The Garlic Eaters

by Eliezer Segal

For several months now a braid of garlic bulbs has been proudly hanging on our kitchen wall. As it happens, this is not simply a matter of personal taste, but it links us to a venerable Jewish tradition.

The Mishnah, in discussing a point of religious law, states that the expression “garlic eaters,” when it appears in the wording of a vow, is to be understood as a designation for Jews and Samaritans.

Indeed Rabbinic literature is full of praises for this common herb. “It satisfies hunger it warms the body, it illuminates one’s face, it increases seed and it destroys intestinal parasites.”

These benefits have been supplemented by contemporary enthusiasts of the herb, who claim that it can cure skin diseases, lower cholesterol counts and blood pressure, reduce hypertension and risks of heart attacks, and may even be able to overcome some forms of cancer and AIDS-related illnesses. 

The Talmudic commentators offer a different explanation for the Jewish identificaiton as garlic-eaters: An ordinance ascribed to Ezra, back in the early days of the Second Commonwealth, requires Jews to eat garlic on Friday nights. The reason for this, as understood by the Talmud, is because garlic serves as an effective aid to ardor and fertility, and enhances the marital lovemaking that is an essential component of Jewish Sabbath observance.

The inclusion of the Samaritans alongside the Jews among the “garlic eaters” raises some intriguing questions.

The Samaritans, who inhabited the west bank of the Jordan (especially around Shechem and their sanctuary on Mount Gerizim) claim to be the remnants of the original Israelite tribes of Manasseh and Ephraim who escaped the exile of the northern kingdom, though Biblical tradition regards them as the descendants of foreign colonists who were transported to Samaria by the Assyrian conquerors.

The Samaritans possess the Torah, in a version slightly different from the accepted Jewish text. Though they observe its precepts meticulously, they do not accept the traditions of the Jewish Oral Torah. This leads to many significant differences between their religious laws and ours.

One such divergence is in the matter of conjugal relations on the Sabbath: Though encouraged by Jews, it is prohibited by the Samaritans. Under the circumstances, how are we to explain their reported enthusiasm for garlic?

One possibility that suggests itself is that the Samaritans had a very different objective in mind when partaking of garlic. Perhaps they felt that the scent of garlic on the breath would actually cool romantic urges.

As to the Jewish practice, we would expect that conservative Latin satirists like Juvenal and Martial, who were always so quick to ridicule the exotic and uncouth mannerisms of lower-class Roman Jews, would have seized upon this point somewhere in their works. So far, however, no such allusions have been found. At best, Martial does have some nasty things to say about effects of fasting upon the breath of Jews (like many Romans, he thought Shabbat was a fast day).

When you think about it, Italians are the least likely people to be upset by the smell of garlic.

Some scholars have sought to discern an reference to this phenomenon in a quote attributed to the emperor and stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius, who allegedly made an insulting reference to the breath of the Jews.

If the allusion were indeed to the garlic that enhanced the breath of contemporary Jews, then the anecdote could have some interesting implications.

Several historians have argued that Marcus Aurelius was the enigmatic “Antoninus,” the Roman leader who often appears in Rabbinic literature in amicable conversation with Rabbi Judah the Prince on all manner of questions of faith, science and politics.

It is tempting, though hardly justified, to tie all these speculations together and conclude that the Roman emperor’s insulting comment reflected his personal encounters with his Jewish comrade.

The picture becomes more intriguing when we note that Rabbi Judah himself is reported to have expelled a scholar from his academy on the grounds that his breath smelled of garlic. If we link this story to the previous one, then it might be seen as a response to the criticisms of “Antoninus.”

Not all Jewish authorities were convinced of the medical benefits of garlic. Maimonides omitted from his code all favourable references to garlic eating, whether in connection with the Sabbath or vows. This policy seems to reflect his medical opinion. Speaking as a physician, he advises against anything more than minimal and infrequent consumption of garlic, and never during the Summer months.

With all due respect to Maimonides’ medical expertise, I prefer to include myself in a long and honourable traditon of garlic eaters.

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• First Publication: 

• Jewish Free Press, January 25 1996, pp. 4-5.

• For further reading:

• Judah Feliks, Plant World of the Bible, Ramat-Gan 1968.
• Julius Preuss, Biblical and Talmudic Medicine, translated by F. Rosner, New York 1978.-120

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Angels on My Shoulders

by Eliezer Segal

There is a natural human need to give visual expression to abstract ideas Towards that end people draw upon a variety of sources of inspiration.

For some of us, religious imagery is defined by the illustrations in our old schoolbooks, while others invoke great masterpieces of painting and sculpture. As for myself, my own perceptions have been decisively shaped by the cartoons I used to watch as a child.

The eternal struggle of the “Yetzer ha-tov” and the “Yetzer ha-ra“–the good and evil urges that compete within each of us–will always appear in my imagination like the little angel and imp who hover over the shoulders of animated characters pleading their respective cases. The good and bad angels figure in several Rabbinic legends. The Talmud tells how they visit Jewish homes on Friday night. If they find the household at peace and everything prepared for Shabbat, then the good angel blesses the family with the assurance that subsequent Sabbaths will be as delightful, while the bad angel reluctantly adds his “amen.” But if the home is found to be in confusion and disarray, it is the bad angel’s turn to wish upon the unfortunate family more unpleasant Sabbaths in the future–to which the good angel must add his unwilling assent.

