The 97th Anniversary of the Chevron Massacre

They were the first group of American Yeshiva students to go to learn in Israel, but it wasn’t exactly the experience that students seek out and anticipate today. It was the 1920s, and thirsting for an authentic Torah experience, they traveled to the ancient holy city of Chevron from cities as far away as Seattle, Memphis, Philadelphia, and Chicago. It was a difficult journey that entailed various trains, ships, and even donkeys to reach their final destination. There were several dozen of these “Yankees,” with names like Benny and Dave and Billy and Jackie who joined together with the Rebbeim and Talmidim of the Slabodka Yeshiva after it moved from Lithuania to Israel in 1924. Their European-born counterparts were impressive scholars; personalities like Reuven Trop, Yaakov Moshe Leibowitz, Mordechai Schulman, Chaim Zev Finkel, and Yitzchak Varshover (Hutner). Though the American and the European boys came from vastly different backgrounds, Torah was the great unifier and the common language that transcended other differences. So is, unfortunately, hate and destruction. Just five years later the entire Yeshivah, along with the Jewish community of Chevron, was evacuated following a horrific pogrom on Shabbat morning Parshas Eikev, the 18^th of Av (today on the Jewish calendar) 1929, in which 67 Jews were slaughtered and close to a hundred others injured. Of the 24 students of the Slabodka Yeshiva murdered in the massacre, eight of them were Americans. Historians debate the exact beginning of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Some go as far back as the conflict between Avraham’s two sons, Yitzchak and Yishmael. Others start the modern conflict with the founding of the State of Israel in 1948. One event often overlooked is the 1929 massacre of Jews in Chevron. That event is the focus of journalist Yardena Schwartz’s recent book, Ghosts of a Holy War. Schwartz opens her historical narrative with the tragic tale of David Shainberg, an idealistic, 22-year-old American Jew from a secular family who leaves a comfortable existence in his hometown of Memphis in 1928 to study in a yeshiva in Chevron. Access to an extensive set of letters Shainberg had sent home (letters that sat untouched in a family attic for decades) enables Schwartz to vividly describe life in Mandatory Palestine. She details Shainberg’s unlikely journey, his passion for Torah study and his magical time in Chevron until it all crashed down in August 1929. Schwartz spares no details in her account of the grisly Arab attacks on Chevron’s Jewish community and of the belated and poor response of British Mandate officials. She writes, “3,000 Muslim men armed with swords, axes, and daggers marched through the Jewish quarter of Hebron,” killing 67 Jews, traumatizing hundreds and causing the 800-strong Jewish community to flee to Jerusalem.

In 1931, 31 Jewish families returned to Chevron and reestablished the community. This effort was short-lived, and in April 1936, fearing another massacre, the British authorities evacuated the community. During the 1948 War of Independence, Chevron was captured by Jordan, and the ancient city remained without any Jewish residents. In 1967 Chevron was redeemed by the IDF in the Six Day War.  On April 4, 1968, a group of Jews registered at the Park Hotel in the city. The next day they announced that they had come to reestablish Hebron’s Jewish community. After an initial period of deliberation, Prime Minister Levi Eshkol temporarily moved the group into a nearby IDF compound, while a new community, Kiryat Arba, was built adjacent to Chevron. The Jewish community in Chevron itself was reestablished permanently in April 1979, when a group of Jews from Kiryat Arba moved into Beit Hadassah. Since then the Jewish community of Chevron has suffered many terror attacks, but through it all they have shown tremendous commitment to never again abandon the City of our Matriarchs and Patriarchs. We had the opportunity earlier this year to hear Yishai Fleischer speak passionately about Chevron, and I encourage everyone who visits Israel to visit Chevron. One easy way to do so is by joining the weekly tour of Chevron that leaves from Jerusalem and is organized by the Hebron Fund. Today, Shabbat Parshat Ekev, the 97^th anniversary of the Chevron massacre is a good time for us to think about how much has changed since then (Jewish State and Chevron now under Jewish sovereignty) and how much has remained the same (murderous hatred of Jews exhibited by Arabs, a world indifferent to Jewish suffering). In Sefer Devarim Moshe reminds us that the arc of Jewish history is long. It includes many detours, roadblocks and trials. But it ultimately leads to a day on which The Jewish People thrive in their homeland. We are grateful for the progress that has been made since 1929, and we pray and do our part towards the fulfillment of Hashem’s promise and of our dreams.

