A Farewell to Eitam Henkin
by David Assaf
Professor David Assaf is the
Sir Isaac Wolfson Chair of Jewish Studies, the Chair of the Department of
Jewish History, and the Director of the Institute for the History of Polish
Jewry and Israel-Poland Relations, at Tel-Aviv University.
A Hebrew version of this essay
appeared at the Oneg Shabbat blog (6
October 2015) (http://onegshabbat.blogspot.co.il/2015/10/blog-post.html), and was translated by Daniel
Tabak of New York, with permission of Professor David Assaf.
This is his first contribution
to the Seforim blog.
Eitam Henkin (1984-2015), who
was cruelly murdered with his wife Na’ama on the
third day of Hol Ha-Mo‘ed
Sukkot (1
October 2015), was my student.
Anyone who
has read news about him in print media or on websites, which refer to him with
the title “Rabbi,” may have gotten the impression that
Eitam Henkin was just another rabbi, filling some rabbinic post or teaching
Talmud in a kollel. While it is true
that Eitam received ordination from the Chief Rabbinate, he did not at all view
himself as a “rabbi,” and serving in a rabbinic post or supporting himself from one
did not cross his mind. His studies for ordination (2007-2011) constituted a
natural, intellectual outgrowth of his yeshiva studies; they formed part and
parcel of a curiosity and erudition from which he was never satisfied. Eitam
regarded himself first and foremost as an incipient academic scholar, who was
training himself, through a deliberate but sure process of scholarly
maturation, to become a social historian of the Jews of Eastern Europe. This
was his greatest passion: it burned within him and moved him, and he devoted
his career to it. Were it not for the evil hand that squeezed the gun’s trigger and took his young life, the world of Jewish
studies undoubtedly would have had an outstanding, venerable scholar.
I spent that bitter and frenzied night outside the country.
The terrible news reached me in the dead of night, hitting me hard like a
sledgehammer. In my hotel room in Chernovich, Ukraine, so far from home, my
thoughts wandered ceaselessly to those moments of sheer terror that Eitam and
Na‘ama had to face, to the horror
that unfolded before the eyes of the four children who saw their parents executed, and to the incomprehensible loss of someone with
whom I had spoken just the other day and had developed plans, someone on whom I
had pinned such high hopes. There was a man—look, he
is no more . . .
The next day, I stood with my colleagues in Chernovich, near
the house of Eliezer Steinbarg (1880-1932), a Yiddish author and poet mostly
famous for his parables. In a shaky voice I read for them the fine parable
about the bayonet and the needle—in the
Hebrew translation of Hananiah Reichman—dedicating
it to the memory of Eitam and his wife, who in those very moments were being
laid to rest in Jerusalem.
The Bayonet and the Needle
A man (a Tom, a Dick, or some
such epithet)
comes from the wars with a
rifle and a bayonet,
and in a drawer he puts them
prone,
where a thin little needle has
lain alone.
“Now there’s a needle hugely
made,”
the little needle ponders as
it sees the blade.
“Out of iron or of tin, no
doubt, it sews metal britches,
and quickly too, with Goliath
stitches,
for a Gog Magog perhaps, or
any big-time giant.”
But the bayonet is
thoughtfully defiant.
“Hey, look! A bayonette! A
little midget!
How come the town’s not all
a-fidget
crowding round this tiny pup?
What a funny sight! I’ve to
tease this bird!
Come, don’t be modest, pal! Is
the rumor true? I heard
you’re a hot one. When you get
mad the jig is up.
With one pierce, folks say,
you do in seven flies!”
The needle cries, “Untruths
and lies!
By the Torah’s coverlet I
swear
that I pierce linen, linen only…It’s
a sort of ware…”
“Ho ho,” the rifle fires off a
round of laughter.
“Ho ho ho! Stabs linen! It’s linen he’s after!”
