Lech L’chah 8 Cheshvan 5768 / October 20, 2007

Shmuel Kaplan lived in Kazakhstan, where for 35 years, despite having lost his right leg and severely injuring his left in a train accident when he was 18, taught math for 35 years. Life was not easy for him as a Jew. After retiring, he moved to live in Russia. Again, his Jewish identity was an issue: once, for example, two boys pushed this man who walks with a crutch into the snow and fled, mocking the Zhid. Finally in 1997 he came to this country. At the age of 70 he began to learn English. Though still far from mastering it, he took his citizenship test in English and got a perfect score. Recently he was sworn in as a new citizen of this country at the age of 80.

Kaplan’s story is one that has been replicated many times over. Though it is far from unique; we continue to be impressed by the efforts people have made to become citizens of this country and the journeys they took before they got here.

I think of this immigration story as I contemplate the beginning of this week’s Torah portion. At the age of 75 with a wife 10 years his junior, Abraham becomes a new immigrant. Does he have to learn a new language? The text doesn’t say. It doesn’t say anything about how Abraham communicated, be it in Canaan or in Egypt;, seemingly flawlessly. With the exception of a passage one or two—most notably one in Second Kings wherein a representative of the Assyrian king besieging Jerusalem is asked to speak in Aramaic rather than in Hebrew, because presumably few of the locals knew the lingua-franca of the Assyrian world--the Bible seems to operate as though Star Trek’s universal translator was readily available. But we have to assume that there were linguistic issues, whether in Egypt or in Canaan, though the latter was also a Semitic tongue as was the language of Mesopotamia, where Abraham was born. However, just because languages are cousins doesn’t mean communication is easy, as anyone who learned French in high school and discovers that it is insufficient to communicate in Spanish. Did Abraham read and write? In cuneiform? In proto-Canaanite? Did he master hieroglyphics while in Egypt? Was he accepted? Or was the fact that he lived on the edge of communities an indication that he didn’t quickly assimilate?

The transition to a new land, detached from familiar culture, language and family must’ve been difficult. When Abraham is identified in chapter 14—we didn’t get there this year--, a chapter in which Abraham the warrior shows up, he is identified as Avram HaIvri, Abram the Hebrew. What does it mean to be identified as HaIvri? The text we read in the haggadah from the book of Joshua suggests that it is a geographic designation: MaAyver HaNahar, from across the River; the River referring to the Euphrates. I have long been intrigued, however, by the rabbinic interpretation: “Kol HaOlam Kulo Mayayverer Ehchad V’hu Mayaver echad: all the world stood on one side; and he was on the other.” In other words, Abraham early on carved out a very independent religious path for himself.

Both definitions help us understand the status of immigrants. They are people from some other place. They bring with them memories of other lands and cultures. Further, depending on where they come from and where they end up, they can indeed find themselves isolated: in the midst of people but alone.

As Jews we watch with some degree of detachment the debates raging about what to do with immigration. We have but a little interest because the impact of immigration reform is slight upon our community—with the exception of those trying to come here from the former Soviet Union--. Should we demand fences and repatriation? Do we uphold the law because even this nation can’t allow for unlimited immigration? Do we recognize that a society can not be built on solid foundations if the law is allowed to be constantly flouted? Or do we have compassion for those who’ve made their way here to find jobs? Do we remember that some of our ancestors may have skipped across porous borders to make their way here, decades ago? Does our sense of otherness offer us compassion? Does it matter where they come from? If we adopt an attitude of “yes to educated Europeans, and perhaps educated and/or entrepreneurial Asians,” are we any better than those who framed the restrictive immigration laws of the 20’s? Frankly there are no easy answers in this debate which encompasses not only the issue of illegal immigrants and what to do with them, but also deals with the broader issue of immigration and the nature of this country.

Two years ago, almost to the day, a broad band of religious organizations including the Women’s League adopted a statement in support of comprehensive immigration reform. The statement bases itself on such texts as Leviticus 19:33-34, ‘The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you, and you shall love them as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” It advocates suitable legislation to offer opportunities for immigrants “to come out of the shadows, regularize their status upon satisfaction of reasonable criteria, and over time, purse an option to become lawful permanent residents and eventually United States citizens.” It also advocates reduced waiting time for family reunification and border protection policies consistent with humanitarian values. Does this resonate with us or we should punish the illegal immigrants because they are illegal?

We are descendants of Avram HaIvri, Abraham the Hebrew, the man from the other side of the river, the one who stood on the other side from the rest of his contemporaries. What kind of Irvi are we? On what side of the river do we stand? With those seeking a home here or those seeking to send them back? Some hard choices for us to ponder now and in the future.

Shabbat shalom.