לפני כמה חודשים, שאל אותי ריו הקטן אם אי פעם מפסיקים להתגעגע. אני יכולה להגיד לך שאחרי שנה מתגעגעים יותר ויותר. כל מי שאיבד אדם אהוב מספר לי שהשנה הראשונה מלאה רגעים של ״הראשון בלי״. יום ההולדת הראשון בלי, החג הראשון בלי. אבל בלי אבא כזה, אבא חד פעמי, האבא הכי טוב, כל כך קשה, קשה מנשוא.
ריו נמצא כעת בגיל שבו נמתח גבול נוקשה בין האמת לדמיון. אני אומרת לו, ״כשקשה לי, אני מקשיבה לקולו של סבא מייעץ לי מה לעשות,״ וריו עונה, ״אבל סבא לא יכול לייעץ, סבא מת.״ אני מסבירה: ״נכון, סבא איננו. אבל אני מכירה את סבא כל כך טוב שאני יכולה לנחש מה הוא היה מייעץ.״ מייעץ איך לעזור למשפחה ולחברים. מייעץ להמשיך לסחוב גם כשבעבודה לא פיקניק, לשמוח בדברים טובים, לא להתרגש מדברים רעים, וודאי לא לעשות שום צעד נמהר בלי לחשב עלות ותועלת. מייעץ למחול, להתפשר, מייעץ לחבק את המשפחה חזק חזק, מייעץ להתרכז במה שחשוב ולהניח למה שלא.
הניחוש הזה, הדמיון הזה, זו הנחמה החילונית. פעם ריו שאל אותי ואותך כשהיינו יחד באוטו: ״מי זה אלוהים?״ ענינו לו: ״יש הרבה אנשים שמאמינים שיש להם חבר דמיוני. בשמים, או בלב. זה חבר שאי אפשר לראות, אבל מרגישים אותו, והם מרגישים שכשהם מדברים אתו, הוא עוזר.״ ופעם אחרת אמרת לי, ״אני לא דתי, אבל אני אדם מאמין.״ ובאיזה שהוא מקום, בתודעה החילונית מנסרת המחשבה: האל שאיני מאמינה בו לקח את אבי הצדיק השמיימה, כמו את חנוך איש האלוהים, כמו את אליהו הנביא, כדי שלא יראה באסוננו.
אבא, איזו שנה איומה. השבר הנורא שניבאת לפני שנים התרחש, התהליכים שעליהם התרעת בעשורים האחרונים מתגלגלים ומתפתחים, האסון האישי והלאומי התמזגו ואי אפשר להפרידם בלב. לא נותר אלא לנחש איך היינו עוברים את החודשים המסוייטים, הנוראים הללו, לו היית אתה אתנו. אילו ניסים היית מחולל, אילו לבבות היית מקרב. אני רואה אותך קורא עיתון, מסיט הצידה את כל המפרשים והמלהגים וחושב, כמו הגנרל פאנפילוב ב״אנשי פאנפילוב״, כמו דון חואן ב״מסע לאיכטלאן״, כמו המח״ט ב״תיאום כוונות״, כמו האנשים הכי חכמים בספרים שהכי אהבת. אני כמעט יכולה לשמוע את דבריך המקוריים והמחכימים. אני עוצמת את עיניי ורואה אותך מנחם אבלים, תומך במשפחות החטופים, עוזר לסטודנטים במילואים שלימודיהם הופרעו. מגן על כבודם ובטחונם של הסטודנטים הערבים ומקשיב להם, עוזר לכולם להתחשב בזולת, יוצא מגדרך כמו תמיד לרומם ולהקל על אחרים. במיוחד אחרים סובלים ופוחדים. עושה סידורים במרכז טבעון ומברך את כולם במאור פנים. מלמד שעורים פרטיים לילדים מפונים. מחבק הורים וסבים שדואגים לילדיהם ולנכדיהם. וגם אותנו, והכי הכי את אמא, משמח ומרגיע.
ואם אני משחררת עוד יותר, עוצמת את העיניים קצת יותר חזק, אני יכולה לדמיין אפילו אבא מלאך. כמו ״אבא פיל״, בספר היפה ״גן גורים״ של רפאל ספורטה, רק מלאך. אבא שאינו סובל יותר, אבא שפוגש את סבא יוסף ואת סבתא שרה ואת אחיו דוד בין העננים. אבא שלקראתו רץ הכלב דון ונובח בשמחה. אבא שבחיקו מתכרבל ומגרגר החתול לולו.
