As we move from Purim towards Pesach, the rest of this week’s Daily Kavanot will focus on 3 of the special Shabbatot that link these holidays. Some have already passed on the calendar, and some are yet to come.
Not even two weeks ago, I was in an Israeli synagogue for Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat that immediately precedes Purim each year. Shabbat Zachor literally means the Shabbat of Remembrance, but is actually named for the maftir, the additional reading for the day. This maftir retells the story of the battle the ancient Israelites fought against Amalek when they left Egypt and were traveling toward Mount Sinai, and we are commanded to remember Amalek.
Amalek is a nation, a nomadic tribe, who attacks the Israelites as they are wandering in the desert—allegedly soon after the exodus from Egypt. On the surface, nothing about this would be unusual enough to spark attention, much less define the Amalekites as the eternal enemy of the Israelites; our sacred text is full of war stories. It is, rather, the nature of the attack that gives our tradition pause. The Amalekites, we are told, attack from behind. Rather than engage with our warriors, with those trained and ready for battle, the Amalekites were instructed to attack our weakest travelers—the elderly, the infirm, maybe even the children.
Thousands of years later, then, an Israeli tween stood in front of his community—nervously offering words of Torah. He spoke of Amalek, of this eternal enemy—and the collective Israeli experience of the evil of October 7 and its aftermath. And, he could have stopped there. Not a single person in the room could not see the parallels—of attacking the most vulnerable: families at home, gathered to celebrate a holiday. Young adults preparing for a communal celebration. Holocaust survivors and elderly peace activists. The names and faces that mark every street corner and bus stop in all of Israel. No one in that room did not understand Amalek.
But that is not where he stopped, and his teaching was all the more powerful for it. He turned the lesson inward, to the community—and reminded us all of our responsibility to protect the most vulnerable amongst us. He spoke about bullying—about the many ways that we make people feel alone and unwelcome. He reminded us that if we, communally, leave people on the outskirts—we leave them open to attack. Rather than focus on communal tragedy, then, he focused on communal hope—on the possibility of thwarting Amalek, not by erasing him, but by loving one another.
On Passover, we state—we remind ourselves—that in every generation an enemy rises up to destroy us. Amalek to Haman, Hitler to Hamas—it is a fact of our history. But in every generation, we rise stronger. And in that strength, I hope, is a determination towards ahavat Yisrael—our love for and commitment to one another.
—Rabbi Sari Laufer