The image of the angelic guests is a charming one. It is of course the inspiration for the Shalom Aleikhem hymn chanted in many Jewish homes before the Friday night meal. In this song we greet the celestial visitors, ask for their blessing–presumably we will be found worthy of the “good angel”‘s version–and then bid our farewells as they return to “King of Kings of Kings” (a title that was probably coined in antiquity in order to assert God’s superiority over the Persian monarch, who proudly called himself–as did the Iranian Shahs in our own times–the “King of kings”).

It is hard to imagine anything more beautiful, or unobjectionable, than the themes evoked by the Shalom Aleikhem. It might therefore come as a surprise to learn that it became a topic of heated controversy from its first appearance in 1641 in a prayer book printed in Prague.

The Rabbis of the time had severe misgivings about the Shalom Aleikhem. The 18th-century Rabbi Jacob Emden was suspicious of any mystical innovations in the traditional prayer book, because so many of them had been introduced by the supporters of the Messianic pretender Shabbetai Zvi. There were additional halakhic considerations to keep in mind, such as the prohibition against petitionary prayers on the Sabbath, and the fear that people might be induced to manipulate their lamps in order to read unfamiliar supplements to the Siddur.

Emden, as well as several other distinguished rabbinical authorities, were especially upset that a prayer was being directed to angels, and not to the Almighty himself. After all, Judaism had always insisted that worshippers address their Creator directly, and often criticized the Christian reliance on intermediaries. And yet here we are instructed to ask the angelic emissaries for their blessing of peace.

A further objection was raised by the renowned Lithuanian scholar Rabbi Hayyim of Volozhin (1749-1821): To suppose that angels can respond to our petitions implies a gross misunderstanding of their nature. According to rationalist belief, angels are mere automatons programmed to carry out specific Divine missions. They do not have the judgment or freedom of choice that would be required to comply with the human supplication for a favourable blessing.

It was in response to charges of this kind that several prayer books inserted, immediately after the Shalom Aleikhem, two verses from Psalms which state unmistakably that it is God who commands the angels, and protects us in our comings and goings.

Some authorities were upset by an apparent breach of supernatural etiquette. After all, as we sing the Shalom Aleikhem before Kiddush we seem to be hustling the angels in, asking them for their blessing and then hastily sending them on their way before the meal has even begun! Is this the proper hospitality to show to supernatural guests? Although some commentators insisted that we are not ordering the angels to depart immediately, not everybody was convinced.

An interesting variation on the above theme is found in a note to a prayer book published in 1880 in Lublin: “In cases of domestic disputes, refrain from singing the stanza `Depart in peace.’ According to a noted Rabbi, this is a certified effective way to soothe the tensions.”

Indeed, who would be so rude as to keep on quarreling when there are angels at the table?

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• First Publication:
• Jewish Free Press, February 8 1996, p. 8.
• For further reading: 
• I. Jacobson, Netiv Binah, Tel-Aviv.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Starting Off on the Right Foot:

Power and Position Under the Huppah

by Eliezer Segal

The traditional wedding ceremony, like other significant rites of passage, is carefully defined by the norms of Jewish law and custom, so that very few of its details are left to chance. Some features, like the text of the “seven blessings” that are recited under the canopy, or the breaking of a glass in memory of the destroyed Temple, are rooted in ancient sources. Other practices have evolved through the conventions of individual communities.

Where the bride and groom are to stand under the huppah is one of those areas that came to be governed by local usage. Sources from the mediaeval era report that the prevailing custom in Ashkenazic communities was for the bride to stand at the groom’s right side, a procedure that was supported by a Biblical proof text: “Upon thy right hand did stand the queen in gold of Ophir” (Psalms 45:9). In other localities the order appears to have been reversed. As long as Jews adhered to the practices of their own communities, everything should have continued harmoniously.

This innocent question of wedding protocol became the focus of a controversy in an episode that occurred in Rome in 1528. When doubts arose over what the correct practice ought to be in their city, a prominent local sage, a certain Rabbi Judah, insisted that the bride must stand on the left. As the disagreement progressed, Rabbi Judah made it clear that he would have taken this position even if the local precedent had been otherwise, and that in his opinion the longstanding Ashkenazic custom was indefensible.

In order to appreciate the vehemence of his argument, we must note that the Rabbi in question was also a Kabbalist. For proponents of this mystical philosophy the concepts of right and left are fundamental to the metaphysical structure of the universe, reflecting the tension between the divine attributes of justice and mercy. According to the imagery of the Kabbalah, the merciful, masculine aspect of God, is identified with the right side, and the just, female side with the left.

In the eyes of the Jewish mystic, human actions are a mirror reflecting the celestial creative forces. The joining of male and female humans is thus, in a profound sense, essential to their being created in the “image of God”–for gender divisions originate in the divine realms. Therefore it is only fitting that the woman position herself to the left of the man. To do otherwise would be a reversal of the proper order of creation, and might be fraught with dire metaphysical consequences.

By insisting that halakhic decision-making be subordinated to mystical theology, Rabbi Judah had raised some sensitive issues about the borders and priorities of law and theology in Judaism.

