learningyiddish

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Jewish life in Astrakhan, Russia, ca. 2010

The Jews of Astrakhan, one of Russia's southernmost cities, are a culturally heterogenous entity coming from various sub-ethnic backgrounds, with roots that go back to the dawn of recorded history in the East European Plain. It was even well known to the rabbis of the Talmud, who referred to the “fine salt of Astrakhan”. In early medieval times, the city was home to the Khazars, a Turkic warrior tribe who had converted to Judaism. Some local Jews still maintain the tradition that they are descendants of the ancient Khazar converts. Under the Mongol conqueror Timur, Bukharan Jews were invited to live and trade in Astrakhan. From the 18th century, Ashkenazi merchants and army veterans from other parts of the Russian Empire began to arrive. Mountain Jews from the Caucasus settled in the 1850s along the street now called Shaumyana, which was once known as "Jewish Town." During the repressive Soviet times, Jewish life in the public sphere continued to dwindle to the point that only the city’s “Nusach Sefard” (Sephardic) synagogue was left functioning. After the fall of the USSR, the community slowly reestablished itself and is today thriving once again.

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Sephardi Jewish costumes from Thessaloniki, Greece. 1986, by Nikos Stavroulakis.

Sephardic Jews flourished in medieval Spain under the rule of the the Muslim Umayyads. In the 15th century, during the Christian Reconquista and resulting anti-Jewish persecution, they fled to the Middle East and the Balkans, where they outnumbered and mixed with the local "native" Jewish communities. Thus, they established major centers of Sephardi culture throughout Ottoman lands. Thessaloniki, the “Jerusalem of the Balkans”, with its once majority Jewish population, became part of the modern Greek state as a result of the First Balkan War in 1912. A few decades later, more than 95 percent of the city’s Jews were murdered during the Holocaust.

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Traditional Seder plate from Poland, late 19th century

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Torah finials, Afghanistan, early 20th century

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I found a site about the village my family is from and two of my family’s surnames were mentioned, so I sent a contact form to see if I could ask someone about my family. There’s an article about the specific part of the town my family is from, and the writer mentions their grandmother, who has the same surname as my two-times great grandmother. I feel like crying bc I feel like I could finally get firm answers about my family, and also potentially meet people I’m distantly related to.

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Berel-Beyle: The 19th century Jewish transgender man from Krivozer in Ukraine

Rabbi Daniel Bogard tells the story about the 19th century Jewish trans man called Berel-Beyle.

He writes:

Think trans-folk are new? I’d like to tell you the remarkable story of Berel-Beyle, a Jewish man who transitioned in the shtetel in Ukraine in the 1800s.  #ARainbowThread 

[A shtetl or shtetel was a small town with a large Ashkenazi Jewish population which existed in Central and Eastern Europe before the Holocaust.]

But first—go and buy Noam Sienna’s incredible work of Torah, “A Rainbow Thread: An Anthology of Queer Jewish Texts from the First Century to 1969”. It’s where I’m pulling this text / hashtag, and it is an essential piece of Torah in any Jewish library.

Before we can tell Berel-Beyle’s story, we need to jump to the 1930s and the so-called Nazi Olympics, because the American press was evidently in an absolute tizzy over athletes who kept going over to compete in the women’s games, and coming home as men! 

One of the people reading about this “whole new trans thing!” was an old Jewish immigrant living in Brooklyn named Yeshaye Kotofsky, who was having none of it with the uproar, and sent a letter (in Yiddish) to the editor of the @jdforward telling the story of Berel-Beyle.

You see, back in Yeshaye’s shtetl in Krivozer, “everyone knew Beyle, the girl who sold herring….a tall redhead…sturdily built” who presented as “not quite a woman, but also not quite a man.”

Beyle’s father–Yeshaya writes–took ‘her’ to all sorts of rabbis looking for advice on what to do…until Beyle turned 23, left for Odessa, and met a professor who helped Beyle transition to Berel (or “Berel-Beyle”, as Yeshaya calls him), and changed his life. 

In an powerful affirmation, our friend Yeshaya (writing in the 1930s!) says that when Berel finally returned home, “half the shtetl ran to the bridge to greet her, or better said, to greet *him*.” In fact, from this point on, Yeshaya *only* uses he/him pronouns for Berel.

So what became of Berel-Bayle? This is where Yeshaye’s letter makes me cry. Because in the 1800s, in this Jewish shtetl in Ukraine, the community of Krivozer took Berel in, treated him as a man, and welcomed him home. 

The men of the community taught him to lead the prayers (something only men would have been allowed to do then), and they all celebrated together when Berel-Beyle finally married his old girlfriend Rachel, who we are told was “a nice girl.“ 

Yeshaye–and remember, he’s writing this in the 1930s, talking about the late 1800s–ends his letter gorgeously: “In our shtetl,” he writes, “Berel-Beyle always had a good name as a fine, upstanding Jew.“ 

Also: do you have trans/gender expansive/lgbtq+ youth in your life / social circles? Let them know about our new week-long sleep away camp http://campindigopoint.org!   ***we will make it financially possible for any kid who needs camp to be there*** 

Photo of Ashkanazic Jews in Jerusalem 1885 from the Independent.

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Postcard from Russian Empire - " Mountain Jewish wedding in Kouba"

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Exploring the Pale

In 1909 the Yiddish writer S. Anski came up with an initiative for a scientific event – an ethnographic expedition to the "Pale of Settlement" area. The aim of the expedition was to research the traditional culture of Eastern–European Jews.

Anski was of opinion that archaic motifs present in it will soon be destroyed because shtetls are increasingly more prone to "external" cultural influences. The author regretted often that the Jewish people do not have its own ethnographer who could save the fading culture as a monument.

He wrote in a letter to Chaim Żytłowski on the necessity of taking up the effort of researching the Jewish culture. Anski strived to start this identity project with gathering the Jewish folklore. He was quite alone in his interest, as St. Petersburg intellectuals of the time were rather critical of any attempts at referring to tradition, advocating breaking away from it instead, in accordance with the progressive ideas popular at the time. Anski thought, however, that ethnographic research will make it possible to reach the authentic sources of the Jewish nation's culture.

In all over Russia, Ukraine and Belarus he collected tales, beliefs, customs, music, manuscripts, memories, art, clothes etc. He took photos of "human types", historical places, extraordinary buildings and items.

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The painter Marc Chagall teaches children in the colony for Jewish Homeless Children in Malakhovka, Russia, in 1921.

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The synagogue of Przedbórz, regarded as one of Poland's most beautiful wooden synagogues, destroyed in 1939.

[learningyiddish]

A wooden Jewish house in Włodawa, Poland.

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Isaac Bashevis Singer's Nobel Prize Speeches Translated

I decided recently to transcribe and translate each of two Yiddish-language addresses given by Isaac Bashevis Singer at events celebrating his receipt of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1978. Both recordings are available online. The first was given at a banquet in Stockholm the night before he was presented with the Nobel Prize (and was broadcast on the radio by Efrayim Shedletzky on the channel “Kol Yisrael” after Purim the following year), while the second was a minute or so of a longer lecture he gave as part of the Nobel Prize festivities themselves. 

