The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.
Vayikra
Leviticus 1:1-5:26
A rabbi I know recently made a fascinating proposal that caught my attention, suggesting a departure from the norm for this year’s Purim celebration. He advocates for Purim without groggers, or noisemakers.
In contrast to the usual custom, he is asking congregants not to bring groggers this year. Instead, they will be encouraged to cheer when they hear the names of Mordechai and Esther during the Megillah reading of the Book of Esther. However, rather than use their noisemakers, the rabbi insists that his congregants remain stonily silent whenever evil Haman’s name is mentioned, forgoing the traditional cacophony to express disapproval.
To be sure, there is much to admire about the rabbi’s approach, which centers the virtuous heroism of Esther and Mordechai rather than the vicious deeds of Haman. It accentuates the positives, at least. Despite these noble intentions, canceling groggers on Purim is misguided. Using noisemakers with the mention of Haman’s name is an essential part of our Purim observance, even if it can induce headaches.
Let me illustrate why. On Sept. 11, 2001, almost 3,000 people were killed in the deadliest terrorist attacks in American history. Of the four hijacked planes, three struck their intended targets. Two planes plowed into both towers at the World Trade Center in New York. A third plane hit the Pentagon. Only one plane, United Airlines Flight 93, en route to the U.S. Capitol building, was diverted by the heroic resistance of passengers on board, ultimately crashing into an empty Pennsylvania field. Everyone on board lost their lives, but untold more were saved.
Why, you might ask, were the hijackers so successful? On each plane, there were only a few men with knives, compared with hundreds of passengers. Why didn’t the multitudes on each plane charge the hijackers and overpower them?
I am frequently asked a similar question about the Holocaust: How could Jews have allowed themselves to be herded into gas chambers by just a few people carrying machine guns? Why did they follow instructions? The answer illuminates the greatest obstacle to combating evil: failure of the imagination.
For the newly arrived Jewish deportees, it was inconceivable that the seemingly civilized German officers could commit such atrocities. The victims, filthy and exhausted from the long journey, were told to line up for the showers. This seemed plausible. Who could fathom herding children into gas chambers? In all of human history, no people had ever done that. The victims could not imagine the depths of Nazi evil. It is nearly impossible for us to imagine today.
It is when the rules don’t apply, when unimaginable hatred is in command, that we become helpless.
Something similar happened to the passengers of the three successfully hijacked planes, decades later. At that time, hijackings were not unheard of. Planes were periodically commandeered to attract the world’s attention. But almost always, everyone survived. Never before had hijackers deliberately turned passenger aircraft into deadly missiles, killing everyone aboard, themselves included. Such an outcome was inconceivable, a new technology of death.
Decades of experience told the passengers that if they simply complied, the hijackers would eventually surrender or be apprehended, and everyone would return home safely. That was the rule. That was the script.
It is when the rules don’t apply, when unimaginable hatred is in command, that we become helpless. In the face of unfathomable evil, decent people are psychologically disarmed. Incomprehension paralyzes.
Who could have imagined deliberately flying into a building? The FBI didn’t. The FAA didn’t. The millions of Americans watching the scene unfold in real time on their televisions could hardly believe what they were watching. How then could we expect the passengers of the hijacked planes, in the center of the madness, to imagine such a scenario, to have the foresight necessary to resist?
But on the morning of Sept. 11, the passengers on Flight 93 did resist, foiling the hijackers’ mission as they crashed the plane into a field and killed all 44 people aboard. Why were they different from the hundreds of passengers on the other flights, all of whom perished in compliance rather than defiance?
They resisted because they knew what was happening. We have a record of their calls. Thirteen passengers made 37 cell phone calls to loved ones. Through these conversations, the passengers learned of the first attacks by hijacked planes.
They knew the nature of the evil they faced. In a terrifying situation, they had the advantage of knowing what horrors had already transpired. And armed with that knowledge, they were able to fight back — thereby saving thousands of innocent lives.
On Oct. 7, an act of unspeakable horror unfolded in southern Israel, orchestrated by the terrorist cadre Hamas. This was not merely an assault on a nation but a challenge to civilization itself, laying bare a catastrophic failure — not just of security, but more critically, of imagination — to recognize the depth of the evil we face. The death of 1,200 people serves as a grim reminder of the cost of underestimating the malignancy of our foes, demanding a recalibration of our strategies and a more vigilant acknowledgment of the threats that lurk in the shadows.
The first step to fighting evil, then, is to label it as it really is, to be fully aware of the evil you face. To defeat it, we must confront it and understand its nature. Naivete in regard to evil, especially for Jews, is dangerous.
This is the important wisdom encoded in a simple Purim tradition. By banging and clapping when Haman’s name is mentioned, we practice — even as children — to recognize evil rather than ignore it. That simple step is the precondition for defeating it.