Monthly Archives: May 2024

The South Korean ambassador to Israel, Ma Young-sam, raised eyebrows recently when he told reporters the Talmud was mandatory reading for Korean schoolchildren.

South Korea is a country with a deep Buddhist history, but one which has embraced with vigour the Christianity brought to its shores by missionaries in the late 1800s. Official statistics say some 30 per cent of South Koreans are church-going. In such a country, Jews are few and far between.

Yet, pop down to the local corner shop and along with a pot of instant rice or dried noodles, you can buy a copy of Stories from the Talmud. It is not rare, either, to come across book-vending machines stocked with classic works of Babylonian Judaism.

The Talmud is a bestseller in South Korea - even the government insists it is good for you, and has included it on the curriculum for primary school children.

Lee Chang-ro heads a literature research team at the Ministry for Education. He says: "The reasons why Korean children are taught Talmud are pretty obvious. Koreans and Jews both have a long history of oppression and surviving adversity with nothing but their own ingenuity to thank. There are no natural resources to speak of in Korea, so, like the Jews, all we can develop is our minds."

The fascination with Judaism does not end there. Media outlets regularly run newspapers columns on "Jewish education", weekly radio features, and television documentaries, all of them showing Jews in a glowing light.

But although average Koreans can boast that their bookshelves hold at least one or two copies of the Talmud, to think of Korea as a hotbed of latent Judaism would be wrong. The motivation is less to do with religion and more to do with aspiration. Korean parents value schooling above all else. Parents send their children to after-school crammers until midnight and will spend their last penny on tutors and extra lessons. And, shy of good role models on the quest to securing academic success for their offspring, mothers almost unerringly turn to the Jews for inspiration.

Mother-of-two Lee San-sook explains that the way that Jewish children are brought up is universally viewed as positive in Korea.

"The stereotype of Jews here is that they are ultra-intelligent people. Jews have come out of nowhere to become business chiefs, media bosses, Nobel Prize winners - we want our children to do the same. If that means studying Talmud, Torah, whatever, so be it," she says.

Nonetheless, for a small number of Koreans, this love of Jewishness does translate into religious observance, even though, with no synagogues and no access to kosher food, they encounter almost insurmountable problems in leading a Jewish life.

One wannabe Jew, 38-year-old Park Yo-han, has handed in his notice at an investment bank to take the plunge into Judaism. He says he will go to New York, where he knows nobody, has no job prospects, just to follow his dream of Orthodox conversion.

"I've tried just about everything. Converting in Korea isn't difficult - it's impossible," he says.

Jewish observance in Seoul is almost entirely centred on Friday night services in the back of a Christian chapel on a US Army base. Every week, the tiny congregation of ex-pats and locals flip pews containing hymns books and New Testaments to face a pokey little ark for prayers. At the end of the night, everything gets put back in place for Friday night Mass. If there was not a small Ner Tamid hanging above the ark, you really would mistake it for a cupboard.

Most of the regular and long-serving members of the congregation are non-Jewish Koreans - civil servants, doctors and a politician from the ruling party, who is currently squeezing in his attendance between bouts of campaigning for local elections. They have no wish to convert but they take their interest in Judaism seriously. Most boast impressive collections of Judaica and read Hebrew fluently.

Among their number is a living legend of Korean Jewry, Abraham Cha. One of the few Koreans who have actually converted, he is a regular fixture at the US Army base services.

An old man now, he still cuts a memorable figure. He has a wild beard, payot, tzitzit protruding proudly, and maintains an unrivalled personal library of Jewish books from around the world, which he has painstakingly collected.

Cha says he had to give up everything to become an observant Jew in Korea.

"My family don't speak to me any more, I had to divorce my wife. I even had to stop working because they wouldn't give me the day off on Shabbat or on Jewish holidays. My bosses couldn't conceive what it meant to be Jewish."

Although precisely what it involves to be a Jew eludes most Koreans, anti-Jewish feeling is almost unthinkable in this part of the world.

Says Seoul resident Naomi Zaslow, "If you refuse a plate of pork ribs here, people will be dumbfounded. If you tell them it's because you're Jewish, they'll unfailingly look impressed and say: 'Oh, you must be very clever'."

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Why South Koreans are in love with Judaism - The Jewish Chronicle

This Shabbat, Parshat Kedoshim, begins the week we commemorate Remembrance Day and Independence Day. In the weekly Torah portion, God commands, Do not stand upon the blood of your neighbor; I am the Lord (19:16). The Talmud Bavli (Sanhedrin 73a) expounds: From where [do we learn] that if one sees his fellow drowning in a river, or a wild animal dragging him, or robbers attacking him, that he must save him? The Torah states, Do not stand upon the blood of your neighbor. In other words, we must endanger our own lives to save another Jew in mortal danger.

