Jewish Studies

This study explores an important Hasidic manuscript rediscovered among the papers of Abraham Joshua Heschel at Duke University. The text, first noted by Heschel in the 1950s, is a collection of sermons by the famed tzaddik Judah Aryeh Leib Alter of Ger (d. 1905). These homilies are significant because they were transcribed by one of his disciples, in many cases capturing them in the original Yiddish. Comparing this alternative witness to Alter's own Hebrew version (called Sefat emet), printed shortly after his death, reveals substantive differences in the sermons' development, structure, and themes. But the manuscript's importance extends beyond a critical new perspective on Alter's teachings. It offers a snapshot of the processes behind the formation of Hasidic books, and calls for scholars to consider the unavoidable divergences between Hebrew and Yiddish, between orality and textuality, and the transmission of ideas from a teacher to his disciples, vectors of change that inhabit all Hasidic literature.

Westerners have long admired the nature-friendly qualities of Eastern spiritual traditions, such as ahimsa and reincarnation, which tie human beings to the circle of life that reaches across species and which requires a compassionate approach to all living beings. Yet we have often failed to acknowledge this same beauty—teachings of compassion toward allliving beings—in Western traditions.
This article examines Jewish morality with regard to nature, specifically to human
relations with nonhumans. The article focuses on creation accounts in Genesis 1 and 2, and on fundamental moral teachings such as compassion and peace. The point of the article is not so much to be critical of Judaism, but rather to reveal how much we might learn from the spiritual and moral teachings of the Jewish tradition about our place in the larger universe. Moreover, as Jewish morality from the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) remains important to Christians, this article reveals the ethical standards to which others might hold both Jews and Christians accountable in their relations to animals and the world as a whole

Cite as: “Jewish Ethics and Nonhuman Animals.” Journal of the Institute of Critical Animal Studies 5.2 (2007)

Scholars who study the Jews of the Southern United States often struggle to understand how Jewish identity affected the way in which Jews presented themselves, the way in which outsiders viewed them, and the extent to which they felt integrated into society. Many scholars believe that Jewish religious practice was not just adapted, but sacrificed, as part of the process of integration into Southern life and culture. Looking specifically at the region of the Lower Mississippi, this thesis offers a different approach to understanding Judaism in the context of adaptation and integration. This thesis begins with a historical review of the role of Jews as merchants in the United States and how social and economic factors in the early and mid-19th century encouraged their entry into American society as peddlers, creating the "typical peddler profile. More specifically, the thesis examines why the Lower Mississippi was a unique and advantageous setting during this time period for Jewish merchants. This thesis argues that in the Lower Mississippi during the early and mid-19th century, Jewish religious practices and spaces were not sacrificed, but rather reconceptualized. Judaism became integrated into the merchant profession, manifested through economic and familial networks that allowed Jews to practice their Judaism even in the most remote of locales. Judaism was also intertwined with the liminal position of Jews within Lower Mississippian society: not black, yet not seen as fully white, allowing Jews to sell to a customer base that was both black and white. With their economic and familial networks and adaptive Jewish practices, the Jews of the Lower Mississippi were able to become fully participating, though distinct, members of the larger society while maintaining a form of Judaism.

The twelfth and thirteenth centuries witnessed an explosion of Christian interest in the meaning and workings of the natural world—a "discovery of nature" that profoundly reshaped the intellectual currents and spiritual contours of European society—yet to all appearances, the Jews of medieval northern Europe (Ashkenaz) were oblivious to the shifts reshaping their surrounding culture. Scholars have long assumed that rather than exploring or contemplating the natural world, the Jews of medieval Ashkenaz were preoccupied solely with the supernatural and otherworldly: magic and mysticism, demonology and divination, as well as the zombies, werewolves, dragons, flying camels, and other monstrous and wondrous creatures that destabilized any pretense of a consistent and encompassing natural order.