ואני אפילו יכולה לדמיין עוד משהו. איך אחרי כמה חודשים נפתחים שערי שמיים ומגיעים המון מלאכים. מלאכים סבים וסבתות. מלאכים אבות ואמהות. מלאכים נערים ונערות. מלאכים ילדים וילדות. והם מבוהלים, והם מבולבלים, ואבא שלי היקר והאהוב, אבא מלאך, פורש את כנפי המלאך שלו לרווחה ומחבק את כולם. ברוכים הבאים, ברוכים הבאים, הוא אומר, וחותך לכולם אבטיח, ומפרק רימונים ומכין לכולם קערות עם גרגרים ויוגורט. אבא מלאך מפיל מצחוק את כל המלאכים החדשים. שואל מלאכים ילדים חידות בחשבון, ואם הם עונים נכון, הוא צוהל. אבא מלאך מסדר את כל העננים בעיגול ויושב עם המלאכים המבוגרים ומסביר להם בסבלנות סוגיות בתחבורה ובתלמוד. מייעץ למלאכים הנערים מה ללמוד בגן עדן ומחליף תמונות של הנכדים עם המלאכים הסבים. אני כבר לא ילדה, ואני יודעת שאין לנו הוכחות, והנחמות שיש למאמינים אין למי שלא מאמינים. אבל היה לי האבא הכי טוב, אבא שמספר סיפורים, אבא שלימד אותי את כוחו של סיפור טוב להעשיר, לעודד ולרומם את הנפש, אבא שלימד אותי שהנפש בוחרת איזה סיפור לספר, אבא שבכל צומת בחייו בחר בסיפור החיובי והשמח על פני הסיפור מרפה הידיים והעצוב. אבא שבחר בסיפור של צמיחה על פני סיפור של עוני, בסיפור של השכלה על פני סיפור של קוצר זמן, בסיפור של מסוגלות על פני סיפור של נכות, בסיפור של נדיבות על פני סיפור של מחסור, בסיפור של חריצות על פני סיפור של בטלה, בסיפור של איחוד על פני סיפור של פילוג, בסיפור של תקווה על פני סיפור של ייאוש. אבא שלימד אותי לראות בעיניים פקוחות וגם בעיניים עצומות. ובסיפור שאני מספרת בעיניים עצומות, האל שאיני מאמינה בו לקח אותך כדי שתהיה אבא לא רק שלי, לא רק שלנו, אלא של כל המלאכים החדשים.
אבא יקר, איש שלא היה ולא יהיה כמוהו, אבא צדיק, החכם, הטוב, והאציל בעולם, אני אתך כשהרוח נושבת וכשהגשם יורד וכשהשמש זורחת. אני אתך כשמצחיק וכשעצוב, כשקל וכשקשה, כשסביבי שאון מחריש אוזניים וכשנופלת דומיה, כשאנחנו יחד וכשאני לבד. ובסוף הזמן והמרחב שוב נהיה כולנו יחד. אני אוהבת אותך, אבא, תמיד.
This month I started working on what will eventually become my next book, tentatively titled Behind Ancient Bars. In this book I hope to illuminate the Biblical and Talmudic incarceration experience, and hopefully put to bed some misconceptions held by modern penologists and some held by historians of antiquity. Every penology textbook I’m familiar with speeds through punishment in antiquity, retrenching the common assumption that prison is a product of modernity and contrasting it to its predecessor, corporal punishment.
In an environment saturated with incarceration, it’s hard to see it as anything but modern, but once you start looking for it, you can’t unsee it: the Hebrew bible and the Talmud are filled with references to prisons and jails, and while nothing in antiquity would have come close to resembling our modern correctional apparatus, confinement was very much present in the sociopolitical arena. Moreover, what we’ve been educated to see as a rift is more of a continuum: not only does the variation in carceral experiences today echo the variation in antiquity, but the boundary between prison and corporal punishment is very, very blurry, if it even exists (working on FESTER was the starkest confirmation for me that prison IS corporal punishment.)
There’s not a shred of archaeological evidence of prisons and jails from empires thousands of years ago, and the texts we have are not trustworthy descriptions of confinement. Rather, they tell us something about what would have been within the realm of the imaginable for their authors, and in the process, have something to say about politics, personal transformation, and fatalism.