However not all questions about where to stand under the huppah were of such weighty dimensions. Some related more immediately to the personal relationships between the new couple.

Thus, the 17th-century mystic Rabbi Abraham Azulai observed that the balance of power in the marriage will be affected by where the bride and groom place their feet during the ceremony. If the husband succeeds in positioning his right foot upon his wife’s left foot while the blessings are being recited, then this will establish the pattern for the future marriage, and she will continue to submit to his authority. But if she puts her left foot on his right, then she will thereafter wield the power in the home.

Rabbi Azulai tells of an occasion when a certain bride came out the loser in the foot-stamping competition at the huppah. Distressed, she reported the incident to her father, who revealed to her a solution to her dilemma: Just before the consummation of the marriage, he advised, she should ask her husband to bring her a glass of water. This well-timed drink would shift the power back into her hands.

The learned Kabbalist, writing in 17th-century Jerusalem, was probably unaware that the procedure he was describing bore an uncanny resemblance to a well-known folk belief still current among the people of Cornwall. According to a local legend, the waters of the famous well of St. Keyne possess the ability to bestow domestic authority upon the partner who is first to drink from them after the wedding ceremony. A popular English ballad expresses the dismay of a fresh bridegroom upon his discovery that his new bride had the foresight to secretly carry a bottle of the wondrous waters to the wedding, giving her an unbeatable advantage. 

Such intense competitiveness at the threshold of their married life suggests that neither husband nor wife were truly putting their best foot forward.

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• First Publication:
• Jewish Free Press, February 22 1996, p. 12.
• For further reading: 
• Jacob Katz, Halakhah and Kabbalah, Jerusalem 1984.
• Israel Abrahams, Jewish Life in the Middle Ages, New York 1958.
• Tony Deane and Tony Shaw, The Folklore of Cornwall, London 1975.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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“Orthodox,” “Cowboys” and Other Insults

by Eliezer Segal

Recently I received an irate letter from a correspondent who had been accessing my articles via the Internet. This individual, who claimed to be descended from Spanish Jewish converts to Christianity, was taking issue with an article in which I had made reference to the religious practices of the “Marranos” of Spain and Portugal. The term “Marrano,” he argued correctly, was an abusive and demeaning old Spanish word meaning “swine”–expressing the distaste felt by many veteran Christian Iberians, even for Jews who had adopted the official faith.

I felt the occasion called for apology rather than self-justification. I explained that I had hesitated before choosing the offensive epithet over the more respectable “conversos” or “New Christians,” but had ultimately decided that such terms would be unfamiliar to my average reader.

As an aside, I remarked that Jews have a long history of accepting names that were originally intended as derogatory. Perhaps this practice can be traced back to the patriarch Abraham whose designation Ivri, “Hebrew” is understood by some commentators to mean “one who comes from the other side [‘ever],” possibly reflecting the perspective of the Canaanites who patronizingly viewed him as an “alien.”

In later generations Jews consistently referred to themselves as “Israel.” The term “Yehudi” (Jew) is found very rarely in Talmudic literature, and in those rare instances where it does appear it is usually in quotations attributed to non-Jews. This is consistent with the evidence of Greek texts, where Ioudaioi is the name that is normally used to designate our people.

This demonstrates a crucial difference in perspective: Gentiles acknowledged only the truncated province of Judea, as it existed under Persian, Greek and Roman rule, whereas the Jews were always conscious of their links to the glorious days when David and Solomon reigned over the united Israelite monarchy.

Rabbinic Judaism evolved out of the Second Temple Jewish faction known as the Pharisees. The word “Pharisee” translates as “separatist” and alludes to the fact that the group imposed upon itself extra stringencies in the areas of purity and dietary laws, which set limits to their social interaction with people outside their own group.

The Hebrew word for “separatist” is normally a term of opprobrium. Ancient texts of the “Sh’moneh Esreh” prayer included a condemnation of those who do not make their proper contribution to the welfare of the community.

When Talmudic documents mention the word Pharisee (P’rushi) as the name of a religious movement, the word is usually being used by their opponents, the supporters of the priestly Sadducee party. When referring to their own origins, the rabbis employed the term “Haverim” (comrades). Eventually however, the name Pharisee came to be accepted by Jews as a neutral or even an honourable title–in spite of the fact that Christian innuendo has turned it into a synonym for “hypocrite” in many European languages.

In more recent times , we may note the rise of the “Misnagdim” who championed the primacy of Talmudic scholarship against the nascent Hasidic movement and its ideology of charismatic mysticism.

The term “Misnagdim” (“opponents,” “protestants”) was coined by the Hasidim and reflects their perspective. It has subsequently been accepted by their opponents, the followers of the Ga’on of Vilna who emulated his scholarly ideals in the Lithuanian-style yeshivahs.

A striking instance of the acceptance of a hostile epithet is the widespread use of the name “orthodox” as a designation for Jewish traditionalists in the post-Emancipation era.

The word “orthodox” was derived from a Christian context and was first applied to Jews with ironic derision in 1795 by a Reform polemicist.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the outspoken leader of the traditionalist forces in Germany, reacted indignantly to this epithet in an essay written in Frankfurt in 1854. And yet the same rabbi, barely thirty years later, established a “Free Union for the Interests of Orthodox Judaism”!

