Deborah Rubin Fields

Significance of Egyptians’ gifts

“A people driven by hate are not – cannot be – free.” (Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, z”l) (photo from flickr)

According to Exodus 1:8, a new Egyptian king rose to power who did not know Joseph. He did not remember, or did not care, that Joseph, as Egypt’s chief food administrator, had saved the country from famine. As such, this new pharaoh felt no special gratitude toward the Hebrews who had settled in his land so long before. But, while the Torah text deals with pharaoh’s relationship to the Hebrews, it does not address the relationship between the Hebrew slaves and their native Egyptian neighbours.

If we look deeper in the Book of Exodus, we learn that the Hebrew slaves did know the Egyptians – they lived among them. Not only that, but the Hebrews were on good terms with their Egyptian neighbours. Thus, when it was time for the Hebrews to flee from Egypt, their neighbours gave them gifts.

The send-off was carried out in stages. In the first stage, G-d instructs Moses to tell the Hebrews that “each man should ask his neighbour for and each woman of her neighbour, jewels of silver and jewels of gold.” (11:2) It is worth noting that, depending on the context, modern Hebrew might translate neighbour as friend, buddy or colleague. Moreover, the word ask might be translated as borrow – though, since the departing Hebrews had no intention of returning to Egypt, ask is the word to use in this context.

Perhaps G-d was not totally sure how things would work out, so, just to make sure things went as He wanted them to, “He gave the people favour in the eyes of the Egyptians.” This point is apparently so critical that it is repeated soon afterwards: “the Lord gave the people favour in the eyes of the Egyptians that they let the Hebrews have what they asked for.”

Some commentators have said that the Egyptians could not be expected to offer gifts of their own initiative, so the departing Hebrew slaves encouraged them by saying, let us part as friends and we’ll take a parting gift. Others – like Philo in his Life of Moses – observe that the Hebrews were prompted not by love of gain, but by the desire to recoup some of the wages due to them for their slave labour.

The Egyptians, on their part, might have been only too happy to see the Hebrews go, as they were tired of suffering from the increasingly hard-to-take plagues. Thus, in the first chapter of the Book of Exodus, the Hebrews are told to ask for the jewelry and to receive the riches, then they are commanded to “put them on your sons and daughters.”

While it may seem extravagant to gift someone gold and silver, the ancient Egyptians all wore jewelry, it was more commonplace. According to the article “Egyptian Jewelry: A Window into Ancient Culture,” by Morgan Moroney of Johns Hopkins University and the Brooklyn Museum, “From the predynastic through Roman times, jewelry was made, worn, offered, gifted, buried, stolen, appreciated and lost across genders, generations and classes. Egyptians adorned themselves in a variety of embellishments, including rings, earrings, bracelets, pectorals, necklaces, crowns, girdles and amulets. Most Egyptians wore some type of jewelry during their lifetimes.”

That said, gold and silver are important “not only from an economic but also from a symbolic point of view. Gold, for instance, was regarded as a divine and imperishable substance, its untarnishing nature providing a metaphor of eternal life and its brightness an image of the brilliance of the sun…. The very bones of the gods were said to be of silver, just as their flesh was thought to be of gold,” writes Richard H. Wilkinson in his book Symbol & Magic in Egyptian Art.

Taking this point a step further, we might be able to interpret the Egyptians’ giving of silver and gold as an act of bestowing mystical characteristics on the ancient Hebrews. Certainly, it is a recognition that the Egyptian people viewed the Hebrews well.

However, Rabbi Judah, in the name of Samuel, takes a totally different approach. He claimed that the gold and silver had been collected by Joseph when he stored and then sold corn.

Reportedly, the Hebrews took all the gold and silver when they left Egypt and it was eventually taken to the Land of Israel. It remained there until the time of Rehoboam, the son of Solomon, then changed hands many times. It came back to ancient Israel and stayed until Zedekiah. It changed hands between the various conquerors of Israel and eventually was taken by the Romans. It has stayed in Rome ever since.

While the ancient Egyptians seemingly felt comfortable bestowing gold, silver and clothing on the Hebrews, this act is seen by some as more of a taking than a giving. In 2003, Nabil Hilmy, then dean of the faculty of law at Egypt’s Zagazig University, planned to sue the Jews of the world for the trillions of dollars that he claimed the ancient Hebrews had taken from his country. He theorized: “If we assume that the weight of what was stolen was one ton” and its worth “doubled every 20 years, even if annual interest is only 5% … hence, after 1,000 years, it would be worth 1,125,898,240 million tons.… This is for one stolen ton. The stolen gold is estimated at 300 tons, and it was not stolen for 1,000 years, but for 5,758 years, by the Jewish reckoning. Therefore, the debt is very large.”

That the Egyptians gave the Israelites gifts – willingly or not – is noteworthy. Significantly, in the article “Letting Go,” the late Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks notes that Deuteronomy 23:7 tells us that we should not hate Egyptians because you lived as a stranger in their land.

“A people driven by hate are not – cannot be – free,” writes Sacks. “Had the people carried with them a burden of hatred and a desire for revenge, Moses would have taken the Israelites out of Egypt, but he would not have taken Egypt out of the Israelites. They would still be there, bound by chains of anger as restricting as any metal. To be free you have to let go of hate.”

The gifts of gold and silver allowed the former slaves to reach some kind of emotional closure; to feel that a new chapter was beginning; to leave without anger and a sense of humiliation.

Further, Sacks cites 20th-century commentator Benno Jacob, who “translated the word venitzaltem in Exodus 3:22 as ‘you shall save,’ not ‘you shall despoil’ the Egyptians. The gifts they took from their neighbours were intended, Jacob argues, to persuade the Israelites that it was not the Egyptians as a whole, only Pharaoh and the leadership, who were responsible for their enslavement…. They were meant to save the Egyptians from any possible future revenge by Israel.”

This is something to contemplate as we read the Haggadah at our seder this year.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

Resilience of Portugal’s Jews

King Manuel I of Portugal (1495-1521) had a problem. To marry Princess Isabella of Spain, he consented to the request of her parents – Ferdinand and Isabella – to rid Portugal of its Jews. But Manuel wanted to keep the Jewish citizens close by, for their economic benefits (money and skills). His solution? In 1496-7, he forced Jews to convert. (He also expelled the country’s Muslims.)

Manuel believed that New Christians – this population is likewise referred to as conversos, anusim or Crypto-Jews; marranos is a derogatory term that should not be used – would continue to boost the country’s economy. It should be noted that Jews in Portugal already paid a special poll tax and a special property tax.

Even after they were forcibly converted, Portuguese Jews could not live wherever they wanted. They lived in separate quarters referred to as judiarias, what we might call ghettos. They worked as artisans and rural labourers, weavers, tailors, cobblers, carpenters, leather tanners, jewelers, and every branch of the metal industry, ranging from ordinary blacksmiths to armourers and goldsmiths.

Several Jews nonetheless reached prominence in medieval Portugal. Among them was Abraham Zacuto, originally from Spain. Portuguese King John II invited Zacuto to be the royal astronomer. The king wanted Zacuto to chart a sea route to India. Unlike most of his fellow religionists, Zacuto managed to flee Portugal after King Manuel imposed conversion on the country’s Jews.

