When we appeal to God as victims of rape

Mass rape is not simply a savage act of lust, but a sinister strategy of dominance, a brutal inscription of power onto the very flesh of a community. It shatters not just the lives of its victims, but the soul of a people, branding their collective identity with the searing mark of degradation.

This our enemies sought to do to us a year ago. But it was not the first time.

Medieval Ashkenazic communities lived under the constant threat of sexual violence against Jewish women, a terror so pervasive that in the 11nth century, the Italian poet Shlomo ben Yehuda Ha-Bavli penned a liturgical piece portraying Israel as a bride who had been raped. The tradition is rich with stories of women who chose martyrdom over defilement, but Ha-Bavli’s composition is unique in its exploration of the inner life of a sexual trauma victim.

His piyut, or liturgical poem, “Your Ways Are Not Those of Flesh and Blood” (Ein ke-Midat Basar Midatekhah) held such resonance with generations of Jews that it became incorporated into the penitential Selihot prayers recited in the leadup to Rosh Hashanah (in the Lithuanian tradition).

The key image in Ha-Bavli’s piyut derives from the fourth chapter of the Song of Songs, where the lover extols the beauty of his beloved’s every limb, reaching its climax as he fervently anticipates their first union and access to that part of her that was still forbidden him, guarded in chastity: “A garden locked is my own, my bride, a fountain locked, a sealed-up spring.” He waxes rhapsodic about the riches of the “garden\fountain” as containing luscious fruits, aromatic spices, and the choicest perfumes.

The beloved responds to his overture, notably speaking of “the garden/fountain” as first hers, but then his: “Awake, O North wind, Come O South wind, blow upon my garden… let my beloved come to his garden and enjoy its luscious fruits.” The shift in diction reveals her willingness to share the garden she had so closely guarded. Her first sexual experience was to be a significant and meaningful event, shared with her beloved.

In his piyut, Ha-Bavli portrays the beloved in the aftermath of the assault:

A garden once locked, now discarded like a weed,
A sealed spring, now trampled, its waters polluted.

He gives voice to the violated bride:

She groans, “To my true groom I’m bound for life,
Cursed is the one who conquered me in shame.”
She marks herself for death to end this strife,
Exiled, defiled, and lost to endless blame.

For this bride, virginity is tied to a sense of bodily autonomy and personal identity. Her rape shatters this autonomy, leaving her with a profound sense of violation and loss. The future she had envisioned with her groom was taken from them, dashing her dreams and plans leading to a sense of despair or hopelessness.

The social implications of sexual violence in this piyut are a function of their historical context. Within this world, a woman’s chastity was often equated with her honor and social worth, leading to a complex interplay of shame and victimization for those who experienced sexual violence. Unable to see herself any longer as the paragon of chastity she strived to be, and unwilling to be the polluted being she had become, she struggles with self-blame and contemplates suicide. She is a castaway, exiled from her own self.

While the bride blames herself, the narrator in the poem comes to her defense and takes her case before the Almighty:

No mortal measure can match Your might,
Where is Your zeal, Your steadfast light?
You chose a daughter, Your delight,
Now violated by lords, her shame in sight.
Though no master should bind Your chosen bride.

This is the only Selihot prayer in which Israel is cast as a victim of sexual assault, and, significantly, it is also the only one where Israel’s sins are never mentioned. These two facts are deeply connected. Ha-Bavli’s piyut is not simply a cry for mercy, it is a protest. It is a demand for justice, rooted in the understanding that, in rape, the victim is never to blame. Israel stands before God not as a sinner seeking forgiveness but as a victim crying out for justice.

* * *

Sephardic selihot speak about penance; Ashkenazic selihot speak about pogroms. Recited year in and year out, the pain and suffering these prayers evoke seemed distant, like echoes from another time, another world. We, in our comfort and relative security, could utter these words as if they were relics of a bygone era. But not this year. This year, the ancient prayers feel as though they were written for us, and none more so than the piyut. “Behold the Righteousness of Your Servants!” (Ana Habet be-Tzidkat Avadekhah) by R. Saadia Gaon, which, in the Lithuanian tradition, we recite on the eve of Rosh Hashanah. In his piyut, R. Saadia depicts a slaughter from the 10th century that seems situated in the forensic lab of the IDF’s Shurah Base, reflecting on the Sisyphean holy work of identifying the remains of those murdered en masse a year ago:

There was found mingled
The blood of fathers and sons,
The blood of mothers and their children

There was found mixed

The blood of brothers and sisters,
The blood of grooms and brides,
The blood of scholars and wise women,
The blood of the pure men and pure women,
The blood of youths and maidens,
The blood of leaders and their cantors,
The blood of the pious men and women,
The blood of grandfathers and grandmothers,
The blood of judges and their scribes,
The blood of teachers and their students,
The blood of men and their wives.

In this year of 5784, our generation wrote its own chapter in the often-painful history of our people, and the selihot resonate as they never have before. The French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr famously said, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” But Karr was wrong. Unlike our forefathers, we have been blessed with the opportunity to recover a sense of self-empowerment. We have proven to ourselves that in the face of adversity, we do not wilt, nor succumb to our divisions, but instead take the fight back against the enemy. This is our triumph.

* * *

One cannot read through the selihot without a sense of awe. Year in and year out, our forefathers sought salvation from the Almighty, although for so many long years that salvation tarried. Yet they persevered in the preservation of their collective identity, demonstrating not only a belief in the Almighty, but, no less, a belief in themselves.