Sometimes, you catch a snatch of conversation, and you wonder about the story behind it. Recently, I caught such a snippet, and it has continued to concern me. During a tour of Jerusalem’s quaint twin neighborhoods of Mishkenot Sha’ananim and Yemin Moshe, our group (all senior citizens) passed by a class of schoolchildren. Judging by their appearance, they were fourth graders from a non-religious state school.
The children were listening to their guide, clearly interested in what she had to say. And then it happened. I heard a question from the guide and no answer from the kids.
“Do you know what ‘Akedat Yitzhak’ [the Binding of Isaac] is?” asked the guide. Not a single hand went up. Not one eager face adopted an “Ask me!” expression. The silence was disquieting.
As we carried on down the stone path, I heard the guide begin to speak of the event, which is so central in Jewish history and belief. I didn’t catch her explanation of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his beloved son as commanded by God in the ultimate test of faith; God sending an angel to stop Abraham; and Abraham sacrificing a ram instead. It’s not an easy story to tell, but it is part of our DNA.
A few steps away stood the group’s teacher.
“Not one child knows about Akedat Yitzhak,” I blurted out as I passed, and she raised her hands in a gesture of either despair or defeat.
The children had a lot to catch up on – some 4,000 years of history and the meaning of life in Israel. Here we were, in the cradle of civilization, and these children didn’t have a clue about their past or its significance.
How will children who don’t know their own history pass it on to future generations? A Jewish Israeli schoolchild who can’t answer “What is Akedat Yitzhak?” today won’t be able to answer even harder questions tomorrow, such as Why are we here? What are we doing in this particular place?
When dominant narratives present Israelis as “colonizers” (and Muslims believe that Abraham’s almost-sacrifice was of Ishmael, not Isaac), it is a basic need to equip children such as these with the knowledge that will enable them to say: “We are not foreign implants. This is where our story took place – thousands of years ago.”
The fear of religious indoctrination in the secular school system has gone so far that it denies children the right to know their own identity and feel comfortable with it.
There is a lot of media attention and public concern about the lack of education in the “core subjects” in Israeli ultra-Orthodox schools – where, in many cases, the graduates are not equipped to work in the modern world. But it is no less disturbing that secular schoolchildren are graduating without knowing the basics of their own religion and history, and without a fundamental understanding of who they are.
Our paths crossed on a sunny spring morning, in the first Jewish neighborhood built outside the Old City walls, a group of seniors and a group of children, almost fulfilling Zachariah’s prophecy: “So said the Lord of Hosts: Old men and women shall yet sit in the streets of Jerusalem, each man with his staff in his hand because of old age. And the streets of the city will be filled, with boys and girls playing in its streets.”
But the children need to know what they’re doing there. As we are told: “Da me’ayin bata” – know from where you came – “u’le’an atah holech” – and where you are going. If you don’t know your past, you can’t be prepared for the future.
Zachariah’s prophecy cannot be fully realized if the boys and girls playing in the streets – or on their mobile phones – haven’t heard of the forefathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; don’t know why Jews built the Temple in Jerusalem, twice; why destruction and exile were followed by return and rebuilding; why Jews have always turned toward Jerusalem when they prayed.
Our volunteer guide, who was born in the neighborhood and spent her early years in one of its old stone buildings, made sure that our itinerary included a visit to the lovingly and beautifully renovated Sephardi Synagogue with its dominant blue hue, ceiling murals, and colorful glass lanterns.
Incidentally, since our tour took place on a Sunday morning, at times she had to talk over the sound of church bells ringing. The cannon shot signaling the end of the Ramadan fast would be heard only much later in the day. Jerusalem has its own sounds as well as sights.
Tourists in Israel must visit City of David
I HAVE long maintained that foreign dignitaries visiting Israel should start with the City of David (Ir David) even before the Yad Vashem Holocaust museum and memorial. Israeli history does not start with the Shoah, it starts with Jewish history and God’s command to Abraham “Lech lecha” – “Go from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”
Those who argue that the City of David is in “east Jerusalem” – and therefore out of bounds for official visits – are the people who most need to start there and see it for themselves. The division into east and west is modern, artificial, and misleading.
Jerusalem is the eternal capital. Without Jerusalem, there would be no Israel. That’s why our enemies – using the United Nations and other international bodies – constantly try to erase our ties to our holiest city.
If Israelis don’t feel rooted here – or don’t understand their roots here – then there is less motivation to remain and create a better future. To create an Ingathering of Exiles. To fulfill prophecies.
The twin neighborhoods of Mishkenot Sha’ananim and Yemin Moshe, by the way, were bought and developed for the poor by British Jewish philanthropist Sir Moses Montefiore; his oft-overlooked but remarkable wife, Judith; and the legacy and funds of American Jewish philanthropist Judah Touro. They are examples of the ties that bind Jewish communities together through the centuries and the love of Jerusalem.
PERHAPS MY ongoing unease with that seemingly small incident is heightened by the approach of Passover, which starts next Saturday night, when we celebrate the Exodus from Egypt. The Exodus marks more than leaving slavery. It is about the birth of the Jewish nation; the yearning to return to the Promised Land as a free people.
We are commanded to tell the children the story of the Exodus as if it happened to each of us personally. It is the ultimate teachable moment.
It is the perfect time for asking – and answering – questions. An essential part of the Passover Seder is reading the Haggadah with its Four Questions and its Four Sons – the wise, the wicked, the simple, and the one who does not know how to ask.
As the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote: “The four children are a vignette of the Jewish people. One asks because he wants to hear the answer. A second asks because he does not want to hear the answer. A third asks because he does not understand. The fourth does not ask because he doesn’t understand that he doesn’t understand. Ours has never been a monolithic people.
“Yet there is a message of hope in this family portrait. Though they disagree, they sit around the same table, telling the same story. Though they differ, they stay together. They are part of a single family. Even the rebel is there, although part of him does not want to be. This, too, is who we are.
“The Jewish people is an extended family. We argue, we differ, there are times when we are deeply divided. Yet we are part of the same story. We share the same memories. At difficult times, we can count on one another. We feel one another’s pain. Out of this multiplicity of voices comes something none of us could achieve alone.”
It’s our duty to ensure that the children understand why we traditionally conclude the Seder service with the phrase “Next year in Jerusalem!”