In _A Remembrance of His Wonders_, David I. Shyovitz disputes this long-standing and far-reaching consensus. Analyzing a wide array of neglected Ashkenazic writings on the natural world in general, and the human body in particular, Shyovitz shows how Jews in Ashkenaz integrated regnant scientific, magical, and mystical currents into a sophisticated exploration of the boundaries between nature and the supernatural. Ashkenazic beliefs and practices that have often been seen as signs of credulity and superstition in fact mirrored—and drew upon—contemporaneous Christian debates over the relationship between God and the natural world. In charting these parallels between Jewish and Christian thought, Shyovitz focuses especially upon the mediating role of polemical texts and encounters, which served as mechanisms for the transmission of religious doctrines, scientific facts, and cultural mores. Medieval Jews' preoccupation with the apparently "supernatural" reflected neither ignorance nor intellectual isolation, but rather a determined effort to understand nature's inner workings and outer limits, and to integrate and interrogate the theologies and ideologies of the broader European Christian society.

The Jewish peoples have endured thousands of years of discrimination and subjugation, yet during this new millennium, Jews and antisemitism are conspicuously absent from university ethnic studies classroom discourse in the United States. Those scholars, determined to penetrate the walls of the multicultural education stronghold, are met with an ebb and flow of silence and vociferous resistance. A primary rationale for multiculturalists ignoring antisemitism appears to be the Zionist question and how they, themselves, perceive Israel's relationship with Palestine. This qualitative case study analyzed interviews of six prominent scholars in the areas of multiculturalism, history, and Judaism through a critical pedagogical lens. Throughout this paper, the author explores his personal experiences in regard to educational multiculturalists and the dismissal of Jews as a persecuted group. From discourse analysis of themes and recurrent meanings in the data, it is evident that the majority of study participants believe that Israel's behavior toward the Palestinians is unacceptable, yet that does not justify the large-scale generalizations of the Jewish people in the United States. As a result, this paper argues for the inclusion of the Jewish experience into university multicultural discourse.

Published on Sept 15th, 2014 by The Jewish Daily Forward

Beyond the Wealth of Jewish South Carolina lies a Troubling History - a study of Mordecai and David Cohen of Charleston: Philanthropists and slave owners.  One of their slaves, Jim, escaped and survived to share his life experiences being tortured under their command.

Over the past fifty years, archaeological excavations in Israel have unearthed about half a dozen ancient synagogues that were in use at different points in time between the first century BCE through the outbreak of the Bar-Kochba rebellion early in the second century of the Common Era.  In close proximity to each of these synagogues, a mikveh (ritual bath) has been discovered.  In contrast, no mikvaot have been discovered adjacent to any of the dozens of later synagogues that have been excavated and studied, with only one or two possible exceptions. 
At this point it is impossible to determine exactly when mikvaot ceased to be built in connection with synagogues, as the archaeological record reports very little about synagogues of the late second - early third century CE.  From an archaeological perspective, it is clear that at least from the second half of the third century, synagogues began to be built without regard for proximity to mikvaot.
Talmudic sources make no mention of a requirement to build mikvaot adjacent to synagogues. To date, no satisfactory explanation has been given for the evident connection between the synagogue and the mikveh in the early period, and the disappearance of such a connection in later periods of synagogue history. The objective of this paper is to present and explore a possible interpretation of this puzzling phenomenon.
  During the Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods, a rabbinical enactment was in effect requiring mikveh ablutions prior to engagement in Torah study and prayer for individuals who had experienced seminal emission. Careful study of the Talmudic sources reveals that this enactment was nullified early in the Amoraic Period, sometime during the second quarter of the third century CE.
It would appear that the mikvaot built adjacent to the earlier synagogues were intended for this precise function, serving visitors to the synagogue who required ritual ablutions prior to Torah study and prayer.  Once the rabbinical enactment regarding these ablutions was nullified, there was no longer need for such mikvaot, and hence the absence of mikvaot in proximity to the later synagogues.