There was also Isaac Abarbanel, who was King Afonso V’s treasurer. Yehuda Even Maneer was the richest Jew in the kingdom and, for that reason, was appointed Portugal’s finance minister. Master Nacim, a Jewish eye doctor, was accorded certain privileges because of his professional skills.

Before King Manuel decreed the forced conversion, the Jewish community of Tomar built a synagogue, in spite of attacks orchestrated against them and other Jews in the country. Unfortunately, the building was used for its original purpose for only a short period, after which – for years and years after the forced conversion – it was used by the Church. The town itself became one of the sites of the Inquisition tribunal. Today, the synagogue has been renovated and is considered a national monument.

Crypto-Jews continued to covertly practise Judaism. In the town of Porto, for example, the Crypto-Jews secretly operated a synagogue, hiding it from the Inquisition.

photo - In 2013, a renovation project at a facility for Portuguese senior citizens turned up a Torah ark, carved directly into the stonework separating the building from its neighbour — In 2013, a renovation project at a facility for Portuguese senior citizens turned up a Torah ark, carved directly into the stonework separating the building from its neighbour. *(photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)*

In 2013, a renovation project at a facility for Portuguese senior citizens turned up an amazing find. Hidden behind the eastern wall of the dining room was a Torah ark, or aron kodesh, carved directly into the stonework separating the building from its neighbour. There were two compartments, a square space topped by a slightly larger arched tablet-shaped opening, with space for approximately six small Torah scrolls. Besides this relatively recent discovery, we have the 16th-century testimony of Immanuel Aboab, a native of Porto. (The late Yom Tov Assis, who was a professor at Hebrew University, had likewise been trying to locate where such an aron kodesh was located in the area.)

It was common among Crypto-Jews to light one Shabbat candle in a secret cabinet. There was also an emergency tool for snuffing out Shabbat lights if it was suspected that a Christian neighbour was spying. To make Shabbat different from other days, these secret Jews ate no meat. Purim was marked by three days of fasting beforehand. Passover was celebrated two days late, so as to throw Christians off the track. Other secret Jews took the risk of undergoing circumcision.

Within limits, these Crypto-Jews read psalms and recited the Shema, didn’t work on Shabbat, didn’t eat pork and fasted on Yom Kippur. Manuel (Abraham) de Morales passed out manuscripts of what he thought were important points to know about Judaism. But most of the Jewish customs were orally transmitted from mother to children.

Not surprisingly, the period before the forced conversion was not totally free of tension between Jews and Christians: Franciscan and Dominican clergy walked through judiarias, ready to convert Jews. Moreover, Portugal’s new merchant class was apprehensive about the influence of the Jewish citizens and their capital. Under the reign of João I (1385-1443), new laws obliged Jews to wear an identifying sign on their clothes and imposed curfews on the judiarias. There were scattered outbreaks of violence, like the attack on the Lisbon judiaria in 1445, in which many died.

photo - Jew Street in Lisbon, Portugal — Jew Street in Lisbon, Portugal. *(photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)*

After the forced conversion, New Christians would be charged with being infidels, not heretics. These New Christians generally adopted Christian given names and Old Christian surnames. They probably did this to deflect attention. But harder times still followed for Portuguese Jews, with the massacre of 2,000 conversos in Lisbon in 1506 and the Portuguese Inquisition, which began in 1536. Inquisitors would come to a town and tell the gentile population that they were looking for secret Jews. They would present a list of suspicious behaviour to look for.

In medieval Portugal, turning in New Christians became a profitable venture. Arrested conversos had their assets seized by members of the Inquisition. Occasionally, Church officials would accept bribes for temporary pardons.

Apparently, if a New Christian approached an inquisitor, he had a chance of redeeming himself by admitting that his family lit Shabbat candles or washed sheets for Shabbat. On the other hand, if an Old Christian accused a New Christian of still practising Jewish rituals and the latter denied the observances, he would face a worse outcome from his trial.

The number of Inquisition victims between 1540 and 1765 is estimated at 40,000. Punishment included being raised by a pulley with one’s hands behind one’s back. Convicted infidels were then burned at the stake.

Cells where Crypto-Jews were held before their Portuguese Inquisition trials. *(photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)*

The cruel punishments passed down by the Portuguese Inquisition drew large crowds of spectators. The crowds were akin to those who would come to watch bullfights.

Trials ceased after about 250 years, although Portugal’s Inquisition was not officially abolished until 1821.

Jewish informers should also be mentioned. These people, as can be imagined, found an open ear among Portugal’s prejudiced secular and religious leaders. If these traitors were discovered by the Jewish community, they might have had their eyes gouged out, their tongue removed or been put to death for putting the community at tremendous risk. So serious a crime was acting against one’s own people that even Maimonides condoned Jewish informers.

The impact of the forced conversion and the Inquisition continue to be felt. Take, for example, Belmonte, located in the northern part of Portugal. It has a small Jewish community that has retained the rituals of Judaism despite all the hardships and persecution. In the 1990s, when the idea of building a synagogue was raised, some Jewish community members were against it. Why? Because being a member of the anusim community was their cherished identity. Almost 200 years after the Portuguese Inquisition had been abolished, they couldn’t imagine living openly as Jews.

Estimates are that at least 20% of Portugal’s current population has anusim roots.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

Songs with a biblical touch

Of course, not everyone in Israel is religious. Yet, there is a rich heritage of Hebrew songs with lyrics taken either directly from the Hebrew Bible or inspired by it. Over the years, these songs have been tremendously popular with the Israeli public.

The first example – a song taken from Deuteronomy Chapter 30, verse 19 – unfortunately has special meaning in Israel today, as thousands of residents from both the northern and southern parts of the country have been forced to live away from their homes for almost a year now.

“Because man is a tree of the field” – this verse has been variously understood to mean human beings are like a tree planted on their land. While it has been recorded by more than one Israeli singer, a version I really like is the one with extended lyrics taken from a poem by the late Nathan Zach. It can be found at nli.org.il, if you know Hebrew.

Early in the daily morning prayer service and on holidays, including Rosh Hashanah, there is a section meant to put us in the mood for prayer, but is not prayer itself. In p’sukei d’zimra, we recite “Adonai [G-d] is my strength and my might; G-d is my deliverance.” These words are taken from the Song of the Sea, which is in the Book of Exodus, Chapter 15, verse 2. It was not only a popular Israeli song, but it was sung as part of the morning prayers by the Women of the Wall, which is fighting for women’s right to pray aloud, with Torah scrolls and tefillin, at the Western Wall (the Kotel). A version of it, sung by Naomi Zuri, is on YouTube.

From the same Song of the Sea comes a song of thanksgiving by Amir Benayoun. Found in the Book of Exodus 15:1-15 and 15:20-21, the text describes how the Israelites successfully crossed the Red Sea, leaving Pharaoh and his chariots to their fate when the sea closes back up. It’s on YouTube as well.