 

Nechama Through Change in Perspecrive

he Talmud in Makkot tells us that Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Akiva were walking in Jerusalem. Upon reaching Mount Scopus, they saw a fox emerging from the Kodesh Ha-Kodashim. The rabbis were crying while Rabbi Akiva laughed. They asked him, “Akiva! How can you laugh at a time like this? The Beit HaMikdash is in ruins!”

Rabbi Akiva replied, “How can I laugh?! How can you cry?”

They countered, “The Holy of Holies - that could never be entered except by the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur - is now a fox’s den. How can we not weep?”

“That is exactly why I laugh,” answered Rabbi Akiva. “If Uriah’s prophecy of a destroyed and barren Jerusalem can be fulfilled, then I am confident that so, too, Zechariah’s vision of a restored Jerusalem will also be fulfilled.”

The rabbis then declared, “Akiva nichamtanu, Akiva nichamtanu – Akiva, you have comforted us.”

Rabbi Akiva laughed in the face of tragedy because he realizes that consolation will ultimately come. What is difficult to understand is why the rabbis are comforted. What kind of solace is there, when the pain is so intense and so deep, to know that there will be a redemption? For that matter, how does nechama work? We read this morning, “Nachamu, nachamu ami – be comforted, my people.” So begins the shiva d’n’chemta – the seven Haftorahs of consolation that we will read until Rosh Hashanah. They are eloquent and powerful words of encouragement, and they come to strengthen our belief in an ultimate redemption, but how is this supposed to provide comfort?

Nechama is an important concept for Jews. Nichum aveilim, comforting mourners,  is a very important mitzvah. There is an organization called Nechama which is dedicated to sending volunteers to trouble spots to help those who are suffering. But what exactly is Nechama?

A look at the term throughout Tanach and in the story of Rabbi Akiva offers us guidance as to what a Jew can hope for in times of sadness, tragedy, or pain. The very first time it is used is in Parshat Bereishit (6:6):

וינחם ה' כי עשה את האדם בארץ, ויתעצב אל לבו.

If we were to translate this using the word comfort, it would read that God was consoled by the fact that He created man, and His heart was saddened. Rather, we should translate the verse as, “And God reconsidered having made man on earth, and He had heartfelt sadness.”

Nechama is not necessarily about feeling better. Even our usage of the traditional expression of consolation, “HaMakom yenachem eschem besoch she’ar avaylei Tzion vi’Yerishalayim,” which we often translate as, “May God comfort and console you among all of us who mourn for Zion and Jerusalem,” is not only about comfort.

Nechama is about a change in perspective. It represents reaching a place, mentally or emotionally, where the individual recognizes that the current reality cannot be the permanent one. God recognized that his initial creation of mankind required adjustment. We encourage the mourner that she or he should, and hopefully will, find perspective in the aftermath of the loss of their loved one. And Rabbi Akiva did not make the Sages feel jovial. He instead gave them a new perspective on their tragic situation. The Temple may be in ruins, but there is a next chapter still to come. And if there is a next chapter then there is a future, one in which redemption can and will take place. 

In Tribute to Chalutzim

In Parshat Devarim Moshe recalls the agreement he made with the Tribes of Gad and Reuven. These two tribes wanted to settle on the land west of the Jordan. Moshe agreed, with some conditions. One condition was that a part of the tribe of Menashe must also settle there. This was to ensure that there would be ongoing communication and connections between the tribes on both sides of the Jordan (as I discussed in my Dvar Torah last week). Another condition is expressed in 3:18

ה אֱ-לֹֽהֵיכֶ֗ם נָתַ֨ן לָכֶ֜ם אֶת־הָאָ֤רֶץ הַזֹּאת֙ לְרִשְׁתָּ֔הּ חֲלוּצִ֣ים תַּֽעַבְר֗וּ לִפְנֵ֛י אֲחֵיכֶ֥ם בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל כָּל־בְּנֵי־חָֽיִל

"The Lord, your God, has given you this land to possess it; pass over, armed, before your brothers, the children of Israel, all who are warriors.”

Moshe is teaching two important lessons in this verse. First, Moshe makes clear that Hashem is the one that has given the land to the Jewish People. This was the Divine plan, already promised to Avraham. Whether the tribes of Gad and Reuven participate in the battles will not determine whether the conquest is successful. Second, Moshe teaches that even though the outcome is ultimately up to God, the tribes are not exempt from putting in the effort and doing their utmost to be successful in battle. Furthermore, it was important for the tribes of Gad and Reuven to show their enthusiasm by leading the charge in these battles. On one level, Moshe is teaching the need to balance Divine assistance with our own efforts, a lesson that is relevant in all areas of life. At the same time this lesson is especially poignant and relevant as it relates to the Jewish presence in the Land of Israel. Our initial, and ongoing, presence in Eretz Yisrael, requires both Divine assistance and self-sufficiency, while never considering this paradox to be a contradiction.

