One of the more moving scenes in Steven Spielberg's epic, Saving Private Ryan, occurs when messengers from the Army arrive at the Ryan farmhouse in Pennsylvania to inform the family that the three oldest sons have been killed in action. The mother, recognizing the military van as it snakes up the road, sinks to her knees in a premonition of what is to come. From that moment on, she is cast in silhouette and, although we never learn what she has to say, her crushing grief is powerfully conveyed.
Jewish history also has its tragic episodes of maternal loss. One of the most dramatic and desperate, remembered every Chanukah, is that of Chana and her sons. During the time of Greek rule over Judea, the Seleucid king Antiochus sought to tighten his domination of the country by requiring the population to renounce Judaism. He commanded a pious widow named Chana and her seven sons to appear before him and then demanded that they eat the forbidden meat of a pig . When they all refused, he had them summarily dismembered, one after the other. Finally Chana was left alone, the remains of her children cast about her. Despite her distraught state, she remained defiant, and Antiochus bowed his head in defeat and shame.
The tragedy of Chana and her children is used as a parable for the power of belief to humble or humiliate even the most determined tyranny. Yet during these difficult times it has assumed an even more poignant significance. Recent events have altered our concept of martyrdom, stripping that noun, perhaps forever, of its lexical nuance. By characterizing the martyr as a weapon intended for the massacre of men, women and children, the September 11 hijackers shattered our hopes that mankind was approaching a universal appreciation for the sanctity of human life. The wild celebrations in the Arab street, the applause heard in other Muslim countries and the chilling silence from Islamic religious leaders, raises the harrowing fear that almost a third of humanity accepts mass slaughter, masquerading as martyrdom, as a legitimate form of political expression.
This is not the concept of martyrdom as understood by Jewish tradition. On the contrary. The Jews of Nordhausen in Germany understood it very differently. As the Black Plague swept through Europe in the mid-14th century, Jews everywhere were accused of poisoning wells. The Jewish community of Nordhausen, was gathered at the Jewish cemetery to be burned alive in a mass grave. With no possibility of escape, the Jews astonished the town-folk by beginning to dance and sing with all their strength. When asked why they did this, Rabbi Jacob, their leader, answered, ' we are celebrating our entrance to the presence of God'. Then they all - men, women and children - entered the mass grave and died together. Not a cry was heard.
In the Janowka Road Camp, during the Holocaust, a particularly brutal Jewish warden named Schneeweiss was solicited by a group of religious Jews to be allowed to observe Yom Kippur. To their surprise, the Capo was moved and he agreed to give them light duties and would not compel them to eat. However the S.S. discovered the arrangement and later came to the barracks with cart-loads of food. When the Jews were commanded to eat, Schneeweiss stood defiantly before the SS officer. "We Jews obey the law of our tradition and today is Yom Kippur, a day of fasting. We will not eat." The SS officer abruptly took out his revolver and pulled the trigger. The Capo swayed for a moment and then fell. He died with the words "shma yisrael" - the Jews' traditional final benediction, upon his lips.
Neither Chana's sons, the Jews of Nordhausen nor the capo Schneeweiss, sought to take other lives with them when they died martyrs' deaths. Their sacrifice was a confirmation of the extraordinary capacity of men and women to rise above either fatal circumstances or self-interest to recognize a higher purpose to life.
So for those lighting Chanukah candles this week, the miracles and Jewish military triumphs should not be the only things remembered. Also recalled should be those throughout the millennia, from all races and religions, all countries and wars who, when confronted with the choice, have chosen death over humiliation, self-respect over degradation and belief over sacrilege. It is their acts of courage that teach us that while we may justifiably hold little faith in the actions of men, there is every reason to believe in the moral future of mankind.
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Avi Davis is the senior fellow of the Freeman Center for Strategic Studies and a senior editorial columnist for the on-line magazine Jewsweek.com.
Jewish history also has its tragic episodes of maternal loss. One of the most dramatic and desperate, remembered every Chanukah, is that of Chana and her sons. During the time of Greek rule over Judea, the Seleucid king Antiochus sought to tighten his domination of the country by requiring the population to renounce Judaism. He commanded a pious widow named Chana and her seven sons to appear before him and then demanded that they eat the forbidden meat of a pig . When they all refused, he had them summarily dismembered, one after the other. Finally Chana was left alone, the remains of her children cast about her. Despite her distraught state, she remained defiant, and Antiochus bowed his head in defeat and shame.
The tragedy of Chana and her children is used as a parable for the power of belief to humble or humiliate even the most determined tyranny. Yet during these difficult times it has assumed an even more poignant significance. Recent events have altered our concept of martyrdom, stripping that noun, perhaps forever, of its lexical nuance. By characterizing the martyr as a weapon intended for the massacre of men, women and children, the September 11 hijackers shattered our hopes that mankind was approaching a universal appreciation for the sanctity of human life. The wild celebrations in the Arab street, the applause heard in other Muslim countries and the chilling silence from Islamic religious leaders, raises the harrowing fear that almost a third of humanity accepts mass slaughter, masquerading as martyrdom, as a legitimate form of political expression.
This is not the concept of martyrdom as understood by Jewish tradition. On the contrary. The Jews of Nordhausen in Germany understood it very differently. As the Black Plague swept through Europe in the mid-14th century, Jews everywhere were accused of poisoning wells. The Jewish community of Nordhausen, was gathered at the Jewish cemetery to be burned alive in a mass grave. With no possibility of escape, the Jews astonished the town-folk by beginning to dance and sing with all their strength. When asked why they did this, Rabbi Jacob, their leader, answered, ' we are celebrating our entrance to the presence of God'. Then they all - men, women and children - entered the mass grave and died together. Not a cry was heard.
In the Janowka Road Camp, during the Holocaust, a particularly brutal Jewish warden named Schneeweiss was solicited by a group of religious Jews to be allowed to observe Yom Kippur. To their surprise, the Capo was moved and he agreed to give them light duties and would not compel them to eat. However the S.S. discovered the arrangement and later came to the barracks with cart-loads of food. When the Jews were commanded to eat, Schneeweiss stood defiantly before the SS officer. "We Jews obey the law of our tradition and today is Yom Kippur, a day of fasting. We will not eat." The SS officer abruptly took out his revolver and pulled the trigger. The Capo swayed for a moment and then fell. He died with the words "shma yisrael" - the Jews' traditional final benediction, upon his lips.
Neither Chana's sons, the Jews of Nordhausen nor the capo Schneeweiss, sought to take other lives with them when they died martyrs' deaths. Their sacrifice was a confirmation of the extraordinary capacity of men and women to rise above either fatal circumstances or self-interest to recognize a higher purpose to life.
So for those lighting Chanukah candles this week, the miracles and Jewish military triumphs should not be the only things remembered. Also recalled should be those throughout the millennia, from all races and religions, all countries and wars who, when confronted with the choice, have chosen death over humiliation, self-respect over degradation and belief over sacrilege. It is their acts of courage that teach us that while we may justifiably hold little faith in the actions of men, there is every reason to believe in the moral future of mankind.
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Avi Davis is the senior fellow of the Freeman Center for Strategic Studies and a senior editorial columnist for the on-line magazine Jewsweek.com.