and what we had been given by the grace of God.

Our lives today are littered with many similar vulnerable moments when we might forget ourselves. We have so much – personally, communally and nationally. Perhaps most significantly, as a People, we have the State of Israel, and located in the context of history, we have only very recently reaped that particular harvest. Yet so many of us forget ourselves – some forget just what a remarkable gift it is; others forget what it felt like to be ill-treated and afflicted, and that we were given it too by the grace of God. In Temple times, we had this text and custom as a device to counteract any such lapses in memory; what we wouldn’t do for a similar tool today.


(Also published in Reflections)

Child poverty and deprivation in the British Jewish community

JPR published its report on child poverty and deprivation today. To download it, click here.

Limmud: The Exception That Disproves the Rules

There are rules in education. We all know them. Teachers should be trained, qualified and have proven expertise in their field. Students should be guided carefully through a coherent curriculum, and assessed to measure their progress. Content should be divided up logically into disciplines, and determined by recognized authorities. And the entire endeavour should be driven by a vision of an ideal end product – a strong and compelling portrait of the model graduate.

In most instances, Jewish education has assimilated these rules hook, line and sinker. In day schools, universities, adult education initiatives and even summer camps, they exist in force. All Jewish teachers should be qualified; all Jewish students should learn a coherent and organized Jewish studies curriculum; all Jewish texts should be interpreted by Jewish authorities. And all Jewish educational institutions should have a clear and compelling notion of “the educated Jew,” an idealized picture of the type of Jew their institution seeks to mould.

But there is one exception at least, in the world of Jewish adult education, that does things differently and may be rewriting the Jewish educational rule book. Limmud.

From its modest beginnings thirty years ago as a rather amateurish and hastily thrown together conference for a small group of Jewish educators in Britain, Limmud has blossomed into an international network of activity capturing Jewish hearts and minds in over fifty Jewish communities on five continents. Limmud now reaches an estimated 35,000 people every year, attracts some of the most acclaimed Jewish thinkers, artists and activists in the world, and appears to have hit on a unique Jewish educational formula that, somehow, just seems to work.

Viewed simply, a Limmud event is a festival of Jewish life and learning. It is organized almost exclusively by volunteers, it may take place over one day or several, it offers a rich multiplicity of sessions at any moment of any day, and it provides a fabulous opportunity for anybody attending to learn from anybody presenting. Yet this simple description offers little to explain what Limmud represents, and how it may be altering the Jewish world.

Limmud’s tagline – “Wherever you are going, Limmud will take you one step further along your Jewish journey” – is a remarkable statement in two connected respects. First, it instantly establishes an expectation of movement. For Limmud, standing still as a Jew is not an option. However you understand your Jewishness today, that understanding should be challenged and enriched on a continual basis. That principle is applied equally to young and old, as it is to the most and the least learned. Without ever saying this explicitly, one of Limmud’s messages is: No one alone knows the whole Truth. Truths can be found from multiple people in multiple places. Go seek them out.

Second, Limmud does not espouse a particular destination for “your Jewish journey.” No authority figure is telling you – implicitly or explicitly – what specific type of Jew you should become. Unlike most Jewish educational institutions which actively aspire for their students to become more observant, or intellectual, or liberal, or conservative, Limmud simply offers Jews a chance – on their own terms – to become more Jewish. In effect it says: You’re an adult. You know better than us what interests you and what you find meaningful. We trust you. So we’ll create a space within which you will find the most interesting and diverse buffet of Jewish experiences, and invite you to partake. Choose whatever you want. We know your plate won’t resemble anyone else’s. That’s fine. People have different needs and interests. Oh, and we’d love you to bring your own dish to the next buffet so that you can share part of yourself, as others have shared part of themselves this time.

Contrary to the argument of some of its critics, there is nothing parve or bland about this. Indeed, in articulating its mission in this way, Limmud is making a profoundly empowering statement about the future of Jewish life. It is saying: Jewish life is not determined by others. Jewish life is determined by us. Let’s work together, give of ourselves, and make it the way it is meant to be.