Another popular song is based on an event in the Book of Numbers 20:11, though it doesn’t use the exact wording of the biblical text. In the story, Moses hits a rock twice in frustration, water gushes out, and the Israelites and their animals drink. G-d apparently refused Moses entry into the Land of Canaan because of this angry action. According to the late Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, Moses failed to understand that times had changed and he was facing a new generation. The people he confronted the first time were those who had spent much of their lives as slaves in Egypt. Those he now faced were born in freedom in the wilderness.

Rabbi Sacks clarified what that meant: slaves respond to orders, free people do not. Free people must be taught; otherwise, they will not learn to take responsibility. Slaves understand that a stick is used for striking, but free human beings must not be struck. Hence, Sacks suggested that, for this lack of understanding, Moses was punished.

There is a video on YouTube of Aviva Semadar singing “Mosheh hikah al sela” (“And Moses Struck a Rock”) and there is also a video of “Ya’aleh v’Yavo” (“He Will Go Up and He Will Come”), performed by Gidi Gov, who first sang Yoram Taharlev’s song in a 1973 song contest. In the first stanza, Moses has climbed Mount Nebo to look at the Promised Land. While no one knows for sure where Moses is buried, many claim he died on Mount Nebo and G-d Himself is said to have buried him.

Curiously, these words – “Ya’aleh v’Yavo” – also appear in the Amidah. And, those who are familiar with the Grace after Meals will note that this phrase is added on Rosh Chodesh and holidays. It is chanted right before the section dealing with the [re]building of Jerusalem.

Significantly, on Rosh Hashanah, we sing a verse from the Book of Jeremiah (31:19) during the Zikhronot section (which, according to Mahzor Lev Shalem, recalls the covenantal relationship between G-d and humanity) of the musaf Amidah for Rosh Hashanah:

“‘Is not Ephraim, my dear son, my precious child, whom I remember fondly even when I speak against him? So, my heart reaches out to him, and I always feel compassion for him,’ declares Adonai.”

You can listen to Israeli singer Miri Aloni sing “Haben Yakir Li” (“My Dear Son”) at matchlyric.com.

There are several songs taken from the Song of Songs. One of the older well-known pieces is “Dodi Li,” “My Beloved is Mine,” sung by Sharona Aron, which is on YouTube, as are two other pieces from the Song of Songs, which have been composed more recently.

The first is performed by the Yamma Ensemble – a group that records in both Hebrew (ancient or modern) as well as in Ladino and Arabic dialects – which is coming to Vancouver for Chutzpah! (For story, click here.)

The lyrics are: “As a lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. My beloved spoke and said unto me: ‘Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.”

The other piece from the Song of Songs is performed by singer Hadar Nehemya: “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it; if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, he would utterly be condemned / As a lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters / My beloved spoke, and said unto me: ‘Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.’”

Since Rosh Hashanah is approaching, I will end with an optimistic song, Yehoshua Engelman’s “Eliyahu (Elijah),” which can be heard on Spotify. Eliyahu is mentioned in numerous places in the Hebrew Bible and takes on numerous roles, though we don’t ever learn much about him. He is a bit of a mystery man, supposedly the harbinger of the Messiah. At the end of Havdalah, the ceremony marking the end of either Shabbat or holidays, we sing to Eliyahu, asking him to bring us redemption.

We could certainly use it.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

Bucharest a city of contrast

There is an abundance of street art in Bucharest. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)

What could be more Israeli than the hora? Well, truth be told, the hora is not Israeli! The word hora comes from Romania. And, like the origins of the hora, the Romanian capital, Bucharest, is a place where the unexpected should be expected.

When you walk along Bucharest’s broad boulevards, one word comes to mind – palatial. There is the former Cantacuzino Palace, today’s George Enescu National Museum; the Elisabeta Palace, the private residence of the former Queen Elizabeth of Greece (born Princess Elisabeta of Romania), following her 1935 divorce from King George II of Greece; the former Royal Palace, today’s National Museum of Arts; the Romanian Athenaeum, today a major concert hall; the Palace of the Deposits and Consignments, still a bank, but today called the CEC Palace; and the Palace of Parliament.

Bucharest once had strong ties to Paris, and French is still mandated in schools. It was called Little Paris, so it should not be a surprise to see that Bucharest’s Manu-Auschnitt Palace is a copy of Paris’s Hôtel Biron (today’s Rodin Museum). While smaller in size, many older private homes were built with stunning stone (perhaps even cement) arches and columns, bas reliefs incorporating figures of lions, men and women, shields, gryphons, eagles, the angel of death, and various free-standing sculptures. In this home, the windows are in national-romantic and neo-Romanian style. Paris-inspired art deco metal work appears on door grills, door overhangs and the tops of buildings. Five classy examples of art deco building in Bucharest are 1 Piata Sfântul Stefan; the Ministry of Justice at 53 Bulevardul Regina Elisabeta; the Telephone Company Building on Calea Victoriei; the “Union” Building on 11 Strada Ion Campineanu; and 44 Calea Calarasilor.

photo - The Old Palace of the Chamber of Commerce in Bucharest, a city full of former palaces — The Old Palace of the Chamber of Commerce in Bucharest, a city full of former palaces. *(photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)*

In addition to the number of stunning palaces, there is also an abundance of street art. Some of this street art is commissioned and appears on the sides of various buildings. It is often colourful and imaginative. There is, however, a lot of graffiti, which, apparently, began to appear after the 1989 Romanian revolt against the communist regime. Graffiti is illegal, but, as I was told, the consequences depend on the discretion of who catches the graffiti artist or how fast the artist can run.

Jewish presence in Romania dates to Roman times, when the country was a province called Dacia. The first mention of Jews in Bucharest is from the 16th century. Jews came to Bucharest from two directions: Sephardi Jews came from the south, mainly from the Ottoman Empire; later, Ashkenazi Jews came from the north. The latter, from Galicia or Ukraine, settled in Bucharest after having lived in Moldavia. As in other European countries, Jews were at various times tolerated, even integrated into general city life. At other times, however, they were punished in one way or another.

The Jewish population of Bucharest grew significantly, particularly in the second half of the 19th century. In 1835, some 2,600 Jews lived there; this number jumped to 5,900 in 1860. In the 1800s, nine synagogues were constructed and, by 1900, the total Jewish population had risen to 40,500, making Bucharest by far the largest Jewish community in Romanian territory. By 1930, the city’s Jewish population was 74,480. Jews settled in virtually all the city districts, especially in areas where economic growth was fastest. Bucharest’s Jews laboured as artisans, metalworkers, merchants and bankers.

In the early 19th century, there were several instances in which Jews were accused of ritual murder. This led to violence and pogroms. While, on the books, Jews were to be given citizenship, government after government dragged its feet in making emancipation stick. In general, being Christian was a prerequisite for Romanian citizenship, although a complex naturalization process was theoretically made available to Jews. When, in 1866, Jewish French lawyer Adolph Crémieux came to Bucharest to help push for Jewish political emancipation, rioters attacked Jewish shops and synagogues. Toward the end of the century, many antisemitic organizations existed, due in large part to nationalist leader Alexandru C. Cuza’s political activities. In particular, his followers organized antisemitic agitation against Jewish students at Bucharest University.