Below, you will find first the transcribed Yiddish (using YIVO transcription style, despite his Polish Yiddish accent) followed by my own English translation of both speeches (in the case of the second, minute-long speech, Singer actually incorporated an English version of it later on in that very same lecture, as you can see here; my translation of the Yiddish is slightly different, however). (There is no substitute, by the way, for hearing Singer give the talks in the original; reading the text is by far less pleasurable than listening to his delivery.) 

I tried, to the best of my ability, to discern what it was that Singer was saying in each of the speeches, but there were definitely points at which I either couldn’t make it out or couldn’t properly translate what I was hearing. If you catch any of those mistakes, please write in and let me know. I’d love to improve this transcription/translation as much as possible.

I want to thank Sonia Gollance, Jordan Kutzik, and especially Norman Buder for their help in improving these texts. I hope you enjoy them (especially the first) as much as I did. 

First Speech:

Yidish

…vos Yitskhok Bashevis Zinger hot gehaltn oyf dem ovnt in Shtokholm eyder es iz im ofitsyel tsugeteylt gevorn der Nobel Prayz far Literatur. Dos iz geven a mesibe farn Yidishn oylem, un bay der onvayznheyt fun a sakh oyslendishe gest. Der shrayber hot gehaltn a rede in a humoristish, felatinistishn nusekh. Mir hobn di rede ersht letsns bakumen in original vi zi iz oyfgenumen gevorn in Shtokholm dem akhtn Detsember dos fargangene yor. Mir hern yetst. 

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Men fregt mikh oft, far vos shraybstu Yidish? Un ikh vel pruvn gebn oyf der frage an entfer. Mayn entfer vet zayn a Yidishlekhe - dos heyst, ikh vel entfern mit a frage oyf a frage. Der entfer iz: far vos zol ikh nisht shraybn oyf Yidish?! Vel ikh beser shraybn oyf Khinezish, oder oyf Terkish? Vi zogt men oyf Terkish, “hak nisht keyn tshaynik?” Un vi zogt men dos oyf English? Vi zogt men oyf English, “dreyt nisht keyn hitl,” “folg mikh a gang,” “a khokhem fun der Ma-Nishtane,” “a Moyshe Kapoyer,” “a khokhem balayle,” “a yold in a kapelyush,” “an ibergedreyt shlesl,” “a shoyte ben pikholts,” “a moyd mit a ksav,” “a Yidene mit an oyeringl?“ 

Mit a tsayt tsurik, iz gekumen tsu mir an iberzetser, in gantsn a tsetumlter, in gantsn a farshvitster. "Vos iz der mer?” freg ikh im. Zogt er, “Vi zetst men dos iber, fun Yidish oyf English, ‘a veykher mentsh, a diment?’ In ale shprakhn, iz a diamond - iz a diment - hart, ober in Yidish iz a diment veykh. Kon men zogn in English, ‘soft like a diamond?’ Oder zol ikh shraybn, 'soft like a Jewish diamond?’" 

Yene vos tseyln verter farzikhern mikh az English iz di raykhste shprakh in der velt. Der nayster Vebster Dictionary - der Vebster Verterbukh - hot shoyn dray fertl milyon verter. Ober ikh bin geblibn bay der ibertsaygung az Yidish iz di raykhste shprakh in der velt - nisht in tekhnologye, nor in verter vos gibn iber kharakter un perzenlekhkeyt. 

Nemt aza vort vi "oreman.” Vos kon men zogn oyf English vegn an oreman? Men kon zogn: “a poor man,” “a pauper,” “a beggar,” “a panhandler.” Dermit, shept men oys dos gantse bisl oremkeyt oyf English. Ober oyf Yidish, kon men zogn: “an oreman,” “an evyen,” “a kaptsn,” “a dalfn,” “a betler,” “a shleper,” “a shnorer,” “a Kaptsnzon,” “a Hungerman,” “a hayzer-geyer,” “a medine-Yid,” “an orkheporkhe,” “a hegdesh-liger,” “a porets mit a lokh,” “a balebos iber a heyptl kroyt,” “a nitsrekh,” “a baderfer,” “a torbenik,” “on a hemd,” “a dales,” “a blutik oreman,” “a kaptsn in zibn poles,” “vekaptseynu yakhed,” “oyf gebrente tsores,” “oyf gehakte tsores,” “yad tsore,” un nokh un nokh. Dos iz vayt nisht alts. Oyb ir zogt fun eynem, “er iz a tsveyter Roytshild,” oder “a tsveyter Rokfeler,” un ir tut derbay a vunk mit an oyg, veyst men oykh az er hot nisht [vos] tsu esn. 

Ir kont zogn vegn an oreman vayter: “er iz a yoyred,” “a gefalener,” “a gebrokhener,” “an opgeforener,” “er kayt di erd,” “er leygt di tseyn in baytl,” “er matert zikh mitn toyt,” “er pekhnet oyfn pisk,” “er hot fargesn dem tam fun a groshn,” “er geyt arum mit an oysgeshtekter tsung,” “er shlingt dos shpayekhts,” “er khalesht far a bisn” - un Yidn veln visn genoy, az er hot nisht keyn parnose. Oyb ir vilt zayn in gantsn klor, kont ir zogn aynfakh, “Er peygert dray mol a tog far hunger,” oder gor poshet, “Er hot nisht keyn groshn bay der neshome." 

In eynike shtetlekh, az me vil batseykhnen an oreman, zogt men, "Naket vi a Terk.” Far vos a Terk iz mer naket fun andere, veys ikh nisht. Ober es iz dos zelbe, vi ikh zol zogn: “es geyt im shlim-shlimazl,” “mit der puter arop,” “vi a roshe oyf yener velt,” “vi a tsadik oyf der velt,” “es nogt im untern lefele,” “er darf onkumen tsu kitsve,” “s’iz enkes mesaldekhe,” “di neshome hengt im oyfn shpits noz,” “er geyt oys vi a likht.” Der sakhakl iz, az er fardint vaser oyf kashe, un s’iz bay im a gants yor Peysekh: er hot nisht keyn shtikl broyt. 

In der literarisher kibetsarnye oyf East Broadway, nebn Forverts, iz geven a poet. Ven er hot gevolt zogn vegn an andern poet, az er iz an oreman, flegt er zogn, “Farmogn zoln mir es beyde, vifl es felt im tsu finef dolar." 

Me darf zayn, zog ikh, meshuge, oystsubaytn aza raykhe shprakh vi Yidish oyf English. 

Un az me redt shoyn vegn meshuge, lomir take zen, ver es iz raykher a meshugas - English oder Yidish. In English, az me vil zogn az emetser iz meshuge, zogt men, "He’s crazy” or “insane.” Akhuts dem, zenen do a gantse rey tekhnishe verter, vi “paranoyik,” “skitsofrenik” - verter vos hobn nisht keyn Yidishn tam. Oyb me vil shoyn zogn oyf English a vort vos hot yo a Yidishn tam, zogt men, “He’s meshuge." 

