Summarized by Eitan Sivan. Translated by David Strauss
Introduction
In the verses read as the maftir of Parashat Beshalach, God instructs Moshe to produce a written record of Israel's war against Amalek in the wilderness:
And the Lord said to Moshe: Write this for a memorial in the book, and rehearse it in the ears of Yehoshua: for I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven. And Moshe built an altar, and called the name of it Adonai-Nisi. And he said: The hand upon the throne of the Lord: the Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation. (Shemot 17:14-16)
The record that Moshe is commanded to write was not intended to remind the generation of the wilderness of the events of the war – they would not forget them. The people of Israel left Egypt traumatized and gripped with existential fear; when they were saved from Pharaoh and his army, they were filled with hope and renewed confidence. But when Amalek attacked the stragglers at the edge of the camp, that same existential fear surged back, and they would never forget it. The written account that Moshe was commanded to record was meant to serve as a memorial for all future generations – about what Amalek did to Israel, and about the obligation to eradicate every member of Amalek.
At first glance, the very attempt to record an emotion that is supposed to accompany the nation for all generations seems inherently flawed. Consider, for example, the endless halakhic discussion regarding bar-mitzvas and bat-mitzvas that fall during the Omer period, and whether it is permissible to celebrate them with festive meals and music. The overwhelming tendency of the halakhic literature is toward leniency. On the other hand, I have never encountered a question about holding a party or celebrating a bar-mitzva on the eve of Yom Ha-Zikaron; it is self-evident to everyone that such celebration would be inappropriate.
The difference stems not only from the length of the mourning period, but from the depth of our identification with it. The events commemorated on Yom Ha-Zikaron are lived and felt daily. By contrast, the tragedies remembered during the Omer period – the death of Rabbi Akiva's disciples and the fall of Bar Kokhva's fighters – do not occupy the same place in our emotional consciousness. We may know intellectually that these things happened, but we do not feel personally bound to their memory.
Experiences and Consequences
A solution to this problem seems to emerge from the words of Yirmiyahu in the book of Eikha.
Chapters 1-4 of the book of Eikha revolve around the devastating events surrounding the destruction of Jerusalem, described from the perspective of someone who lived through them. This is especially true in chapter 3, which highlights the speaker's personal anguish and suffering:
I am the man that has seen affliction by the rod of His wrath. He has led me and caused me to walk in darkness and not in light. Surely against me He turns His hand again and again all the day. (Eikha 3:1-3)
It would appear that chapter 5 of Eikha points in a different direction. The literary style changes, the acrostic structure is no longer complete, and the emotions that the prophet conveys are no longer centered on the destruction itself or its horrors. Instead, they express a profound sense of alienation:
You, O Lord, are enthroned forever, Your throne is from generation to generation. Why do You forget us forever, and forsake us for so long a time? Turn You us to You, O Lord, and we shall be turned; renew our days as of old. You cannot have utterly rejected us, and be exceeding wroth against us! (Eikha 5:19-22)
The general experience that emerges from chapter 5 concerns not the events of the destruction themselves, but rather their long-term consequences – the prolonged exile that will endure for many years and the fear surrounding it. The contrast is so extreme that Rashi, in his comments on the book of Yirmiyahu, explains that we are dealing with two entirely different scrolls:
"Many words like those" – At first, there were three alphabetical acrostics: (Eikha, chap. 1) "O how... remained," (chap. 2) "How...brought darkness," (chap. 4) "How dim...has become." And he added to it, (chap. 3) "I am the man," in which every letter is tripled. (Rashi, Yirmiyahu 36:32)
Indeed, it seems that the book of Eikha contains two distinct currents: on the one hand, an effort to describe and remain connected to the events of the time, and on the other hand, a parallel effort to shape a collective ethos for the distant future.