The design argument, also known as the teleological argument, is one of the most commonly used evidences of the existence of a Creator God. Over the centuries, the argument has taken many forms, from the pre-Socratics to Jewish rabbis to Hindu philosophy and the modern debate over Intelligent Design (ID) and theistic evolution (TE). Present day controversies seem to show that disagreements over the apparent design of nature have roots in deep historical and metaphysical differences. We believe there is much to learn from how different religious traditions (here, Judaism, Christianity and Islam) have engaged or are engaging with design discourse. So, we are arranging a two-day online closed-door workshop on the history and metaphysics of design arguments, to be hosted at the University of Helsinki.

This article focuses on the precariousness of everyday life of half-Jews during the Nazi-regime in Vienna. Marriages between Jews and non-Jews as well as the presence of their half-Jewish children represented an antagonism that was a permanent threat to the integrity of the Nazi regime. According to the Nuremberg Laws, half-Jews were either defined as Mischlinge of the first degree or as Geltungsjuden, depending on their denomination. Even though they were in most cases exempt from deportation, the plans to include them in the Final solution were never fully given up. Particularly during the last years of the war – after the majority of the Austrian Jewish population had been deported – the protection of half-Jews became more precarious and even trivial infractions against Nazi laws could lead to imprisonment and deportation.

Large-scale expulsions of the Jews in the Middle Ages and the early modern period may be seen as a continuum shaped by exile, migration and new settlement. 1 In this paper I do not discuss the much-debated issues related to the " why " and the " how " of expulsion and exile. Rather, I examine the various ways contemporary actors and modern historians have perceived and conceptualized the exile that followed the 1492 expulsion from Spain. Salonika's Sephardic community was largely formed by Jews and conver-sos, expelled from Spain and Portugal, who had arrived at the Ottoman city through consecutive waves of migration in the late 15th and during the 16th centuries. 2 In what follows I revisit both the Jewish chronicles of expulsion and the historiography of the Jews of Salonika. I attempt to decipher the ways in which the concept of exile interweaves with the refugees' and historians' understanding of exile. In the first part of the paper I clarify the medieval concepts related to migration and exile and discuss the assumptions that underpin the master narratives of modern historiography. In the second part, I focus on the 16th-century Jewish accounts of the expulsion and comment on some loci of the " foundational histories " of the Jews of Salonika.

Subsequent editions: London: Chatto & Windus, 1972, 1988.  New York: Lancer Books, 1973. London: Fontana, 1975. New York: Bantam, 1976, 1982. London: Flamingo, 1984. London: Vintage, 1991, 1992, 2001. 

Translations from the English:  Japanese:  Watashi No Mihaeru, tr. Yasuko Murata.  Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 1977.  Swedish: Min Michael, tr. Viveka Heyman.  Stockholm: Wahlstrom & Widstrand, 1977.    Finnish translation:  Mieheni Mikhael, tr. Marja Alopaeus.  Helsinki: Tammi, 1978.  German: Mein Michael, tr. Gisela Podlech Reisse. Dusseldorf: Classen, 1977; Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1989, 1997. Rumanian: Sotul Meu, Mihael,  tr. Lidia Ionescu.  Bucharest: Univers, 1981.    Hungarian: Miháél, Miháél, tr. Eszter Molnar.  Budapest: Europa, 1986.    Polish: Moj Michol, tr. Urszula Lada-Zablocka.  Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1991. Greek:  O Micaevl mou, tr. Chrysoula Papadopoulou.  Athens: Kastaniotis, 1997.  Italian: Michael mio, tr. Rosy Molari. Milan: Bompiani, 1975, 1994; Feltrinelli, 2001, 2002.  Turkish: Michael ile Hannah, tr. Gülçin Aldemir. Istanbul: Can, n.d.  [1999]. Chinese: Tr. Zhong Zhiqing. Beijing: Yilin, 1998.  Korean: Tr. Choi Chang-Mo. Seoul: Minumsa, 1998.

This is a draft section of a chapter in my forthcoming Ph.D., in which I explore the anti-Semitic theories and theological views of 19th-century German preacher and politician Adolf Stoecker. I examine Stoecker's influence on Nazism, and suggest that whilst Stoecker certainly influenced Nazi ideology, it is a mistake to view his own anti-Semitism through the lens of the Holocaust.

