No one knows the names of the people who lived in the mountains surrounding the Mexican city of Oaxaca. We don’t know the names of their rulers, nor do we even know what they called their city. Yet, names are a defining element of a culture or a people. How we record and display names speaks volumes about the kind of civilization created. The Torah, for example, demonstrates a profound approach to recording names. But first, let’s visit this pre-Columbian city-state.

Monte Albán underwent four levels of development, from its foundation to its regional dominance in what is now known as Oaxaca. Visiting the ruins, one striking observation is that we use a Spanish name to identify a region that existed and then disappeared long before the Spanish arrived. Little information exists apart from glyphs that depict snippets of history. These glyphs, wherever found, seem to identify people. The oldest glyphs might identify the conquered peoples who first served the city. The second level of graphic writing appears to distinguish the leaders. The third level juxtaposes the strata of society, possibly sharing the names of rulers, priests, and captives. Finally, a significant shift occurred as a fourth level. Instead of being publicly displayed, stelae were created at the homes of elites, narrating family histories and using genealogy to reinforce the status and legitimacy of power.

Archaeologists believe the Monte Albán nation may have endured for over one thousand years. However, we lack recordings of the names of those lost when their civilization collapsed. Perhaps a devotion to remembering the names of those who were lost gives a people an enduring quality.

In contrast, at the beginning of Exodus, the Torah records the descendants of Abraham and Sarah, with the entire book known in Hebrew as “Shemot,” meaning “names.” Genesis often repeats the lineage from Abraham and Sarah to Isaac and Rebekah, and then to Jacob, Rachel, and Leah. These names serve as reminders of God’s covenant with the ancestors.

Two hundred thirty years later, on the precipice of leaving Egypt, a more comprehensive recounting of names was necessary. Reciting names establishes lineage, which is crucial for people on the move as it helps organize religious and societal structures for the Hebrews.

Later, in the Book of Numbers, a census lists the chieftains and their progeny. Here, the Hebrews are readied to battle for and create a nation with this recitation of names.

Since the days of the Torah, Jews have continued the practice of recording names. We recall the names of our deceased in prayers and on fast days. On Yom Kippur, we recite the names of martyrs. Even today, we repeat the names of those lost in the Shoah as a ceremony. Recently, the names of Israelis taken captive have been displayed on buildings and in protests.

Recalling names is a powerful ritual. We remember our leaders by naming streets and buildings after them and honor those killed by saying their names.

In the context of the Israel-Gaza conflict, while we might not know the names of every casualty, for the Jewish people, the names of each captive taken, each Kibbutznik murdered, and each soldier lost are critical for understanding our civilization. The Jewish people have maintained definition and cohesion by recording and recalling each name. Perhaps no other people have endured so long partly because, as we recall a name, we add that their memory should be for a blessing. Judaism understands that saying the names of cherished and lost individuals creates an enduring legacy and a hopeful future.

Rabbi Evan Krame

Relationships are unraveling in the face of ideological clashes, particularly when it comes to discussions surrounding the Israel-Gaza conflict. The divisive nature of politics and differing worldviews has permeated family dynamics, causing fractures between parents and children. Amidst this turmoil, the Torah provides insights into the complexities of failing relationships and the possibility of their restoration.

In a famine, Jacob dispatched his sons to Egypt to purchase food. Little did they know that they would encounter the Vizier, their long-lost brother Joseph, whom they sold into slavery. Twenty years later, the brothers failed to recognize their brother. The narrative unfolds: “Joseph saw his brothers, he recognized them, but he acted like a stranger toward them and spoke harshly to them.”

Similarly, in today’s context, family and friends are becoming strangers to one another, distancing themselves despite deep-rooted connections. The desire to obscure our faces and retreat from those we once held close to is triggered by far less treacherous circumstances than being sold into slavery.

