Peace in Israel and Peace for the World

Ending the Palestinian-Israeli conflict only stands a chance of success if compassion triumphs within the hearts of both parties over the self-preserving soul. The nefesh—the lowest of the five soul levels—is most tightly bound to our physical form, and it is precisely this body that suffers most severely in this material world. Yet, in its deepest essence, this world is not merely material; that we perceive it as such stems from our limited insight into our relationship with the supernatural. If we were truly to see how Hashem (God) created the cosmos, and if we understood the cosmic struggle to redeem the earth—which is but a fragment of it—our judgment of the Jewish people would change profoundly.

Unlike other great world powers, the Jewish people have never attempted to conquer the world through the sword. Consider Esau-Rome, which claimed Europe and the rest of the world; Ishmael, whose influence stretched from North Africa and the Middle East all the way to Indonesia and the Philippines; The core of Israel desired to redeem the world precisely by gifting the Torah to all of humanity—not through violence, but through word and prayer. Even during the Roman occupation, they prayed for the prosperity and blessing of the Roman Emperor. The great uprisings of the years 66–70 (in which Jerusalem was destroyed) and the Bar Kokhba revolt (132–135) were neither initiated nor supported by the Pharisaic factions. The Zohar describes in multiple places that every Shabbat concluded with a blessing for the world. And to this day, a prayer for the House of Orange still echoes in Dutch synagogues.

Since Genesis 6, where it is written that the earth before the flood was filled with violence, the bloodshed has never ceased. All across the earth, dominant nations fought for hegemony and expansion. They refused to remain within the borders originally assigned to them by Hashem—as Deuteronomy 32:8 beautifully depicts: “When the Most High gave the nations their inheritance (…) He set the boundaries of the peoples according to the number of the sons of Israel”—but sought instead to continuously expand their culture and territory into neighboring lands.

In the depths, these kings and rulers were guided by their princely angels, the Sarim. When Constantine the Great fought against Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge on October 28, 312 CE, he received a heavenly vision. According to Christian tradition, he saw a cross with the words: “In this sign you shall conquer.” However, the theologian Dr. Frank de Graaff offers a deeper interpretation: it was more likely the princely angel of the West, the Occident, appearing to him. Genghis Khan, too, received a similar vision impelling him to conquer the world.

Among many nations, military combat and dominion over others were—and still are—glorified. In the 1930s, the British Empire proudly celebrated Empire Day alongside its colonies. Look at the Vikings, who profoundly shaped the warfare methods of England (the Danelaw), Normandy, Sicily, Constantinople, and early Russia (founded by Rurik, a Varangian or Rus). Some Viking warriors fought bare-chested as a supreme defiance of death, often intoxicated by mind-altering substances—a method not foreign to German and Russian soldiers in World War II either. In the Edda, the ancient Norse heroic sagas, the lay of Vafthrudnir (verse 41) tells us that Odin’s fallen warriors, the Einherjar, battle every day in the courtyard. They hew each other to pieces, ride away from the battlefield, and then sit together amicably once more to drink mead.

This specific urge for combat is entirely alien to Israel, especially from the second century onward, when the Talmudic tradition definitively took shape. Heroes are honored, yet there is always an overriding grief for the fallen. In Israel, life is celebrated; every single life is precious. The mass sacrifice of soldiers in so-called meatwaves—a tactic some nations blindly deploy just to secure a victory—is completely foreign to her soul.

Over the past decade, we have increasingly heard the testimonies of German soldiers who during the war, but certainly after it, suffered profound mental trauma because of what they were forced to do in the name of Hitler and the Nazis. They were by no means all born monsters. To be forced to kill ‘the other’—with whom one once shared a loving relationship in paradise—is excruciating for the deeper consciousness. Sooner or later, this takes its toll on the level of the nefesh.

This is the great tragedy of the earth: Samael and the seventy other Sarim wage a ceaseless battle in the lower heavenly realms for hegemony, power, and the influence of the cultures Hashem entrusted to them. It is for this reason that Hashem places no absolute trust in them (Job 15:15) and calls them to account in Psalm 82.

It is now the task and sacred mission of Israel not to fall into the destructive warfare methods of Samael and the Sarim, and particularly those of Esau-Rome. Modern technology was primarily developed within European culture—the ancient Greeks already understood the principles of the steam engine and the turbine motor, but they chose not to develop them out of fear of the wrath of their gods, and due to the practical dilemma of what to do with all the slaves who would then become redundant. The Islamic world likewise studied this knowledge but did not develop it further. They did, however, pass this science on to European scholars via medieval Spain—where a unique interaction and concentration existed between Islamic, Jewish, and Christian thinkers, philosophers, theologians, and Talmudic sages.