After Germany, Romania is directly responsible for more Jewish deaths in the Shoah than any other country. For most of the Second World War, Romania allied with Nazi Germany. According to official Romanian statistics, between 280,000 and 380,000 Jews were murdered or died in territories under Romanian administration during the war. Antisemitic legislation downgraded the identity of Jewish citizens to second-rate status: they lost the rights to education and health care, their property was confiscated, and they were forced to perform hard labour. In September 1942, approximately 1,000 Jews were deported to Transnistria.

Despite such treatment, most of Bucharest’s large Jewish community was spared the worst horrors of the Holocaust. Between 1941 and 1943, Bucharest-based Chilean charge d’affaires Samuel del Campo saved the lives of more than 1,200 Romanian and Polish Jews by issuing them Chilean passports, thus preventing their deportation to Nazi concentration camps. A memorial stands in front of the former Ashkenazi Great Synagogue, commemorating the January 1941 paramilitary Iron Guard’s (Legionnaires’) savage murder of 125 Bucharest Jews, an action reminiscent of Nazi techniques, with the skinning of the victims and the hanging of them on meat hooks.

Shortly after the Second World War, Bucharest experienced a great influx of Jews, as refugees arrived from concentration camps and from several areas in Romania where they continued to feel unsafe. By 1947, the Jewish population had grown to 150,000.

After the first years of the communist regime and the closing of Jewish welfare and religious institutions, Bucharest continued to be a centre of Jewish communal and cultural life due, in large part, to Chief Rabbi Moses Rosen, who coped with the inconsistencies and peculiarities of Romanian official policy – particularly during the 1965-1989 dictatorship of Nicolae Ceausescu. When former US ambassador Alfred Moses first visited Bucharest in 1976, a young Jew approached him saying, “Don’t believe what they tell you. The situation here is terrible, especially for Jews. We are blamed for everything that goes wrong. Help us get out. There is no future for Jews in Romania. Everything you hear is a lie, a lie, a lie.”

After the rebirth of the state of Israel, many Jews made aliyah. By 2000, only 3,500 Jews were left in Bucharest. Today’s Jewish life in Bucharest focuses on three synagogues, a community centre, a kosher restaurant and the Centre for the Study of the History of Romanian Jews.

In 2021, a Romanian survey reported one-fourth of respondents saying they didn’t know or couldn’t say exactly what the Holocaust was. Another 35% said they couldn’t identify the Holocaust’s significance for Romania. In 2022, the populist Alliance for the Union of Romanians (AUR) opposition party called Holocaust education a “minor topic” when it was mandated in Romanian high schools. This party currently holds 12% of parliament seats and some people predict it will become a major political force in the near future.

On a more positive note, a few years after the death of Jewish Romanian Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel, at age 87, Bucharest memorialized him with a bust in the Piata Elie Wiesel.

Finally, if you hear what sounds like a Slavic language spoken in Bucharest, it might just be Ukrainian. Since Russia began its attack on Ukraine two years ago, 11,000 Ukrainian men of conscription age have illegally fled to Romania. It is too early to say how this population will impact Bucharest life.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

A picture is worth a thousand words

In the first few years of 1900, my paternal grandparents – who had been married since 1886 – came to a decision. Economic life in Pinsk was too challenging and a drastic lifestyle change was required. So, in 1905, my grandfather, Yehiel Rubachka, age 34, journeyed alone from Pinsk (then under control of czarist Russia) to find work in Toronto. He knew Yiddish and a bit of Russian, having served in the Russian army for three years. He left behind my 27-year-old grandmother, Liba, and their four young children, Bessie (born in 1899), David (1902), Minnie (1903) and Herschel (1905), in Pinsk Karlin. Today, Karlin might be called a suburb of Pinsk.

On the one hand, Pinsk, with its sizeable and well-organized Jewish population (according to Yad Vashem, 21,819 or 77.3% of the city’s population, in 1896) offered the comfort of the familiar. On the other hand, living conditions were not good. By the time my grandfather left Pinsk, he and my grandmother had buried five children. There were also political and social issues, such as the fact that, in czarist Russia, Jews by and large lived under restrictions: forbidden to settle or acquire land outside the cities and towns, legally limited in attendance at secondary school and higher schools, virtually barred from legal professions, denied the right to vote for municipal councilors, and excluded from serving in the navy or the guards. Not to mention the repercussions of the failed 1905 Russian revolution, and the deaths and damage done by periodic Cossack attacks.

It is not clear what my grandfather’s relocation ultimately meant. For all intents and purposes, entering Canada was fairly easy; he did not need a passport or a visa to enter the country. But did he go to Toronto to test the waters so to speak – perhaps Canada would turn out to be no better than eastern Europe? Or was his plan, from the start, to make enough money to bring over the rest of the family? Or was it all left open-ended? On the birth certificate of one of my aunts, his occupation in Canada was listed as a (humble) rag collector.

In any case, around 1906, my grandparents decided a family portrait was needed. (Since my Uncle Herschel still looks like an infant, this photo was probably produced earlier than the 1910 date my father held to.) The problem, of course, was that the family was based in two distant locations, Toronto and Pinsk. So how was such a picture taken?

photo - Deborah Rubin Fields' grandfather and family — A family living on separate continents in the early 1900s has a photo with everyone in it. *(photo from Deborah Rubin Fields)*

According to Rita Margolin, a Yad Vashem historian, glass plate negatives were in use from the 1850s through the 1920s. They were popular with both amateur and professional photographers. In these years before courier and other delivery services, it would have been tricky to safely send glass negatives, they might have shattered in mailing. This suggests that some other method was used for putting together the two photos that became the family portrait.

Margolin further elaborated that a Pinsk photographer named Rendall might have made the composite image, as he was active in Pinsk in 1910. She pointed out, however, that photographers generally displayed their name on the photos they took, and my family’s photo is lacking a signature both on the front and the back side. (It is probably not a good idea with my unskilled hands to search for a signature by separating this very old photo from the cardboard to which it is pasted.) The lack of signature might mean that the photo I have is a copy and not the original.

Early 20th-century photo studios preferred photomontage – the production of images by physically cutting and joining combined photos – to create, for instance, tall-tale postcards. Tall-tale postcards are also known as “exaggerations.” Examples of these kinds of postcards include hilarious old farming photos in which farmers are seen pushing a wheelbarrow or a wagon containing giant harvested onions or enormous potatoes.

According to my father, the late Sidney (also known by his Yiddish name, Sheya) Rubin, z’l, my grandfather was added to the picture. One photographer with whom I consulted agreed that this is a likely scenario, as normally the head of the family would be prominently featured in the front, rather than the back, row of a photo.

In my family’s photograph, my grandmother is standing, facing the camera, straight on and straight-faced. My Aunt Bessie is sitting on a wooden chair while my Aunt Minnie is sitting on what might be a tree stump. My Uncle Dave is sitting on a suitcase. The baby, my Uncle Herschel, dressed in some sort of baby’s gown, sits atop a stack of cases. My grandfather, with a somewhat wistful look on his face, is cleverly placed behind a trunk, with only his upper torso visible.

My grandfather’s family left Pinsk and joined him in Canada in 1911. Sadly, all the relatives who remained in Pinsk were killed in the Shoah. My father’s family settled at Toronto’s 13 Leonard Ave. Between 1880 and 1928, 70,000 Jews left Russian-held territory for Canada.