I doubt that the above tendencies are unique to the Jewish experience. I have often suspected, for example, that the oddly phrased word “cowboy” (as distinct from, say, “cattleman”) originated in some such derogatory usage, though I have yet to find confirmation for this theory.

If the above hypothesis appears overly cynical, then we must recall that “cynic” (“dog-like”) was also originally an insult intended to ridicule the allegedly uncouth mannerisms of that ancient philosophical school.

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• First Publication:
• JFP, March 7 1996.
• For further reading: 
  • Shaye J. D. Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, Philadelphia, 1987.
  • Paul Mendes-Flohr and Jehuda Reinharz, eds., The Jew in the Modern World, Oxford and New York, 1995.
  • David Rudavsky, Modern Jewish Religious Movements, New York, 1979.
  • E. P. Sanders, Judaism–Practice and Belief: 63 BCE – 66 CE, London and Philadelphia, 1992.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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A Text Inscribed in Blood

by Eliezer Segal

A passage in the Talmud records a grisly incident concerning a fatherless child who was left in the custody of his late father’s family. The unfortunate lad was murdered by his guardians who stood to inherit his share in the estate of the deceased.

Subsequent Jewish law learned the lessons of this tragedy, decreeing that under such circumstances children should henceforth be assigned to the care of their mothers.

The original Talmudic report contained an indication of when the incident occurred. However if one relies on the standard editions of the Talmud, the well-known Vilna printings produced at the beginning of the present century, it is hard to decipher what is being said there.

Where the date should appear, an ambiguous Hebrew abbreviation is employed, to which an anonymous marginal gloss comments: “This should be read as `on the first evening,’ and the printers of previous editions misinterpreted the abbreviation in a manner that is inappropriate to the context.”

A comparison with earlier printings, manuscripts and medieval citations makes it clear that the original reading of the phrase was “on Passover eve.” The traditional commentators were somewhat puzzled over the importance of this detail. Some claimed that it was simply an incidental fact that had no particular significance to the legal or religious issues. Others suggested that the Talmud was emphasizing the perverseness of the crime, in that it was perpetrated at a time when Jews ought to be purifying themselves from corpse-related defilement in preparation for the pilgrimage to the Temple.

The question remains: Why did the recent editions of the Talmud take the trouble to alter the text and remove its connection to Passover?

My own initial investigation of this puzzle did not meet with immediate success. One leading contemporary Talmudic scholar noted the emendation, adding cryptically that “Many futile things have been written concerning the reading `the eve of Passover,’ none of which I consider satisfactory.”

Indeed, it turns out that the “many futile things” were not written in the context of traditional talmudic commentaries, but relate to incidents that were taking place at the time of the printing of the Vilna Talmud editions.

In 1891-2 a series of articles and pamphlets were published in German journals (including one with the transparent name `Antisemitische Corrospondenz‘), from the pen of an individual named Augustus Rohling. These articles bore titles like “A Talmudic Source for Ritual Murder.” In all these articles Rohling cited a garbled and distorted version of our Talmudic passage as irrefutable evidence that Jews slaughter children–when necessary, even their own– as part of the religious observance of their Passover.

This absurd reading of the text was fully consistent with the other activities of Herr Rohling. He held the post of “Professor of Semitic Languages” at the German University in Prague, an appointment that owed more to pressures exerted by the church than to any legitimate academic credentials. His best known publication was the infamous Der Talmudjude, a vitriolic collation of twisted misquotes from Jewish sources (much of it plagiarized from earlier antisemitic anthologies) that claimed to prove the murderous character of Jews and Judaism. Rohling’s rantings were cited in the prosecution of several European “Blood Accusations,” including the notorious trial in Nyíregháza, Hungary, in 1883. Similar works are still in widespread circulation among his disciples in Alberta.

Rohling’s pseudo-scholarship was repeatedly denounced and ridiculed by virtually all the contemporary Christian authorities on Hebrew and Jewish religion, including such distinguished experts as Hermann Strack, Franz Delitsch and Theodor Nöldecke. Strack in particular, though an active missionary, had sufficient scholarly integrity and respect for the truth that he composed a special treatise to refute Rohling’s slanders.

Eventually the wave of denunciations by a veritable “who’s who” of European Orientalists, coupled with a series of lawsuits and countersuits, led to the antisemite’s dismissal from his University post.

It is against the background of Rohling’s dangerous libels, and the bloody pogroms that they were kindling in central and eastern Europe, that we can appreciate why the Jewish publishers tampered with the text of the Talmud in order to obscure its connections to Passover.

This can serve as a reminder of the days, unfortunately not completely bygone, when fear, rather than joyous anticipation, would often mark the approach of the “season of our liberation.”

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• First publication:
• The Jewish Free Press, Calgary, March 21 1966, p. 8.
• For further reading: 
• H. Strack, The Jew and Human Sacrifice, London 1909.
• Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Kifshutah, Vol. 6, New York 1967
• A. Handler, Blood Libel at Tiszaeszlar, New York 1980
• J. Trachtenberg, The Devil and the Jews, New York 1966.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Important Women

by Eliezer Segal

One of the central themes of Passover is the idea that the liberation from Egypt has transformed all Jews–even those who are outwardly subjected to poverty or oppression–into free persons.