Today, purely out of necessity, Israel is intertwined with both the blessing and the curse of modern technology. It saves and it destroys. There is momentary astonishment at the breathtaking military capabilities, as well as the comfort and ease in daily life; the grueling toil on the land is, according to many, thankfully no longer required. On the flip side, technology breeds loneliness and godlessness. The whole of humanity, including Judaism, has become addicted to its benefits. Technology makes life abstract. The enemy is no longer looked in the eye but frequently becomes a casualty killed from a distance via a screen. The raw human interaction that soldiers in the ancient world experienced is under immense pressure. And with it, compassion is severely restricted.

Cultures that lose sight of compassion ultimately perish—and this applies to every individual. Compassion and mercy can only blossom fully in the moment of encountering the other. The more deeply a human being is initiated into the mystery of life and the entire cosmos, the more impossible it becomes for that person to become a murderer; the highest levels of the soul simply prevent it. But when the lowest soul level, in its drive for survival, loses its connection to the higher soul levels, a great danger arises: Hashem withdraws from that person’s world of experience. The moral compass, which is connected to the spirit (ruach), can no longer correct the soul (nefesh). The soul becomes more and more of a predator. Compassion gives way to brutal self-preservation, and the soul must then numb itself to endure it—just like the German camp guards who got dead drunk almost every night to escape their own terrible fate.

There is a wondrous, mystical story found in Jonathan Littell’s book The Kindly Ones (Les Bienveillantes, pages 279-286). In the chapter Allemandes, we hear the story of an old Mountain Jew, Nahum ben Ibrahim, at least 120 years old, who comes to the Germans of his own accord with the bizarre request to die and be buried on top of the nearby mountain. He tells Hauptsturmführer Max Aue, the central figure of the book, that he still remembers everything from his time in his mother’s womb because the angel had failed to tap him on the upper lip after his birth. Because the angel revealed this to him, he wishes to be executed on that specific mountain.

Under Ibrahim’s strict guidance, Aue and Rottwachtmeister Hanning walk up the mountain. The old man even specifies exactly how deep his grave must be. The old Jew says to Aue: “You’re not much good at this, that’s because you’ve spent your whole life with your nose in books. Where we come from, even rabbis can build their own houses. And yet, you’re a decent fellow.” Aue is deeply moved by the serene beauty of the view over the mountains. Just before Aue orders Hanning to kill the old Jew, he asks him where his own grave—Aue’s grave—will be. The old Jew simply keeps smiling gently. He says: “I know, but I won’t tell you.” Aue is completely thrown off balance and overtaken by intense fear. Even after the old Jew is executed and lies in his grave, Aue still sees that peaceful smile on Ibrahim’s face.

Back in the casino, a colleague of his, Hohenegg, says: “You look in fine shape, Aue.” Aue replies: “Yes, I feel reborn.” When Aue shares the story of the old Mountain Jew, Hohenegg responds: “A wise man, we ought to envy him.” Aue does not understand, so Hohenegg explains: “There are three categories of people. The first group—and that’s the vast majority—refuses to see deeply that life is a joke. The second group sees that life is a joke, but remains cheerful through all the suffering, like the Taoists and that Jew. And the third group, like you, Aue, see it too, but suffer because of it.”

When viewed through the lens of the Kabbalah, the Zohar, or Lurianic mysticism, several elements of this story reveal a profound mystery at the very core of Judaism. First, the old Jew volunteers himself. The entire narrative demonstrates that the old man is completely reconciled with life and death across all five levels of the soul: nefesh (the lower soul), ruach (the spirit), neshamah (the divine spark), chayah (the bundle of life), and yechidah (absolute unification and harmony). He has achieved the highest level, yechidah. That is why he wishes to be buried high in the mountains; there, his spirit (ruach) is closer to Hashem. After death, the ruach waits for its nefesh, which must first be purified in the underworld, Sheol. Once that is accomplished, they can reunite with their neshamah, ascend to the bundle of life (chayah), and journey onward to yechidah, where all human beings will eventually arrive, each in their hierarchical place.