Rambam, in the Laws of Murder and the Preservation of Life (1:14), broadens the scope of this commandment to encompass financial expenditure to save ones friend. He also mentions rescuing a person from a wicked scheme:

Anyone who can save and does not violate the principle of not standing idly by the blood of ones neighbor. Likewise, if one sees a neighbor drowning in the sea, attackers coming upon them, or a wild animal threatening them, and can save them alone or by hiring others to do so but does not, or if one hears rumors of a plot against a neighbor but does not warn them; or if one knows of a dispute and can mediate but chooses not to do so; and in any similar case, one transgresses the commandment of not standing idly by the blood of their neighbor.

The medieval authorities considered the level of danger that required the rescuer to place oneself in harms way to save a friend. The Talmud Yerushalmi goes so far as to assert that one should enter a possible danger to save another person. The Kesef Mishneh (commenting on the aforementioned Rambam) explains that the logic for the Talmud Yerushalmi is likely that while ones friend is in definite danger, the rescuer is in uncertain danger.

The halakhic requirement to endanger ourselves for the sake of others raises the question: Why should a person risk their life for another? Why does the Torah expect this of us?

Rashbam explains the directive Do not stand to mean, Do not stand as an onlooker. In other words, the Torah commands us to cultivate a natural tendency not to turn a blind eye to injustice, danger, or problematic situations confronting others. A Jew cannot stand idly by when another Jew is in distress.

This charge is already evident in the actions of our nations founder. Abraham could not remain indifferent when his nephew Lot was captured. Instead, he ventured out with a limited number of warriors to combat the formidable four kings, risking himself to save Lot and the people of Sodom. Abrahamcould not tolerate the moral injustice of the four kings subjugating peaceful nations.

We find a similar trait of intolerance toward injustice among other biblical heroes. Jacob arrives at Haran and rebukes the shepherds for wasting their time not tending to the flock until all the shepherds gather. Moses steps out of the palace, endangering himself and risking his political standing, and he slays the Egyptian, harming a Jew, and intervenes between the two quarreling Hebrews. The idea of self-sacrifice for others is deeply rooted in our people due to the bonds that tie us together. As the Talmud puts it (Sanhedrin 27b), If one person falls, the other should help his fellow this means that everyone bears responsibility for one another.

Remembrance Day for soldiers, security forces, and victims of terror is a particularly painful day for bereaved families and for each and every one of us. This year, perhaps more than any, owing to the events of October 7, that pain has become a tangible part of our lives. Our mutual responsibility demands that we do not stand idly by the blood of our neighbor that we do not stand by in the face of the reality that our sons and daughters are still held captive in Gaza and that we not stand idly by the blood of our neighbor by insufficiently honoring the memory of the fallen. We dare not stand aside and permit division among our people. It is forbidden for us to enable their blood to have been spilled needlessly; we must instead ensure that we are worthy of their sacrifices and those of their families.

The suffering that has befallen the people of Israel since Simchat Torah calls for introspection. The midrash (Yalkut Shimoni Tehillim 680) expounds on the verse, May the Lord answer you on a day of distress, which seems puzzling. Why does the Lord only answer on a day of distress, after the trouble has befallen? Why doesnt He prevent the distress from occurring in the first place?

The midrash answers with a parable:

To what can the matter be compared? It is like a father and son who are on a journey. The son became weary and asked his father, Father, where is the country? His father said to him, My son, this shall be your sign: if you see a cemetery laid out before you, then the country is near. Similarly, the prophet tells Israel that if you see troubles looming over you, you will be redeemed immediately, as it states, May the Lord answer you on a day of distress.

The father and son symbolize the biological connection and the partnership between the two generations traversing the path. The son, who represents the new generation, grows weary of the prolonged journey and asks his father, Where is the country? When will we finally know that we have arrived so we may rest? The father does not respond directly but gives his son a sign: If you see a cemetery, the country is near.

This midrash contains a profound message that is deeply relevant to our times. The cemetery symbolizes the fact that there are people who are willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Under these conditions, the country is near. Our country, the State of Israel, has a cemetery before it that contains graves of our sons and daughters who have sacrificed themselves so that the country can remain close to us. The proximity between the cemetery and the country signifies a bond between the two that must not be severed. There is no country without a cemetery, and there are no graves without a country. At the same time, the cemetery must be somewhat distant from the city; thus, Bava Batra 2:9 teaches that one should distance... the graves from the city fifty cubits. But even as life must inexorably carry on, we are committed to perpetuating and building the country while keeping our memories front of mind, deepening our understanding of the price others have paid and the price we continue to pay. The people of our country owe their lives to the cemetery and are committed to fulfilling the dreams of the fallen.