Itst, lomir zen - itst, lomir zen - vos me kon ton mit a meshugenem oyf Yidish. A meshugener oyf Yidish iz: "meshuge,” “meturef,” “khoser deye,” “oyverbotl,” “tsedreyt,” “tserudert,” “nisht baym zinen,” “mevulbl,” “farikt,” “tsemisht,” “nisht baym seykhl,” “nisht bay di klore gedanken,” “vanzinik,” “shvakhzinik,” “a tsetumlte brie,” “a mentsh vos krikht oyf di glaykhe vent,” “a parshoyn mit a bzhik in kop,” “s'felt im a klepke in moyekh,” “a vilde brie,” “on a kop,” “a tsedulter,” “a tseshroyfter,” “a mevuel,” “a parshoyn vos blondzhet arum oyfn oylem-hatoyhu,” “oyfn oylem-hadimyen,” “in hinerplet,” “gerirt oyfn kastn,” “gerirt oyfn eybershtibl,” “nisht oyf der velt,” “a banumener,” “a tsehotsketer,” “a tsefloygener,” “a farloyrener,” “nisht baym reynen farshtand,” “a meshugener hunt,” “a tsetrogener malekh,” “a fardreyter sheps,” “eyner vos veyst nisht oyf voser velt er iz,” “a mentsh vos veyst nisht az di mame hot im gehat,” “nisht keyn higer,” “gaystik krank,” “a barutener." 

Dos zenen alts verter fun Poylishn Yidish. Di Litvakes hobn nokh aza tsetl oysterlishe verter, vi: "tsedrumshket,” “kapuzhyet,” “skonfuzhet,” “tsedrinzhet,” “tseshtrudlt,” “tsetraytlt,” “farkaloytset,” “farkalotshet,” “farpulyet,” “farmarotshet.” Fun di bloyze verter, kon men arop fun di relsn, farlirn di gedanken, un vern tseflokhtn vi a loksh. 

S'iz emes az Yidish iz a bisl orem in tekhnishe verter. Ven es kumt tsu oytomobiln, eroplanen, mashinen fun alerley sortn, iz Yidish oyf tsores. Ober vu shteyt es geshribn az a Yidishist darf traybn a kar? Ver lozt im nisht forn mit der sobvey? 

Yidish iz a - iz a tolerante shprakh. Der printsip fun Yidish iz a Komunistisher: dos vos iz mayn iz mayn, dos vos iz dayn iz oykh mayn. Azoy - azoy az in ergstn fal banutst men zikh mit English, mit Poylish, mit Rusish - vos es lozt zikh. 

Ikh ken a farbrentn Yidishist vos hot a kar, un yedn Montik un Donershtik, vert di kar bay im tsebrokhn. Er hot a garazh vu es arbet a tsveyter Yidishist, un ven di kar vert tsebrokhn, shlept er zi avek tsum Yidishistishn mekhanik, un zey redn tsvishn zikh tekhnishe verter - nisht oyf Yidish, nor oyf Yidishistish. Er zogt dem mekhanik, “Moyshe Shmerl, der oyto - der oytomobil mayner iz - nisht far dir gedakht - nisht mit alemen.”

“Vos felt im?”

“O, der motor hust unter, der kiler shvitst, der oysglaykher iz krum, ir lompn laykhtn nisht, dos redl dreyt zikh nisht, der kirever kirevet nisht, der tsinder tsindt zikh nisht on, der hant-heyber farhakt zikh, der fus-heyber ligt ayngeleygt, di luft-rern zenen farshtopt, der treter lozt oyf zikh nisht tretn, di shmir-intstalatsye shmirt nisht, un az me shmirt nisht, fort men nisht. Der ayl-filter rint, der gaz-mester iz tsekhusht, der gikh-mester iz hintershtelik, der shoyb-visher visht nisht, di gumeshikh zenen gelekhert. Ikh vil forn keyn Boyberik, for ikh avek keyn Yehupets." 

"Khayim Borekh,” entfert der mekhanik, “vos toyg dir aza shivre-keyle? Dos alts tsu farrikhtn vet aykh opkostn an oytser, un der oytomobil vet vert zayn a zets in dr'erd.”

“Vos iz dayn eytse?”

“Mayn eytse iz: koyf dir a naye katerinke, un ver poter fun der alter makherayke.”

Undzer Yidishist volt shoyn lang gekoyft a naye katerinke, ober er hot moyre, az er vet fargesn zayn Yidishistish loshn. 

Yo, mit tekhnishe verter iz a bisl shverlekh in Yidish - ober me tut zikh an eytse: Tekhnik iz bikhlal a goyish institutsye; Yidish darf hobn tekhnik, vi an alter Yid dos kadokhes.

——————

Dos hobn mir gehert der origineler mikrofon oyfname fun der banket-rede vegn Yidish vos Yitskhok Bashevis Zinger hot gehaltn in Shtokholm baym bakumen dem Nobel Prayz. Dos iz undzer shalakhmones far undzere tsuherer lekoved Purim, vos mir hobn di vokh gepravet.

ייִדיש

וואָס יצחק באַשעוויס זינגער האָט געהאַלטן אויף דעם אָוונט אין שטאָקהאָלם איידער עס איז אים אָפֿיציעל צוגעטיילט געוואָרן דער נאָבעל פּרײַז פֿאַר ליטעראַטור. דאָס איז געווען אַ מסיבה פֿאַרן ייִדישן עולם, און בײַ דער אָנווײַזנהייט פֿון אַ סך אויסלענדישע געסט. דער שרײַבער האָט געהאַלטן אַ רעדע אין אַ הומאָריסטיש, פֿעלאַטיניסטישן נוסח. מיר האָבן די רעדע ערשט לעצטנס באַקומען אין אָריגינאַל ווי זי איז אויפֿגענומען געוואָרן אין שטאָקהאָלם דעם אַכטן דעצעמבער דאָס פֿאַרגאַנגענע יאָר. מיר הערן יעצט. 

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מען פֿרעגט מיך אָפֿט, פֿאַר וואָס שרײַבסטו ייִדיש? און איך וועל פּרוּוון געבן אויף דער פֿראַגע אַן ענטפֿער. מיין ענטפֿער וועט זײַן אַ ייִדישלעכע - דאָס הייסט, איך וועל ענטפֿערן מיט אַ פֿראַגע אויף אַ פֿראַגע. דער ענטפֿער איז: פֿאַר וואָס זאָל איך נישט שרײַבן אויף ייִדיש?! וועל איך בעסער שרײַבן אויף כינעזיש, אָדער אויף טערקיש? ווי זאָגט מען אויף טערקיש, ״האַק נישט קיין טשײַניק?״ און ווי זאָגט מען דאָס אויף ענגליש? ווי זאָגט מען אויף ענגליש, ״דרייט נישט קיין היטל,״ ״פֿאָלג מיך אַ גאַנג,״ ״אַ חכם פֿון דער מה-נשתּנה,״ ״אַ משה קאַפּויער,״ ״אַ חכם בלילה,״ ״אַ יאָלד אין אַ קאַפּעליוש,״ ״אַן איבערגעדרייט שלעסל,״ ״אַ שוטה בן פּיקהאָלץ,״ ״אַ מויד מיט אַ כּתב,״ ״אַ ייִדענע מיט אַן אויעררינגל?״

