Thought for the Week

 
The Rights and Wrongs of Righting Wrongs

A momentous reunion: Years after Jacob pushes Esau into foreswearing his birthright, then deceives his father into affirming this through giving him the firstborn’s blessing, and fleeing for his life back to his mother’s family, the brothers are to meet. Many commentators introduce the passage by stating that this is a reconciliation between the two, but others are more measured, offering a cautionary note.

Perhaps this hesitation about what really transpires comes from our understanding that it is very difficult to forgive those who commit major sins against us. Who hasn’t in some unexamined, shame-filled bit of themselves hoped for a bitter end to someone who has done them a great harm, even if our better side understands that this is not the right way to be in the world. But it is there. A thirst for some kind of vengeance, revenge, at the very least, for an experience of pain at least equal to the pain caused to us.

Jacob Glatshteyn, the great Yiddish poet, writes Esau to the edge of murderous hatred, then brings him back from the precipice:

ESAU

As Esau wept upon his brother’s neck,
a great light streamed into his face.
Jacob bowed, called out in fear:
“Behold, God flames upon your countenance.

“Verily, brother.
When, nightlong, you struggled
with the angel,
I too fought a hard battle.
All day I marched toward you like Cain
until I sensed a dire lament
redeeming me from murder.

A dreadful bellowing besieged me then.

Great giant,
you conquered yourself.
So long as Abel lives
I will give you of my light,
I will grant you my sign:
Here goes Esau
who was almost Cain.”
Yankev Glatshteyn, Father’s Shadow, 1953
Tr. Etta Blum, Jacob Glatstein, Poems, Tel Aviv, 1970

He righted the wrong by righting himself. The struggle was real – Glatshteyn knew about this, having watched the anti-Semitism before the war, and the Nazi era itself, even from the safety of the USA. So he knew. And Esau held his head up and defied all of the rabbis who would make of him a monster. Er iz nit gevorn kayn,, he did not become Cain.

Then poor Dinaleh, the only daughter of the family is raped, then held captive in Shechem, the rapist’s house, whilst the young man professes his love for her to her brothers. Dinah herself is silent. We do not know what she felt nor what she wanted to happen. But her brothers were blinded by cold, calculating hatred and fixed on a terrible revenge, not just on Shechem, but on all of his people, particularly the Hivite men.

They toy with them, leading them to believe that if they will only undergo circumcision, they will become acceptable partners for the Israelites. And as the men are recovering from the ordeal, Jacob’s sons, Dinah’s brothers, kill all of the men, steal all of their property, and abscond with their wives. There is no Glatshteyn poem to put words of struggle, of passionate loathing overcome. This was cold-blooded murder, collective punishment, and Jacob was not pleased. Was Dinah? We do not know.

Who amongst us has not wished to avenge violence done to our family and our friends through our own violent responses. Who has never harboured a desire, not only to seek revenge on the perpetrator, but also on the family and friends of that perpetrator. ‘They must have known. They did not condemn it.’ Well, we don’t know what transpired, whether they were lied to, or culpable, or just going about their lives, trying no to get involved. In the eyes of the sons, none of that mattered. Blood letting was the only option.

How do we right wrongs? Jacob’s sons would answer – through a 10-fold revenge. Esau would answer – through a wrenching struggle to find a non-violent path. Perhaps we need to be a little bit more like Esau.