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הג”מ הרב יצחק ברנד שליט”א (פורום אוהבי ציון):
אגודה וש”ס מסכימים עם העיסקא שמשחררים אלפי רוצחים ומעכבים את המלחמה ומסכנים כל עם ישראל בשביל פדיון שבויים
נראה מכל דבריהם שיש רק צד אחד, פדיון שבויים, שזה מצווה גדולה מצד עצמו אבל יש כלל שאין פודין השבויין יתר על דמיהם וכאן זה לא רק דמיהם היינו ממון אלא נפשות רבים, והפסד המלחמה וכבר בשיחרור רוצחים נהרגו אלפי יהודים ובפרט בשיחרור גלעד שליט שסינוואר שוחרר וזה הביא לנו כל הצרות ולמה אגודה וש”ס מתעלם מזהונראה לתרץ שפדיון שבויים היה נהוג בכל הדורות, אולם האיסור לשחרר רוצחים וולהכנע לאויב והפסד מלחמה לא היה נהוג כי לא היה לנו בתי כלא שיש שם רוצחים וכן לא היה לנו מדינה ולא מלחמה ממילא חלק זה של התורה לא היה נהוג, ויש כלל שמה שאנו צריכים לקיים זה רק מה שהיה נהוג וממילא שני הצדדים לא שווין כי חיוב פדיון שבויים הוא מחלק התורה שצריך לקיים ואילו צד השני לא נכלל בחלק התורה שצריך לקיים כי אין לנו מסורת בזה, סימן לדבר תכלת
Reprinted with permission.
by Rabbi David Lapin on May 18, 2015.
28 Iyar 5775
Rabbi David Lapin
The world’s growing intolerance for a Jewish State – like anti-Semitism – is an emotional issue, not a rational one. Emotion cannot be countered with reason. Emotion can only be countered with emotion.
I left Israel for the UK on June 4th, 1967, a day before the outbreak of the Six-Day War. Barely seventeen, I arrived there a few weeks earlier to start my Yeshiva career in Kefar Hassidim, a small agricultural village eight miles south-east of Haifa and less than 40 miles from the Syrian border. I recall speaking to a commander of a military camp that had been erected very suddenly on the route from my Yeshiva to Haifa. As he explained to me in a somber tone how the military was preparing its defense of Haifa, I realized that if that scenario transpired, my Yeshiva and I would be on the Syrian side of the defense line. Later, after the war was over, documents were found in Arab communities around Kefar Hassidim detailing the allocation of each home and woman in our village to particular Arab families and men in the surroundings.
I was terribly conflicted about whether to stay in Israel or transfer to Gateshead Yeshiva where members of my family, master Torah educators were Roshei Yeshiva. Finally, on my parents’ wishes and my Rosh Yeshiva’s instruction, I decided to leave. They believed the inevitable war would be a long one and they knew as I did, that there was little if anything I could do to help. I had to take every opportunity I could to maximize the time I had set aside for Torah study without distraction. If this meant studying in a Yeshiva outside of Israel, then so be it. They also feared that the outcome of the war might be catastrophic. I shared that fear. I saw preparations being made for the burial of thousands of people. I had heard that when the Ponevezer Rav, Rabbi Yoisef Kahnnaman z”tzl made an offer to Defense Minister, Moshe Dayan, to make his Yeshiva students available for the war effort, Dayan, hardly a religious man by any description, told him the best they could do for the war was to pray, say Tehilllim, and perhaps later on help to dig graves. Flying over Tel Aviv with tears pouring from my eyes, I craned my neck to gaze at the receding coastline as I heavy heartedly bade farewell to an Israel I did not expect ever to see again.
Later that same day, Sunday June 4th, I was traveling on the Flying Scotsman, the express train service from London to Edinburgh on my way to Gateshead Yeshiva across the River Tyne from Newcastle, just some sixty miles south of Scotland. The train was full and the conversations were about the looming war in the Middle East. The people around me were from a wide socio-economic spectrum; rough looking youth to elegant ladies and gentlemen. I was horrified by all the conversations around me. The assumption without exception was that Israel would be obliterated by the mounting military threat from its neighbors. Most shocking of all was the blatant glee with which that scenario was being discussed in the carriage around me. Some of the conversations included gory descriptions about what they hoped might happen to the Israeli population. In other conversations I heard people talk lightly about how in England, gangs of anti-Semites would turn on Jews and what they would do to them. No one was entertaining the possibility of an Israeli victory. Until that day, I had never thought England – bastion of opposition to Nazism in WW II – as anti-Semitic. I realized in the final analysis Israel was the only place in which we could feel secure. But how secure was Israel? I fell into a sad depression.
I write these memories to remind you and me that far from being taken for granted, victory in the Six-Day War, was not a forgone conclusion. In fact religious and secular Jew alike knew that it would take a synthesis of Divine miracle and military genius to emerge victorious. Few people at that time were confident in either Divine miracle or Israeli military genius and most thought that at best it would be a lengthy and very bloody battle. This is why Yom Yerushalaim, the 28th day of the month of Iyar – this year falling on May 17th, is so important a day of thanksgiving.
But the battle was quick; the victory stunning. We lost too many brilliant young men but nothing like the numbers feared. Hardened secular soldiers joined with religious men and women in prayers of thanksgiving. There was a sense of having been part of a biblical-like miracle, of having been led by the hand by God, and deep, unified national pride in the country and its military. This atmosphere was still palpable when I returned to Israel after a year of study in England to resume my learning in Kefar Hassidim.
The military camp outside Haifa was no longer there. I explored parts of the Old City of Jerusalem that until that time we could only see from observation points in Israeli-Jerusalem. I could pray at the Western Wall amid the rubble that had not yet been cleared to make way for the plaza that is there now. Before the Six-day War there was no point in Israel from which the Western Wall was even visible. I could walk down Jaffa road right through the place where previously there had been a four-story brick wall separating the two Jerusalems and obscuring the majestic sight I could now enjoy of the ancient walls of old Jerusalem at the end of Jaffa Road. I never imagined before, how close the old city was, just a stone’s throw away from the Barclays Bank building at the bottom of Jaffa Road. So close, but unreachable.
From Rabbi Lapin, here.