ַמיט אַ צײַט צוריק, איז געקומען צו מיר אַן איבערזעצער, אין גאַנצן אַ צעטומלטער, אין גאַנצן א פֿאַרשוויצטער. ״וואָס איז דער מער?״ פֿרעג איך אים. זאָגט ער, ״ווי זעצט מען דאָס איבער, פֿון ייִדיש אויף ענגליש, ׳אַ ווייכער מענטש, אַ דימענט?׳ אין אַלע שפּראַכן, איז אַ דײַמאָנד - איז אַ דימענט - האַרט, אָבער אין ייִדיש איז אַ דימענט ווייך. קאָן מען זאָגן אין ענגליש, ׳סאָפֿט לײַק אַ דײַמאָנד?׳ אָדער זאָל איך שרײַבן, ׳סאָפֿט לײַק אַ דזשוּוויש דײַמאָנד?׳״

יענע וואָס ציילן ווערטער פֿאַרזיכערן מיך אַז ענגליש איז די רײַכסטע שפּראַך אין דער וועלט. דער נײַסטער וועבסטער דיקשענערי - דער וועבסטער ווערטערבוך - האָט שוין דרײַ פֿערטל מיליאָן ווערטער. אָבער איך בין געבליבן בײַ דער איבערצײַגונג אַז ייִדיש איז די רײַכסטע שפּראַך אין דער וועלט - נישט אין טעכנאָלאָגיע, נאָר אין ווערטער וואָס גיבן איבער כאַראַקטער און פּערזענלעכקייט. 

נעמט אַזאַ וואָרט ווי ״אָרעמאַן.״ וואָס קאָן מען זאָגן אויף ענגליש וועגן אַן אָרעמאַן? מען קאָן זאָגן: ״אַ פּור מאַן,״ ״אַ פּאָפּער,״ ״אַ בעגער,״ ״אַ פּענהענדלער.״ דערמיט, שעפּט מען אויס דאָס גאַנצע ביסל אָרעמקייט אויף ענגליש. אָבער אויף ייִדיש, קאָן מען זאָגן: ״אַן אָרעמאַן,״ ״אַן אבֿיון,״ ״אַ קבּצן,״ ״אַ דלפֿן,״ ״אַ בעטלער,״ ״אַ שלעפּער,״ ״אַ שנאָרער,״ ״אַ קבּצנזאָן,״ ״אַ הונגערמאַן,״ ״אַ הייזער-גייער,״ ״אַ מדינה-ייִד,״ ״אַן אָרחי-פּרחי,״ ״אַ הקדש-ליגער,״ ״אַ פּריץ מיט אַ לאָך,״ ״אַ בּעל-הבּית איבער אַ הייפּטל קרויט,״ ״אַ נצרך,״ ״אַ באַדערפער,״ ״אַ טאָרבעניק,״ ״אָן אַ העמד,״ ״אַ דלות,״ ״אַ בלוטיק אָרעמאַן,״ ״אַ קבּצן אין זיבן פּאָלעס,״ ״וקבּצנו יחד,״ ״אויף געברענטע צרות,״ ״אויף געהאַקטע צרות,״ ״יד צרה,״ און נאָך און נאָך. דאָס איז ווײַט נישט אַלץ. אויב איר זאָגט פֿון איינעם, ״ער איז אַ צווייטער רויטשילד,״ אָדער ״אַ צווייטער ראָקפֿעלער,״ און איר טוט דערבײַ אַ וווּנק מיט אַן אויג, ווייסט מען אויך אַז ער האָט נישט [וואָס] צו עסן.

איר קאָנט זאָגן וועגן אַן אָרעמאַן ווײַטער: ״ער איז אַ יורד,״ ״אַ געפֿאַלענער,״ ״אַ געבראָכענער,״ ״אַן אפּגעפֿאָרענער,״ ״ער קײַט די ערד,״ ״ער לייגט די ציין אין בײַטל,״ ״ער מאַטערט זיך מיטן טויט,״ ״ער פּעכנעט אויפֿן פּיסק,״ ״ער האָט פֿאַרגעסן דעם טעם פֿון אַ גראָשן,״ ״ער גייט אַרום מיט אַן אויסגעשטעקטער צונג,״ ״ער שלינגט דאָס שפּייעכץ,״ ״ער חַלשט פֿאַר אַ ביסן״ - און ייִדן וועלן וויסן גענוי, אַז ער האָט נישט קיין פּרנסה. אויב איר ווילט זײַן אין גאַנצן קלאָר, קאָנט איר זאָגן אײַנפֿאַך, ״ער פּגרט דרײַ מאָל אַ טאָג פֿאַר הונגער,״ אָדער גאָר פּשוט, ״ער האָט נישט קיין גראָשן בײַ דער נשמה.״ 

אין אייניקע שטעטלעך, אַז מע וויל באַצייכנען אַן אָרעמאַן, זאָגט מען, ״נאַקעט ווי אַ טערק.״ פֿאַר וואָס אַ טערק איז מער נאַקעט פֿון אַנדערע, ווייס איך נישט. אָבער עס איז דאָס זעלבע, ווי איר זאָלט זאָגן: ״עס גייט אים שלים-שלימזל,״ ״מיט דער פּוטער אַראָפּ,״ ״ווי אַ רשע אויף יענער וו��לט,״ ״ווי אַ צדיק אויף דער וועלט,״ ״עס נאָגט אים אונטערן לעפֿעלע,״ ״ער דאַרף אָנקומען צו קיצבֿה,״ ״ס׳איז אנקת מסלדיך,״ ״די נשמה הענגט אים אויפֿן שפּיץ נאָז,״ ״ער גייט אויס ווי אַ ליכט.״ דער סך-הכּל איז, אַז ער פֿאַרדינט וואַסער אויף קאַשע, און ס׳איז בײַ אים אַ גאַנץ יאָר פּסח: ער האָט נישט קיין שטיקל ברויט. 

אין דער ליטעראַרישער קיבעצאַרניע אויף איסט בראָדוויי, נעבן פֿאָרווערטס, איז געווען אַ פּאָעט. ווען ער האָט געוואָלט זאָגן וועגן אַן אַנדערן פּאָעט, אַז ער איז אַן אָרעמאַן, פֿלעגט ער זאָגן, ״פֿאַרמאָגן זאָלן מיר עס ביידע, וויפֿל עס פֿעלט אים צו פֿינעף דאָלאַר.״ 

מע דאַרף זײַן, זאָג איך, משוגע, אויסצובײַטן אַזאַ רײַכע שפּראַך ווי ייִדיש אויף ענגליש. 