On the upcoming Independence Day, it is essential for us to deeply contemplate the concept of mutual responsibility for all facets of Israeli society. Does our entire society understand what mutual responsibility is and what it demands from each and every one of us? It seems to me that the answer to this is not a simple yes and that certain segments of society will need to engage in introspection. Mutual responsibility is not confined to religious devotion; that is part of the concept but not its entirety. The directive of Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor calls upon us to take physical risks for the sake of others. At the same time, mutual responsibility is not just a blood covenant but also a spiritual covenant that is interwoven with the blood covenant. Only when these two covenants unite will redemption come.

This year, more than any other, we must recommit ourselves to both dimensions of the demand for mutual responsibility. In this way, we may yet merit the reward promised by the rabbis: If you see troubles looming over you, you will be redeemed immediately, as it states, May the Lord answer you on a day of distress.

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Contemplating mutual responsibility ahead of Independence Day - The Jerusalem Post

(JTA) - As an undergraduate student, I used to delight in small rebellions. I would pen papers trying to show how different facets of Jewish observance developed, at times differently from what we were told in school.

I spent an inordinate amount of time one semester excavating books from the library to interrogate the mourning practices of the time period called the Omer, the seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot we are in the midst of now.

The practice of counting each day between Passover and Shavuot is commanded in the Bible, but over time these days have become chiefly seen as a period of mourning in observant communities. The Talmud notes that over these seven weeks, 24,000 students of the famed sage Rabbi Akiva died because they did not treat each other with respect.

While the Talmud does not explicitly connect this to any mourning practices, most observant Jews today do. In my Jewish day school, we learned that the deaths of Rabbi Akivas students is the reason we dont perform weddings, celebrate engagements or host big parties during this time. Some people refrain from buying new clothes, listening to music or even getting a haircut.

Most Jews who observe these practices continue them until the 33rd day of the Omer, known as Lag Baomer, which is celebrated as the day on which the great mystic Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai died. His death signified a joyful reunification with God and marked the end of the deaths of the students.

These strictures bothered me mostly because the story behind them felt tenuous. My exploration seemed to prove me right - these practices developed over time, and not in the way I was taught. I wrote about how mourning practices were not introduced in talmudic times, but much later.

Around the ninth century, for example, we first see weddings and engagements prohibited. As the centuries rolled on - especially in medieval Ashkenaz - more and more mourning was added to these days and tied to the students of Rabbi Akiva.

There are good reasons to wonder about all of this. The famed medieval authority Maimonides, who systematically categorized all of Jewish law, didnt include these mourning practices in any of his extensive writings, an omission that hints at their late development. And some scholars suggest they became especially important in medieval times because Jews experienced the tragedies of the crusades and found in these rituals of mourning an acute relevance to their own grief.

When I submitted the paper to my professor, I felt a bit triumphant. I had taken a tradition that most around me observed uncritically and excavated its layers of historical development. But as Ive grown a bit more mature, I realize how wrongheaded my approach was - not because I tried to understand a tradition or its development, but in thinking that the Jewish observance of this sacred time should be valued less for being the product of history.

Thats because the Jewish calendar wasnt (only) set by God. The biblical commandment to mark the new month inaugurated a practice of marking time, which Jews have done ever since. We have added rabbinic holidays like Hanukkah and Purim to biblical holidays and infused our days and months with meaning inspired by different Jews across time and space.

Daniel Sperber, an expert in the development of Jewish customs, poignantly observes that the Ashkenazi tradition of mourning during the Omer reflects the tragedy of the persecutions of Tatnu [the first crusade in the 11th century]. Blood touched blood; the blood of Rabbi Akivas disciples is mixed with the blood of the martyrs of Ashkenaz, who sacrificed themselves for the sanctification of Gods name.

To observe Jewish time then is to be bound by Jewish peoplehood and Jewish solidarity. Its to live our lives not guided by scientific history, but by a memory that commands and rewards us with ties of fraternity and even love. That means that when I mourn during the Omer, I am connected to my people - connected to the talmudic rabbis who described a massive tragedy that occurred to an entire generation of students, and connected to every tragedy thereafter that moved Jews to add more grief to these days.

This coming week we will mark Yom Hazikaron, the day of remembrance for fallen Israeli soldiers and victims of terror who were killed since the state of Israel was established in 1948. This day was created in 1951 to honor those who paid the ultimate price for creating a safe refuge for Jews - a day to which new names are added every year, and which after October 7 will hit many of us much harder.

We will then transition to Yom Haatzmaut, the day celebrating the establishment of the state of Israel, a day connecting us to the millions of Jews whose prayers for Zion across generations have been given new life in our lifetime.

This year, when I mourn and then celebrate Israel, I will not just be reaffirming my commitment to how Jews have continued to add to and develop the Jewish calendar, but I will honor how that living and breathing calendar links generations of Jews together in solidarity.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media, or of The Jerusalem Post.

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Israel's Independence Day is a time for mourning and celebration - Opinion - The Jerusalem Post