Four more children were born in Toronto. These included two more aunts, one uncle and my father. Rachel or Rae was born in 1911, Birdie (often called by her Yiddish name Faigel) was born in 1913, Harvey (often called Mo) was born in 1915 and my father was born in 1917. My father’s family, however, did not remain in Toronto. In 1920, they moved to the United States, settling in Chicago. Along the way, the family name was changed to Rubin. My grandfather’s first name was anglicized to Joseph and my grandmother’s first name was anglicized to Elizabeth (or Lizzie). My grandfather became a naturalized American citizen in 1953. By that time, he had been living in the United States for more than 30 years but, still, he signed his naturalization papers in Yiddish.

As a child, I remember visiting the street where my father had lived as a young child. Perhaps surprisingly, the missionaries still had a close-by storefront. According to reports, missionaries had been “working” in the area since the time my grandfather was living in Toronto. Although they apparently succeeded in converting very few Jews, it did not stop them from trying for years on end.

Photoshop and other digital photo editing tools are a great help to today’s photographers. In the early 1900s, of course, computers and such programs did not exist. Yet, in the early 1900s, photographers on two continents managed to make a composite image nonetheless.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

People helping one another

The author’s husband, Dr. Scott Fields, picking tangerines in southern Israel, on Kibbutz Nitzanim. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)

I have just returned from laundry brigade duty. Of course, your first question is, what is the laundry brigade? As you may or may not know, in my city of Jerusalem, as well as in other parts of Israel, the hotels are currently filled with people who, for safety’s sake, have left their homes in southern and northern Israel. These moves have created an unprecedented event in Israel’s history. As one friend from Adamit, a far northern kibbutz pointed out, “We are refugees in our own country.”

In my neighbourhood, as well as in other Jerusalem neighbourhoods, residents are volunteering to clean the clothes of those evacuated to hotels. This help is very organized, with a pool of volunteers listed on an Excel file. So, I just returned the laundered clothes of a young family from the northern town of Shlomi.

And, speaking of clothes, there have been clothing drives to help those who left their homes quickly. Books and games have also been donated so that displaced families have some positive way to occupy their time.

But there are so many other noteworthy acts of goodness. One of our sons and other staff from Kfar Saba’s Meir Hospital recently drove south to the Netivot area to help a farmer pick and box watermelon. The farmer’s usual Thai or Palestinian workers are gone. In their place, hundreds, if not thousands of ordinary citizens are in the fields picking – and this is happening all over the country.

One of our daughters spent a week at Jerusalem’s Bezalel Art School sewing uniforms and add-ons for protective ceramic vests, equipment the soldiers currently need. Sewing machines were even delivered to some kibbutzim so kibbutz members could also help with this task.

While there is enough food for soldiers, some people are still providing extra food. One Jerusalem restaurant owner prepared a meal for 70 soldiers (including his son) serving up north. The food was driven to the soldiers by someone else whose partner is serving with this platoon. In my area, one of my older religious neighbours gave his Pesach dishes to observant soldiers who are staying in a university dorm (camping “in” rather than “out” as it were).

There has been a big emphasis on checking people who live alone or who have mobility issues. Volunteers are helping with shopping, picking up medication, or just visiting these solitary individuals.

During this war period, Jerusalem’s branch of Magen David Adom has held more than one blood drive. Each turnout has been unbelievable, as potential donors stood in line for hours waiting their turn. Moreover, in addition to the sandwiches the MDA staff and volunteers regularly eat on their extended 12-hour shifts, volunteers have been cooking and delivering meals (including vegetarian portions) to the staff.

On the kibbutz where one of our sons lives with his family, each family is responsible for the needs of the 100 evacuees who are currently living on the kibbutz. Yad Sarah, the Israeli nonprofit that loans medical equipment, has offered to loan equipment that the evacuees were unable to take with them. In addition, volunteers have given their time to fix up these temporary living spaces while other locals have organized hazit habayit, drop-off sites where furniture and electronics are collected for those who have had to relocate. Another nonprofit, Tenufa Bakehila, is right now fixing up neglected bomb shelters and repairing homes damaged by rockets.

Other nonprofits have opened their doors to evacuees. The Society for the Protection of Nature in Israel has people lodging in its Eilat Field School. For the past month, it has likewise been providing meals.

All over the country, evacuated children have been enrolled in local schools. Even the National Library of Israel has become involved. It just moved into a beautiful new building, but its old building on Hebrew University’s Givat Ram campus has become a temporary school for children from Shlomi.

There is the story of a small family consisting of two sons and the father. When one son, Sgt. Maj. (Res) Gil Phishitz, was killed on Friday, Nov. 3, the word went out on social media. Thousands of people dropped what they were doing to attend the funeral in Hadera. Out of respect and to show support for the tremendous sacrifice of these fallen soldiers, people who don’t personally know the families have also been visiting during the shiva period.

Israeli farmers employ many Thai citizens. On Oct. 7, some of the Thai farm workers witnessed their co-workers being kidnapped. Some even saw their friends brutally murdered by Hamas. Our younger son, along with other volunteers, has been helping Thai workers find necessary food, lodging and medical care. Volunteers organized counselors and translators to help these people deal with what could easily turn into post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Volunteers advocated for these Thai workers with the Ministry of Agriculture and with local councils. At this point, many (estimates are 8,000 out of 30,000) Thai farm workers have left Israel.

In some places, acupuncturists and massage therapists are offering free sessions to people who have been evacuated. Several social workers and psychologists continue to give voluntary assistance to those put up in Dead Sea hotels.

Volunteerism is not just with people, it is also with animals. Volunteers have gone to the south to rescue pets and farm animals that were left behind. Veterinarians have provided medical care for injured animals. The rescued animals are now in shelters, awaiting foster homes.

Last, but certainly not least. In the big cities such as Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, many have been showing up at memorial services and vigils for the fallen and the kidnapped.

Why are people doing all these things? I think the best answer comes from Hillel in the Ethics of the Fathers (Pirkei Avot), 1:14: “If I am only for myself, who am I? If not now, when?”

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

May you leave with laughter

Ahrida Synagogue is one of the two still-functioning synagogues in the Balat neighbourhood of Istanbul. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)

On my first trip to Israel just after graduating high school, I met a similar-aged Turkish Jew. He was also visiting Israel. He spoke no Hebrew or English, so I tried my then-proficient Spanish. Surprisingly, he responded, although not all the words he used were familiar to me. I didn’t know then that he was speaking Ladino, or Judeo-Spanish. Slow forward several years to May 2023, when I finally visited Istanbul for the first time.

While I only recently “made it” to Turkey, Jews have been there for a very long time. If you take a biblical approach, you know that, when the flood ended, Noah’s ark rested on Mt. Ararat, near Anatolia, Turkey. If you take an historic approach, Jews have lived in what is now Turkey since Roman times.

While most members of the Jewish community in Istanbul today trace themselves back to the Jews who were forced out of Spain and Portugal in the late 1400s and early 1500s, there have also been communities of Karaites, Jews who do not accept rabbinic law, but rely solely on what is written in the Hebrew Bible. As of 2014, they numbered less than 100 in Istanbul.

