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In the town near my parents' village, a sheikh's grave was torched. The Jews were deeply afraid of being blamed for the act. In those days, my father Shmuel, of blessed memory, recalled that contracts between Jews and Muslims included a clause clarifying that the Jew was "under the hand of Islam." With no other choice, the Jews took a Torah scroll case - empty, without a parchment - and walked some 18 kilometers to the site. Along the way, they lamented aloud in Persian: از مردن آقا کیماره خلک شکسته, meaning: because of the death of the important man, the people are broken. They circled the city square until the anger of the townspeople abated, seeing that the Jews too were mourning. My mother Esther, of blessed memory, overheard us and remarked that it was all to silence our enemies.
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This story came to mind during the funeral of the pope that took place on a Saturday about two weeks ago. Many countries sent their heads of state, including the US. Israel chose not to send its leaders, settling for the presence of our ambassador to the Vatican. One must not whitewash the truth and claim that Shabbat was the reason. The chief rabbi of Rome walked there on foot. The real reason was Pope Francis's hostile stance toward Israel, which gave rise to virulent antisemitic statements, including a venomous insinuation that garnered global headlines, suggesting that Israel is committing genocide in Gaza, along with other blood libels echoing medieval traditions. Last Saturday, I analyzed the pope's homily from October 8, the day after the massacre, which brought disgrace and humiliated the honor of Israel.
A nation that values life and dignity does not walk behind the coffin of someone who falsely accused our heroes, who sacrificed their lives for our existence, of being war criminals and murderers. This week we learned that the pope bequeathed his official car, the popemobile, to the people of Gaza as a mobile medical unit for children. And I thought he might ask to return our hostages in that vehicle. There are millions of children caught in conflicts and wars. Why Gaza's children, who are mostly Muslims, over the millions of Christians in the Middle East who are at risk, some of whom have fled or been persecuted for their faith?
In Gaza, one side of the conflict is Jewish. If the Pope Francis' Church can bolster the narrative that Jews are still behaving badly 2,000 years after killing Jesus, it serves a certain agenda. This is an antisemitic obsession that the Catholic Church will need to rectify with the selection of its next pope. Based on our knowledge of the people of Gaza, it's quite possible they'll convert the armored vehicle into a transport truck for Hamas terrorists.
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We are an ancient people with millennia of experience, and it is right to assess our present through the lens of eternal history. In our ancient sources, two main approaches emerge regarding our relations with the world: when we are in exile, and when we dwell in our land as a sovereign nation. Our sages delved into the story of Jacob and Esau as a model for such relations.
Jacob hears that Esau is coming toward him with hundreds of warriors, and he realizes his brother seeks revenge. To save himself and his family from death, Jacob prays to God and engages in diplomacy: his envoys convey messages of flattery, calling Esau "my lord" eight times and referring to himself as "your servant." He bribes Esau with expensive gifts and, when he sees him, bows to the ground seven times. The diplomacy works: Esau is moved by the gestures and reconciles with his brother (Genesis 32:4-21, 33:1-16).
From this, our sages taught that at times it is wise to humble ourselves to preserve our lives. The Midrash tells of Rabbi Judah the Prince (2nd century CE) instructing Rabbi Apas to write a letter on his behalf to "our lord King Antoninus." Rabbi Apas wrote: "From Judah the Prince to our lord King Antoninus." Rabbi Judah tore it up and instructed him to write instead: "From your servant Judah to our lord King Antoninus." When asked why he would demean himself so, he replied, "Am I greater than my ancestor Jacob, who said: 'Thus says your servant Jacob'?"
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In the 16th century in Bologna, Rabbi Ovadia Sforno wrote: "Esau's heart turned in a moment from Jacob's humility, just as we experience in exile with the descendants of Esau… the story shows that we can escape the sword of Esau's pride through submission and gifts." Yet he added a bitter historical note: "If only the zealots of the Second Temple period had acted this way, our Temple would not have been destroyed."
Earlier, in the late 15th century, Don Isaac Abravanel, deeply experienced in pleading with Spain's monarchy (albeit unsuccessfully) to ransom Spain's Jews and revoke the expulsion decree, found support for his efforts in these verses. "So it happens in every generation," he wrote, "our salvation from Esau and his descendants comes first through prayer… then through gifts and bribes… and through fighting to flee his grasp."
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Yet our sages also criticized Jacob's obsequiousness: "When Jacob called Esau 'my lord' eight times, God said: You degraded yourself and made Esau your master, by your life, I will raise eight kings from his descendants before any king arises from your descendants." As the verse says: "These are the kings who reigned in Edom before any king reigned over the Israelites" (Genesis 36:31). Subservience to foreign nations erodes our right to self-rule. Another Midrash sharpens the critique: "God said: I declared, 'the elder shall serve the younger' (Genesis 25:23), yet you called yourself Esau's servant and made him your master, I will fulfill your words, and he shall rule over you…"
The Torah presents an alternate ending to the Jacob-Esau encounter (Genesis 32:22-32). Jacob is left alone, as our nation has often been in history, and then Esau (or his representative) attacks him to settle an old score. But Jacob is transformed. In exile, he learned to become a bit like Esau, and he no longer runs. He wrestles with his brother, and when Esau sees he cannot defeat Jacob, he seeks to disengage. Jacob replies, "I will not let you go unless you bless me" - demanding Esau acknowledge the blessing he received, that the land and the people belong to Jacob. Only then does he earn his new name: "Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men and prevailed."
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This is the alternative approach to our relations with the nations of the world. When we return home, we reclaim our original name: Israel. No longer Jews in exile, trying to placate the local lord, but the people of Israel awakening from a 2,000-year national slumber. In this context, national honor is not a trivial matter, but one of existential importance. When Israel maintains its dignity on the world stage, other nations seek friendly ties with us, and the safety of Jews in the Diaspora is also strengthened, and the reverse is true as well.
The days when Jews had to mourn the death of their persecutors and walk behind the coffins of those who incited against them, out of fear of retribution, are over. That is why my parents left the Diaspora and returned home to Zion. On Lag BaOmer (Iyar 18th), we remember the failed Bar Kokhba revolt of 135 CE, and the rectification of that failure with the establishment of the State of Israel about 1,800 years later, when we chose not to flee or grovel, but to stand proud as an ancient people whose culture is the foundation of all Western civilization.