How did Primo Levi come to terms with what the historian Enzo Traverso has called ‘the end of the Jewish modernity’? How did he react to the fading out of that tradition which, between the Enlightenment and the Second World War, saw the European Jews playing a central role in the critical consciousness of the Western world? What was his relationship with Zionism? Did he ever acknowledge the Nakba? To address these questions, my article analyses the different positions that Levi took on the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, the awkward coincidence of the publishing of Se non ora, quando? and the 1982 Lebanon War, and what his tormented and passionate relationships with Israel reveals about the Italophone Jewish experience.
Much has been written on Levi’s Jewish identity, but his complex attitude toward the question of Palestine/Israel is relatively underexplored. Starting from Levi’s writings and interviews on the subject, my essay will therefore investigate the impact that this thorny question had on the Italian Jewry. I will structure my essay as follows: first, I will give a brief account of how the changing historical circumstances, like the foundation of Israel, the Eichmann trial, and the Six-Day War, have shifted the geopolitical position of the Jewish intelligentsia (both inside and outside Italy); second, I will analyse Levi’s struggle to find a position within this shifting scenario; finally, I will study how Levi’s public interventions fed back into Italian Jewish community.

More than fifty years after subjection to anti-Jewish persecution, Holocaust survivors embody divergent responses to the conflict that endangered their existence. Narrative analysis of oral and written testimonies by survivors reveals three major modes of creatively reclaiming personal agency: avoiding violence by delimiting the realm of control, embracing violence through forcible dispensation of justice, and expanding agency by exercising personal ability in the economic realm. The first-person narratives of Jewish survivors illustrate this autopoeisis, or creative redirection of conflict. The testimonies reveal transformation as an ongoing process of working through rather than working out conflict, an approach that accords well with the Judaic moral principle of tikkun olam, the imperative to repair a fractured world.

Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum was born in 1887 to his father Rabbi Hanania Yom-Tov Lipa Teitelbaum, chief rabbi of Sighet, the capital of Maramureş County, Hungary. The father was a Rebbe to his Hasidim, headed the local yeshiva, and was one of the top leaders of Hungarian Orthodoxy. During his childhood, Rabbi Yoel was known as a prodigy but was not destined to continue the family’s Hasidic or rabbinic dynasty, as this role was reserved for his older brother - Rabbi Haim Tzvi. At seventeen, soon after his father’s death and the ordination of his older brother as his successor, the newlywed Rabbi Yoel and his wife were forced to leave Sighet.

They settled in nearby Satmar (Satu Mare) where Rabbi Yoel began gathering a small group of disciples. Several years later he was elected as chief rabbi of the remote village Orshiva, but during World War I he returned to Satmar and established a small yeshiva, dividing his time between Satmar and Orshiva. In 1926 he was elected as chief rabbi of Kroly (Carei) in Transylvania, Romania and two years later he was elected chief rabbi of Satmar. This appointment faced substantial public opposition and it took Rabbi Yoel six years of fierce and scandalous struggle until he eventually took office in 1934. During that waiting period he also tried to run for a rabbinate office in other communities, including that of the Edah Haredit (the ultra-Orthodox community) of Jerusalem.

Rabbi Yoel was known to have a stubborn, controversial and argumentative personality. Wherever he wanted to serve, public debates arose and the newspapers accused him in using improper means during the election process. At the same time, he was also known as a religious zealot, and several extremist Orthodox groups acknowledged him as their spiritual leader. Following his ordination as chief rabbi of Satmar, Rabbi Yoel gained an important leadership role among the extreme-Orthodox, and became known for his unwavering opposition to modernity, Zionism and even to the ultra-Orthodox party Agudat Israel. In the late 1930s, after a long public campaign, he was elected to the leadership of the Central Bureau of the Orthodox Jewish communities of Transylvania. In that position he was able to influence the lives of over one hundred and fifty thousand religious Jews in that region.