Sultan Beyazid II welcomed the Jews from Spanish-speaking countries – when Spain expelled its Jews and Muslims in 1492, Beyazid sent his navy to evacuate them to Ottoman lands.

Among the Jews in Turkey in the 1500s was widowed businesswoman Doña Gracia (1510-1569). Originally from Portugal, which ordered Jews to convert to Catholicism a handful of years after Spain’s decree, she moved to Istanbul so she could openly practise her Judaism. Having been a “conversa” (forced convert), she was keen to help others in the same situation. She established yeshivot and synagogues in Istanbul. She also was the first woman printer and publisher in the Ottoman Empire. She lived in the European quarter of Galata.

Doña Gracia was not the only Jew to do well in Turkey. A number of Jews had successful businesses. Many dealt with precious metals and stones; others were money changers or lenders. In the 1500s, Hekim Jacob served as Sultan Mehmed II’s personal physician – by 1800, Jews would make up 27% of all licensed physicians in Istanbul. Even today, Balat’s 120-bed Jewish Hospital or Yahudi Hastanesi is still functioning, although the patients aren’t usually Jews.

In 1666, the false messiah Shabbtai Tzvi made an appearance in Istanbul. He had visited other countries when there was the breakdown of the social order or the economy was on the decline. The opinion of Jews in Istanbul (then called Constantinople and the capital of Turkey) was divided, but the majority feared his appearance would be the cause for actions against Jews in general. When those who were attracted by his messianic enthusiasm went out to meet him and pay him homage, opponents informed the grand vizier and he ordered Shabbtai Tzvi’s arrest. After Shabbtai Tzvi’s conversion, the communal leadership decided on a course of damage control, downplaying the false messiah incident, including by attempting to prevent discussion on the subject.

At the beginning of the 20th century, the Jewish population in Istanbul was 100,000. Today, there are fewer than 20,000 Jews in all of Turkey and a new wave of emigration has started. Contributing factors are President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s tumultuous 20-year rule, with its up-and-down relationship with Israel, rising antisemitism, perceived threats to the personal security of Jews and rising anti-Jewish discrimination from Turkish society, as well as the country’s unabated inflation. Altogether, since Israel became a state, some 100,000 to 150,000 Jews have left Turkey for Israel.

In Istanbul’s Balat neighbourhood, for example, where, at one point, more than half the population was Jewish, the Turkish bath or cavus Hammami (el bano de Balat in Ladino) that was frequented by Jews in the neighbourhood is apparently still running but most synagogues have closed. In Balat, only two are still functional: Ahrida Synagogue, with its unusual bima in the shape of the prow of a boat, and Yanbol Synagogue.

Today, most of Istanbul’s Jews are Sephardi, with only about 600 individuals who identify as Ashkenazi. Yet, Etz HaHaim Synagogue, also known as Ortakoy Synagogue (for the neighbourhood in which it is situated) holds combined services for both Sephardim and Ashkenazim.

photo - Istanbul’s Ortakoy Synagogue, also known as Etz HaHaim, holds combined services for both Sephardim and Ashkenazim — Istanbul’s Ortakoy Synagogue, also known as Etz HaHaim, holds combined services for both Sephardim and Ashkenazim. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)

Istanbul’s Neve Shalom Synagogue (and mikvah) has been the site of two major terrorist attacks. In September 1986, Arab terrorists staged an attack with guns and grenades on worshippers in the synagogue, killing 23. In November 2003, a car bomb exploded outside the synagogue during a bar mitzvah service. Hundreds of people – mostly Turkish Muslims who lived or worked in the area – were wounded and over a dozen were killed. For security, there is now a guard post in front of the synagogue and the adjacent Jewish museum and those interested in visiting must show proper identification.

As far as eating in Turkey, aubergines (eggplants) are plentiful in the summer, so most meals include either fried, baked or stuffed aubergines. Empanadas, as they are called in Spain, are usually referred to as börekas or börekitas in the Sephardi cuisine in Turkey, using the word börek for the same type of Turkish pastries. A tapada is prepared in a pie fashion, baked in a tray with a variety of fillings – best, of course, with aubergines.

Food expert Claudia Roden whose grandmother came from Istanbul, offers a recipe for prasifouchi, a creamy leek pâté that was traditionally served as a dairy evening meal in Turkey during Pesach. It is made with leeks, potatoes, eggs, kashkaval cheese, nutmeg, salt and pepper and sunflower oil. (See The Book of Jewish Food: An Odyssey from Samarkand to New York, page 527.)

There are at best two kosher restaurants in Istanbul. While not at all fancy, there is also a centrally located vegan café.

If you visit Turkey, güle güle gidin, may you leave with lots of laughter, ie. with a smile on your face, having had a good time.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

Fashion with a long history

“Consecration of Aaron and His Sons,” an illustration from the 1890 Holman Bible, 1890. Aaron’s high priest attire is elaborately described in the Hebrew Bible. (photo from Wikipedia)

Fashion in the Bible? What does that mean? The biblical text actually offers us an idea of what people wore in those times – and even why.

For the majority of us, the most familiar example of biblical fashion is found in Genesis 37:3 in the description of young Joseph’s problematic coat of many colours. This coat, which was gifted by Joseph’s father Jacob, served to anger and increase the jealousy Joseph’s brothers towards him. Consequently, they throw him in a pit to be left to his fate: to die of thirst, to be killed by a wild animal or to be picked up by traveling merchants.

From a chronological point of view, however, the first real example of Old Testament fashion comes at the very beginning of Genesis. In this instance, G-d has decided to exile Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. As we all know, G-d was angered by Adam and Eve’s disobedience in eating from the Tree of Knowledge. While He is upset with them, He obviously still cares enough to provide them with warm coverings, more than the fig leaves they chose for themselves: “the Lord G-d made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them.” (Genesis 3:21)

Moving on in the Book of Genesis, we read that, when Abraham’s servant Eliezer escorts Rebecca (who will become the second Matriarch) back from Aram-Naharaim, she sees Isaac (who will become the second Patriarch) for the first time. She asks Eliezer about Isaac’s identity. After he tells her, she modestly conceals her face: “‘It is my master.’ And she took her veil, and covered herself.” (Genesis 24:65)

Veils are used for a different purpose in the story of the widow Tamar and her widowed father-in-law Judah. In this story, Judah does not fulfil his promise to make his youngest son her husband in accord with the practice of levirate marriage. (Judah thinks that Tamar has basically brought about the death of his first two sons when, in fact, it was G-d’s doing.) Judah also subjects Tamar to widowhood when she should have been free to remarry.

In response, Tamar takes drastic action. She hides her true identity behind a veil. She sits at the side of the road, where, presumably, she could be taken for a harlot or public woman: she “put off … the garments of her widowhood and covered herself with her veil and wrapped herself.” (Genesis 38:14) Without Judah being any the wiser, she allows him to have intercourse with her and, when a pregnant Tamar presents Judah with his staff and seal, he realizes what he has done and acknowledges his wrongdoing. The Bible tells us that she secures her place in the family by having twin sons from this union. The biblical reader doesn’t know more about Tamar, but one knows that Perez, one of her twins, will provide the lineage for King David.