Moshe refers to those who will engage in battle for the Land of Israel as “Chalutzim”. Here in the pasuk the word is understood to mean “to take up arms”, ie to make the necessary preparations to enter the land. In the 19^th century the term was used to refer to different types of preparations necessary for the return of Jews to Israel. After the Russian pogroms of 1881, a movement arose encouraging young people to move to what was then Palestine to cultivate the land and prepare the way for the less robust populations to make aliyah later on. This movement was called Hechalutz, the pioneer.

Prof. Nechama Leibowitz explains that a chalutz is someone who acts out of idealism, and not for personal gain. Moshe calls Bnei Gad and Reuven Chalutzim because they were being called upon to help conquer land east of the Jordan that they would ultimately not settle.

The modern State of Israel has been developed by multiple waves of pioneers. First chalutzim drained the swamps. Other chalutzim made the desert bloom. During my recent trip to Israel we went to Lod and met a number of idealistic Israelis who want to enhance the Jewish presence in the city while improving it for all of its citizens. Even in the aftermath of the recent riots in Lod, these people remain committed to their vision. They too are chalutzim, engaging in a form of 21^st century pioneering through rehabilitating cities in Israel that have existed for a long time (Lod has been inhabited for over 5,000 years)

The Nine Days leading up to Tisha Bav is a time to recognize that Israel needs to be rebuilt. Let us take a moment to appreciate the role of the Chalutzim that have idealistically worked to develop Israel in the past and those who continue to do so today. 

Nedarim and Aha! Moments

 One of the great mysteries of human growth is why some moments change us forever while others disappear almost as quickly as they arrive.

Scientists have long been fascinated by what they call the "aha!" moment—that sudden flash of insight when something clicks into place. Recent research suggests that these breakthroughs are not random. They are more likely to occur when we step away from a problem, change our environment, encounter new people, or find ourselves in settings where we feel safe, relaxed, and open to new ideas.

In other words, breakthrough moments do not happen only because of what we think. They also happen because of the environments we create.

As I read about this research, I could not help but think of an idea attributed to the Chiddushei HaRim. He explained that the purpose of a neder, taught in Parshat Matot, is to take a moment of inspiration and ensure that it remains potent and finds expression in action. A person experiences a spiritual awakening, a desire to improve, a commitment to grow. The challenge is that inspiration fades. A neder takes a fleeting feeling and translates it into lasting impact. The laws of nedarim teach us that the goal is not merely to be inspired, it is to capture that inspiration before it disappears. Perhaps that is why Judaism places great emphasis on community, sacred time, and sacred spaces. We often assume that growth comes from hearing the right idea. Certainly that matters. But growth also depends on creating the conditions in which those transformative moments can occur. Sometimes an "aha!" moment happens during a shiur. Maybe while participating in a chesed project. Or maybe you feel it at a Shalosh Seudos or Kabbalas Shabbos at shul. Suddenly something clicks. A new appreciation. A deeper understanding. A fresh perspective. Or a clearer vision of the person we want to become. Those moments are precious gifts. But they are also fragile. Those moments need to be validated, nurtured and concretized. When we speak about growth, we are not simply talking about offering more programs. We are trying to create what I would call a "matrix of growth"—multiple pathways through which people can encounter meaningful Jewish experiences and, hopefully, those life-changing "aha!" moments. Each creates another opportunity for a spark of inspiration. But that is only the first step. The next step is helping people leverage those moments into something lasting. If someone discovers a passion for learning, how do we connect them to ongoing Torah study? If someone is inspired by a chesed opportunity, how do we help them make chesed part of their life? If someone experiences a deeper connection to tefillah, how do we help them continue that journey? Inspiration is the spark. Growth is what happens when we build something from that spark. A neder is not all there is to inspiration. There must also be a follow-up decision to ensure that the fleeting moment becomes a lasting reality. The most important question is not whether we will experience moments of inSpiration. Surely we all do. The real question is what we do next. Will we transform an "Aha!" moment into a life of continued growth?

