The Korach insurrection about which we read this week arose from simmering unrest centered in the southern flank of the Jewish desert encampment. The Levite family of Kehat—Korach’s family—resided to the south and this area became “ground zero” for the political discontent. This disgruntlement traveled quickly and polluted the tribe of Reuven who also dwelt to the south. Many, if not most, of the 250 political leaders who aligned themselves with this rebellion hailed from the tribe of Reuven. From this perspective the Korach tragedy highlights the impact of “peer pressure” at a communal level. Toxic neighbors can yield deadly results. Chazal referred to this condition as “Oy l’rasha oy l’sh’cheino” bemoaning the negative influence of objectionable neighbors. In a more sweeping fashion, the Mishnah in Avot warns: “Al titchaber larasha” (literally: don’t consort with sinful partners), broadening the warning not just regarding actual neighbors but to any affiliates.
Throughout our history these adages and phrases served as guidelines for the communities we have assembled. At a personal level we instinctively appreciate the value of living in neighborhoods that reflect our morals and lifestyles. Sadly, choices were often curtailed by restrictive policies preventing Jews from freely selecting the locations of their residences and communities.
Fortunately, the modern era of Enlightenment offered Jews unlimited residential opportunities but also brought new challenges. The modern era of secularization reformulated the age-old challenge of distancing ourselves from a particular undesirable person. In our modern condition we face a very different specter: How to protect ourselves and our communities from the barrage of modern culture that often is discrepant with our own religious values. The peril is no longer limited to a particular “rasha” but to an overwhelming and often alien cultural force. That many are able to integrate profound values from our culture only complicates the task: How to create “protected” cultural encounters that will both enable religious enrichment but not accelerate religious erosion.
The post World War II era has definitely witnessed several attempts at stark insularity for the sake of religious preservation: Rav Aharon Kotler specifically chose a remote farmland named Lakewood to erect his “American yeshiva.” Fearful of the cultural influences of metropolitan New York he geographically distanced his nascent yeshiva from the urban influences. The chasidic world—which was launched in the 18th century as an embracing movement meant to incorporate broad-spectrum communities—has in many cases retreated into more insular societies meant to barricade against the encroachment of modern culture. One notable exception is Chabad chasidut, whose very ambitious agenda of kiruv has often created more integrated settings.
Despite the variances between insularity and embracement, the crux of this issue has always remained similar: in the face of potentially destructive influences, how to create what some would see as a fortress and others as a filter. Essentially, every community must build a wall; the only question is the height of the wall and how many windows are embedded.
Life in Israel dramatically alters the root of this question. In a family, foreign values can’t be ignored or barriered. If we aim to live in Israel as one family we must live side-by-side both physically and experientially. In foreign settings we can reduce our overall approach to an “Us vs. Them” equation. Without vilifying the “them” in the equation we realize that alongside important shared values there exist significant disparities. In Israel there is no “them“—we are attempting to build an inclusive family, and at the core of family life is the notion of shared experiences. Whatever potentially damaging values pervade general Israeli society are clearly our responsibility and can’t be simply dismissed as belonging to “them.”
The past 50 years have brought mixed results in this newly minted equation. So many of us have been galvanized by the settlement of the entire land—in particular the biblical corridor of Judea and Samaria that was liberated in 1967. Without question, the return to these lands has reinforced our conviction that our return to Israel is prophetically driven. Yet, these achievements have carried a heavy price: our settlements (such as the one I reside in, Alon Shvut) have become narrow religious cantons that in most cases (with some notable exceptions) have attracted exclusively religious populations. The repercussions of this insularity have been suffered by both communities: the secular community hasn’t benefited from exposure to Religious Zionists. Additionally, some in the National Religious community—who haven’t experienced sustained contact with the “other”—have veered toward positions of dismissiveness and disinterest in “secular Israel.” Additionally, as is true with any insular model, the protective shell sometimes creates grave long-term vulnerability. Severing people from today’s mass culture can oftentimes boomerang when that cultural exposure inevitably creeps in through the cracks of an unsealable environment.
In Israel, over the past 30 years a counter-movement has evolved—driven by a greater awareness that the national family experience challenges classic models of communal barriers. Firstly, army life has provided an outstanding opportunity to showcase religion to the broader public. Army culture is necessarily founded upon equality between soldiers who must all be treated equally. This baseline of equality has often created softer and more successful channels to communicate religious values. Outside of army life, secular Israelis sometimes recoil at religion and the manner in which it is perceived as invasive, oppressive and undemocratic. Within the intimate and egalitarian precincts of army experience, less politicized messages about religion often seep through.
Furthermore, a project known as Garin Torani has dramatically revised the demography of Israel. Through the initial decades of the State of Israel, religious people gradually clustered into predominantly religious cities such as Yerushalayim, Rechovot and Petach Tikva. Major cities such as Haifa and Tel Aviv spiraled toward more secular conditions. More significantly, development towns on the northern and southern peripheries were not inhabited by large religious forces. It became apparent that it was insufficient to settle the land if we were not equally capable of “settling the hearts” of our extended family (a phrase widely attributed to Rav Yoel bin-Nun, a well-known Israeli Bible scholar). Gradually, groups of young religious families jointly relocated to otherwise religiously limited cities to form religious cornerstones. Arguably, the first successful experiment occurred in 1968 when Rav Tzephania Derori relocated from Mercaz Harav Yeshiva in Jerusalem to Kiryat Shemona in the north—ultimately accompanied by groups of religious families. This movement gathered momentum in the ‘80s and ‘90s as many of the southern development towns were settled and dramatically altered by the entrance of these core groups of religious families. In many instances, the insertion of a yeshiva into these locales boosted the process by providing an actual core of Torah study. Essentially, the Lakewood model of “distance” was complemented by a very different model better equipped to influence our entire nation—a nation colloquially referred to as “amcha, our [common] nation.”
Life in Israel has created a very different perspective upon whom we “neighbor” with. As we aim to sense “family,” we don’t only seek to spread our own religious values. In addition, we aim to live side by side, quietly role-modeling our own lifestyles while appreciating the values we might borrow from the other members of our family. Oftentimes, traditional Jews in Israel excel at hospitality, family values and honoring parents in ways that we have much to learn from. Family life creates a more bilateral sense of shared experience. Walls that always provided shelter to our values have now become potential barriers to family life. Life in Israel demands a much more measured decision about whom we choose as neighbors.
By Moshe Taragin
Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rebbe at Yeshivat Har Etzion located in Gush Etzion, where he resides.