At the highest level, which the old Mountain Jew reached in his lifetime, he knows he can save Aue. And whoever saves one life saves the entire world—thus ultimately including all Germans, however long that purification may take. The greater the crimes, the longer the journey through the purging fire; you must become one with all the suffering of the people you caused to suffer. Ibrahim leaves nothing to chance. He already attempts to take the guilt of Aue and Hanning upon himself as much as possible, trying to initiate Aue into the deepest mysteries of existence, such as the story of the womb. This is evident in Aue’s reaction; the Jew’s demeanor and behavior leave an indelible impression on him. Though he understands little right now, Hohenegg—who is more attuned to the deepest stirrings of the German soul (of which Friedrich Nietzsche is a prime example)—helps him along the way. Aue will constantly look back on this moment, thereby reaching the path of redemption initiated by Ibrahim.

The great problem facing humanity, however—and that which largely blocks our initiation toward redemption—is that we all want to sit in the front row. On one hand, this is natural, yet it is also highly dangerous. Multiple texts in both the Old and New Testaments point to this peril, such as Proverbs 25:6-7, which warns against putting yourself forward and standing in the place of the great. Hashem is the Creator of all people, and all people yearn to be loved by Him. It turns destructive when that desire to be loved curdles into jealousy. Consider the Nazi era, when the slogan painted on meeting walls read: “Die Juden sind unser Unglück” (The Jews are our misfortune). The path of violence always springs from jealousy, covetousness, and hatred. All great civilizations crumbled when compassion vanished, replaced by contempt, oppression, and ultimately violence. Such a culture dies, and with it, its princely angel (Psalm 82).

The Israeli-Palestinian conflict unfortunately seems increasingly to be heading down that same dark path on both sides—both externally and internally within Israel itself—as hardening and polarization intensify. The external aspect is obvious; the internal, in my view, is equally present. An alarming article appeared in Israel Today by Anat Schneider under the title ‘The Silent Revolution’. She describes how the Arab population increasingly occupies essential positions, such as in public transit—in Jerusalem, 90% of bus drivers are of Arab descent—and the same applies to certain health clinics. As a result, more and more Jews are beginning to feel uneasy. Many Israelis are constantly on high alert, continuously scanning social media for unsettling updates.

Signs of mounting exhaustion and tension are surfacing everywhere. The IDF is showing symptoms of overstrain, partly because Haredi men refuse to participate in the necessary military efforts. Consequently, reservists must serve their mandatory duties for much longer periods. Meanwhile, ultra-fundamentalist party leaders have pushed Israel’s security to a knife-edge. Instead of de-escalating, they choose confrontation, driven at their core by an exhaustion born from what they perceive as the enduring incomprehension of the Palestinians. Yet this blunt-axe method has achieved the exact opposite, as seen in the greater gains of the Arab political parties. How much longer can Israel sustain this? It is becoming an almost unbearable burden.

But there is another path. The path of the Mountain Jew Ibrahim, a road already walked by a portion of the Israeli population—by Haredim and others, including modern, secular Jews. That is the path of radical compassion. A path that, in the eyes of the world, often appears thankless.

The Scriptures offer two powerful illustrations of this. The first is the story of Naaman the Syrian (2 Kings 5). Desperate over his leprosy, he encounters a remarkable young Jewish girl who was stolen from Israel. Filled with compassion, refusing to despise or reject her master and fellow human being, she tells her mistress that there is a man in Israel—Elisha, a prophet of Hashem—who can heal him. She could easily have sought revenge for her abduction, saying, “Let the man figure it out himself.”

The other story is found in Luke 15:11-32, the parable of the Prodigal Son. The prodigal son symbolizes the human being who wishes to enjoy life, free from heavy servitude. Live life to the fullest. He receives his share, but within a short time, he squanders everything—both his money and his spiritual gifts of grace. This son symbolizes first and foremost a Jew who chose not to live true to the Torah, but he can just as easily serve as a symbol for the goyim (the nations). The Father (Hashem) has been watching from afar for a very long time, and finally, He sees him returning. Hashem receives him in love and prepares a grand banquet. The eldest son (Israel) finds this incredibly difficult, and it hurts him deeply. Hashem lovingly rebukes him, saying: “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. It was fitting to make merry and be glad, for this your brother was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

This is the highest, most essential task of Israel: bringing the nations back home to Hashem.

Shalom Ernst Serge der Friede. A traveler on the way to Yechidah, who has experienced the horrors of the Sonderkommando within his soul.