“You expect me, then, to
stitch through
tin?” the needle asks. “Ah, I
feel if I like you
were bigger…”
“Oh, my barrel’s bursting,”
roars the rifle. “My trigger—
it’s tripping! Oh me! Can’t
take this sort of gaff.”
“Pardon me,” the needle says.
“I meant no harm therein.
What then do you do? You don’t stitch linen, don’t stitch tin?”
“People! We stab people!” says the bayonet.
But now the needle starts to
laugh,
and it may still be laughing
yet.
With ha and hee and ho ho ho.
“When I pierce linen, one
stitch, and then another, lo—
I make a shirt, a sleeve, a
dress, a hem.
But people you can pierce
forever, what will you create from them?”
Eitam was a wunderkind. I
first met him in 2007. At the time he was an avrekh meshi (by his own definition), a fine young yeshiva fellow,
all of twenty-three years old. He was a student at Yeshivat Nir in Kiryat Arba, with a long list of publications in
Torah journals already trailing him. He contacted me via e-mail, and after a
few exchanges I invited him to meet. He came. We spoke at length, and I have
cared about him ever since. From his articles and our many conversations I
discerned right away that he had that certain je ne sais quoi. He had those
qualities, the personality, and the capability—elusive,
unquantifiable, and indefinable—of
someone meant to be a historian, and a good historian at that.
I did not
have to press especially hard to convince him that his place—his destiny—did not lie between the walls
of the yeshiva, and that he should not squander his talents on the niceties of
halakha. He needed to enroll in university and train himself professionally for
what truly interested him, for what he truly loved: critical historical
scholarship.
Eitam went
on to register for studies at the Open University, and within three years
(2009-2012), together with the completion of his studies at the yeshiva, he
earned his bachelor’s degree with honors.
Immediately afterwards he signed up for a master’s degree
in Jewish history at Tel-Aviv University, and under my supervision completed an
exemplary thesis in 2013 titled “From
Hibbat Zion to Anti-Zionism: Changes in East-European Orthodoxy – Rabbi David
Friedman of Karlin (1828-1915) as a Case Study.”
Eitam,
hailing from a world of traditional yeshiva study that is poles apart from the
academic world, slid into his university studies effortlessly. He rapidly
internalized academic discourse, with its patterns of thinking and writing, and
began to taste the distinct savors of that world. To take one example, in July
2014 he participated in an academic conference—his very
first—for early doctoral students,
both Israeli and Polish, that took place in Wrocław,
Poland. There he delivered (another first) a lecture in English, and got deep
satisfaction from meeting other similarly-aged scholars working on topics that
overlapped with his own. I asked him quite often whether as an observant Jew he
found it difficult to study at the especially open and “secular” Tel-Aviv campus. He answered
in the negative, saying that he never felt any difficulty whatsoever.
I was deeply
fond of him and respected him. I
loved his easygoing and optimistic personality, his simple humility, the smile
permanently spread across his face. I loved his positive approach to
everything, and especially loved his sarcastic humor, his ability to laugh at
himself, at his world, at the settlers (so far as I could sense he was very
moderate and distant from political or messianic fervor),
at the Orthodox world in which he lived, and at the ultra-Orthodox world that
was his object of study. He was a man after my own heart, and I have the sense
that the feeling was mutual. When I told him one time that I was prepared to be
his adviser because I was a stickler for always having at least one doctoral
student who was a religious settler, so as to avoid being criticized for being
closed-minded and intolerant, he responded with a grin…
More than my
affection for him, I respected him
for his vast knowledge, ability to learn, persistence, thoroughness, diligence, efficiency, original and critical manner
of thinking, excellent writing style, ability to learn from one and all, and
generosity in sharing his knowledge with everyone. In my heart of hearts I felt
satisfaction and pride at having nabbed such a student.
