Not All Strangers Were Cruel: The Forgotten Kindnesses of Exile

On Tisha B’Av, we lament the destruction of the two Temples. In our Kinnot, we also recall other tragedies that befell us over the generations: the destruction of Jewish communities in Mi Yiten Roshi Mayim and Evel A’orer; the burning of the Talmud in Sha’ali Serufah Ba’Esh; the expulsion from Spain in Borei Ad Anah; and more.

In all these Kinnot, we note the active role played by non-Jews in the calamities. None describes a natural disaster. In each case, we are conscious first and foremost of our own responsibility for Hashem’s just decree, yet at the same time we remember the cruel nations that eagerly carried it out.

Thus, for example, Esh Tukad Bekirbi mentions Nebuchadnezzar, who destroyed the First Temple; Zechor Asher Asah Tzar Bifnim refers to Titus, the Roman commander associated with the destruction of the Second Temple. Sha’ali Serufah Ba’Esh asks why, when the sacred books were burned, “the strangers were not themselves scorched by your coals,” while Borei Ad Anah speaks of “cruel strangers.”

There is great importance in remembering that the Jewish people, like every nation, constantly face danger from enemies who are quick to exploit weakness, conquer, and wreak destruction. This memory warns us not to depart from the path of Torah. We recall that abandoning Hashem’s commandments leads to dependence on foreign powers, and that in such a state of dependence we become vulnerable, our lives hanging in the balance.

It is also important to remember the many occasions on which the Jewish people found favor in the eyes of rulers and nations, who treated us kindly out of affection for Israel.

Yet it is also important to remember the many occasions on which the Jewish people found favor in the eyes of rulers and nations, who treated us kindly out of affection for Israel. Reciting the Kinnot of Tisha B’Av undoubtedly fulfills a mitzvah. The Torah commands us, “Remember the days of old” (Devarim 32:7), which Rashi explains as a call to remember what Hashem did to earlier generations who provoked Him. But gratitude toward others is also a religious duty. In explaining the basis of the commandment to honor one’s parents, the Sefer HaChinuch writes that “it is fitting for a person to recognize and repay kindness to one who has done him good, and not to be base, estranged, and ungrateful.”

Naturally, we tend to be less aware of these kindnesses. The Jewish calendar contains no special date on which to rehearse them. Precisely for that reason, it seems appropriate to devote a few lines to the reasons and circumstances that oblige us to feel gratitude toward the nations of the world.

 

Kindnesses Parallel to Calamities

It is striking to discover examples of favor shown to the Jewish people that correspond almost exactly to many of the tragedies recalled in our Kinnot.

Building the Temple, Against Its Destruction

Non-Jews destroyed both Temples, but non-Jews also made essential contributions to their construction.

The Book of Kings relates that Hiram, king of Tyre, “rejoiced greatly” when he heard of King Solomon’s plan to build a house for Hashem. Hiram hastened to provide Solomon with the assistance he needed, supplying not only raw materials but also skilled craftsmen.

The construction of the Second Temple in the days of Ezra and Nechemiah was initiated and financed by Cyrus, king of Persia, who, on account of his role, is even called Hashem’s “anointed one.” The most magnificent version of the Temple was built by Herod, and much of its splendor derived from the monumental architectural style of the Roman world.

This does not blur the distinction between building and destruction, and certainly does not place Herod alongside King Solomon or Ezra the Scribe. It does, however, remind us that even the story of the Temple itself includes more than enemies and oppressors. It also contains foreign rulers who, in their own way and sometimes for their own purposes, contributed to its construction and grandeur.

Welcome, Against Expulsion

Many Kinnot mourn the exile imposed by Nebuchadnezzar. That exile ended when Cyrus, king of Persia, encouraged the Jews of his realm to return to Eretz Yisrael and rebuild the House of Hashem:

“Whoever there is among you of all His people, may his God be with him, and let him go up to Jerusalem in Judah and build the House of Hashem, God of Israel—He is the God who is in Jerusalem” (Ezra 1:3).

In 1492, on Tisha B’Av, the Jews were expelled from Spain. When Sultan Bayezid II, ruler of the Ottoman Empire, heard of the displacement of the Jews of the Iberian Peninsula, he did more than express a willingness to grant them political refuge. According to the commonly accepted historical tradition, he even sent ships to bring Jews into his realm. The Ottoman Empire consequently became one of the principal centers of Sephardic Jewish life after the expulsion.

When Sultan Bayezid II, ruler of the Ottoman Empire, heard of the displacement of the Jews of the Iberian Peninsula, he did more than express a willingness to grant them political refuge. According to the commonly accepted historical tradition, he even sent ships to bring Jews into his realm. The Ottoman Empire consequently became one of the principal centers of Sephardic Jewish life after the expulsion.

The return from the long exile that followed the destruction of the Second Temple also owes much to non-Jews. The first people to formulate a practical plan for establishing a Jewish nation-state in Eretz Yisrael, as a solution to the plight of European Jewry and a means of restoring the Jewish people’s lost dignity, were European Christians. Prominent Christian public figures supported the idea, each from within his own world of belief and interest.

