Something about baby Moshe made it clear that he was Jewish.
Moshe’s mother had placed him in a basket in the river, and the basket was soon discovered by none other than the Egyptian princess, Pharaoh’s daughter. She opened the basket, saw a baby crying, and immediately determined, “Miyaldeh ha’Ivrim zeh – This one is from the children of the Hebrews!” (Shemot 2:6). Apparently, Moshe had some feature that was unique to Beneh Yisrael, such that the princess was immediately able to conclude that he was one of “the children of the Hebrews.”
Rashi writes that she saw Moshe’s berit milah, and this was enough for Pharaoh’s daughter to determine that he was a Jew.
There are, however, other approaches that have been taken – and which highlight certain qualities which characterize – and must always characterize – the Jewish Nation.
The Silent Cry
One such explanation I was privileged to hear from the former Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel, Rav Yisrael Meir Lau, shelit”a.
Rav Lau noted a number of other difficulties in this verse. For one thing, Moshe is referred here in two different ways. The Torah tells that “vatir’ehu et hayeled” – the princess saw “the child,” but then writes, “hinei na’ar bocheh” – “behold, a young lad was crying.” The words “yeled” (child) and “na’ar” (young lad) are not at all synonymous. A yeled is a small child, whereas a na’ar is an older child, a young adult. How could the Torah describe three-month-old Moshe as a “crying na’ar”?
Rashi, based on the Gemara (Sotah 12b), explains that Moshe’s voice resembled that of an older child, an adolescent. Although he was still an infant, he had the voice of a na’ar.
At first glance, this seems very strange. Why would Moshe, at three months old, have the voice of a teenage boy? Indeed, another view in the Gemara dismisses this opinion, refusing to accept that the greatest prophet and leader of all time was blemished in this fashion.
To explain this concept, Rav Lau draws upon his own experience as a young boy in a situation not all that different from Moshe’s.
Born in Poland in 1937, Rav Lau was a young boy when the Nazis broke into his family’s home to take them away. He recalls how his mother tried hiding him to protect him – just as Moshe’s mother successfully hid Moshe from the Egyptian authorities who were bent on carrying out Pharaoh’s cruel edict to kill all newborn boys. Little Yisrael Meir saw the dread and trepidation on his mother’s face, and he himself shared her fears. Still a young child, he naturally felt like crying – but he knew that he could not cry out loud. Any sound he would make would draw the attention of the Nazi troops. Although he was just several years old, the horrific circumstances he endured forced him to have the maturity to cry silently. Normally, only adults have the wisdom and strength to keep their cries to themselves, and
weep in silence, but young Yisrael Meir Lau, on that terrifying day, was, in this sense, an adult, and he cried quietly.
Many years later, Rav Lau realized that this might have been true also of baby Moshe. Although just an infant, Moshe had been trained to cry silently. Ever since birth, he was hidden from those who wanted to kill him, and so he was forced to weep quietly. And for this reason, Rav Lau said, the Torah says that Pharaoh’s daughter saw (vatir’ehu) a weeping child – and not that she heard the baby’s cries. Moshe was a yeled, a young child, but he cried like a na’ar, with the maturity to realize that he must cry silently, and so he was only seen, but not heard.
This is how the princess determined right away that Moshe was an Israelite child. Rav Lau explained that we Jews, having suffered so much persecution and hostility, are accustomed to silent weeping. We have been forced throughout our history to keep our cries quiet, to avoid drawing the attention and the resentment of those who seek to harm us. Silent weeping is a uniquely Jewish quality, and thus Pharaoh’s daughter immediately realized that “miyaldeh ha’Ivrim zeh” – Moshe was a Jew.
But there is a different understanding of this pasuk – one which reflects not only the unfortunate reality of our nation’s silent cries, but also the unique bond which we are to feel toward our fellow Jews.
The Crying Brother
This understanding emerges from a brief but fascinating comment of the Ba’al Haturim (Rabbenu Yaakov Ben Asher, Germany-Spain, d. 1340) in interpreting this verse. The Ba’al Haturim observes that the words “na’ar bocheh” (“a crying lad”), as spelled in this verse, have the same gematria (numerical value) as the words “zeh Aharon Hakohen – This is Aharon the Kohen.” Surprisingly, the Ba’al Haturim asserts that the “crying lad” in this verse is not Moshe, the infant whom Pharaoh’s daughter sees in the basket, but rather his older brother, Aharon, who was standing off to the side. The Torah tells us that Moshe’s sister, Miriam, had gone to the riverbank to see what would happen to her baby brother, but, according to the Ba’al Haturim, Aharon was there, too. And, as Aharon watched his baby brother helplessly floating in a basket on the river, without his parents or anyone to care for him, and exposed to the danger of the ruthless Egyptian authorities, he cried.