The story of Daniel and his three friends, Hananyah, Mishael, and Azaryah, is a case in point, and you can find it in Daniel ch. 1. The book opens with Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar’s victorious siege on Jerusalem, during which the Babylonians captured the implements of the temple into the land of Shinar, where they were deposited into the divine treasury. The king then ordered his high minister, Ashpenaz, to bring forth young Judahites of noble descent, teach them Babylonian literature and language, and feed them at the king’s expense, intending to incorporate them into the Babylonian administration. One of these children, Daniel, resolved not to defile himself (“lo itga’el”) with the Pat Bag and the wine, and after Ashpenaz expressed concern that his own life would be at risk if the children appeared poorly, appealed to the server/bursar to feed him and the other Judahites legumes and water. After a ten-day trial period, Daniel & Co. looked haler and healthier than the kids who fed on the path bag. The bursar continued to “carry” (remove? Keep for himself?) the king-allotted rations for the four and to serve them seeds instead. The kids are told to have done very well at the training, and when they came to the king, they were found to excel far beyond members of his senior administration.
Much of the exegetic chatter about this curious story focuses on Daniel’s refusal of the “path bag,” trying to establish precisely what was wrong with it. This is of deep interest to me, because I’ve been long interested in the awfulness of prison food, and Chad and I devoted much of the second chapter of FESTER to the horrific FUBAR of prison kitchens during COVID-19 (some of this story, complete with original emails, is here.) Of course, most religious commentators are not quite interested in that: rather, they spend their exegetical energy on explaining that Daniel et al. were trying to adhere to kashruth laws, the provenance of which is the ritual slaughter instruction in Leviticus 11 and Deuteronomy 14, but which were far from developed in the early exilic period. Other commentators hypothesize that the four young Judahites were concerned about the possible use of the king’s meat and wine as libations to foreign gods. The dietary discussion among commentators then becomes a halakhic “hook” for backdating cleanliness and kashruth to the biblical text, thus creating linkages between the Torah prohibitions and the meticulous kashruth industrial complex of later periods. There’s a broader context to all this: revulsion at another nation’s food is often a proxy for differentiation, separation, setting oneself apart. As Daphne Barak-Erez explains in Outlawed Pigs, disgust of pig flesh has deep roots in Jewish tradition, and its implications persist to this day, and it could explain why this diet thing might have resonated as much as it has (it’s also worth considering, as I’m reminded by Rabbi Adam Chalom, that the Book of Daniel was likely composed during the Hellenistic period, when swine sacrifices and diet-based persecutions would explain the central role of diet in this story). As a secular humanistic Jew interested in penology, though, I find these particulars ancillary to the much more fundamental question about this curious story: what sort of facility, regime, or program, was this, exactly, and how does it relate to the overall Babylonian colonial project?
The exposition to the story places it in the context of the conquering of Jerusalem and seems to suggest an administrative response straight out of the playbook of colonial governance: identify potential leaders among the nobility of conquered population, remove them from potential leadership positions among their populace, bring them to the metropole, and coopt them into the colonial scheme through middle-management positions within the metropolitan government apparatus. Where this program lies along the continuum between benign and sinister, empowering and coercive, is fairly unclear. What we do know is this: Daniel, Hananya, Mishael, and Azarya are still children when the story takes place, and alongside them there are many other children subject to the same regime, most of which are not Judahites. The quartet (perhaps like all children in the program) is given Babylonian names (Belshatzar, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed Nego), a practice reminiscent of the “entry rituals” that Erving Goffman describes in Total Institutions. They are entrusted to the care of a high official (perhaps a minister, perhaps a eunuch), and their period of confinement, as explained above, includes an educational/vocational component: they are to learn Babylonian and the art of Babylonian governance, and when their three years of training conclude, they are expected to take a role in the Babylonian administration. They receive state-provided rations (“Path Bag HaMelech”) that are uniform for all residents of the facility. There is a special functionary who is responsible for the provision of foods, and he is identified as the “meltzar” (a word that will come to mean “waiter” or “server” in modern Hebrew.) It is also made clear that this is a high-stakes program: Ashpenaz himself—marked as a high administrator in Nebuchadnezzar’s court and clearly the chief administrator of this course or facility—is personally responsible for the welfare of his wards, to the point that his own head might roll should the king see that the children are upset, and that he feels comfortable enough with his wards to confide in them regarding this concern—a high official fostering amity with captive children who feel empowered enough to complain about their diets (and even to propose what might be the first Biblical experiment that has a valid control group!), presumably trying to get on their good side and eliciting their sympathy against the king. That the children’s welfare (not just their health, but their satisfaction) rates so highly with the king seems to speak well of his colonial enterprise, though the later stories in Daniel will do much to blemish his character. In any case, the fact that an entire story is devoted to the diet incident reminds me so much of what I know about the culinary aspect of CDCR administration, that I can only imagine the paper trail of the whole thing looking more or less like this:
Well as for here, it’s not going too good. I got four kids here starting to act out over the food and I don’t blame them. We’re now giving everyone the King’s Path-Bag and wine and four kids are asking for special vegetarian ratios. Right now we don’t have special meals for anyone. They say eating our food defiles them. Hope there is something we can do. I think it’s going to get really bad really fast around here if other kids start asking for vegetarian food. Any help in this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Beltis, can you find out if we can order legumes cost-effective for four inmates for a few days? The king’ll have my head if he sees they’re unhappy. –Ashpenaz
Inmate no. 49596 Muhibu is suffering from uncleanliness and inflammation. He is due for his alcohol, honey, and myrrh preparation. Can you grind it here for him?