To reunite, Joseph and his brothers required three crucial elements: opportunity, willingness, and reflection. These components are indispensable for repairing friendships and healing families. In the current socio-political landscape, where individuals grapple with conflicting perspectives on the Israel-Gaza conflict, the choice to cling to anger and disappointments is often fueled by deeply ingrained beliefs. When fundamental convictions are contested, relationships may fracture, and reconciliation becomes possible only through face-to-face encounters, a commitment to affirming the relationship over conflicting beliefs, and the passage of time for reflective healing.

Not all relationships may be salvageable, and distance can sometimes be acceptable. Joseph, too, could have clung to the betrayal by his brothers, choosing self-preservation over reconciliation. The Torah, however, holds out hope that even the most egregious relationships can be repaired. Yet, it acknowledges the hesitancy to reconcile, deeming it both understandable and, at times, necessary. Joseph’s decision to reunite with his brothers is just one potential ending to this story, illustrating that the path to healing is nuanced and multifaceted.

Rabbi Evan Krame

Formerly captive Israelis are now telling stories of being held below ground in deep, dark places. The hostages felt scared, lonely, and hungry. Perhaps the emotional consequences of being abducted and held captive, like living in a pit, can only be described by a hostage. Yet, the Torah has also foreshadowed these stories.

Joseph’s brothers threw him into a pit. We read in Chapter 37 of Genesis of his ordeal. Joseph was his father’s favorite among his 12 sons. Moreover, Joseph was precocious and a prognosticator. Unable to read the room, Joseph freely shared his grand dreams of leadership with his family. His impending success was too much for his brothers to bear. Yet, what kind of people would plot the death of their brother?

Often, I hear Israelis and Palestinians described as brothers and sisters. Compelled by devotion to all humanity, such opinions reflect an honorable desire to cherish every life in equal measure. As I feel obligated to honor each person as created in the Divine image, I also sense naivete in that understanding.

The October 7 attack was indecent and indecorous, even more so for those described as brothers and sisters. As if mimicking Joseph’s brothers, Hamas abducted 240 people from Israel.  Prisoners were thrown into pits fashioned as tunnels beneath Gaza’s mosques and hospitals.  Some are now freed. Others are still captive, missing, or murdered.

Once hopeful Israelis now question can we ever have peace with Palestinian brothers and sisters? The memory of murder, rape, and abduction will not soon fade. Torah poses this question. If Joseph’s brothers could treat him so terribly, why should we hope for better for Israel? Ultimately, we must hope, pray, and work for peace. Chastened by the crimes of Hamas, we must find other partners for reconciliation. We have no choice but to pursue peace or we will live in a pit of our own making, a pit of despair.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Social media is fueling hatred around the world, especially when it comes to Israel and Jews. A primary culprit appears to be TikTok, which offers short video clips and the opportunity for misinformation. Like sheep, viewers are led to these video troughs. On TikTok, poison sometimes fills the channels, leading people to fast conclusions based on limited or biased evidence. Why are people so quickly drawn to dangerous conclusions? Torah offers some insight into illusory thinking.

Jacob worked for his uncle Lavan for nearly two decades. They agreed that Jacob’s compensation would be the spotted and dark goats and sheep. However, Lavan’s sons removed the speckled animals. Nonetheless, Jacob went into the fields with a striped wooden rod. He placed the rod at the trough where the animals watered. As they looked at the rod, the animals were predisposed to bearing spotted and striped kids and lambs. Eventually, Jacob amassed great flocks, speckled and stippled. In jealousy, Lavan and his family turn against Jacob. Accordingly, Jacob and his family prepared to move to Canaan.

The illusion of the rods may seem like magic to our modern minds. Was the birth of kids and lambs genuinely affected by what the animals saw at the trough?

Visual stimuli can affect pregnancies. Various medical journals have reported that trauma in the mother can affect the health of the child. For example, the barrage of information about conflict manifests as unhealthy anxiety and stress. While striped rods may seem like magic antenatal influencers for sheep, they call to mind that external stimuli can affect future generations.