Expressed slightly differently, Limmud is offering Jews an opportunity to create and live within Jewish community as they believe Jewish community should be. It is a supremely democratic model of Jewish education: power rests with the community rather than with any singular authority. In a Limmud community, no one is formally defined as “teacher” or “student,” because everyone has something to teach and everyone has something to learn. No one is explicitly categorized as “Orthodox,” “Reform,” “Secular” or “Religious” because people are more complex than that and labels might create barriers that restrict the possibility of dialogue and free engagement. No formal curriculum or linear learning process is set, because adults should be free to determine their own learning, and trusted to seek meaning wherever they might find it. No one determines the singular correct meaning of any text, because everyone is free to interpret every text. And no one is held in particularly high regard because of the size of their financial donation, because everyone who gives something of themselves should be held in equally high regard.

These are challenging ideas. They threaten existing authority. They undermine power bases. They break down walls. And they re-write the Jewish educational rule book. Here’s to thirty more years of the same.


(Also published in The Jerusalem Report)

Parshat Shoftim

In Parshat Va'etchanan, which we read a few weeks ago, there is a rather strange short interlude in the narrative just before the repetition of the ten commandments, which describes how Moses established "cities of refuge" – places to where the accidental killer can flee and gain sanctuary.

I have often wondered whether the placement of this text is entirely deliberate: the only one of the ten commandments of which Moses himself was actually guilty was lo tirtzach - thou shalt not murder - and after he killed the nameless Egyptian and buried him in the sand, he himself fled to Midian to seek refuge. Some may regard Moses’s violent act as heroic - indeed, it is often portrayed as such - but was Moses haunted by it for his entire life? Did he in some way equate, on the grounds of his belief in the pursuit of justice, his own deliberate killing with an accidental one? And did he, at this critical moment just before reiterating the ten commandments, seek compassion and understanding for his own transgression of one of the laws he was about to decree?

It may be that this week's parsha, Shoftim, adds some fuel to this idea, as it refers once again to the cities of refuge, and includes the famous dictum tzedek tzedek tirdof (justice, justice, shall you pursue). Moreover, parshat shoftim is always read on the first Shabbat of the month of Elul – traditionally the period of reflection and repentance leading up to yamim noraim (the High Holy Days). Indeed, there is a beautiful Chassidic idea that draws a parallel between the cities of refuge and Elul – the former being a sanctuary in space for contemplation and atonement, the latter being a similar sanctuary in time. So at this very particular juncture in the Jewish year, the notions of a sanctuary in time, accidental wrongdoing, and the pursuit of justice coalesce in an intriguing and challenging way, and invite us to steady ourselves on the path to teshuva (repentance).

According to the Rambam, the pathway to a physical city of refuge is meant to be as clear as possible. In the Mishneh Torah, he writes that "the court is obligated to straighten the roads to the cities of refuge, to repair them and broaden them. They must remove all impediments and obstacles ... bridges should be built [over all natural barriers] so as not to delay one who is fleeing [to a city of refuge]. 'Refuge' should be written at every crossroads so that the murderers should recognize the way and turn there." The Chassidic parallel above perhaps leads to a similar conclusion about the temporal refuge that is Elul. Justice in this instance would be for us to clear and repair every possible route to allow those who have done wrong – whether accidentally or deliberately – to be given some respite and a little sanctuary in order to reflect on, and make amends for their actions. We would often like others to make it as easy as possible for us to apologise for our own misdemeanours; but are we making it as easy as possible for them to do likewise for theirs?

Elul is a signpost at a crossroads in our lives. Judaism gives us this brief window in the year to clear the pathways towards our own atonement, and that of others. Many of us live, as perhaps Moses did, under the various weights of misdemeanours committed long ago that were never resolved, and with a longstanding wish for compassion and understanding for that wrongdoing. Now is the time to clear away all the existing impediments and build all the necessary bridges towards achieving those resolutions. Doing so may just bring a little more justice to the world.