American president John Adams expressed the hope that the Jews would once again become “an independent nation” in Judea, a hope intertwined with his Christian religious expectations. The British statesman Lord Shaftesbury, one of the central figures in evangelical Christian support for the return of the Jews to Eretz Yisrael, was already promoting public activity on the issue in 1840. He sought to mobilize both the British government and Protestant public opinion in favor of Jewish restoration. Many Christian public figures supported and assisted, directly and indirectly, the process that ultimately led to the establishment of the State of Israel.

Building Communities, Against Their Destruction

Several Kinnot mourn the destruction of Mainz and its sister communities. But how did Jews first come to this region?

In his commentary on the Siddur, the Rokeach recounts the story. In the eighth century, Charlemagne, founder of the Holy Roman Empire, was staying in Lombardy, Italy, where he encountered several rabbis who happened to be present. Charlemagne was eager to settle Jews in his kingdom and urged these Jewish leaders to bring families to the Rhine Valley.

The Rokeach writes:

“Rabbi Meshullam son of Rabbi Kalonymus son of Rabbi Yehudah was the first to leave Lombardy, together with his sons Rabbi Kalonymus and Rabbi Yekutiel, his relative Rabbi Itiel, and other distinguished men. King Charles brought them with him from Lombardy and settled them in Mainz. There they were fruitful and multiplied exceedingly, until His wrath visited the holy communities in the year 4856.”

In the massacres of 1096, these communities were almost entirely destroyed. Yet by then the Jews of the Rhine Valley had grown to number tens of thousands, and Torah and communal life had spread from them throughout large parts of Ashkenaz.

Printing the Talmud, Against Burning the Talmud

Alongside the burning of the Talmud, we should remember that the printing of sacred Jewish books also owes much to non-Jews.

Daniel Bomberg, a Christian printer in Venice, was among the most important printers of Hebrew books in the early age of printing. He published the Mikraot Gedolot and the first complete editions of both the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmuds, employing Torah scholars, proofreaders, and experts in Hebrew. Bomberg invested greatly in the beauty and accuracy of the books he printed.

This does not erase the burning of the Talmud, nor does it sweeten its pain. But it reminds us that the history of Israel among the nations is not made of a single line. Non-Jews led the destruction, but they also played leading roles in building. They carried out expulsions, but they also initiated acts of welcome. Non-Jews burned sacred books, but they also labored to print them, disseminate them, and make them accessible to future generations.

 

Kindness Within the Bounds of Exile

Even among nations that harmed us, the harm does not erase the good they did.

The Egyptians enslaved and persecuted us and sought to slaughter us, yet the Torah commands: “You shall not despise an Egyptian, because you were a stranger in his land” (Devarim 23:8). Rashi explains that we may not despise them entirely, “even though they cast your male children into the Nile,” because “they hosted you in a time of distress.”

To a certain degree, this is also true of Christian Europe, and particularly Eastern Europe. A folk legend interprets the name “Polin,” Poland, as a heavenly voice addressing Jews wandering through the world: Po lin—“Here, lodge for the night.” The legend expresses a profound historical truth. Lands that were sometimes sources of danger, humiliation, and persecution were also places of refuge, construction, and growth.

Moreover, things we experienced as harmful sometimes also became instruments of kindness.

Christianity and Islam were each based, in their own way, on the Torah of Israel, while claiming to supersede or render it unnecessary. As a result, they viewed Jews, on the one hand, as protected subjects who could not be exterminated or stripped of every right, and on the other hand, as spiritual rivals who had to be maintained in an inferior position.

One result of this combination was the institutional humiliation of Torah observance and study, a grievous affront to the honor of Torah. Yet the same combination—a broad spiritual common denominator, protected status, and enforced separation—also enabled us to preserve our identity.

It was specifically in these lands that the great Jewish communities arose. A century ago, almost all the Jews of the world lived in Christian or Muslim countries, even though those countries did not contain most of the world’s population. There were many attempts to establish Jewish communities elsewhere, but none flourished to the same extent.

Abarbanel makes this point in his commentary to Parashat Va’etchanan. Had we been exiled “among the accursed nations of old, who worshiped all the host of heaven, who had never heard of the divine Torah and had not seen its honor,” the Torah would necessarily have been forgotten “in a short time.” Hashem therefore had mercy upon us and “exiled us among the nations that uphold” the Torah.

This is a profound and surprising idea. Exile is a punishment, and it was often bitter and harsh. Yet within the punishment itself there was kindness. We found nations that felt a religious obligation to provide the Jewish people in particular with a measure of secure refuge, because of a broad, though certainly partial, spiritual commonality. It was to these nations that the Jewish people gravitated.

 

Was Our Honor Ever Great Among the Nations?

In Tachanun, we lament that “our honor is low among the nations.” As already noted, in Christian and Muslim countries this low status was often institutionalized. Even so, we should not exaggerate the extent to which Jewish honor was always trampled.

The Talmuds show that Jewish sages sometimes enjoyed friendly relations with the very highest levels of society.