According to the Ba’al Haturim, the “yeled” and the “na’ar” in this verse are two different people – Moshe and Aharon. Pharaoh’s daughter saw the child, and then, “behold, there was a lad weeping” – she heard someone else crying for this infant. And it was then that she determined, “Miyaldeh ha’Ivrim zeh” – that this must be a Jewish child.
One of the defining characteristics of our nation is empathy, feeling each other’s pain. We are all brothers and sisters, and we all cry when our fellow Jew is in distress. When we hear of a fellow Jew who has taken seriously ill, we cry and pray. When we hear of a fellow Jew who has fallen into financial straits, we cry and see how we can help. When we hear of fellow Jews in Israel who are killed in war or terror attacks, we cry. We cry and pray for the hostages, for the soldiers waging war, for those who have sustained injuries, and for the grieving families. This is what we do. And so when Pharaoh’s daughter saw a young man crying because of a baby that was floating helplessly in the river, she understood that this was a Jewish child.
“Adam” vs. “Anashim”
Rav Meir Shapiro of Lublin (1887-1933) explained on this basis an otherwise mysterious Talmudic passage which, until his interpretation, was used by antisemites throughout the ages to fuel the flames of hatred and suspicion of Jews. The Gemara in Masechet Yevamot (61a) cites the prophet Yehezkel’s pronouncement to the Jewish Nation (34:31), “Adam atem” – literally, “You are people.” This indicates, the Gemara notes, that “you are called ‘adam,’ but the gentiles are not called ‘adam’.” The Gemara applies this teaching to a halachic concept, to a certain Torah law which depends on the particular status of “adam.” But many a Jew-hater seized upon the Gemara’s remark to provide “evidence” that we are a racist, supremacist people, that we consider all non-Jews as subhuman creatures. It goes without saying that this is a preposterous claim, as Torah law, ethics and tradition teaches us to extend sensitivity and kindness to all people, and to respect the divine image within every human being. But what, then, does the Gemara here mean? In what way are gentiles not considered “adam”?
Rav Shapiro explained the Gemara to mean that gentiles aren’t called “adam,” and are called instead the other word for “person” – “ish.” The difference between the words “adam” and “ish” is that the latter also has a plural form – “anashim.” When we want to speak of two or more people, we say “anashim.” Intriguingly, there is no corresponding plural term for “adam.” This word has only a singular form. The Gemara is teaching us that we, the Jewish People, are always referred to with the singular expression “adam,” even when there are many thousands of us. No matter how many Jews we are talking about, they are always “adam” – a single, indivisible unit. We are all one, like a single body. When one part of the body aches, the entire body suffers – and this is true of Am Yisrael, as well. We all feel each other’s pain, share in each other’s sorrow, and help shoulder each other’s burdens. But other people are called “ish,” or, in the plural, “anashim.” This does not mean that there’s anything wrong with people who aren’t Jewish. It means simply that other nations do not have the same unique cohesiveness and sense of family as Am Yisrael. This is one of our signature qualities, a feature of Jewish life that makes us unique.
Caring Community
I say with great pride that while this is true of the entire Jewish Nation, this is true especially of our beautiful community. One of the things that we excel in is the quality of sharing our fellow’s burden, and coming to his side in his time of need. We are kind, generous, giving, and – most important of all – concerned. We truly care about one another – about our fellow community members, and about our brothers and sisters from outside our community, no matter their background, affiliation, or level of observance. We embody the notion of “adam,” the notion that the entire Jewish Nation comprises a single organic entity that cannot ever be divided.
I hope and pray that in the merit of all the wonderful hesed performed by our community, and of all the heartfelt tefilot recited by our community members for our fellow Jews in need here, in Israel, and throughout the world, Hashem will bless His nation with peace and prosperity, and bring us our long-awaited final redemption, speedily and in our times, amen.