און אַז מע רעדט שוין וועגן משוגע, לאָמיר טאַקע זען, ווער עס איז רײַכער אין משוגעת - ענגליש אָדער ייִדיש. אין ענגליש, אַז מע וויל זאָגן אַז עמעצער איז משוגע, זאָגט מען, ״היז קרייזי״ אָר ״אינסיין.״ אַחוץ דעם, זענען דאָ אַ גאַנצע ריי טעכנישע ווערטער, ווי ״פּאַראַנאָיִק,״ ״סקיצאָפֿרעניק״ - ווערטער וואָס האָבן נישט קיין ייִדישן טעם. אויב מע וויל שוין זאָגן אויף ענגליש אַ וואָרט וואָס האָט יאָ אַ ייִדישן טעם, זאָגט מען, ״היז משוגע.״ 

ַאיצט, לאָמיר זען - איצט, לאָמיר זען - וואָס מע קאָן טאָן מיט אַ משוגענעם אויף ייִדיש. א משוגענער אויף ייִדיש איז: ״משוגע,״ ״מטורף,״ ״חָסר דעה,״ ״עובֿר-בּטל,״ ״צעדרייט,״ ״צערודערט,״ ״נישט בײַם זינען,״ ״מבֿולבֿל,״ ״פֿאַריקט,״ ״צעמישט,״ ״נישט בײַם שֹכל,״ ״נישט בײַ די קלאָרע געדאַנקען,״ ״וואַנזיניק,״ ״שוואַכזיניק,״ ״אַ צעטומלטע בּריאה,״ ״אַ מענטש וואָס קריכט אויף די גלײַכע ווענט,״ ״אַ פּאַרשוין מיט אַ בזשיק אין קאָפּ,״ ״ס׳פֿעלט אים אַ קלעפּקע אין מוח,״ ״אַ ווילדע בּריאה,״ ״אָן אַ קאָפּ,״ ״אַ צעדולטער,״ ״אַ צעשרויפֿטער,״ ״אַ מבֿוהל,״ ״אַ פּאַרשוין וואָס בלאָנדזשעט אַרום אויפֿן עולם-התּוהו,״ ״אויפֿן עולם-הדמיון,״ ״אין הינערפּלעט,״ ״גערירט אויפֿן קאַסטן,״ ״גערירט אויפֿן אייבערשטיבל,״ ״נישט אויף דער וועלט,״ ״אַ באַנומענער,״ ״אַ צעהא��צקעטער,״ ״אַ צעפֿלויגענער,״ ״אַ פֿאַרלוירענער,״ ״נישט בײַם ריינען פֿאַרשטאַנד,״ ״אַ משוגענער הונט,״ ״אַ צעטראָגענער מלאך,״ ״אַ פֿאַרדרייטער שעפּס,״ ״איינער וואָס ווייסט נישט אויף וואָסער וועלט ער איז,״ ״אַ מענטש וואָס ווייסט נישט אַז די מאַמע האָט אים געהאַט,״ ״נישט קיין היגער,״ ״גײַסטיק קראַנק,״ ״אַ באַרוטענער.״

דאָס זענען אַלץ ווערטער פֿון פּוילישן ייִדיש. די ליטוואַקעס האָבן נאָך אַזאַ צעטל אויסטערלישע ווערטער, ווי: ״צעדרומשקעט,״ ״קאַפּוזשיעט,״ ״סקאָנפֿוזשעט,״ ״צעדרינזשעט,״ ״צעשטרודלט,״ ״צעטרייטלט,״ ״פֿאַרקאַלויצעט,״ ״פֿאַרקאַלאָטשעט,״ ״פֿאַרפּוליעט,״ ״פֿאַרמאַראָטשעט.״ פֿון די בלויזע ווערטער, קאָן מען אַראָפּ פֿון די רעלסן, פֿאַרלירן די געדאַנקען, און ווערן צעפֿלאָכטן ווי אַ לאָקש. 

ס'איז אמת אַז ייִדיש איז אַ ביסל אָרעם אין טעכנישע ווערטער. ווען עס קומט צו אויטאָמאָבילן, עראָפּלאַנען, מאַשינען פֿון אַלערליי סאָרטן, איז ייִדיש אויף צרות. אָבער וווּ שטייט עס געשריבן אַז אַ ייִדישיסט דאַרף טרײַבן אַ קאַר? ווער לאָזט אים נישט פֿאַרן מיט דער סאָבוויי? 

ייִדיש איז אַ - איז אַ טאָלעראַנטע שפּראַך. דער פּרינציפּ אין ייִדיש איז אַ קאָמוניסטישער: דאָס וואָס איז מײַן איז מײַן, דאָס וואָס איז דײַן איז אויך מײַן. אַזוי - אַזוי אַז אין ערגסטן פֿאַל באַנוצט מען זיך מיט ענגליש, מיט פּויליש, מיט רוסיש - וואָס עס לאָזט זיך. 

איך קען א פֿאַרברענטן ייִדישיסט וואָס האָט אַ קאַר, און יעדן מאָנטיק און דאָנערשטיק, ווערט די קאַר בײַ אים צעבראָכן. ער האָט אַ גאַראַזש וווּ עס אַרבעט אַ צווייטער ייִדישיסט, און ווען די קאַר ווערט צעבראָכן, שלעפּט ער זי אַוועק צום ייִדישיסטישן מעכאַניק, און זיי רעדן צווישן זיך טעכנישע ווערטער - נישט אויף ייִדיש, נאָר אויף ייִדישיסטיש. ער זאָגט דעם מעכאַניק, ״משה שמערל, דער אויטאָ - דער אויטאָמאָביל מײַנער איז - נישט פֿאַר דיר געדאַכט - נישט מיט אַלעמען.״ 

״וואָס פֿעלט אים?״ 

״אָ, דער מאָטאָר הוסט אונטער, דער קילער שוויצט, דער אויסגלײַכער איז קרום, איר לאָמפּן לײַכטן נישט, דאָס רעדל דרייט זיך נישט, דער קערעווער קערעוועט נישט, דער צינדער צינדט זיך נישט אָן, דער האַנט-הייבער פֿאַרהאַקט זיך, דער פֿוס-הייבער ליגט אײַנגעלייגט, די לופֿט-רערן זענען פֿאַרשטאָפּט, דער טרעטער לאָזט אויף זיך נישט טרעטן, די שמיר-אינסטאַלאַציע שמירט נישט, און אַז מע שמירט נישט, פֿאָרט מען נישט. דער אייל-פֿילטער רינט, דער גאַז-מעסטער איז צעחושט, דער גיך-מעסטער איז הינטערשטעליק, דער שויב-ווישער ווישט נישט, די גומעשיך זענען געלעכערט. איך וויל פֿאָרן קיין בויבעריק, פֿאָר איך אַוועק קיין יעהופּעץ.״ 

״חיים ברוך,״ ענטפֿערט דער מעכאַניק, ״וואָס טויג דיר אַזאַ שיבֿרי-כּלי? דאָס אַלץ צו פֿאַרריכטן וועט אייך אָפּקאָסטן אַן אוצר, און דער אויטאָמאָביל וועט ווערט זיין אַ זעץ אין דר׳ערד.״ 

״וואָס איז דײַן עצה?״ 

״מײַן עצה איז, קויף דיר אַ נייע קאַטערינקע, און ווער פּטור פֿון דער אַלטער מאַכערײַקע.״ 

אונדזער ייִדישיסט וואָלט שוין לאַנג געקויפֿט אַ נייע קאַטערינקע, אָבער ער האָט מורא, אַז ער וועט פֿאַרגעסן זיין ייִדישיסטיש לשון. 

