Mysh cartoon‘They tried to kill us, we won— let’s eat’. This is the way the legendary American comedian Alan King characterized Jewish holidays. Indeed, Purim, as recounted in the Book of Esther, celebrates deliverance from genocide. But how should one celebrate it when death and starvation continue in Gaza, and the holiday’s rhetoric—particularly the memory of the archetypal enemy Amalek—is being invoked by Israeli politicians responsible for the devastation?

Jewish tradition, as shaped by Rabbinic Judaism, abhors a literal reading of the Torah, even while considering it the holiest object in existence. This, in fact, is what distinguishes Jews from Karaites, who remain committed to literalism. One may offer various reasons for the rabbis’ insistence on interpreting biblical verses. They regard the text as timeless; to make it meaningful for future generations, it must be explained and decoded. This dynamic view of the eternal is reflected in the very term used for Jewish law—halakha—which derives from the root meaning “to move.” It may well be that the rabbis felt uneasy with literal readings and thus offered their own understandings of biblical verses. This approach rejects anachronism and fundamentalism, seeking instead to make the Torah a living source of inspiration.

Violence is not rare in biblical texts. The Pentateuch and several books of Prophets, such as Joshua and Judges, teem with violent imagery. From the genocidal command to wipe out the seven nations inhabiting the Promised Land to the obligation to blot out the memory of Amalek, numerous episodes appear to promote massacre. And even though the reality may have been less bloody, Biblical Israel was conquered under conditions that can hardly be described as peaceful.

Yet, far from glorifying war, Jewish tradition decisively deemphasizes military prowess as the principal reason for the victories mentioned in the Bible. After the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 1st century CE, Jewish life underwent a profound transformation. Viewed through the lens of Judaism, the destruction of Jerusalem defined the normative attitude toward force, resistance, and the Land of Israel for nearly two millennia.

Rather than promoting revenge, Jewish tradition encourages self-examination. After a calamity or misfortune, one is advised to examine and correct one’s own misdeeds (yfashpesh bemaasaw). This is supported by a biblical source read on the 9th of Av: “We will search and examine our ways and return to God.” This approach leads the sages to state that the Temple was razed by the Romans because of gratuitous hatred among the Jews, and that the first exile to Babylonia occurred because of illicit sex, murder, and idolatry.

The Roman siege of Jerusalem, like the Israeli siege of Gaza, sharply divided the Jewish people. The scholars of the Law tended to favor negotiated compromise, while the zealots organized a forceful response. Classical exegetes—such as the Italian Ovadia Seforno (1470–1550)—condemned advocates of armed struggle in particularly severe terms: “If the Jewish people during the period of the Second Temple had taken his advice to heart, the Temple would not have been destroyed. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai [a prominent scholar opposed to violence] testified to this when he said, ‘if not for the militant extremists the Romans would not have destroyed the Temple.'”

Given the central position of the Temple in Judaism, the accusation is indeed serious and serves as a warning against any collective temptation to use force. The Mishna defines strength thus: “Who is mighty? He who subdues his [evil] inclination, as it is said: ‘He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that rules his emotion than he that takes a city.'”

But what does Jewish tradition do with the explicit violence mentioned in the Torah? The oral tradition interprets it allegorically. For example, the sword and bow used by Jacob against his enemies become spiritual means: “For I trust not in my bow, neither can my sword save me.” What is the meaning of “with my sword”? This refers to prayer. What is the meaning of “with my bow”? This refers to petition.”

Purim also offers a model for conflict resolution. The story is as simple as it is prophetic. Haman, the Persian vizier, plans total annihilation: “written instructions were dispatched by couriers to all the king’s provinces to destroy, massacre, and exterminate all the Jews, young and old, children and women, on a single day, on the thirteenth day of the twelfth month—that is, the month of Adar—and to plunder their possessions.” The Jews’ response was to proclaim a fast of repentance, but also to find a way to influence the king and thereby circumvent the vizier and his decree. Queen Esther intervened, revealed her Jewish origins to the king, and convinced him to stop the planned genocide. “But it did not occur to any of the Jews to use physical means against Haman,” noted Rabbi Elhanan Wasserman in his commentary on the history of Purim, written at the end of the 1930s (Jewish Guardian 1977, 8-9). Yet the massacre of 75,000 people at the hands of the Jews mentioned in the final chapter—though authorized by the king—causes anguish and calls for interpretation.