You likely have a negative sense of magic and illusions. Illusory information like memes, urban myths, biased projections, and misconceptions interfere with pursuing evidence-based knowledge. Psychologists have learned, however, that people use cognitive illusions to adapt to changing environments. In other words, people accept illusions as data if the illusions conform to their prior conceptions of the world. Moreover, challenging events cause people to double down on their assumptions, seeking information to confirm their long-standing views. However, prudent reasoning requires analytic thought based upon consideration of competing factors. By relying on illusory information, people are more likely to make errors in judgment.

Social media offers illusory ideas as freely as factual evidence. Yet, many people, especially young adults, rely solely on social media for information.

With a war raging between Israel and Gaza, preconceived notions of Zionism, Israelis, and Palestinians are bolstered by our selection of facts from among the barrage of information on social media. People are not activating an analytic process because of their predispositions. The historical trauma of Jews, who are scarcely three generations from the Shoah, influences thinking about the current conflict. The same can be said of Palestinians whose national narrative evolves from the Nakba, or defeat by Israel and displacement from their homes in 1948. Each group will absorb facts about the current war as those facts serve their prior assumptions.

What is most beguiling is how people not identifying as Jewish or Arab have formed strong opinions relying on social media. Short videos and memes providing biased information are incomplete and deceptive. Like sheep at Jacob’s trough, opinions birthed from these illusions are streaked and discolored. Those with notions of intersectionality adjust information about the war to their views that Israel is colonialist, capitalist, and racist.  Similarly, those holding unfavorable opinions of Palestinians connect current events with stories of terrorism, intransigence, and brutality.

The Middle East hasn’t changed much since the days of Jacob and Lavan. Magical thinking and deception continue to challenge us. Peaceful coexistence between Jacob’s and Lavan’s family was unachievable then, just as peace eludes Israelis and Palestinians today. One path to a better future is to activate analytical processes that allow us to consider all the facts and discern the best way forward.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

White

We left the King Center in Atlanta just after the group met with nonviolence advocate Vonetta West. Ready to depart for home, we received a warning. There could be protests at the airports. We might be safer putting away anything indicating we are Jewish. Vonetta asked what that meant. I showed her the Jewish star around my neck and tucked it into my shirt. But we could hide our Jewish identities beneath our “whiteness.”  West is not able to hide her skin color. Her identity can never be hidden or tucked into a shirt.

Hebrew

God promised Abraham the land of Canaan. His flocks grew, and his household increased. When Sarah died near Hebron, Abraham sought a cave for burial. He turned to his neighbors, the Hittites, and said, “I am a resident alien among you.” (Genesis 23:4). Abraham was not part of the Hittite people. He felt like an “other” despite having lived among them. The relationship with the Hittites was fraught. Later generations of Hebrews lived and intermarried with the Hittites. Hittites were sometimes allies and sometimes adversaries of Israel. But to the Hittites, the Hebrews were forever resident aliens in Canaan.

Jewish

Jews thought that we had achieved an invisible, marginalized identity. Jews in America had become “white” people. Some identities cannot be hidden, like skin color and body weight. Others can be obscured, like religion or sexual preference. To be identified as Jewish in public, one must don the attributes of being Jewish. And when antisemitic fervor is unleashed, as it is today, some will suffer for their identity. Just look at the college campuses. Students on campuses wearing yarmulkes have been assaulted. A dorm room where a Jewish flag was displayed was set on fire. Jewish students at many American universities don’t feel safe on campus, where university efforts to address antisemitism fall short, or when Jewish students face persistent discrimination. Jewish students might be taking off their kippot and hiding their Jewish stars in their shirts.

Zionist

I am a Zionist. My connection to Israel is part of my identity. Yet, I also belong to a rabbinic organization where many strongly condemn Israel’s government and policies. I identify some of them as anti-Zionist. We have clashed. I have attempted to shame them. They have criticized me. I can withhold my opinions and my judgment. I can refrain from expressing my support for Israel. But I might diminish my integrity if I hide my identity. I will not be an invisible Zionist. My love for Israel will not be marginalized. I will not tuck my Zionism into my shirt.

Rabbi Evan Krame