יאָ, מיט טעכנישע ווערטער איז אַ ביסל שווערלעך אין ייִדיש - אָבער מע טוט זיך אַן עצה: טעכניק איז בכלל אַ גוייִש אינסטיטוציע. ייִדיש דאַרף האָבן טעכניק, ווי אַן אַלטער ייִד דאָס קדחת. 

——————

דאָס האָבן מיר געהערט דער אָריגינעלער מיקראָפֿאָן אויפֿנאַמע פֿון דער באַנקעט-רעדע וועגן ייִדיש וואָס יצחק באַשעוויס זינגער האָט געהאַלטן אין שטאָקהאָלם בײַם באַקומען דעם נאָבעל פּרייז. דאָס איז אונדזער שלוח-מנות פֿאַר אונדזערע צוהערער לכּבֿוד פּורים, וואָס מיר האָבן די וואָך געפּראָוועט.

English

…which Isaac Bashevis Singer gave in Stockholm the evening before he was officially awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. This was a celebration for the entire Yiddish community and was attended by many foreign guests. The author gave his lecture in a humorous, literary style. We just recently received the lecture in its original form as it was delivered in Stockholm on the 8th of December this past year. Here it is. 

——————

People often ask me, why do you write in Yiddish? And I will try now to give an answer to that question. My answer will be a Jewish one - in other words, I will answer the question with a question. The answer is: why should I not write in Yiddish?! Should I rather write in Chinese, or in Turkish? How do you say in Turkish, “hak nisht keyn tshaynik” [don’t bother me; lit., don’t bang a tea kettle]? And how do you say it in English? How do you say in English, “dreyt nisht keyn hitl” [don’t annoy me; lit., don’t spin a hat], “folg mikh a gang” [you’ve got to be kidding me!; lit., follow me on an errand], “a khokhem fun der Ma-Nishtane” [a dunce; lit., a wise child from the “Mah Nishtannah” (which doesn’t actually contain any reference to the wise child)], “a Moyshe Kapoyer” [a moron/a person who always does things in the reverse of how they should be done; lit., a Moyshe Opposite], “a khokhem balayle” [an ignoramus; lit., a nocturnally wise man (someone who is only wise at night, when no one is around to witness his wisdom)], “a yold in a kapelyush” [a doofus; lit., a chump in a man’s hat], “an ibergedreyt shlesl” [a dummy; lit., a reversed zipper], “a shoyte ben pikholts” [an idiot; lit., an idiot, the son of a woodpecker], “a moyd mit a ksav” [a loose woman; lit., a girl who has written proof that she is pure], “a Yidene mit an oyeringl” [a Jewess to be reckoned with; lit., a Jewess with an earring]? 

A little while back, a translator came to me totally confused and drenched with sweat. “What’s the matter?” I ask him. Says he, “How do you translate, from Yiddish into English, ’a veykher mentsh, a diment’ [lit., a soft man, a diamond]? In all other languages, a diamond is hard, but in Yiddish, a diamond is soft. Can you say in English, 'soft like a diamond?’ Or should I write, 'soft like a Jewish diamond?’" 

Those who count words assure me that English is the richest language in the world. The newest Webster’s Dictionary has three-quarters of a million entries. However, I remain convinced that Yiddish is actually the richest language in the world - not in technology, but in words that convey character and personality. 

Take a word like ”oreman“ [poor man], for instance. What can you say in English about an oreman? You can say: "a poor man,” “a pauper,” “a beggar,” “a panhandler.” With those few words, you exhaust the little bit of poverty available in English. But in Yiddish, you can say: “an oreman,” “an evyen” [an indigent person], “a kaptsn” [a pauper], “a dalfn” [a poor man], “a betler” [a beggar], “a shleper” [a tramp], ”a shnorer“ [an extortionist], ”a Kaptsnzon“ [as if that were a family name], ”a Hungerman“ [as if that, too, were a family name], ”a hayzer-geyer“ [one who goes from house to house], ”a medine-Yid“ [a peddler], ”an orkheporkhe“ [a vagabond], ”a hegdesh-liger“ [a poorhouse dweller], ”a porets mit a lokh“ [a landowner over a hole], ”a balebos iber a heyptl kroyt“ [the owner of a head of cabbage], ”a nitsrekh“ [a needy person], ”a baderfer“ [ibid.], ”a torbenik“ [a beggar’s-sack holder], ”on a hemd“ [without a shirt], ”a dales“ [a poor man], ”a blutik oreman“ [a bloody oreman], ”a kaptsn in zibn poles“ [a pauper dressed in seven rags (lit., hems)], ”vekaptseynu yakhed“ [lit., and gather us together (taken from the liturgy and using the Hebrew root of kaptsn)], ”oyf gebrente tsores“ [in burning troubles], ”oyf gehakte tsores“ [in chopped up troubles], ”yad tsore“ [lit., a constricted hand (using the Hebrew word tsore, which comes into Yiddish as “trouble”)], etc. etc. This is by far not everything. If you say about a person, “He’s a second Rothschild,” or “a second Rockefeller,” and you do so with a wink of the eye, we can figure out that he has nothing to eat. 

You can say further about an oreman: “er iz a yoyred” [he is a downfallen man], “a gefalener” [ibid.], “a gebrokhener” [a broken man], “an opgeforener” [a departed man], “er kayt di erd” [he chews dirt], “er leygt di tseyn in baytl” [he places his teeth in his pouch (because he won’t be eating anytime soon)], “er matert zikh mitn toyt” [he works for the dead (meaning, he doesn’t work at all)], “er pekhnet oyfn pisk” [he’s starving], “er hot fargesn dem tam fun a groshn” [he forgot the taste of a penny], “er geyt arum mit an oysgeshtekter tsung” [he walks around with his tongue sticking out], “er shlingt dos shpayekhts” [he swallows his own saliva], “er khalesht far a bisn” [he’s dying for a bite of food] - and Jews will know quite well that he doesn’t make a living. If you want to be completely clear, you can just say, “er peygert dray mol a tog far hunger” [he dies thrice-daily of hunger], or even more simply, “er hot nisht keyn groshn bay der neshome” [he doesn’t have a penny to his name (lit., soul)]. 

In some villages, when one wants to describe an oreman, one says, “He’s naked as a Turk.” Why a Turk is more naked than anyone else, I have no idea. But it means the same thing as if I were to say: “es geyt im shlim-shlimazl” [he has terrible luck], “mit der puter arop” [he’s in a bad state; lit., with the butter upside-down], “vi a roshe oyf yener velt” [like an evildoer in the next world (where he will be punished)], “vi a tsadik oyf der velt” [like a righteous person in this world (where he is punished for his sins in order to spare him punishment in the next world)], “es nogt im untern lefele” [his stomach is growling], “er darf onkumen tsu kitsve” [he must receive handouts from the public dole], “s’iz enkes mesaldekhe” [it’s desperate (like one’s mood when reciting enkes mesaldekhe during the Ne’ilah service on Yom Kippur], “di neshome hengt im oyfn shpits noz” [his soul hangs by the tip of his nose], “er geyt oys vi a likht” [he goes out like a light]. In sum, he earns water for cereal [i.e., nothing], and it's Passover all year round for him: he hasn’t a single piece of bread. 