The Legacy of Entebbe

 Today marks the fiftieth anniversary of one of the most daring rescue missions in modern history: Operation Entebbe. On June 27, 1976, an Air France flight traveling from Tel Aviv to Paris was hijacked after a stopover in Athens and diverted to Entebbe, Uganda. The passengers were held hostage by terrorists from a breakaway faction of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Soon after arriving in Uganda, the non-Israeli passengers were separated from the Israelis and eventually released. Besides the Israelis and the crew, all other Jews on the plane were also kept hostage, even if they were not Israeli citizens. The images were chilling: Jews singled out and held captive simply because they were Jews.

Back in Israel, plans for a rescue mission were being devised. The military officer overseeing the planning was Ehud Barak, who would later become Prime Minister. Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin faced enormous pressure to secure the release of the hostages, even if it meant negotiating with terrorists. Ultimately, he gave the order to proceed with the rescue.

The mission itself has become the stuff of legend. Learning that Ugandan dictator Idi Amin would be out of the country, Israeli planners devised an audacious strategy. Four Hercules transport planes would fly more than 2,500 miles to Uganda. One of them would unload a motorcade designed to resemble Amin's own entourage returning from abroad. A black Mercedes was needed to imitate the dictator's vehicle. The Israelis found one—but it was the wrong color. They quickly spray-painted it black.

On Saturday afternoon, a force of more than 200 Israeli soldiers took off for Entebbe under the command of 30-year-old Yoni Netanyahu. Flying extraordinarily low to avoid radar detection, they endured an eight-hour journey into the heart of enemy territory.

The rescue mission succeeded beyond anyone's expectations. All of the hijackers were killed and 102 hostages were freed. Tragically, one Israeli soldier was killed during the operation: Yoni Netanyahu.

The impact of Entebbe extended far beyond that single night. The PLO largely abandoned airline hijackings. Idi Amin would eventually be overthrown. The American commander who oversaw the mission to eliminate Osama bin Laden, Admiral William McRaven, later authored a detailed study of the Entebbe raid. The operation became a model of courage, planning, and determination.

There are many lessons that emerge from Operation Entebbe. Two stand out.

First, Entebbe reminds us that enemies of the Jewish people may be able to hurt us and impede us, but they cannot prevent Jewish destiny from being realized. Reflecting on the rescue shortly afterward, the Lubavitcher Rebbe noted the extraordinary contrast between the ease with which the terrorists succeeded in hijacking the plane and the extraordinary success of the rescue operation itself. Both the crisis and the salvation, he suggested, pointed to the Hand of God.

As David Ben-Gurion famously remarked, "In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles." The same can be said about the ongoing continuity of the Jewish people. The story of Entebbe is a powerful reminder that there is a dimension of Jewish history that cannot be explained by military strength, politics, or demographics alone.

Second, the Entebbe rescue demonstrated the importance of initiative and courageous leadership. As one military analyst observed, the success of the operation itself was not necessarily surprising; the Ugandan forces were outmatched in virtually every respect. What was remarkable was the willingness of Israeli leaders to take the risk, to act decisively, and to do what needed to be done.

Too often we wait for certainty before acting. We hesitate because outcomes are unclear or risks are real. Entebbe reminds us that meaningful achievements often require courage, initiative, and a willingness to move forward despite uncertainty.

As we mark the fiftieth anniversary of Operation Entebbe, we remember not only a remarkable military achievement but also the enduring lessons it teaches. We must never underestimate the role of God in the unfolding Jewish story. At the same time, we must be prepared to act boldly, take responsibility, and do what needs to be done. If the Jewish cause sometimes seems more complicated and the Jewish dream more distant, Entebbe reminds us that nothing can stop Jewish destiny from being realized

Who Will Tell Us?

 One of the challenges of childhood is that adults are constantly telling you what to do. Parents, teachers, coaches, and rabbis all seem to have opinions about how you should behave and what you should change.  One of the challenges of adulthood is that very few people tell you what you need to hear.As children, we often resist correction. As adults, we rarely receive it. Most people are understandably reluctant to point out someone else's mistakes. Nobody wants to appear judgmental, intrusive, or condescending. And most of us are not particularly eager to hear criticism. We become defensive. We explain. We justify. We tell ourselves that everything is fine. As a result, adults can spend years moving in the wrong direction without anyone, or anything, successfully getting them to stop and reconsider.