One might think that, after hundreds of years of slavery, the Hebrews would want no reminders of their life in Egypt. But, according to the biblical text, the Hebrews took clothes from the Egyptians: “And the children of Israel did according to the word of Moses; and they borrowed from the Egyptians … clothing.” (Exodus 12:35) Significantly, before the Hebrews hear G-d declare the 10 Commandments, Moses instructs them to prepare themselves by laundering their clothes: “And Moses went down from the mount unto the people and sanctified the people; and they washed their garments.”(Exodus 19:14)

According to Rabbi Simeon – a scholar who was active between 135 CE and 170 CE – at the time of the Exodus from Egypt, the Hebrew weavers did not take their looms. Yet the Hebrews’ clothes never wore out in the 40 years of desert wandering. In Deuteronomy 8:4, it states: “Thy raiment waxed not old upon thee.”

We read that, in keeping with her status as part of the royal family, King David’s daughter Tamar (like Joseph before her) wore a vibrant robe: she “had a garment of many colours upon her; for with such robes were the king’s daughters that were virgins appareled.” (2 Samuel, 13:18) Not befitting royalty, King David’s firstborn son Amnon rapes Tamar, his half-sister, then throws her out.

Both violated and rejected, Tamar tears her robe, going into mourning: “And Tamar put ashes on her head and rent her garment of many colours that was on her; and she laid her hand on her head and went her way, crying aloud as she went.” (2 Samuel, 13:19) Absalom, her full brother, has her stay in his household for the rest of her life. Two years later, Absalom takes revenge by having Amnon killed.

When Queen Esther had to talk with her husband, King Ahasuerus, she put on her royal apparel (Scroll of Esther 5:1). Had Esther been made wary by the fate of her predecessor, Queen Vashti? As we recall, King Ahasuerus ordered Queen Vashti to appear “wearing her royal crown.” (Scroll of Esther 1:11) One rabbinical tradition interprets this to mean that the king’s instructions were to wear only her royal crown; in other words, to appear naked (Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 12b). According to that tradition, Queen Vashti refused because she did not want to be put on display before a bunch of guys who had been drinking for a week straight. Vashti’s refusal apparently resulted in her banishment. Admittedly, she paid a heavy price, but it would appear as if both these queens admirably set the terms for how they would respond to their husband.

Of all the given examples, the most elaborate description is given to the clothes Aaron (Moses’s brother) wore as the high priest. The description is more or less repeated in a few places, but here is the narrative of Moses dressing Aaron: “And he put upon him the tunic, and girded him with the girdle, and clothed him with the robe, and put the ephod upon him, and he girded him with the skilfully woven band of the ephod, and bound it unto him therewith. And he placed the breastplate upon him…. And he set the mitre upon his head; and upon the mitre, in front, did he set the golden plate, the holy crown.” (Leviticus 8:7-9) The clothing, like the text itself, is meant to impress.

The Hebrew Bible has been around a long time; in its present form, most likely since the second century CE. The clothing it describes may truly be termed sustainable fashion.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

Weather … an eternal subject

While the flood in Noah’s time, and his building of the ark, may be one of the more famous biblical weather incidents, along with the wind that battered the ship in which the prophet Jonah was hiding, they certainly are not the only ones (Metropolitan Museum of Art: Adele S. Colgate bequest, 1962)

It seems that everybody talks about the weather. Has it always been the case? While it’s admittedly impossible to prove whether it has, weather was certainly talked about in ancient times. The Hebrew Bible, or Tanakh, contains many weather references.

Right off the bat, in Genesis 2:6, we find mention of mist. In this context, G-d has spent the week creating the world. On the seventh day, He fashions the first man: “but there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. Then the Lord G-d formed man of the dust of the ground….”

Five chapters later, we get to the flood story. We read about heavy, sustained rain and catastrophic flooding – “and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I blot out from off the face of the earth. And the waters prevailed, and increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters. And He blotted out every living substance which was upon the face of the ground … and Noah only was left, and they that were with him in the ark.” (Genesis 7:18,23)

Rain, however, functions as both a positive and a negative force. In Leviticus 26:4, G-d states that He will bring the rain at the proper time, enabling the trees and the land to be harvested: “I will give your rains in their season, and the land shall yield her produce, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit.”

When the flood in Noah’s time ends, G-d promises to refrain from ever again bringing such a destructive deluge. He does this symbolically with the rainbow: “I have set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between Me and the earth. And it shall come to pass, when I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the cloud and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.” (Genesis 9:13-15)

The same duality that applies to rain also applies to wind. It is a positive force, as seen in parting the Red Sea, allowing the Hebrews to safely depart from Egypt (Exodus 14:21-22). But, it is also a punishing power that drowns the Egyptian soldiers who are in pursuit.

In the Book of Jonah, G-d brings a tremendous wind with the intention of smashing apart the ship in which the reluctant prophet Jonah is hiding: “… the Lord hurled a great wind into the sea, and there was a mighty tempest in the sea, so that the ship was like to be broken.” (Jonah 1:4)

image - Jonah and the Whale — Jonah and the Whale. *(Metropolitan Museum of Art: Joseph Pulitzer bequest, 1933)*

While we generally consider a whirlwind to be violent but brief, it has a different meaning in the Tanakh. In Hosea 8:7, it symbolizes ineffectiveness: “they shall reap the whirlwind; it hath no stalk, the bud that shall yield no meal.” Nonetheless, the whirlwind is also a blessing, which carries the prophet Elijah to heaven: “Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven. And Elisha saw him no more.” (2 Kings 2:11-12)

Other storm-related phenomena appear in the books of the Hebrew Bible. Both thunder and lightning, for example, are mentioned in the Book of Job, chapters 36 and 37: “He covereth His hands with the lightning and giveth it a charge that it strike the mark. G-d thundereth marvellously with His voice.” Likewise, the prophet Isaiah warns that G-d plans to bring thunder: “There shall be a visitation from the Lord of hosts with thunder.” (Isaiah, 29:6)

Hail is also written about in a few places. In Ezekiel 13:11 and 13, G-d threatens to bring a hailstorm. Significantly, in the Book of Exodus (9:18,25-26), hail is one of the 10 plagues G-d casts down upon the Egyptian people because of Pharaoh’s intransigence against freeing the Hebrew slaves: “Behold, tomorrow about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the day it was founded even until now. And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast; and the hail smote every herb of the field and broke every tree of the field. Only in the land of Goshen, where the children of Israel were, was there no hail.”

The Tanakh likewise has references to snow in a few places, though there is practically no mention of snow having fallen – almost always, snow is used metaphorically. Thus, in Exodus 4:6, someone with leprosy has “skin white as snow.” Later, this phrase is repeated in Number 12:10 when Miriam, Moses’ sister, has leprosy.

