To Earn the Trust of Immigrants: Teachings from the Book of Ruth

Khizr and Ghazala Khan, parents of Humayun Khan, who was killed while serving in Iraq with the U.S. Army. Timothy A. Clary/AFP/Getty Images

“Why did Elimelech and Naomi leave Bethlehem?” I asked.

They knew the story: This is a church filled with bible-literate individuals, after all.

“Because there was a famine,” one woman said.

“Does that happen elsewhere in bible?” I asked.

They named examples: Abraham leaves his land because of famine. Jacob sends his sons to foreign climes to find food.

“So,” I said, “Naomi and her family leaves Bethlehem, the house of bread, because there is no bread to be found. They leave their homeland because they are hungry, because they need to feed their children. They leave because they need to find a better place for their family.”

I paused and looked around. “Can we think about that, please? Can we think about the way our texts tell us that our forefathers and foremothers had every reason to emigrate in order to survive?”

Then I asked: “Do we know this family? Do we know these immigrants?”

For two Sundays church members and I explored the Book of Ruth. We spoke about the ways in which the text showed is the despair of indescribable loss. It is Ruth, the Moabite, who creates hope for her mother-in-law, Naomi. It is Ruth – not the townspeople of Bethlehem – who makes sure her widowed and childless mother-in-law is fed. It is Ruth who intertwines the law of the levir and the law of redemption and asks Boaz to help her make certain her husband, Mahlon’s line, will not be extinguished and her mother-in-law will eat.

The Book of Ruth is not simply a happy idyll.

Naomi sends Ruth into the night dressed and perfumed and tells her to lie down in the dark next to their kinsman. Naomi prepares her adopted daughter to act the seductress. What risks is Naomi taking with Ruth? Ruth belongs to a hated people. Moabites are clearly associated with sexual profligacy in bible (Numbers 25). Moabites may not be admitted, so Deuteronomy 23:3, into the congregation of Israel.  Ever.

Every major character of the Book of Ruth bends the rules in order to assure what appears to be a happy ending. And the outcome still leaves us with questions. The townspeople both name Ruth’s child and hand the infant over to Naomi. What of Ruth, who dared to come to a foreign country though she belonged to a despised people? Ruth vowed to be a daughter to Naomi. Ruth herself proposed the marriage that would, at one fell swoop, permit her mother-in-law security and a descendant who could – in some way – replace her dead sons? Does the end of the story give Ruth her due?

“Yes,” I said, “we know that immigrant women in this country are at risk. Yes,” I said, “we know immigrants who have given everything they had to this country and its people. Yes,” I said, “we know immigrants who are hated because they belong to a despised people. Yes.”

“Who here has served in America’s military? I asked. About ten people raised their hands. “Please rise,” I said. “Who has had a parent who served in America’s military?” I asked. “Please rise.”

And then, the parents of sons and daughters in America’s military. “Please rise,” I said.

I looked at those parents.

“It is reprehensible to attack the parents who have lost a child serving in America’s military. It is doubly reprehensible to do so because of those parents’ religion.”

Then I asked everyone to reflect about what they had learned and to dedicate it to the memory of Captain Humayun Saqib Muazzam Khan and in honor of his parents, Khizr and Ghazala Khan.

I asked everyone to pray with me. So we did. For an America that opens its arms to our immigrants. For a country that knows that we are the stronger for those who cast their lot with us.

We have our Moabites. The Book of Ruth tells us what we should do when they arrive at our shores. Welcome them, make them at home, and honor them for their courage and their hard work. Thank them for trusting us.

Earn that trust.  May we learn that lesson and act accordingly.

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As Always – With Hope: For Elie Wiesel, z”l

Wiesel dedication I own a paperback copy of Elie Wiesel’s Messengers of God: Biblical Portraits and Legends. It sits on my library shelf next to many other books he authored. But this book is wrapped in order to protect the inscription on the first page; the cover is partly detached, and worn.

I first met Elie Wiesel when I was in my early twenties. I had just completed my M.A. on the American Jewish community’s post-war response to the Holocaust and started a new project: studying the work of Ferdinand Isserman, a Reform rabbi who had written about the condition of Jews in Eastern Europe during the 1930s.

Isserman published a number of detailed and passionate texts about the horrors Jews were facing in Germany and Poland. But when he was first presented with the reality of the Final Solution during the 1940s, Isserman did not write about the fate of Europe’s Jews. His sermons did not touch on what was happening; he published no pamphlets. Here was a rabbi who had publicly agitated about the persecution and oppression of Europe’s Jews; why had he found no words for the attempted genocide of his people? His silence was shocking.

That year, Wiesel was speaking in Chicago, the city of my youth, and my husband, Ralf, and I drove up from Missouri to hear his lecture. I do not know how it happened, but my father got an essay I’d written on Rabbi Isserman to Wiesel and arranged for us to meet.

Ralf and I went together and I discovered, to my surprise, that Wiesel had actually read my essay. We talked about the difference between faith and hope. At that point of his life, he told us, he could subscribe to the latter, but was not sure he possessed the former. We spoke about anger – even rage. Wiesel quietly admitted to both. After the Shoah, he said, he was only certain of hope. He signed my book: “For Ralf and Barbara, as always with hope – Elie Wiesel.”

Over the years, we corresponded a few times. But eventually, I stopped writing. I became a young mother. I left academe for a time, and began working as a journalist.

In 1997, when our young son, Erik, was five, Wiesel came to Charlotte. The Charlotte Observer asked me to cover his lecture and write an editorial piece for the Viewpoint page. After the lecture, the audience dispersed and Wiesel took questions from the press.

The lecture had been titled “Against Indifference.” As Wiesel has famously said: “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”

I do not remember the exact shape of my question. I self-consciously avoided recalling our one-time meeting – it had happened well over a decade earlier, after all, and it seemed artificial to bring it up. My question did use both the words “hope” and “faith.” I asked whether one could lay claim to either, given humanity’s capacity for indifference.

Elie Wiesel looked straight at me. He quietly stated that hope was essential despite the Shoah. Then he added firmly, “and I am still angry.”

I was stunned. I had not used the word “angry.” I had not referred to that part of our conversation.

When I had the opportunity to speak to him for a few moments alone after the press conference, I discovered that I wasn’t imagining it; he had remembered the Chicago meeting. It was as if we were merely continuing our conversation.

Toward the end of our few minutes, I mentioned that Ralf and I had had a son. He wanted to see a picture of Erik. He asked questions about him. (And later, Erik wrote to Wiesel himself – and was answered.)

In recent years, I have not always inhabited the same political space as Elie Wiesel. I could not support his every statement about Israel. I tried to hear him and listen as best I could. Sometimes, it was difficult.

Wiesel’s books line my shelves. There is a depth and richness in them that cannot be gainsaid. They reflect traditions that are a visceral part of my own existence. They ask essential questions. They nourish me, remind me, and console me.

And so, as always, I hope. In part, I thank Elie Wiesel for that.

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