Purim Reflections: How Can We Sing?

The early Zionist precursors in the 6th century BCE, known as “shivat Zion” or “Return to Zion,” were Jews exiled to Babylonia following the destruction of the First Temple in 586 BCE. Despite the trauma of exile, life for these Jews in what is now modern-day Iraq, along the Euphrates River, was relatively peaceful and even prosperous. Historical records indicate the presence of an extensive Jewish community engaged in trade and financial activities.

However, the sense of exile and displacement remained strong among these Jews. They were acutely aware of their forced removal from their homeland and the destruction they had witnessed. This sentiment is poignantly expressed in their refusal to sing, as reflected in the psalm they penned: “How can we sing the songs of God on foreign land?”

Psalm 137 stands out as a unique and powerful expression of the exiles’ anguish. It is most famously known in Jewish circles for verse 5, “Im eshkachech Yerushalayim tishkach yemini” (If I forget you, Jerusalem, let my right hand be forgotten). Although universally, it might be most recognizable due to Bob Marley’s rendition called “By the Rivers of Babylon.”

Unlike most psalms, which typically conclude with words of comfort and renewed faith in God, Psalm 137 maintains its raw emotional intensity throughout, asking for graphic vengeance to the bitter end. It vividly captures the enduring pain, anger, and trauma experienced by the exiled Jews, even years after the initial events. This psalm serves as a stark reminder of the deep-seated impact of the Babylonian exile on the Jewish psyche and religious expression.

Perhaps a hundred years later, or less, the Babylonians were conquered by the Persians, and a new king, a new court, and a new set of challenges awaited the Jews. We all know the story of the holiday we are about to celebrate, but we should acknowledge that Megillat Esther itself is, in some ways, a story of mixed emotions.

On the one hand, it is our clarion call to renew our connection to God and continue finding Him in the hidden, trusting in Him even when He is not overtly seen, and conduct a relationship with Him despite the adversity which comes our way. Indeed, though God’s name eludes us, He most certainly does not. Like a parent watching behind the scenes, hoping for their child to succeed despite the adversity, and giving a nudge when needed, God was there as the real “King.”

At the same time, it is a somewhat sad scroll recording a near genocide and concluding with a big sigh of relief but an ever-present uncertainty in the empire. How long would Esther find favor with the king? How long would Mordechai be the court Jew? When would the next Haman emerge?

Esther had to cajole the Sages of the Great Assembly to establish Purim as an annual holiday. They were reticent to “make waves” with the authorities, as the recitation of the Esther scroll would “arouse the wrath of the surrounding nations.” She ultimately convinced them, but the tenor of the day changed from a biblical “holy day” to a more mundane “party holiday” with drinking and feasting on the menu.

The Talmud asks why no recitation of Hallel takes place on Purim if it is a festival like all others. Rava, a fourth-century Babylonian sage and leader living as a guest of the Sasanian empire, proposed a sad truism which contributed to his understanding of the complex nature of Purim. He said, how can we sing praise to God when we still serve the Persian king Achashverosh? (In his day, it was most likely King Shapur II who presided over Mehoza for 70 years!) As long as Rava lived on the Euphrates and not on the Kinneret, he would see Purim as only half a holiday, devoid of its full-forced Biblical festival nature. Is it surprising that Rava himself was responsible for the seemingly antinomian rule of “having to get drunk enough so as not to know the difference between blessed is Mordechai and cursed is Haman”?

The trauma of exile and the near-extinction of the Jews as a people left an indelible mark on Jewish identity and religious thought, influencing their perspective on what it means to be a Jew outside of the homeland. The trauma would be handed down from one generation to the next despite geography, as Jews spreading throughout the land (diaspora) did not mitigate their persecution and psychological distress.

Six hundred years after Rava, and from East to West, Christian crusaders massacred Jewish communities in the Rhineland during the First Crusade, devastating Jewish life for centuries. Despite Shabbat traditionally being a time of joy and serenity, not for discussing sad events or making entreaties, a prayer emerged that began with the words “Av Harachamim” (Father of Mercy).

This prayer, discovered under the bimah in a German synagogue, is a powerful and emotional plea for divine retribution. It asks God to remember the martyrs who died for kiddush ha-Shem (sanctification of God’s name) and to avenge their spilled blood. The phrase “Hashem yikom damo” (May God avenge his blood), often used for modern victims of terror, originates from this prayer.

“Av Harachamim” became part of the Shabbat morning service in the Ashkenazi ritual, though its recitation varies in different traditions. It is typically omitted on joyous occasions and certain festive Shabbats. The prayer’s raw emotion and call for vengeance reflect the profound impact of the Rhineland massacres on Jewish communities, preserving their memory even on the day of rest.

And so, today, the trauma continues. And I feel this way despite the miracle of the modern state of Israel, and despite the daily wonders I see and experience, and not without deep gratitude for meriting to move and live in this amazing land, knowing full well that my great-uncle who loved this land and pined to partake in its “heaven on earth” existence, ended up murdered in Poland. I nevertheless paraphrase the poets of Psalm 137, the ambivalence of the Sages of the Great Assembly, and the anonymous authors of the Av Harachamim prayer on the Rhine, and ask, “How can we rejoice in our Purim cheer, with such mixed emotions?”

How can we read the scroll of exile when we are in our homeland, but our brothers and sisters are still in hell? How can we feast when so many mothers and fathers are still in the period of mourning? Perhaps all we can do is drown our trauma in wine and spirits and have a few moments of haziness to escape from our sadness?

No, we need clarity, intensity, unity, consistency, tradition, humility, and most of all, hope. They will carry the day for us in these turbulent times, they will bring us some solace and help us survive the heartbreak and keep moving on. We must keep moving on.