In his personal life, Rabbi Yoel suffered a series of tragedies. After losing his father at an early age, he was expelled from his hometown, Sighet. He and his wife could not give birth to a son, and two of their three daughters died young and childless. His chronically ill wife died soon thereafter, as well as Rabbi Yoel’s mother and brother. He married again, but although his wife was young and healthy, she too did not bear him any children. Following this second marriage, Rabbi Yoel and his only daughter became estranged and they hardly spoke until she died, also at a young age. This surviving daughter was also barren meaning that Rabbi Yoel had no grandchildren to succeed him.

During World War II Rabbi Yoel was involved in various rescue operations for refugees who fled Poland. As danger grew, he sought to get a certificate that will allow him and his close family to immigrate to Palestine. Failing that, he abandoned his community and escaped along with a small group of friends from Satmar, but was caught and sent to the ghetto of Cluj. He was spared from being sent to Auschwitz as he was included in the small group saved by Zionist activist Israel Kasztner’s rescue train. He and the rest of the passengers were taken to Bergen-Belsen, where they were detained for a few months. Later the group was released to Switzerland where Rabbi Yoel stayed for a few months. He did not return to lead and to comfort the survivors that returned to Satmar after the Holocaust, nor did he join the relief operations conducted by other rabbis in the refugee camps in Germany.

After his stay in Switzerland, Rabbi Yoel decided to settle in Jerusalem. The leaders of the ultra-Orthodox community, who were aware of his aggressive and argumentative personality, shunned away from him. As a result, the institutions he established failed and he was on the verge of bankruptcy. His only hope to repay his tremendous debt was by raising funds in the United States. Humiliated and destitute Rabbi Yoel was forced to travel to the land he always considered the most hostile and spiritually dangerous environment for Orthodox Jews.

After arriving in the United States, it became clear to Rabbi Yoel that he will never be able to raise enough funds to save his institutions in Jerusalem. Having no place to return to, he decided to settle in New York. Oddly enough, it was in this notorious “New World” that Rabbi Yoel was able not only to establish his own congregation, but also to significantly expand and develop it. Within a few years he attracted a large circle of supporters and devotees and created a congregation which, he claimed, resembled that of an East-European “Shtetel.”

However, in order to succeed in his mission, Rabbi Yoel had to apply significant un-traditional innovations that were inconceivable in the East-European “Shtetel.” He established a Hasidic education system, including one for girls, which introduced secular teachings and summer camps. He also encouraged his followers to go to work or to establish their own small businesses. His delegates cooperated with government and municipal officials who helped the poor Hasidim to get public housing, professional training and social benefits. That innovative spirit was one of the main reasons his Hasidic court grew rapidly and prospered economically. Rabbi Yoel used funds gathered by his adherents to support the Eda Haredit in Jerusalem, and in 1952, just a few years after he was forced to leave Jerusalem, he returned triumphant to be declared president of the Edah Haredit.

One of the reasons for Rabbi Yoel’s unparalleled success, beyond his personal charisma and leadership qualities, was his anti-Zionist and Extreme Orthodox ideology. His views were published in two major books, Va-Yoel Moshe – published in the late 1950s, and Al Ha-Geula Ve-Al Ha-Temura – published after the Six Days War. These books were re-printed numerous times, and new editions are still being printed to this day. The radical ideas expressed in these books still affect and guide the Satmar Hasidic court and some of the other Hungarian courts, as well as some marginal groups of zealots, also known as Neturei Karta.

At the time of his death, in 1979 and still today, Rabbi Yoel was undoubtedly one of the most recognized and influential Jewish leaders in the post-Holocaust era. His community had tens of thousands of Hasidim and the education system he established was amongst the largest in the Jewish world outside Israel. Ideas expressed by Rabbi Yoel have influenced the rest of Orthodox society and thus the Jewish society in general. Today, about forty years after his death, the “Satmar” trademark is still strong and still synonymous with religious zealotry. The spiritual and practical foundations laid by Rabbi Yoel continue to fuel the ever-growing expansion of the Satmar Hasidic court that today has more than a hundred thousand followers worldwide.