In order to give tangible expression to this fact, the ancient Rabbis modelled the seder after the formal banquets of the Roman nobility. At such occasions, the participants would recline luxuriously on their couches, enjoying the convivial conversation and nibbling on the hôrs d’oeuvres and delicacies arrayed before them.

A vestige of that practice is the custom of “leaning” on cushions around the table at our contemporary sedarim.

In connection with this practice, the Talmud states: “A women is not required to recline. However if she is an important woman, then she must recline.”

The traditional commentators and codifiers offer varying explanations as to why women should have been excluded from this expression of liberty. 

A quick survey of these explanations can provide us with some instructive insights into the social and religious positions of women in different historical settings.

One of the earliest post-Talmudic codes, an eighth-century collection of discourses known as the She’iltot, observed matter-of-factly that women were not accustomed to reclining at secular banquets. He does not provide us with a reason for this situation; perhaps the posture was considered immodest. In any case, since for women reclining did not serve as an expression of freedom on other occasions, it presumably followed that there would be no purpose served in requiring them to do so at the seder.

As we progress farther into the Middle Ages, attitudes and perspectives undergo some interesting changes. Several Talmudic commentators now understand the women’s exemption from reclining to be an extension of a wife’s general subordination to her husband. 

For instance, Rashi’s grandson Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (known as “Rashbam”), writing in twelfth-century France, explained: “This is because a wife should be in awe of her husband and subject to his authority.” A later French scholar, Rabbi Samuel of Falaise, concluded that it would be disrespectful for a wife to display authority or independence while in the presence of her husband.

Most authorities reasoned that if the exemption is understood to derive from the woman’s relationship to her spouse, it followed that it would be in force only if he were actually present at the time. From this premise they went on to conclude that unmarried, widowed or divorced women would be fully subject to the obligation to recline at the seder. 

Some interpreters, such as the 14th century Rabbi Manoah of Narbonne, formulated this position in more pragmatic and utilitarian terms: The Rabbis exempted women from the requirement of reclining in order to allow them to devote their undivided attention to the preparation and serving of the food.

The differing rationales that were suggested to explain the women’s exclusion from the obligation gave rise in turn to divergent definitions of the quality of “importance” that, according to the Talmud, would obligate women to recline at the seder.

Thus, those commentators who focused on the wife’s being occupied in the kitchen would explain that an important woman is one who does not need to do her own housework, but can delegate the labour to servants (the sources do not contemplate the possibility of the husband cooking or serving the food).

Alternatively, Rabbi Eleazer Rokeah commented that if the key consideration is a wife’s subordination to her husband, then the “important” woman would be one whose spouse is liberated enough not to object to her reclining.

There were some authorities who approached the concept of “importance” according to religious, rather than social, criteria. Thus, according to Rabbi Manoah a woman who was the pious daughter of a distinguished scholarly family, embodying all the qualities of the Bible’s “woman of valour”–“though no such paragon could actually exist–such a woman would be obliged to recline even if she were married”!

At any rate, the issue became moot when the majority of French and German Jewish authorities declared simply and categorically that “all our women are considered important, and they are therefore subject to the obligation to recline.” This obligation was understood to apply equally to married and unmarried women, whether or not their husbands were present.

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• First publication:
• Jewish Free Press, April 4 1996, p. 16.
• For further reading: 
  • Eliakim G. Ellinson, Ha-ishah Veha-mitzvot: Bein Ha-ishah Leyotzerah, Jerusalem 1984.
  • Menachem M. Kasher, Hagadah Shelemah: The Complete Passover Hagadah, Jerusalem 1967.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Doña Gracia’s Blockade

by Eliezer Segal

News Item: March 1997 — The U.S. passes the “Helms-Burton law,” extending their long-standing boycott to encompass other nations that continue to trade with Cuba. The new legislation permits suits in U.S. courts against companies doing business with Cuba. According to this law, the U.S. can refuse entry to executives of such companies. Canada and other countries object to the law, claiming that the U.S. has no right to impose its foreign policy on them.

Lately we Canadians have been roused to heights of righteous indignation by the American threat to punish foreign firms that violate their economic blockade of Cuba. As Jews we might be particularly sensitive to the issue, having ourselves been the victims of boycotts declared by assorted enemies.

Perusing the annals of Jewish history, we discover that there was a time when the Jews of the world tried to band together to inflict punitive and retaliatory sanctions on a hostile power.

The episode began in the Italian city of Ancona. During the sixteenth century Ancona became a haven for Jewish merchants who were enthusiastically encouraged to settle in there in order to enhance the city’s status as a free port. Resisting pressures from Jew-baiters in the Church, several Popes guaranteed the protection to any Jews who settled in the city. Scores of Jewish traders responded to the invitation, including Marranos from Portugal and the Levant. The situation proved beneficial to all concerned.

Matters took a turn for the worse in 1555 when Pope Paul IV revoked the Jewish privileges and revived several all-too-familiar discriminatory measures, such as the wearing of a yellow badge, confinement to a ghetto and vocational restrictions.

