Yoni in Israel

Contains: Torah, humor, insight, and cucumbers

Thursday, December 08, 2005

"Pie Iesu Domine. Dona Eis Requiem."


Hello darkness my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again.
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in by brain still remains
Within the sound of silence.
(Simon & Garfunkel)

Today the entire yeshiva dedicated its entire morning (until 12:45 lunch) to a “Ta’anit Dibbur.” Ta’anit Dibbur is a play on the phrase “Ta’anit Tzibbur,” which means a public fast. Ta’anit Dibbur means a fast of talking. However, the yeshiva did not refrain from a total lack of speech; rather, one could only speak words of Torah.

To mark the occasion, I decided to try to get up early for davenning, and perhaps even more surprising than that, I actually made it to the Beit Midrash- early! I hoped that I might luck out by getting an aliyah, Thursday being Torah reading and everything. However, my appearance must have surprised everyone, because the gabbai Zev asked me to be chazzan. There are many reasons that I shouldn’t be a chazzan: I last led a service in June, and that service was in the Happy Minyan; I pray (even at the yeshiva) from a standard Artscroll ashkenaz siddur, while everyone else uses a sefardic foreign book; and, I haven’t been to davenning since I can’t remember when. Yet in spite of the many and overwhelming reasons to defer the honor to someone else, the fact that I hadn’t done anything (even opening the ark) at any service all year led me to accept.

I wasn’t bad, but without my familiar Happy Minyan tunes, I was left to stumble through the small but many changes in the nussach (style). People didn’t wish me a yasher koach on a job well done, but I suspect that it was because of the Ta’anit Dibbur. Nevertheless, let the following wise words serve as a lesson to us all: "You tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is, never try" (Homer J. Simpson).

Breakfast was interesting, as there was no “How are you?”s or “Good Morning”s. Silence resonated across the room, save the occasion clattering of forks, crunching of cereal, or glopping of oatmeal. Those few devout people who possessed the desire to use their mouths for an additional purpose spoke words of Torah. So there were words, but not much of a conversation. Not one you’d want to eavesdrop on, anyway.

I was one of the last ones at breakfast, having just finished preparing my salad of cucumbers, cottage cheese, tomatoes, olives, and hard-boiled eggs, dressed with olive oil and vinegar. I wanted some salt to season, but the salt was all the way at the other end of the table, near Zevik. I couldn’t ask for salt due to the Ta’anit Dibbur, but I didn’t want to get up either. So I slyly asked “Zevik, what did Lot’s wife turn into?” Zevik, as anyone who is familiar with the book of Genesis, replied “salt.” While the answer was obvious, the question, to Zevik, was not. He pondered for a moment, then his face lit up with that youthful smile as he passed me the salt.

***

I expected the Beit Midrash to be silent as a tomb (or rather, a monastery), but as I entered this morning, I had the feeling that not much had changed: people were still arguing with the same intensity, and loud voices, as before. I attempted to read a Jewish essay in silence, but then felt compelled to join a study group learning for Rav Elisha’s shiur. The five of us— Benjamin, Ilan, David Zvi, Ezra, and me— were deep in conversation when David Mayer-Deutsch came over to our table.

“What are you learning?” he asked.
“Rav Elisha,” David Zvi replied simply, referring to the assignment of our Halacha teacher.
“It’s about changing a rabbinic decree,” Benjamin remarked.
“Where did you get the pages?” David asked.
“Rav Elisha’s spot,” replied Ilan.
“It’s double-sided,” added Ezra.
“I checked there, I couldn’t find any,” David said.
“Do you want to photocopy mine?” I suggested.

The table went silent. For a second, I thought it was an actualization of my Ta’anit Dibbur expectation. Then, I realized they were all looking at me as if I had uttered a swear word. Ilan held a silencing finger to his lips. I thought I had made a Torah-related comment. I was wrong. I had broken the Ta’anit Dibbur.

Ilan, David Zvi, David, Ezra, and Benjamin exchanged a knowing look, then proceeded to cut off my left hand as a permanent reminder of my sin. Well, not really. But evidently, I had gone too far.

The rest of the morning’s Ta’anit Tzibbur was pretty uneventful; in fact, it felt like a normal morning of learning. Since we finished the eighth chapter of Sanhedrin, today’s gmara shiur was devoted to a chazara, which means review. Rav Yitzchak divided the chapter in subunits, and each chevruta selected a part, prepared it during seder, and presented it in shiur. I chose a relatively easy bit in which the gmara attempts to prove that an eight-year-old can impregnate a woman. The gmara cited stories from Samuel II (Batsheva’s family) and Genesis (Abraham’s family) as proofs, then found a reason to reject them in typical Talmudic fashion. However, the gmara finally brought an example that worked, citing the Exodus lineage of Caleb, and proved a scenario that I never care to think about again.

To conclude: Ta’anit Dibbur was not as exciting as I thought. Not talking may have been a challenging and worthwhile experience, but the actuality of the verbal stoppage was slim to none. Some argue that the problem was with the self-enforcement; some feel the idea of having “no talking” while allowing Torah discussion in the Beit Midrash environment was ridiculous, perhaps even paradoxical. Still others feel that the activity was successful in that people didn’t bring their cell phones, a prerequisite of the Ta’anit Dibbur. At any rate, it caused me to appreciate the importance of language as I thought about the power of silence versus words, choosing one’s words carefully, and eating one’s words, an idiom that isn’t applicable here but nevertheless involves the word “word.”

Word.

posted by Yoni Bain | 1:04 PM

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