One such interpretive initiative was undertaken by the Shalom Center in Philadelphia. A range of Jews wrote their own versions of the final chapter. Many were inspired by classical Judaic sources, aware that violence only begets more violence and cycles of revenge. Amid the continuing massacres and starvation of Palestinians in Gaza, we can celebrate Purim by transforming the violence it contains into a manifestation of empathy. We can write our own finales for the Book of Esther. After all, Purim is a holiday of radical transformation. Haman thought he would be the one honored by the king, but it was his worst enemy, Mordechai, whom Haman was forced to praise and parade. The Jews faced genocide, but when the tables turned would it be acceptable to do the same to their one-time persecutors?

The Torah is eternal precisely because it is not immutable and allows for time-sensitive interpretations—including those of the Book of Esther. One commentary suggests that Jews offered gifts of food to their erstwhile enemies, which dovetails with the Purim custom of mishloah manot—sending edible items to one another. Moreover, such behavior would be considered heroic. Avot de Rabbi Nathan, an 8th-century source, defines a hero as someone who can turn an enemy into a friend.

Yet quite a few followers of National Judaism (or, in Hebrew, dati-leumi), including members of the current Israeli government, revere a different kind of hero. They revere the U.S.-born Dr. Baruch Goldstein (1956–1994), a physician in the Israeli military who refused to treat Arabs, including those serving in the IDF. On the day of Purim in 1994, he massacred 29 Muslims and wounded 125 others who were praying in the Mosque of Ibrahim (the traditional burial place of the Patriarch Abraham) in Hebron. He had apparently been influenced by the biblical verses read on Purim calling for the extermination of Amalek. He saw Amalek in all Muslims and Palestinians, which inspired his murderous mission with his army-issued weapon.

Purim is celebrated in a joyous, carnival-like atmosphere where, as on other similar late-winter holidays, children and adults wear creative, often humorous costumes. Some nationalists celebrate Goldstein by dressing up on Purim as their hero, wearing a white blouse over a IDF uniform. Jewish settlers have sung songs in praise of Baruch Goldstein’s massacre demonstratively in front of Palestinians during Purim celebrations. One song includes the lyrics: “Dr. Goldstein, there is none other like you in the world. Dr. Goldstein, we all love you … He aimed at terrorists’ heads, squeezed the trigger hard, and shot bullets, and shot, and shot.” The epitaph on his tombstone reads: “He gave his soul for the sake of the people of Israel, its Torah, and its Land. His hands are clean and his heart pure… He was assassinated for the Sanctity of God.”

The association of Palestinians with Amalek seems to have become common in Israel. Politicians and officers alike openly call for total destruction. That, in turn, encourages cruelty from IDF soldiers sent to Gaza. They chant joyfully about how they are destroying Amalek. These public invocations of biblical texts to justify violence against Palestinians in Gaza have served as evidence of Israel’s genocidal intent and actions.

Jews have long associated their enemies with Amalek. In fact, Zionists have also been portrayed as Amalekites by Jews who oppose the Zionist colonization of Palestine. Of course, anti-Zionists do not resort to violence in their struggle. Rather, anti-Zionist rabbis call on the faithful to resist the internal Amalek and fight off the emotion—in rabbinical parlance, the evil inclination (yetser hara), which tempts Jews to identify with Zionism and the state that embodies this ideology. The numerical value (gematria) of the letters constituting “Amalek” is 240, equal to that of the letters in the word safeq—doubt. These rabbis argue that rejection of Zionism should brook no doubt.

Even before the establishment of the Zionist state, some Jews gave in to their evil inclination and developed hateful discourse and practices related to the holiday of Purim. Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence, an encyclopedic book on Jewish violence by Professor Elliot Horowitz (1953–2017), recounts the history of Jewish violence since late antiquity. Reading it, one realizes that hateful rhetoric articulated by a powerless Jewish minority acquires genocidal meaning when broadcast from a militarized modern state—equipped with the most advanced conventional weapons and even nuclear arms. This embodies an important challenge of the holiday of Purim: the challenge of responsibility when a powerless minority gains power. All too often, one’s self-image as an eternal victim no longer matches the new reality of having acquired fearsome power. This mismatch can give rise to most unspeakable violence.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)