In the literary cafe on East Broadway, near the Forverts, there used to be a poet. When he wanted to say about another poet that he was an oreman, he would say, “We should both own the amount he needs to reach $5” [i.e., he’s in major debt].   

So you have to be crazy, in my opinion, to exchange such a rich language as Yiddish for English. 

And once we’re already talking about being crazy, let’s actually examine which language is richer in craziness - English or Yiddish. In English, if you want to say that someone’s crazy, you say, “He’s crazy” or “insane.” Aside from that, we have a whole set of technical terms, like “paranoid,” “schizophrenic” - words that have no Jewish feel to them. If you want to use a word that actually has a Jewish feel to it in English, you say, “He's meshuge." 

Now, let’s see what one can do with a crazy person in Yiddish. A crazy person in Yiddish is: ”meshuge“ [crazy], ”meturef“ [deranged], ”khoser deye“ [insane], ”oyverbotl“ [senile], ”tsedreyt“ [disoriented], ”tserudert“ [agitated], ”nisht baym zinen“ [not in his right senses], ”mevulbl“ [confused], ”farikt“ [out of his mind], ”tsemisht“ [mixed up], ”nisht baym seykhl“ [not in his right senses], ”nisht bay di klore gedanken“ [not clear of thought], ”vanzinik“ [deluded], ”shvakhzinik“ [weak in his senses], ”a tsetumlte brie“ [a confused creature], ”a mentsh vos krikht oyf di glaykhe vent“ [a person who crawls up vertical walls], ”a parshoyn mit a bzhik in kop“ [a person with a craze in his head], ”s'felt im a klepke in moyekh“ [he has a screw loose], ”a vilde brie“ [a wild creature], ”on a kop“ [without a head], ”a tsedulter“ [a deranged person], ”a tseshroyfter“ [a person with a screw loose], ”a mevuel“ [a bewildered person], ”a parshoyn vos blondzhet arum oyfn oylem hatoyhu“ [a person lost in the land of chaos], ”oyfn oylem hadimyen“ [in the land of fantasy], ”in hinerplet“ [in a stupor], ”gerirt oyfn kastn“ [disturbed in the head (lit., crate)], ”gerirt oyfn eybershtibl“ [ibid. (lit., in the attic)], ”nisht oyf der velt“ [not in this world], ”a banumener“ [a possessed person], ”a tsehotsketer“ [a shaken-up person], ”a tsefloygener“ [an absent-minded person], ”a farloyrener“ [a lost person], ”nisht baym reynen farshtand“ [not of sound mind], ”a meshugener hunt“ [a crazy dog], ”a tsetrogener malekh“ [an absent-minded angel], ”a fardreyter sheps“ [a disturbed sheep], ”eyner vos veyst nisht oyf voser velt er iz“ [someone who doesn’t know in which world he is], ”a mentsh vos veyst nisht az di mame hot im gehat“ [a person who doesn’t know that his mother gave birth to him], ”nisht keyn higer“ [a foreigner; i.e., not from this world], ”gaystik krank“ [mentally ill; lit., sick of spirit], ”a barutener“ [a tranquilized person]. 

These are all words from Polish Yiddish. The Lithuanians have another list of outlandish words, like: ”tsedrumshket,“ ”kapuzyet,“ ”skonfuzhet,“ ”tsedrinzhet,“ ”tseshtrudlt,“ ”tsetraytlt,“ ”farkloytset,“ ”farklotshet,“ ”farpulyet,“ ”farmarotshet.“ From hearing the words alone, you can fall from the railing, lose your mind, and become as twisted as a noodle. 

It’s true that Yiddish is a bit lacking in technical terms. When it comes to cars, planes, and machines of all sorts, Yiddish has a lot of trouble. But where does it say that a Yiddishist must drive a car? Who keeps him from traveling by subway? 

Yiddish is a tolerant language. The fundamental principle of Yiddish is a Communistic one: that which is mine is mine, that which is yours is also mine. And so, in the worst-case scenario, we use technical words taken from English, Polish, Russian - whatever works.

I know a zealous Yiddishist who has a car, and every other day his car falls apart. He knows a garage where another Yiddishist works, and when the car breaks down, he tows it away to this "Yiddishistish” mechanic, and they speak together using technical terms - not in Yiddish, but in “Yiddishistish.” He says to the mechanic, “Moyshe Shmerl, my car is - may this never happen to you - in bad straights." 

"What’s the matter?" 

"Oh, the motor sputters, the cooler sweats, the aligner is crooked, its headlights don’t work, the wheel doesn’t turn, the steering wheel doesn’t steer, the starter doesn’t ignite, the hand lever jams, the foot lever doesn’t move, the exhaust pipes are stopped up, the pedal doesn’t budge, the lubricant system doesn’t lubricate, and when you don’t lubricate it, the car doesn’t move. The oil filter leaks, the gas tank measure is messed up, the speedometer lags behind, the window-wipers don’t wipe, the tires are full of holes. If I want to go to Boyberik, I end up in Yehupets.”

“Khayim Borekh,” answers the mechanic, “of what use to you is such a piece of junk? To fix all of that would cost you a fortune, and the car would still be worthless [lit., worth a knock on the ground]." 

"What do you suggest?" 

"I suggest that you buy yourself a new machine, and get rid of the old contraption." 

Our Yiddishist would have bought a new car a while ago already, but he’s afraid that if he does so he will forget his "Yiddishistish” language.

Yes, it’s a bit difficult with technical terms in Yiddish - but there is a solution: Technology is, all told, a goyish institution; Yiddish needs technology like an old Jew needs ague.

——————

With that, we’ve heard the original microphone recording of the banquet lecture about Yiddish delivered by Isaac Bashevis Singer in Stockholm upon receiving the Nobel Prize. This is our shalakhmones [Purim ritual involving the exchange of food gifts between friends] for our listeners in honor of Purim, which we observed this week.

Second Speech:

Yidish

Der groyser koved vos di Shvedish Akademye hot mir ongeton iz oykh an onerkenung far Yidish - a shprakh in goles, on a land, on grenetsn, nisht geshtitst fun keyn shum regirung; a shprakh vos farmogt kimat nisht keyn verter far vofn, amunitsye, militerishe ibungen, un praktik; a loshn vos iz geven farakhtet, say fun goyim un say fun di merste emantsipirte Yidn. 

Der emes iz az vos di greste religyes hobn gepredikt, hobn di Yidn in geto praktistirt. Zey hobn nisht gehat keyn gresere freyd vi lernen vegn mentshn un mentshlekhe batsiungen, vos zey hobn bakumen fun Toyre, Talmud, Muser, Kabole. Der geto iz nisht bloyz geven an ort fun antrinung far a farloyrene minoritet, nor oykh a groyser eksperiment in sholem, zelbst-distsiplin, un humanizm. Di reshte fun zey ekzistirn biz haynt tsu tog, nisht gekukt oyf der gantser brutalitet vos ringlt zey arum.