The lack of precipitation is likewise an issue. Similar to hail, drought is used as a threat or as an actual way of punishing the Hebrews. As the

Hebrews were an agricultural society, a drought meant crop failure: “And if ye will not … hearken unto Me, then I will chastise you seven times more for your sins. I will make your heaven as iron and your earth as brass … your land shall not yield her produce, neither shall the trees of the land yield their fruit.” (Leviticus 26:18-20)

Meteorology has certainly advanced since ancient times, of course. Back then, there were no radar, satellites, radiosondes, supercomputers or advanced multidisciplinary weather graphs to interpret or predict the weather. In the Tanakh, the chief forecaster, G-d, is also the creator of these weather situations. As such, He has a considerable edge over everyone and everything.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

Albania’s many legends

A bunker in Tirana, Albania, that is now the Bunk’Art art and history museum. (photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)

Albania is a country of great contrasts. It has stunning, clean beaches, so gorgeous that locals refer to them as the Albanian Riviera, and it also has hills and mountains that spring up in all directions. The contrasts seem to extend to Albanians themselves – Enver Hoxha, Albania’s longtime communist dictator, who died in 1985, started off as a partisan fighting the Italians and Germans in the Second World War.

Until not too long ago, Albania existed in isolation. Long before COVID-19 raised its head, Hoxha had kept the country shut off from the world. This is remarkable, given that Hoxha had at various periods aligned his Marxist-Leninist politics with the Soviet Union and China.

As in other communist regimes, many Albanian citizens became suspect during Hoxha’s 40-year reign. They were imprisoned, tortured and murdered. Further, over a 20-year period, Hoxha went on a bunker-building spree. He worried that Albania might be invaded by its neighbouring countries and by the Soviet Union. Between 1971 and 1983, at extreme cost to the general economy, Hoxha had more than 173,000 bunkers constructed. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians died in work accidents. Once the bunkers were built, local citizens as young as 12 years of age were expected to defend them from invaders. The bunkers were only abandoned in 1992, seven years after Hoxha died.

Today, some of the bunkers have other uses. In the capital of Tirana, for example, one series of bunkers has been converted into the Bunk’Art, an art and history museum. In Gjirokastra, there is the Cold War Tunnel Museum.

photo - Part of the Cold War Tunnel Museum in Gjirokastra, Albania — Part of the Cold War Tunnel Museum in Gjirokastra, Albania. *(photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)*

Hiking is also a fantastic way to see this beautiful country, although, in more remote parts of the country, older Albanians do not speak English and the younger, English-speaking generation is leaving Albania to seek their fortunes in other parts of Europe. Also be aware that even visiting castles requires a bit of hiking over either loose or highly polished stone, so it may be advisable to use walking sticks.

Generally, when people talk about blue eyes, they mean the eye colour of other humans or of their pets. But, in Albania, the Blue Eye is a lovely nature site. Reaching unknown depths (divers have gone down as far as 50 metres without reaching the bottom), the Blue Eye is more accurately a blue hole fed by an underground spring.

Albanian mythology recalls mountain spirits who live near springs and torrents in the northern Albanian Alps. These spirits or zanas are courageous and often protect Albanian warriors, but they can also go the other way, doing evil.

Even some of Albania’s mountains have stories. Take Mt. Tomor, for instance. Baba Tomor, or Father Tomor, is the personification of the mountain, a range whose highest peak is in central Albania. Baba Tomor appears as an older man with a long white beard that reaches his belt. Four eagles serve as his assistants. His bride is the young Earthly Beauty. When his territory is threatened, Tomor battles his enemy, Mt. Shpirag. The furrows running down Shpirag’s mountainside are said to be the knocks Tomor gave to Shpirag. Ultimately, the two fought to their deaths. The young bride is said to have drowned in her tears, which then became the Osum River.

Indeed, this is a country with many local legends. Take the story related to Shkoder’s Rozafa Castle. Apparently, the walls of this ninth-century BCE castle kept collapsing. Only when Rozafa (the wife of one of the three brothers building the castle) was enclosed in the castle walls did it stabilize and remain standing. Booker Prize-winning Albanian writer Ismail Kadare based his book The Three-Arched Bridge on this legend.

One of the spots to visit in Gjirokastra is called Sokaku i te Marreve, or Mad People Street. On this street, there is the reconstructed home of the above-mentioned – but sane – writer Kadare.

More interesting things about Gjirokastra include the Gjirokastra Castle, which houses the remnants of a U.S. Air Force Lockheed T-33. Some claim Albanian forces downed the jet during the Cold War (1957). Others say the plane was an American spy jet forced to land at Tirana’s Rinas Airport in December 1957 after developing mechanical problems and flying off course. Both scenarios are unlikely, but they make for good stories.

In a country that has almost no Jews, it is intriguing to know that (protectively covered by sand) Sarande has mosaics containing images of a shofar, a menorah and an etrog. Apparently, back in the fourth- or fifth-century CE, the Jewish community had its own synagogue in Sarande. According to the late Ehud Netzer and the late Gideon Foerster – the Israeli archeologists who dug there (along with an Albanian team) – this synagogue even had a ritual bath.

In contrast to radical Islam, there is Albania’s Bektashi Order, a Sufi Islamic creed with a long mystic tradition in Albania. The Sufi faith does not force devotees to observe the basics of traditional Islam. For example, the Bektashi creed allows for the drinking of alcohol and does not demand men and women be segregated, nor that women wear a veil. Curiously, this order appreciates Sabbatai Zvi, who was a false messiah, according to most Jews. Baba Mondi, the spiritual leader of the Bektashi sect, calls Sabbatai Zevi a dervish – a Farsi word for a spiritual Muslim who ascetically devotes his life to serving Allah; the term has also been used to describe, in rare instances, a Jew.

Ironically, Berat, the city of 1,001 windows, has a Jewish history museum established by the late Prof. Simon Vrusho, who wasn’t Jewish. Since his passing, the small Solomon Museum has been run by his widow. This museum exemplifies the good relations Albanian Jews had with both the Muslim and Christian community. Amazingly, local non-Jews saved almost 2,000 Jews during the Holocaust.

In Tirana’s Grand Park, there is a newly installed Holocaust memorial. It consists of three large plaques in Albanian, English and Hebrew, highlighting the stories of Albanians who saved Jews during the war.

photo - The English plaque of the Holocaust memorial in Tirana — The English plaque of the Holocaust memorial in Tirana. *(photo by Deborah Rubin Fields)*

Relatively unknown is an Albanian tragedy that exemplifies the worldwide refugee problem. In 1997, the ship Katër i Radës departed from the Albanian port city of Vlora, carrying 120 refugees fleeing the violence that had engulfed the country following that year’s massive collapse of pyramid schemes. On March 28, 1997, the Italian navy warship Sibilla – acting in accordance with an Italian blockade of Albania (designed to prevent refugees from entering the country) – intercepted, rammed and sunk the Katër i Radës in the strait of Otranto, killing 81 of the refugees aboard. Among the victims were many women and children.

Since ancient times, Jews have lived in Albania. However, there are a few theories about how and when Jews arrived there. According to historian Apostol Kotani, Jews may have first arrived in Albania as early as 70 CE, as captives on Roman ships that washed up on the country’s southern shores. Others report that, in Roman times, Jews already lived in the port of Durres. The Jewish population has fluctuated over the centuries, but most of the Jewish population made aliyah in the 1990s and, today, only a few Jews remain.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.