Weekly Letter from Rabbi
Emor
Dear friends
The recent wave of anti-Semitic attacks in London has shaken the sense of security that many had come to take for granted. Jewish neighbourhoods have been targeted not only through intimidation and abuse, but through acts of shocking violence. On the very same street where Wednesday’s stabbings took place, ambulances belonging to Hatzolo—the volunteer emergency service that has saved countless lives—were set ablaze.
The symbolism is deeply disturbing. It was not merely an attack on property, nor even solely on a community; it was an attack on those who come to heal, to rescue, to preserve life. When even ambulances become targets, hatred reveals its true nature: blind, indiscriminate, and utterly destructive.
And yet—remarkably—even within these dark moments, there have been flashes of light.
In his recent message following these events, the Chief Rabbi described how, on the streets of Golders Green, one could witness “a great Kiddush Hashem”:
“Not through grand gestures or carefully orchestrated displays, but through the spontaneous dignity, restraint, and kindness of ordinary people responding to extraordinary circumstances. This, he reminded us, is the essence of sanctifying G-d’s name: not staged heroism, but authentic goodness revealed under pressure.”
This contrast—between acts of hatred and acts of quiet moral strength—forces us to confront, once again, an enduring question: what is the nature of anti-Semitism, and can it ever truly be eradicated?
Albert Einstein wrote in 1920:
“Anti-Semitism as a psychological phenomenon will always be with us so long as Jews and non-Jews are thrown together. But where is the harm? It may be thanks to anti-Semitism that we are able to preserve our existence as a race; that at any rate is my belief.”
Within this brief statement, Einstein made three assumptions:
First, that anti-Semitism is an inevitable feature of human coexistence.
Second, that it is not particularly harmful.
Third, that it may even play a role in preserving Jewish identity.
History has delivered a devastating refutation of the second assumption. It did not take long for the world to learn—at an unbearable cost—that anti-Semitism is never harmless. The consequences of ignoring hatred are measured not in theory, but in tragedy.
But what of his first claim? Was he mistaken there as well?
For centuries, our ancestors accepted anti-Semitism as a given reality. Until the 18th century, there was little effort to challenge it. Then came two major attempts to resolve what was often called “the Jewish problem.”
The first was integration. In its various forms, it urged Jews to blend into surrounding societies—whether through cultural adaptation, religious reform, or even conversion. Ironically, many of these ideas originated in Germany, a country that would later demonstrate with brutal clarity the failure of such hopes.
Assimilation did not eradicate anti-Semitism; in some cases, it intensified it. The Nazi regime made no distinction between assimilated Jews and those visibly observant. As Sara Yoheved Rigler so poignantly wrote:
“Assimilation-as-antidote-to-anti-Semitism went up in the flames of the crematoria.”
The second attempt was Zionism. Its logic was compelling: Jews were hated because they were an anomaly—a nation without a land. Restore their sovereignty, and they would take their place among the nations.
Yet reality again proved more complex. While Zionism restored dignity and self-determination, it also gave rise to a new form of hostility. As late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks famously observed:
“The State of Israel has become the Jew among the nations.”
Thus, anti-Semitism adapts. It changes its language, its justifications, its outward form—but not its essence.
We are therefore left, perhaps reluctantly, agreeing with Einstein’s first observation: anti-Semitism appears to be a persistent feature of human society. But we utterly reject his second. It is not harmless. It is dangerous, corrosive, and, if ignored, catastrophic.
What, then, is the appropriate response?
Perhaps the answer lies in the example of the Netherlands. Much of the country lies below sea level. The Dutch know that the sea is not going away. Yet they do not abandon their land. Instead, they build and maintain dykes—constantly reinforcing them against the ever-present threat.
Their survival depends not on eliminating the sea, but on vigilance.
This reality is captured in the story of the Little Hero of Haarlem—a boy who noticed a leak in a dyke and held back the water with his finger through the night until help arrived. A small act, but one that prevented disaster.
We, too, must become like the Dutch.
We may not be able to eliminate anti-Semitism, but we can—and must—build strong defences against it. These defences are not only political or institutional; they are deeply personal.
Anti-Semitism thrives on stereotyping. It reduces individuals to symbols, and judges the whole by the actions of the few. This imposes a heavy responsibility: our behaviour does not remain our own—it is projected onto our people.