ייִדיש

דער גרויסער כּבֿוד וואָס די שוועדיש אַקאַדעמיע האָט מיר אָנגעטאָן איז אויך אַן אָנערקענונג פֿאַר ייִדיש - אַ שפּראַך אין גלות, אָן אַ לאַנד, אָן גרענעצן, נישט געשטיצט פֿון קיין שום רעגירונג; אַ שפּראַך וואָס פֿאַרמאָגט כּמעט נישט קיין ווערטער פֿאַר וואָפֿן, אַמוניציע, מיליטערישע איבונגען, און פּראַקטיק; אַ לשון וואָס ווערט פֿאַראַכטעט, סײַ פֿון גוים און סײַ פֿון די מערסטע עמאַנציפּירטע ייִדן. 

ָדער אמת איז אַז וואָס די גרעסטע רעליגיעס האָבן געפּרעדיקט, האָבן די ייִדן אין געטא פּראַקטיצירט. זיי האָבן געהאַט נישט קיין גרעסערע פֿרייד ווי לערנען וועגן מענטשן און מענטשלעכע באַציִונגען, וואָס זיי האָבן באַקומען פֿון תּורה, תּלמוד, מוסר, קבלה. דער געטאָ איז נישט בלויז געווען אַן אָרט פֿון אַנטרינונג פֿאַר אַ פֿאַרלוירענע מינאָריטעט, נאָר אויך אַ גרויסער עקספּערימענט אין שלום, זעלבסט-דיסציפּלין, און הומאַניזם. די רעשטע פֿון זיי עקזיסטירן ביז הײַנט צו טאָג, נישט געקוקט אויף דער גאַנצער ברוטאַליטעט וואָס רינגלט זיי אַרום.

English

The great honor bestowed upon me by the Swedish Academy is also a recognition of Yiddish - a language in exile, without a land, without borders, not supported by any government; a language which possesses almost no words for weapons, ammunition, military exercises, and war tactics; a tongue which was despised both by non-Jews and by the majority of emancipated Jews. 

The truth is that whatever the greatest religions preached, the Jews of the ghetto actually put into practice. They knew of no greater joy than the study of man and human relations, which they culled from Torah, Talmud, Musar, and Kabbalah. The ghetto was not only a place of refuge for a persecuted minority, but also a great experiment in peace, self-discipline, and humanism. The remainder or them [the Jews] exist until today, despite all of the brutality which surrounds them.

[learningyiddish]

Photograph portraits taken by Jean Besancenot in Morocco of Jewish Arab-Berber people and their costume. [prints c.1981 from 1930s negatives]

He travelled to Morocco between 1934 and 1939 when he was researching and documenting traditional costume and adornment.

[learningyiddish]

LET’S GO BABEY!!

[learningyiddish]

A group of young Jewish resistance fighters are being held under arrest by German SS soldiers in April/May 1943, during the liquidation of the Warsaw Ghetto by German troops during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.

[learningyiddish]

The traditional interpretation of [the binding of Isaac], for Jews and Christians alike, is that the point of the story is to show that Abraham is willing to sacrifice his child for the sake of his love of God.

There is one difficulty with this interpretation, namely that child sacrifice is consistently singled out in the Bible as the most heinous of all sins. According to the Bible itself, there is nothing noble, honourable or worthy of admiration about the willingness to sacrifice your child. That is what the pagans do. It is what the king of Moab did, and was rewarded by victory in war (2 Kings 3:27).

Abraham, whose original name Abram means ‘mighty father’, is chosen ‘so that he will teach his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is right and just’ (Genesis 18:19). Abraham was chosen to become the role model of father-as-teacher. To portray him as a man willing to sacrifice his child is at odds with everything else we know about the Bible’s moral vision of parenthood and child sacrifice. So there must be another interpretation.

The answer is given by context. God consistently promises Abraham, Isaac and Jacob two things: children and a land. Seven times God promises the land to Abraham, once to Isaac, three times to Jacob. They are promised children: as many as the dust of the earth, the sand on the seashore, the stars of the sky.

Repeatedly, both promises are delayed and sidetracked. Abraham and Sarah have to wait until they are old before they have a single child. Sarah is infertile. So is Rebecca. So is Rachel. Repeatedly they are forced to leave the land, through famine or family conflict. The land does not become theirs or their children’s throughout the whole of the Mosaic books. Abraham has to haggle to buy a cave in which to bury Sarah. Isaac is challenged for using the wells his father dug. Jacob has to pay a hundred pieces of silver to buy the right to pitch his tent.

Something very strange is being intimated here. Children and a land are the most natural of all endowments. Almost everyone has them. What makes the patriarchs and matriarchs different? Only this: that what everyone else has naturally, they only have as the gift of God. Most couples have children. The matriarchs, except Leah, were all infertile. Their children were seen as the gift of God.

Likewise with the land. Most people have a land. What made Abraham different was that he was told at the beginning of his mission to ‘leave’ his land, his birthplace and his father’s house. The patriarchs were nomads, Hebrews, travellers, outsiders. Israel becomes the people who have a land only by the grace of God. From this fact, the Bible, draws a remarkably legal conclusion. ‘The land must not be sold permanently,’ says God, ‘because the land is mine and you are but strangers and sojourners with me’ (Leviticus 25:23).

The Israelites do not own the land. They merely inhabit it, and their right to do so is conditional on their recognition that it does not belong to them but to God. And what applies to the land applies to children likewise. Abraham, whose name means ‘mighty father’, is to live out an experience that will establish, once and for all time, that our children do not belong to us but to God. Isaac, the first child of the covenant, is the child who belongs to God. Only thus is parenthood to be conceived in the life of the covenant.

The trial of the binding of Isaac is ultimately about whether Abraham is willing to renounce ownership in his child by handing him back to God. That is what the angel means when he tells Abraham to stop, saying, ‘Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.’

The story of the binding of Isaac is opaque to us because we take it for granted that children have their own legal identity and rights. But this is a very modern proposition indeed. Throughout the Victorian era, social activists had to work hard to mitigate the brutalities of child labour — children being sent down mines or working long hours in factories. In Roman law, the principle of patria potestas meant that children were the property of their fathers who had the legal right to do with them what they chose, including kill them.

Only when we take this background into account can we begin to understand that the binding of Isaac is God’s way of teaching Abraham that patria potestas has no place in Judaism. The Bible is saying to the people of the covenant: Just as you do not own your land, you do not own your children. Thus is born the biblical idea of parent-as-educator as opposed to parent-as-owner.

This is also what the Bible means when it speaks of God as a parent. God is a non-interventionist parent. During the early years of his people’s history he intervened to deliver from slavery, but increasingly as they matured he too moved from parent-as-owner to parent-as-educator. God does not do our work for us. He teaches us how to do it for him. For God himself abides by the laws he gives us.

    — Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks zt”l, in The Great Partnership: God, Science and the Search for Meaning