Immediately
after finishing his master’s degree, Eitam registered for
doctoral studies. 2014 was dedicated to fleshing out a topic and writing a
proposal. Eitam was particularly interested in the status of the rabbinate in
Jewish Lithuania at the end of the nineteenth century, and he collected a
tremendously broad trove of material, sorted on note cards and his computer, on
innumerable rabbis who served in many small towns. He endeavored to describe
the social status of this unique class in order to get at the social types that
comprised it in the towns and cities. In the end, however, for various reasons
that I will not spell out here, we decided in unison to abandon the topic and
search for another. I suggested that he write a critical biography of the Hafetz Hayyim , Rabbi Israel Meir
Hakohen of Radin (1839-1933), the most venerated personality in the Haredi
world of the twentieth century and, practically speaking, until today. (Just two weeks ago I wrote a blog post describing my
own recent visit to Radin, wherein I quoted things from
Eitam. Who could have imagined then what would happen a short time later?)
Eitam was reticent at first. “What new things can possibly
be said about the Hafetz Hayyim?” he asked skeptically, but as more time passed and he deepened
his research he became convinced that it was in fact a suitable topic. As was
his wont, he immersed himself in the topic and after a short time wrote a
magnificent proposal. At the end of March 2015 his proposal was accepted to
write a doctorate under my guidance, whose topic would be “Rabbi Israel Meir Hakohen (Hafetz Hayyim): A Biography.”
A short time
later I proposed Eitam as a nominee of Tel-Aviv University for a Nathan
Rotenstreich scholarship, which is the most prestigious scholarship granted today to doctoral students in
Israeli universities, and, needless to say, it is competitive. Of course, as I
predicted, Eitam won it. He responded to the news with characteristic restraint, but his joy could not be contained. It was obvious when I gave him the
news that he was the happiest man alive.
In order to receive the Rotenstreich Scholarship, students must free
themselves from all other pursuits and devote
themselves solely to scholarship and completion of the doctorate within three
years. Eitam promised to do so, and
he undoubtedly would have made good on that promise. He would have received the
first payment in November 2015. Now, tragically, we have all lost out on this
tremendous opportunity.
One could go
on and on singing Eitam’s praises, and presumably
others will yet do so. I feel satisfied by including a letter of recommendation
that I wrote about him to my colleagues on the Rotenstreich Scholarship
Committee. Recommenders typically tend to exaggerate in praising their
nominees, but let heaven and earth be my witness that in this case I meant
every single word that I wrote.
May his
memory be blessed.
[1] Eliezer Shtaynbarg, The
Jewish Book of Fables: Selected Works, edited, translated from the Yiddish,
and with an introduction by Curt Leviant, illustrated by Dana Craft (Syracuse,
NY: Syracuse University Press, 2003), 20-23.
* * * *
12
Nissan 5775 - 1 April 2015
RE: Recommendation for Mr. Eitam Henkin for the Rotenstreich
Scholarship (22nd Cycle)
I hereby warmly recommend, as it is customarily said, that my student Mr. Eitam Henkin be chosen as a nominee of the faculty and university for a Rotenstreich Scholarship for years 5776-5778..
Henkin, who completed his Master’s studies at Tel-Aviv University with honors, and whose proposal was just now approved as a PhD candidate, is not the usual student of our institution, and would that there were many more of his caliber. One could say that I brought him to us with my own two hands, and I have invested significant time and much energy convincing him to register for academic studies so that at the end of the day he could write his doctorate under my guidance.
Henkin is
what people call a “yeshiva student,” and he has spent his adult life in national-religious Torah
institutions, wherein he acquired his comprehensive Torah knowledge, assimilated analytic methodology, and even
received rabbinic ordination. As a scion of a sprawling, pedigreed family of
rabbis and scholars, he has also revealed within himself an indomitable
inclination to diverge from the typical path of Torah and invest a serious
amount of his energy in historical scholarship. Naturally, Henkin gravitates
toward studies of the religious lives and worlds of rabbis, yeshiva deans, and
spiritual trends among Eastern European Jews in the modern period. His enormous
curiosity, creative thinking, and natural propensity for study and research
with which he has been endowed, as well his impressive self-discipline and
independence, assisted him in mastering broad fields of knowledge through his
own abilities and without the help of experts. The scope of his knowledge of
Jewish history more generally, and of the Jews of Eastern Europe more
specifically, including familiarity with the scholarly literature in every
language, is cause for astonishment.