A single act of dishonesty or insensitivity can reinforce harmful stereotypes. But the reverse is equally true: a single act of integrity can elevate perception and inspire respect.
The Torah itself teaches us how behaviour of one person can badly reflect on his entire group. At the end of this week’s Torah portion, we read about a horrible incident of a man who publicly blasphemed G-d’s name. While the man himself remains anonymous, the Torah informs us that “his mother’s name was Shlomit, the daughter of Divri of the tribe of Dan”. Why do we need to know his mother’s name, his grandfather’s name and to which tribe he belonged? Says Rashi: “This tells that an evil person causes disgrace to himself, disgrace to his parents, and disgrace to his tribe”. Apparently, the Torah wanted to teach us how unforgiving the rules of stereotyping are; the entire tribe of Dan became compromised because of one person.
However, it is not all bad news for the tribe of Dan; we can turn the tendency to generalise to our advantage. We find in the Torah another example of mentioning a person’s family and tribe; Ahaliav son of Achisamach, of the tribe of Dan. In this case, says Rashi, the Torah speaks about one of the master builders of the Tabernacle, and the name of his father and tribe is stated here to give a credit to him, a credit to his father, a credit to his tribe. These two individuals, the blasphemer and the builder of the Tabernacle weren’t just individuals; they were representatives of the tribe of Dan. The public opinion about the tribe of Dan was formed by their actions; one brought disgrace to the entire tribe, the other brought honour.
One individual can bring either shame or glory.
And this brings us back to the Chief Rabbi’s observation. In Golders Green, at a time of fear and tension, people responded not with anger or despair, but with dignity and kindness. This was not merely good behaviour—it was a Kiddush Hashem: a sanctification of G-d’s name through the quiet nobility of human conduct.
As the Chief Rabbi has explained elsewhere, the greatest acts of Kiddush Hashem are often not planned at all, but emerge naturally—when people are “caught off guard” and reveal their true character.
This is our calling.
We are not only representatives of our people; we are, in a deeper sense, representatives of G-d Himself. Still, in this week’s portion, we find a direct commandment to sanctify and not desecrate G-d’s name: “You shall not desecrate My Holy Name… I shall be sanctified among the children of Israel.”
There is a very poignant passage in the Talmud, which explores the dynamics of desecrating or sanctifying G-d’s name through the mechanism of stereotyping:
“What is meant by Chillul Hashem, causing the desecration of G-d’s Name? Abaye explained: it says in the Torah, ‘Love G-d your Lord’. This means that you should cause the Name of Heaven to be beloved. That is to say, that if a person reads the scripture, studies the Mishnah and has received guidance from scholars, and his dealings with the world are proper and he is honest in business, and speaks gently to people, what do people then say of him? Fortunate is his father, who taught him Torah! Fortunate is his teacher, who has taught him Torah! Behold, one who has learned Torah, how beautiful are his ways, how just his deeds! About this person Scripture says, ‘You are My servant, Israel in whom I glory’ (Isaiah 49:3).
But if one has learned Torah and has received guidance from scholars, but is not honest in his dealings and speaks with people not gently, then what do people say about him? Woe to his father, who has taught him Torah! Woe to his teacher, who has instructed him in Torah! See the one who has learned Torah how corrupt his deeds are, how ugly his ways are.’ About such a person Scripture says, ‘They came to those nations, they desecrated My holy Name, in that it was said of them, ‘These are the people of G-d, yet they had to leave their land.’ (Ezekiel 36:20)”
Kiddush Hashem is achieved not only through grand sacrifice, but through daily integrity—honesty in business, kindness in speech, and dignity in conduct. As the Talmud teaches, when a person lives this way, others say: “How beautiful are his ways.”
In times like these—when hatred manifests itself in violence, even against those who save lives—the responsibility becomes all the more urgent.
We cannot control the tide. But we can strengthen the walls.
And when we see a breach—whether in society or within ourselves—we must be ready, like that Dutch boy, to act.
To stand firm.
To hold the line.
To respond to hatred not with despair, but with dignity.
Because ultimately, the most powerful answer to darkness is light.
May we merit to be among those who bring it.
Wishing you a wonderful Shabbat
Rabbi Shalom Kupperman