The refugees from Spain and Portugal found themselves in a particularly dangerous predicament. Since they had formerly been baptised as Christians they were now subject to the authority of the dreaded Inquisition. It was not long before fifty-one Jews were put on trial, of whom twenty-five were burned at the stake. The Jewish world was stunned and outraged.

At that time there lived one of the most formidable Jewish political leaders since ancient times, the illustrious Doña Gracia Mendes Nasi. Though born a “New Christian” in Portugal, she had escaped to settle in Antwerp where her husband was a wealthy jeweler and financier. Upon his death she took charge of the family business, which also served as a cover for a vast and effective “underground railroad” whose agents throughout the world were constantly at work smuggling Jews from the Iberian Peninsula to more hospitable shores.

After publicly declaring her Judaism Doña Gracia was forced to leave Europe, to join the thriving community of Sepharadic refugees in Constantinople. There she devoted her considerable spiritual and material resources to the benefit of the local Jewish institutions. “La Señora,” as she was called, became the revered patroness of synagogues, yeshivahs and Hebrew letters. Her control over the communal leadership, strengthened by her amicable ties with the Turkish Sultan, was close to absolute, and she has been described as the most powerful woman of her generation.

Immediately upon hearing of the tragic fate of the Ancona martyrs, Doña Gracia resolved that retaliation was called for. She reasoned correctly that Spanish Jewish merchants made up an economic force of such magnitude that if they were to cease trading with Ancona, transfering their cargos instead to neighbouring harbours, the duplicitous city could be reduced to financial ruin. The only catch was that, for the plan to succeed, it would have to be supported by all Jewish merchants without exception.

Since so much of international Jewish commerce emanated from Constantinople itself, Doña Gracia stood a reasonable chance of success. True, there were some traders who opposed the boycott, whether out of personal economic interests or because of fear of reprisals against relatives in Christian lands. Several Rabbis issued halakhic rulings against the boycott. However it was a relatively simple matter for “la Señora” to invite the insubordinate sages to her palace and quietly remind them what was likely to become of their yeshivahs or synagogues should she decide to withdraw her generosity. It was an offer they could not refuse.

Initially the sanctions proved effective. Over time however, it became apparent that they could have perilous consequences for Jews who remained subject to the Pope’s authority. An extensive debate was conducted in the Jewish community over the painful question of whether it was worth endangering fellow Jews in order to create a possible long-term deterrent to potential persecutors of Israel. The wall of solidarity eventually crumbled before fully achieving its objectives.

What is the moral of this story? With respect to the current Cuban sanctions, I have no doubt that it can legitimately be cited in support of either side of the debate, whether to prove that all attempts at commercial blockade are doomed to failure, or to justify hermetic enforcement of the boycott as the only assurance of its success.

However we choose to interpet the issue, it provides us with an opportunity to retell a fascinating exploit and to make the acquaintance of an outstanding personality from the Jewish past.

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• First Publication:
• Jewish Free Press, April 25 1996, p. 10.
• For further reading: 
  • Cecil Roth, The House of Nasi: Doña Gracia, Philadelphia 1948.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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Taking It All in Stride

by Eliezer Segal

Although my editor does not often let me out for exercise, I do try to indulge in modest regimens of running and walking.

Traditional Jewish sources provide us with some useful tips on the proper ways and times for pursuing those activities. 

Thus, the Talmud teaches that a crucial time for taking a walk is right after eating. This routine was recommended by the third-century Babylonian sage Samuel, who was also a respected physician.

Though Samuel had great confidence in his effectiveness as a medical practitioner, he admitted that he was at a loss to offer any assistance to the reckless persons who endangered their health by neglecting to walk four cubits at the conclusion of a meal. Such ill-advised behaviour was certain to have fatal effects upon one’s health.

Another Talmudic passage is more specific in spelling out the consequences of such conduct: Those who eat without walking the requisite four cubits will cause the food to decay in their bowels, which will produce unpleasant effects on their breath.

For those who were inclined to rest right after their meals, the Talmud recommended positioning an extra cot in the dining room at a specified distance from the table, in order to force the diners to stretch their legs, if only for a few paces.

In issuing their medical advice, the Talmudic Rabbis were echoing the view of Aristotle who had opined that a walk after a meal is among the indispensable prerequisites of a good physical state. The Athenian philosopher is further reported to have observed that an after-dinner stroll has the power to renew the body’s warmth and vigour.

However not all the ancients were in agreement about the benefits of walking after eating. According to Plutarch, there were people who feared that the exertion might interfere with the workings of the digestive tract, and therefore preferred to remain stationary for a while before leaving the table.

There was one point, however, upon which virtually all the authors, Jewish and Greek, agreed, namely that napping immediately after eating will have a deleterious on the body.

Indeed some of the Talmudic commentators understood Samuel’s original advice in this light. Rashi, for example, explained that the main purpose of walking after a repast is to prevent one from dozing off right away. A mere four cubits was felt to provide sufficient exertion to avert any ill effects.

Not all forms of walking were considered praiseworthy. In fact the Rabbis took care to discourage certain styles of gait as being either physically unhealthy or morally unseemly.

A frequent target of rabbinical criticism was the practice of “heavy stepping” (p’si’ah gassah) The Talmud warns that “heavy stepping can diminish one’s eyesight by one five-hundredth.”