In the Roman context, Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi had an extraordinary friendship with Antoninus. Rabbi Abbahu is described as highly esteemed in the emperor’s court. We find Torah discussions between Rabbi Akiva and Turnus Rufus, and numerous stories of Roman matrons who displayed special affection for the sages.

In Babylonia, the Amora Shmuel had close relations with “Shapur the King,” Shapur I, while the king’s mother, Ifra Hormizd, showed great concern for the welfare of her Jewish subjects.

In the periods of the Rishonim and Acharonim as well, Jews maintained relationships of friendship and trust with kings, counts, and rulers. Rabbi Shmuel HaNagid was commander-in-chief of the army and later prime minister of Granada. Rambam served as the personal physician of the sultan of Egypt. Abarbanel was finance minister in Spain. The Chavot Yair records in his responsa that Duke Charles Louis would sometimes “delight in discussing intellectual matters with my aforementioned brother-in-law.”

Even stories about harsh decrees sometimes attest to the standing of the Jewish leadership.

Masechet Rosh Hashanah relates that when a decree was issued against Torah study, the sages “went and took counsel from a certain matron in whose house all the Roman dignitaries were present.” In other words, these sages were well connected at the highest levels of Roman leadership.

The woman advised them: “Go and demonstrate at night.” They did so, declaring: “Are we not your brothers? Are we not the children of one father? Are we not the children of one mother?” Following this moving human appeal, the decree was annulled.

Such an appeal could be effective only when made by a group that possessed a certain degree of recognized status, at least in principle. Other sources likewise describe distinguished delegations of sages approaching the authorities. The fact that these delegations were received and granted a hearing also reflects the position of the Jewish community within the empire.

Life in exile was undoubtedly filled with hardship. But those hardships must be understood in their proper measure and context.

From our literature—the accounts of daily life among the Tannaim and Amoraim, Hasidic stories, and the social world reflected in the responsa—it appears that Jews generally lived in conditions of relative peace and prosperity, by the standards of their eras.

Relations with non-Jewish neighbors were tense, and at times dangerous, but most of the time they were functional. Most Jews did not personally experience expulsion, pogrom, or the burning of sacred books during their lifetimes. In certain respects Jews even enjoyed privileges, such as exemption from conscription into the bloody wars waged by the states and principalities in which they lived, and sometimes economic privileges, such as the arenda leaseholding system common in Eastern Europe.

This is not an attempt to paint exile in rosy colors. It is an attempt to restore its complexity.

Exile was bitter, but it was not always made entirely of bitterness. It contained hatred, but also affection. It contained humiliation, but also honor. It contained decrees, but also protection. It contained destruction, but also building.

 

Conditional Love

We may assume that in most cases, the closeness these figures showed toward Jews was motivated by self-interest. Of such love, the Sages said: “Love that depends on a cause—when the cause disappears, the love disappears” (Avot 5:16).

Yet there is no need to conclude that such love is unreal. It is real, but conditional; genuine, but temporary.

It should also be added that in many cases hostility toward Jews was itself dependent on circumstance. Jews were often economic, political, and spiritual rivals. Many people had an interest in harming them even without experiencing any special hatred. Not every act of kindness arose from pure love, and not every act of harm arose from pure hatred.

Even self-interested kindness deserves a measure of gratitude. Many halachic authorities hold that a diner should recite the guest’s blessing for his host in Birkat HaMazon even when eating in a restaurant. It is true that the proprietor was paid. Nevertheless, he exerted himself and provided the meal. The benefit is not erased merely because it also served an interest.

The Jewish calendar has no day devoted to expressing gratitude toward non-Jews for the friendship they have shown us. On Tisha B’Av, we remember how the nations slaughtered us; on Purim, we remember how we took vengeance upon them. Yet the absence of a special date for gratitude does not mean that gratitude is unimportant.

One might even say the opposite. The remembrance of hostility is limited and bounded. At the end of Tisha B’Av, we put away the books of Kinnot and express the hope that next year they will no longer be needed.

I am not proposing the creation of another date in the Jewish calendar. I do propose, however, that we devote a few moments to contemplating those peoples and rulers who received us graciously, extended a hand to us, and helped us—sometimes knowingly and sometimes unknowingly, sometimes out of affection and sometimes out of self-interest—to continue living lives of Torah and mitzvot throughout the generations.

A well-known Hasidic teaching notes that the very wording, “When Av enters, we diminish joy,” implies that the Jew’s default condition is one of joy: joy in a life of Torah and mitzvot, joy in the kindnesses of Hashem, and joy also in the people and circumstances that have helped us build and strengthen ourselves.

I am not proposing the creation of another date in the Jewish calendar. I do propose, however, that we devote a few moments to contemplating those peoples and rulers who received us graciously, extended a hand to us, and helped us—sometimes knowingly and sometimes unknowingly, sometimes out of affection and sometimes out of self-interest—to continue living lives of Torah and mitzvot throughout the generations.

The purpose is not to diminish our lamentation, but to refine it; not to forget the cruelty, but to ensure that we do not become ungrateful.

Exile was not good, and we must beware of romanticizing it. Yet we should recognize that even within exile, the hand of Hashem never ceased to arrange acts of kindness for us—sometimes specifically through the nations of the world.