What is
more, Henkin has already managed to publish twenty scholarly articles (!) and
even a book (To Take Root: Rabbi Abraham
Isaac Kook and the Jewish National Fund [Jerusalem, 2012], co-authored with
Rabbi Avraham Wasserman, but in practice the research and writing were wholly
Eitam’s). Most of them deal with
varied perspectives on the spiritual and religious lives of the Jews of Eastern
Europe in the nineteenth century. It may be true that these articles were
published in Torah-academic journals, which we often refer to—not always with justification—as “not peer-reviewed,” but I
can attest that the articles in question are scholarly in every sense; they
could undoubtedly be published in recognized academic journals. I do not know
many doctoral students whose baseline is as high and impressive as that of
Eitam Henkin.
Given that I
see in Henkin a promising and very talented scholar, I have placed high hopes
in the results of the research he has taken upon himself for his doctorate
under my guidance: the writing of a critical biography on one of the most
authoritative personalities—one could say without
hesitation the most “iconic”—of the Haredi world of the last century, Israel Meir Hakohen
of Radin, better known by his appellation (based on his famous book) “the Hafetz Hayyim.” We are speaking of a personality who lived relatively close
to us in time (so there exists a relative abundance of sources), yet remains
concealed under a thick cover of Orthodox hagiography. One cannot exaggerate
the enormous influence of the Hafetz
Hayyim on the halakhic formation, atmosphere, and lifestyle of the
contemporary Haredi world, with all its factions and movements, and especially what is referred to as the “Litvish" world. Nevertheless, to this day no significant
study exists that places this complex personality—with the
stages of his life, his multifarious writings, communal activities, and the
process of his “sanctification” after his death—against
the background of his time and place from an academic, critical perspective
that brings to bear various scholarly methodologies.
Henkin’s doctoral proposal was approved literally a few days ago,
and I am convinced that he will embark upon the process of research and writing
with intense momentum, keeping pace with the timetable expected of him for
completion of the doctorate.
At this
stage of his life, as he intends to dedicate all of his energy and time to
academic studies, Henkin must struggle with providing for his household (he has
four small children). He supports himself from part-time jobs of editing,
writing, and teaching, but his heart is in scholarship and the great challenge
that stands before him in writing his doctorate.
Granting
Eitam Henkin the Rotenstreich Scholarship would benefit him and the
Scholarship. Not only would it enable him to free himself from the yoke of
those minor, annoying jobs and dedicate all his time to scholarship, but it
would also demonstrate the university’s
recognition of his status as an outstanding student. I try to exercise
restraint and minimize usage of a description like “outstanding,”
and I certainly
do not bestow it upon all of my students; Henkin, however, deserves it. The
scholarship would assist him, without a doubt, in realizing his scholarly
capabilities through writing a most important doctorate, which would add a
sorely needed and lacking layer to our knowledge of the world of Torah, the
rabbinate, and Jewish life in Eastern Europe of the preceding generations. As
for my part, as Eitam’s advisor I obligate myself to
furnish the matching amount of the scholarship from the research budgets at my
disposal.