From some passages it seems that the reference is to a sort of power walking at an accelerated speed. For this reason it is permitted to eagerly heavy-step towards the synagogue, but not when leaving it.

In this assessment, the Rabbis were again confirming an observation that had been made by Aristotle, that too much physical exertion can be injurious to one’s vision. The philosopher was not entirely certain how to account for the phenomenon, but surmised that it might have something to do with the effects of dehydration on the pupils.

From the Jewish sources, which limit their condemnations of heavy-walking to certain situations or personalities, we may deduce that their concern with accelerated walking was not entirely of a medical character.

Thus, the avoidance of heavy-stepping was recommended primarily to scholars. In another context, the Midrash relates that Joseph issued specific warnings against taking rapid strides when advising his brothers how to conduct themselves on their journey to Egypt.

From all this it would appear that an indelicate gait was regarded as a symptom of arrogance and disdain, attitudes to which scholars were particularly susceptible. Similarly, visitors to foreign countries, as were Joseph’s brothers, were urged to make especial efforts to avoid demonstrations of superiority.

In this matter as well the Jewish sages were sharing attitudes that were current in classical antiquity. The orator Demosthenes informs us that a rapid gait was looked upon with disfavour by the Athenians, and defendants who were observed racing about the courthouse could seriously jeopardize their cases. Such uncouth behaviour warranted an apology to the judge, including an assurance that it was not intended contemptuously.

Truly, walking can be a very serious activity. If done properly, it is far healthier than sitting idly in front of a newspaper article.

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• First publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, June 6 1996, p. 14.
• For further reading:
  • Saul Lieberman, “A Few Words on the Book by Julian the Arhitect of Ascalon The Laws of Palestine and its Customs, Tarbiz40 (1971), pp. 409-417.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Greening of Shavu’ot

by Eliezer Segal

The tradition of decorating synagogues and homes with greenery on Shavu’ot has a long history. As a characteristic observance of Ashkenazic Jews, it is described by Rabbi Jacob Mollin (the “Maharil”), the foremost medieval authority on German-Jewish traditional practice. With some variations, it was also observed among Jews in Italy, Egypt, Persia and other localities.

The origins of the custom are shrouded in obscurity, and the commentators were at a loss to find a definitive explanation.

There is no obvious link between the greenery and Shavu’ot’s most prominent theme of the revelation of the Torah at Mount Sinai. Nevertheless Rabbi Moses Isserles, citing the practice in his glosses to the Shulhan `Arukh, asserted cryptically that the purpose of the decorations is indeed to recall the joy of the giving of the Torah.

The ingenuity of later commentators was harnessed to the task of uncovering the symbolic link between that event and the floral ornamentation.

In their quest for an explanation, several writers draw our attention to Exodus 34:3, in which God forbade the Israelites to graze their flocks on the mountainside. This prohibition, argued our commentators, would have been superfluous unless Mount Sinai was adorned with green pasturage–as it is indeed depicted in some Hebrew manuscript illuminations. Ergo, our custom of adorning the synagogues with grass must be a recollection of the theophany at Mount Sinai!

Other authorities suggested more symbolic associations. Some recalled that the fragrant blossoms and herbs of the Song of Songs are traditionally viewed as allegories for the sweet words of Torah; and the people of Israel who accepted it on this day, were likened to God’s private and protected orchard.

A more tangible connection between the revelation at Sinai and the floral realm is suggested in a midrashic manuscript first published some fifty years ago. The author’s point of departure is the Bible’s singling out of the third day of the people’s encampment as the time when the Almighty descended upon the Mount Sinai. This calls to mind the third day of the Creation, when the earth put forth grass and fruit trees. The similarity is seen to be a significant one: Just as fruit is essential for physical life, so the Torah is no less vital for our spiritual sustenance–“It is a tree of life for all who take hold of it.” 

If we look at some of Shavu’ot‘s other themes, then it is possible to find some more straightforward associations with the plant world. The Torah emphasizes the festival’s botanic and agricultural dimensions in connection with the wheat and barley harvests, and most notably as the beginning of the season for bringing the bikkurim, the first offerings of the summer fruit. With respect to the latter motif, the Mishnah declared that Shavu’ot is the “Rosh Hashanah,” the annual day of judgment, for the fruit-trees.

Ultimately, this overabundance of explanations for the Shavu’ot greenery raised some serious doubts about whether any of them could be authentic. Some Jewish religious authorities began to suspect that there might be something un-Jewish about the whole phenomenon. Particular discomfort was felt at the more ornate manifestations, which could involve festooning the ark, walls and doors of the synagogue with actual trees and bushes.

A call to abolish the custom was voiced by Rabbi Elijah, the “Ga’on” of Vilna, and his cause was afterwards taken up by several important Lithuanian Rabbis.

Now the Ga’on was rarely enthusiastic about any popular customs that were not firmly rooted in the literary sources of Jewish law. In the present instance, however, he had specific grounds for his objections: The practice of placing trees in the synagogue bore a disturbing resemblance to what went on in the churches on Christian holy days.