(Also published by Limmud).

The Writing on the Wall

On the face of it, the news coming in from the UK is pretty good. A survey published last week by JPR, the London-based Institute for Jewish Policy Research, showed that 90% of Jews in Britain believe that Israel is “the ancestral homeland of the Jewish people,” 82% consider Israel to play an important, and even central role in their Jewish identities, and 72% categorize themselves as Zionists, in contrast to only 21% who do not. Furthermore, an estimated 95% of Jews in Britain have visited Israel at least once, 77% agree that Jews have “a special responsibility to support Israel” and 87% agree that Jews are responsible for ensuring “the survival of Israel.”

The report, entitled Committed, concerned and conciliatory: The attitudes of Jews in Britain towards Israel, is the result of the most extensive and definitive research ever conducted on this topic, and in its exploration of some of the political views of the Jewish population of Britain, it contains findings that will warm the hearts of those both on the left and the right of the political spectrum. The dovishness of the community comes across very clearly: 67% favour giving up territory for peace; 74% are opposed to the expansion of existing settlements in the West Bank, and perhaps most strikingly, 52% think that Israel “should negotiate with Hamas in its efforts to achieve peace.” However, at the same time, the hawkishness of the community is also apparent: 72% consider the separation fence/security barrier “vital for Israel’s security” and the same percentage viewed Operation Cast Lead as “a legitimate act of self-defence.” Furthermore, fully 87% of respondents believe that “Iran represents a threat to Israel’s existence.”

We struggled with how to interpret this combination of dovishness and hawkishness when we were initially analyzing the data, but on reflection, came to the conclusion that, in many respects, the apparent paradox captures perfectly the nature of Israel’s ongoing dilemma. The peace versus security equation needs to be balanced on a daily basis; most overtures towards peace involve taking risks on security, and most clamp-downs on security involve damaging prospects for peace. What Jews in Britain are saying – in much the same way as Israelis are saying – is that we want both.

The findings were greeted positively by the British Jewish community’s best known newspaper, the Jewish Chronicle, which ran with the headline “UK Jewish bond with Israel as strong as ever.” Whilst it is distinctly possible to read the data in that way, my personal view is that there are signs of considerable disquiet in the findings, which indicate that all is not quite as rosy as some would like to believe.

Consider the following. In our investigation of the state of Israeli society, 67% agree that there is “too much corruption in Israel’s political system.” Approximately 6 out of 10 believe that both Jewish and non-Jewish minorities in Israel “suffer from discrimination.” Three-quarters think that “Orthodox Judaism has too much influence in Israel’s society” and that includes, surprisingly perhaps, almost half of those who self-define as “Religious.” Each of these findings suggests that a majority of Jews in Britain is looking at these aspects of Israeli society and struggling in some way to reconcile the realities they see with the values they believe ought to underpin a Jewish state. Perhaps it is the allegations against Ehud Olmert or Moshe Katzav, perhaps it is the growing alienation of Arab Israelis, perhaps it is the stranglehold Orthodox authorities have over the conversion process, but whatever the reason, it is clear that these types of difficult issues are leading some Jews in Britain to view Israel through quite critical eyes.

There’s more. A clear majority considers Israel to be “an occupying power in the West Bank.” 40% do not think that Israeli control of the West Bank is vital for Israel’s security. 43% do not believe that Israel has “little or no choice in most of the military action it takes.” And one-third thinks that Israel holds either as much responsibility – or even more responsibility – for the failures of the peace process than its neighbours.

To date, none of this appears to be eating away at the foundations of the relationship Jews in Britain have with Israel. On the fundamentals, the support is still overwhelming. But below the surface, there is evidence to suggest that a significant number of people are starting to ask some probing questions. One can only guess at what the long-term impact will be, but we should not rule out the possibility that the currently strong foundations might begin to crumble in the years to come. Right now, Jews in Britain remain deeply tied to Israel; the future, however, looks far less certain.


(This article was also published in The Jerusalem Post)