Warm
regards,
Professor
David Assaf
Department
of Jewish History
Head of the
Institute for the History of Polish Jewry and Israel-Poland Relations
Sir Isaac
Wolfson Chair of Jewish Studies
* * * *
In my archive I found a document that Eitam wrote (in Hebrew)
for me in preparation for his submission for the Rotenstreich scholarship. He
described himself with humility and good humor:
Scholarly
“Autobiography”
by Eitam Henkin
My name is Eitam Henkin. I was born in 5744 (1984) and raised
in Religious Zionist Institutions. I studied in a hesder yeshiva and served in the Golani Brigade as an infantryman
and squad leader. I married during
my army service. After being discharged, I began to study in a kollel in order to receive ordination
from the Chief Rabbinate of Israel (which I completed in 5771, 2011). At the
same time, I began independent writing and research in the field of history out
of a personal interest for this field that I have had as far back as I can
remember (some describe this as “being
bitten by the bug of history,”
but with me perhaps
we may be talking about a congenital predisposition).
As things go, the fields of interest that I began to research
fell within the boundaries closest to the world in which I was ensconced: the
rabbinate and rabbis. I published my first articles in 5767-5768 (2007-2008) in
an annual journal published (under my editorship) at the hesder yeshiva in which I studied. After about a year, I began
publishing articles in outside publications linked to Religious Zionism, such
as Akdamot and Ha-Ma’ayan.
At the same
time, I began to make my way into the world of academia. In the wake of an
article I wrote about Rabbi Baruch Epstein’s memoirs
Mekor Barukh and his attitude to
Hasidism, I reached out (in 5767, 2007) to Prof. David Assaf for advice on
aspects of the article, and on Prof. Assaf’s
initiative the conversation turned into a meeting in which I was introduced to
the possibility of entering the world of the professional historian, after
which I took my first steps on my academic path.
I pursued my bachelor’s degree
in history at the Open University—a path
that proved quite practical given my other activities, and after completing it
(with honors) I registered for a master’s degree
in the department of Jewish history at Tel-Aviv University, where I finished
(in 5773, 2013) my thesis titled “‘From
Hibbat Zion to Anti-Zionism: Changes in East-European Orthodoxy – Rabbi David
Friedman of Karlin (1828-1915) as a Case Study,” which I
wrote under the supervision of Prof. Assaf and which received a grade of 95. I
subsequently signed up for doctoral studies, and very recently my doctoral
proposal was accepted, with the topic “Rabbi
Israel Meir Hakohen of Radin (Hafetz
Hayyim): A Biography,” also under the supervision of
Prof. Assaf.
In tandem
with my progress in academic studies (which have moved from being a side
interest to being front and center in my life, even if not the only thing), I
continued my historical research and writing independently, publishing articles
in various journals, although they were not peer-reviewed. To this day, I have
published in this manner over twenty articles on Jewish history, in which my
research interest has focused on two fixed pieces: Jewish society in Imperial
Russia at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century,
which has been primary and central, and within that more specifically the
Orthodox segment of the population and rabbinic circles; and the second piece
is the life and times of Rabbi Abraham Isaac Hakohen Kook.
My
aforementioned thesis and the doctoral work I have begun relate to the first
piece. Also connected is the critical biography that I wrote on
my own (before and during my first years of academic study) on Rabbi Yehiel
Mikhl Halevi Epstein, author of the Arukh
Ha-Shulhan, a biography that was accepted for publication by the academic
press of Touro College in the United States and which is to appear in print
over the coming year.
Related to
the second piece, aside from many
articles, is my latest book, which I co-authored with Rabbi Avraham Wasserman
by his invitation, titled To Take Root:
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook and the Jewish National Fund. It was published in
5772 (2012) with the support and funding of the Jewish National Fund.
Parallel to my academic
studies and scholarly publications, these days I also serve out of personal
interest as the section editor for historical articles in the journal Asif, put out by the Union of Hesder
Yeshivot (continuing my build-up of editorial experience via additional
projects in preceding years). Similarly, from 5770 (2010) on I have given
lectures on the history of halakha at Midreshet
Nishmat in Jerusalem. This year I am a doctoral fellow at the Kohelet
Policy Forum. It should be self-evident, however, that I expect to concentrate
my main interest and scholarly efforts in the coming years on my doctoral work
on the Hafetz Hayyim.