The Hayei Adam halakhic digest by Rabbi Abraham Danzig associates the practice with the “Pfingsten,” the Christian Pentecost, which falls fifty days after Easter (around May 15) and parallels several features from the Jewish Shavu’ot, such as revelation, baptism of converts and all-night vigils. As frequently occurred, the churches had apparently also incorporated some pre-Christian nature rites into its religious ceremonies. The Ga’on and his followers thus saw the Jewish practice as a transparent violation of the Biblical prohibition against adopting gentile ways, and prohibited the placing of trees in the sanctuaries.

The ban was accepted, with varying degrees of stringency, in many (but by no means all) Jewish communities. 

Perhaps it was in order to compensate for the elimination or real trees and flowers from the holiday decorations that Ashkenazic Jews developed the lovely tradition of adorning the walls and windows with the intricate geometric papercuts that are referred to in Yiddish as “Reyzelakh” little roses.

Though they are supposedly intended to evoke the symmetry of flowers, somehow, in our Alberta climate they tend to remind me more of snowflakes.

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• First Publication:
• Jewish Free Press, May 23 1996, p. 7.
• For further reading:
  • D. Sperber, Minhagei Yisra’el Vol. 1, Jerusalem 1992.
  • I. Jacobson, Netiv Binah Vol. 4, Tel-Aviv 1978.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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The Yarmulke and the Hard-Hat

by Eliezer Segal

Like many legal systems, the Jewish halakhah must deal in minute detail with questions related to construction and home improvement. In particular, the Rabbis had to keep a vigilant eye on cases when renovations to an existing structure might impinge upon the convenience of neighbours, whether by obstructing a view or restricting their privacy.

Indeed, so deeply rooted were these rights in Jewish tradition that in reading Balaam’s blessing “How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob” some of the Talmudic sages visualized the heathen prophet being overcome by admiration for the Israelites’ scrupulous consideration in not aligning their doors opposite one another, so as to prevent people from peeking into each other’s homes. 

Although the regulation of such laws demanded intimate familiarity with construction methods, there is little explicit evidence that the Rabbis made a habit of consulting with experts in the field. Often. in fact, their typical approach was just the opposite: When called upon to determine empirical facts, the Talmud seems to prefer to cite the flimsiest of literary proof texts from the Bible or oral tradition rather than consulting experts or collecting experimental data.

Among the exceptions to the above generalization are some passages in the Palestinian Talmud in which the opinions of “builders” are cited in the course of discussions about Jewish law. The information supplied by those ancient builders enriches our knowledge of daily life in the Land of Israel during the Talmudic era.

One such discussion deals with the obstruction of access to a neighbour’s windows. The Talmud quotes these unidentified “builders” as stating that if the original window did not overlook an open space, but only a “stoa” or colonnade, then we may assume that the window did not exist for the sake of its view, but merely to allow sunlight to enter the house. Hence a neighbour who intended to erect a structure in front of that window was obliged to leave only enough clearance for the continued entry of sunlight, but need not worry about interfering with the view.

The premises of the discussion may appear strange to us today, since we generally assume that all windows are designed to provide a view. However in the ancient world, when the manufacture of large units of sheet glass was rare and expensive, windows tended to be much smaller, and restricted to specific purposes. Archeological evidence teaches us that the ancient “window” was usually no more than a cluster of tiny round holes in the wall. Some were for ventilation, others for light, and some for view. Ancient building codes took these factors into account in determining whether or not it was permitted to build a structure opposite somebody else’s window.

The Talmud observed that according to Jewish law any window that does not provide direct access to an open space must have been built to provide light, not view, and hence a potential builder must leave only a token distance in front of that window. In support of this distinction, the Talmud makes reference to the customary practice of the “builders” who follow a similar policy when determining the appropriate distance between an old house and a new one.

The Talmud’s account of the builders’ opinion is corroborated by a compendium of local Palestinian building procedures that has survived from the early Byzantine era, composed by an architect named Julian. Like the Jewish sources, the municipal by-laws cited by Julian distinguish, for purposes of determining the minimal distances between buildings, between windows that are intended for light and those designed for view. Any view that is fragmentary, indirect or at an angle is not guaranteed by the law.

The cooperation between yarmulke and hard-hat extended to some additional issues as well. For instance, disputes arose over how to distribute the expenses for repairs to multi-owner dwellings. How are we to determine which repairs benefit the inhabitants of the individual dwellings, and which serve the interests of the entire building. Here again the testimony of the builders was adduced in order to establish that the costs of repairs to the foundations are customarily shared by all the tenants, whereas improvements to the walls of an individual apartment are paid for only by the inhabitants of that unit.

All this reminds me of the following classic anecdote about a Rabbi who volunteered to design a house for a member of his community, to whom he offered assurances that all his construction methods were derived from the Talmud.

A week after the structure was completed, the Jew approached the sage, and morosely asked him why his new house had collapsed almost immediately after it was built.

The learned Rabbi pored through his Talmud for a moment, and then his eyes lit up with satisfaction.

“How remarkable!” he declared. “Rashi asks exactly the same question!”

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• First publication:
  • Jewish Free Press, June 6 1996, p. 14.
• For further reading:
  • Saul Lieberman, “A Few Words on the Book by Julian the Arhitect of Ascalon The Laws of Palestine and its Customs, Tarbiz40 (1971), pp. 409-417.

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My email address is: [email protected]

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