Remembrance and Narrative
A well-known analytical discussion from the Brisker school addresses the distinction between retelling the story of the exodus from Egypt and remembering the exodus from Egypt. We recall the exodus every day in the third section of the Shema, the passage concerning the mitzva of tzitzit, and this constitutes a perpetual positive commandment – "that you may remember the day when you came forth out of the land of Egypt all the days of your life" (Devarim 16:3). But there is also a separate commandment to recount the story of the exodus, performed once a year on the night of the Seder. The difference between the perpetual mitzva and the one focused on a single night is understood as the difference between remembrance and narrative.
On the night of the Seder, a person must try to imagine himself as having been taken out of the slavery of Egypt. As the Rambam writes:
In each and every generation, a person must present himself as if he, himself, has now left the slavery of Egypt, as it is stated (Devarim 6:23): "He took us out from there." Regarding this manner, God commanded in the Torah: "Remember that you were a slave" (Devarim 5:15) – i.e., as if you, yourself, were a slave and went out to freedom and were redeemed. (Rambam, Hilkhot Chametz u-Matza 7:6)
A person must be able to imagine that he is going back in time and experiencing both the suffering and the salvation that every member of Israel felt at the time. Through his own experiences and emotions, he expresses gratitude to God for the act of redemption performed for the nation of Israel. Many of the laws and customs of the Seder emphasize the experiential and participatory dimension for precisely this reason – on the night of the Seder, we must experience for ourselves the events of exile and redemption.
On the other hand, the daily obligation to remember the exodus from Egypt focuses on intellectual awareness rather than lived experience. We are to remember and understand the enduring impact of the exodus across the generations: the privilege of being God's children and servants, the giving of the Torah, and the like.
So too with regard to remembering the war against Amalek, both in the days of Moshe and in the days of Mordekhai and Esther, we must distinguish between two components: remembrance and experience. One must experience the existential fear that gripped the people of Israel following the royal decree calling for the destruction of every Jew. This experience has only intensified in recent generations in light of the horrors of the Holocaust. Each person can sense that there are forces in the world that seek the destruction and annihilation of the entire Jewish people. This recollection of the experience becomes part of the commandment associated with the war against Amalek:
Remember what Amalek did to you by the way as you came forth out of Egypt. (Devarim 25:17)
In addition, one must consider the impact that these processes have had on the people and the long-term significance of that experience. Just as a person regards himself as the brother of a Jew living in another city, country, and even continent, so too he must relate to a Jew living in another era. The death of any Jew is an entire life brought to an end and a lineage cut short. The commandment of remembrance adds yet an additional layer to this obligation:
The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation. (Shemot 17:16)
The way these forms of remembrance are actually carried out is also reflected in Moshe's words to Yehoshua. It seems that there are two means by which an event once experienced by the nation can continue to resonate within it for all time:
First, there is the story and the experience that will be passed down through the generations about the war waged against the people of Israel, transmitted from mouth to ear, from father to son: "Rehearse it in the ears of Yehoshua."
At the same time, there is a need for documentation – a detailed record of the war against Amalek and its ramifications for all generations, an objective account of the event and its consequences: "Write this for a memorial in the book."
During the reading of the Zakhor passage, we must focus our attention on remembering the terror experienced by the people of Israel when Amalek sought, time and again, to destroy them. The miracle and salvation experienced by the nation in those moments should continue to resonate within every person today. At the same time, we must also remember the profound impact that the decree has had on the Jewish people across the generations.
Summation
The trauma that befell the Jewish people in the previous century – the Holocaust – presents a similar challenge: how to ensure that its memory continues to echo through the ages. Today, the Holocaust remains vivid in our collective consciousness, largely because survivors still live among us. Yet, it is only a matter of time before no survivors remain, and we must find a way to preserve the legacy of the Holocaust for future generations.
Extensive documentation has been produced in the aftermath of the Holocaust, examining its consequences and enduring influence. But there remains a vital need to cultivate a shared memory and narrative – one that is passed down from person to person, so that the horrors of the Holocaust remain an experience that every member of the nation carries with them, remaining ever-present in our awareness.
[This sicha was delivered by Harav Mosheh Lichtenstein on Shabbat Parashat Tetzaveh – Parashat Zakhor 5783 (March 2023).]
Edited by Yair Lichtman