Kids no. 30303, 23041, 30453, and 30340, Shadrach, Mischach, Abed-Nego, and Belshatzar, have been approved a diet of bean and seed combo. If effective in maintaining participants’ health, Minister of Eunuchs says we might reorder for the whole prison. Can you check how they are doing after ten days?
Pahas-Bel: I just stopped by the prison to take vitals and metrics from the four seed-eating kids and the control group. The seed-eating children seem to be doing better than the control group. If the king is so inclined, I would recommend ordering from Balasi Beans for the entire facility, but I won’t push it. In any case, there is no medical reason to prevent the children from eating seeds and beans.
Subject: Participants no. 30303, 23041, 30453, and 30340
Dear Sir Ashpenaz,
In anticipation for the appearance of Participants no. 30303, 23041, 30453, and 30340 (Shadrach, Meschach, Abed-Nego, and Belshatzar) before His Majesty the King, we have conducted exit interviews. The children wish to thank you for accommodating their dietary requests and to especially commend Pahas-Bel for his cooperation.
I’m looking at the books in preparation for the exit interview of the Judahite kids with His Royal Majesty and have to account for the Path-Bag rations they did not consume. I see three years’ worth of legume orders from Babasu, but I don’t see that the overall amount of path bag was reduced accordingly. What did you do with the meat and wine? Pls advise.
***
As some of you may know, the diet story is only the first of six court stories that found their way into the first half of the Book of Daniel. One of the more famous ones involves Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed Nego thrown into a furnace and emerging hale and healthy, which inspired this awesome gospel song:
Shadrach, Meschach, and Abed Nego, sung by the Golden Gate Jubilee Quartet
Another famous one involves Daniel, whose fortunes rise and fall quite dramatically in the first half of the book, being thrown into a lion’s den, inspiring works like this:
Daniel in the Lions’ Den, by Rubens
That the diet story was important enough to be a precursor to these dramatic tales tells me two things. First, that the confinement regime in Chapter 1 is being seen as part and parcel of the overall political/administrative arsenal at Nebuchadnezzar’s disposal: classic corporal punishments, like the furnace and the lions, do not exist to the exclusion of confinement, but rather alongside it. One wonders whether the spectacularly corporal punishments of Daniel & Co. are unique to them, in the sense of singling them out of the other young people, while the confinement regime was everyone’s baseline in the program, or was everyone in the program at risk of ending up “down in the hole” with the lions if they fell out of favor.
Relatedly, that all these royal reactions are being deployed is designed to paint a story of fractured, erratic, capricious governmentality. Not unlike the Pharaoh we meet in Joseph’s incarceration story (which will also be extensively told in the new book), Nebuchadnezzar runs the sort of administration where the fates of his underlings–especially his foreign subjects–widely swing up and down. This either reflects the erratic nature of these monarchies, or adds to the fairy tale aspect of the story by exaggerating the mobility and changing fortunes of the protagonists. It’s also notable that, like in the Joseph story, there’s very little in the way of institutional memory: if the confinement form ch1 incurred stigma, it hasn’t impacted Daniel’s fate later. This wild reversal of fortune continues throughout the stories: after a meteoric rise in the Babylonian administration, Daniel’s prospects seem to have changed for the worse in chapter 4, only to dramatically rise again when he interprets the king’s dream (this and other aspects of the story are why some commentators think that the Daniel and Joseph stories are versions of the same tale, and thus date Joseph’s prison story to the exilic period as well). There’s also a lot of elasticity in the use and misuse of power. We see exalted people afraid their heads will roll if some foreign kid complains to the king. And on the other hand, it looks like Daniel & Co., who are kids–and foreign kids, at that–feel comfortable not only complaining about a diet that does not work for them (quite rudely, too! Imagine telling an Emperor that his royal banquet fare defiles you!), but also proposing an experiment to gauge the health benefits of the diet they demand. They also seem to possess real savvy about who to deal with, and how, in a total institution: when negotiations with the higher-up authority hit a hurdle, they make a deal with the bursar on the sly. Not only that, but they are taken seriously enough that, even when the experiment succeeds, they are served legumes and water until their time is up.