I think this is one of the powerful lessons of Bilam's story in Parshat Balak. When Balak's messengers arrive and invite Bilam to curse the Jewish people, God does not immediately force Bilam to abandon the idea. Instead, God asks what appears to be a simple question: "Who are these men with you?" Of course, God already knows the answer. The question is not for information. It is an invitation to reflection. We find this pattern elsewhere in the Torah. After Adam and Chava sin, God asks Adam, "Where are you?" After Kayin murders Hevel, God asks, "Where is Hevel, your brother?" In each case, God knows exactly what happened. The question is not meant to uncover facts; it is meant to create self-awareness. It is a final opportunity for the person to stop, reflect, and choose a different path. God's questions sound remarkably similar to the way people who care about us sometimes speak. "Are you sure you want to do that?" "Have you thought this through?" "Is this really the direction you want to be heading?" God preserves human dignity and free will. But He requires the listener to be willing to hear what is being said. Bilam is unable to do this. Even after warning signs begin appearing, he refuses to see them. The irony of the story is that Bilam, the great prophet, cannot see what his donkey sees clearly. His ambitions and desires blind him. He becomes so committed to his course of action that he loses the ability to recognize that he is headed in the wrong direction. Eventually, Bilam finds himself trapped on a narrow road with nowhere to turn. That image is not only Bilam's story; it is often ours as well.

Poor choices rarely trap us overnight. More often, they slowly narrow our options. A bad habit becomes harder to break. A strained relationship becomes harder to repair. A spiritual weakness becomes more deeply ingrained. The road becomes narrower and narrower until we wonder how we got there. Parshat Balak challenges us to ask: Who are the people in our lives who can ask us the difficult questions? Who has permission to tell us what we need to hear, not merely what we want to hear? And perhaps even more importantly, are we willing to listen? The greatest tragedy in Bilam's story is not that he received warnings. It is that he ignored them. The Torah reminds us that growth begins with the humility to hear a question that challenges us. And no matter how narrow the road may seem, as long as we are willing to listen, it is never too late to change course.

There’s No Chazakah When It Comes to Machloket

 It doesn't take long for many of us to form opinions about people. After enough interactions, we convince ourselves that we know exactly who someone is. We know who is generous and who is selfish. Who is easygoing and who is difficult. Who is reliable and who is not. And once those impressions become firmly established, they can be remarkably difficult to shake. Sometimes those assessments are accurate. Patterns of behavior and our experiences matter. If someone has acted a certain way for years, it is reasonable to expect that they will continue to do so. However, Parshat Korach reminds us that while Judaism recognizes patterns, it cautions us against turning them into permanent irreversible verdicts. As Korach's rebellion reached its climax, Moshe made one final attempt to reconcile and restore. The Torah tells us that he sent for Datan and Aviram, two of the instigators, hoping to engage them in dialogue. Their response was unequivocal: "We will not come" (Bamidbar 16:12). Rashi comments that Moshe's actions teach us an important principle: ein machzikin b'machloket”, we should not perpetuate conflict. Even when a dispute appears hopeless, one should make every effort to pursue peace. The Chasam Sofer suggests that the word machzikin can be understood through the halachic concept of chazakah. A chazakah is an established presumption. When something has consistently been true in the past, we assume it will continue to be true until proven otherwise. According to the Chasam Sofer, ein machzikin b'machlokes means that we must never create a chazakah of conflict. No matter how long-running ill will may be, we should never assume that discord is the permanent reality of their relationship. What makes this lesson so powerful is the identity of the people involved. This was not the first conflict for Datan and Aviram. Chazal portray them as long standing rabble rousers whose opposition to Moshe stretched back years. Time and again they challenged, complained, tried to start trouble and unrest. If any pair could be assumed to never change from their cantankerous and argumentative ways it would be Datan and Aviram.  Yet Moshe refused to make that assumption. He approaches them with the hopes of reconciliation. Moshe's efforts ultimately fail. Datan and Aviram do not reconsider. They do not accept his overture. Instead, they double down on their rebellion and ultimately suffer a tragic fate. Had they changed their minds, the lesson would have been clear: Don’t give up on people because people can change. But perhaps the Torah is teaching us here something more profound: Judaism does not require us to believe that people will change. It requires us to believe that they can change. Life teaches us that change is difficult. Yet unlike in the natural world, human beings are endowed with free will and the capacity to change. A person can reflect, mature, and choose differently tomorrow than they chose yesterday. That possibility may not always be realized. But as long as it exists, we are not allowed to dismiss another person's capacity for change. That is the meaning of ein machzikin b'machloket. We never assume we know with certainty what a person will do. We can be realistic about human behavior without losing faith in human potential. While it is true that Datan and Aviram never changed, Moshe refused to assume that they couldn't. And perhaps that is one of the Torah's most enduring lessons: never confuse a person's past performance with their future potential.