Jacob as an Asylum Seeker: Parshat Vayetzei in Light of My Trip to the Border
Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann, Delivered Saturday, December 7, 2024 at SAJ-Judaism that Stands for All
The British Somali Poet Warshan Shire wrote the haunting poem “Home” after visiting with young Somali refugees in Rome. In the poem, she gives insight into migrant experience.
A few of the verses in her haunting poem read:
“No one leaves home/Unless home is the mouth of a shark…Understand, No one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land…No one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck feeding on newspaper/Unless the miles travelled means something more than the journey.”
This past week, I had the honor and privilege to travel to the San Diego/Tijuana, Mexico border on a delegation of New York synagogue staff, clergy and laypeople — including our very own Allison Spitz, SAJ member and founder/organizer of SAJ’s pro-se clinic which supports new arrivals in New York through helping them ascertain work permits.
We were convened and organized by HIAS, a refugee resettlement organization that provides vital services to refugees and asylum seekers and advocates for their fundamental rights. HIAS started as a mutual aid organization, Jews established in the US helping other Jewish immigrants in the early 20th century wave of immigration. As Mark Hetfield, head of HIAS often says: “We used to welcome refugees because they were Jewish — Today HIAS welcomes refugees because we are Jewish.”
After a heart-wrenching and heart-opening few days of witnessing the desperation and determination of those seeking asylum (which is a legal, human right) and the purposeful cruelty and dehumanization built into the system.
It is no wonder that when I re-read the Torah portion this week that I saw it in a way that I had never seen before. Which is, as I often say, the beauty of Torah — while it stays the same, we do not. This way, the Torah continues to come alive in new ways, if we allow ourselves to see it as a mirror and a window.
All of a sudden, the story at the beginning of the parsha- of Jacob fleeing from his brother’s wrath towards his mother’s family’s land — became not only a story of our ancestor and his travels and struggles — rather it came alive as a story of asylum. In this light, the text both illustrates and illuminates dimensions of the refugee experience, as I learned about and witnessed this past week.
First, let’s consider Jacob’s decision to flee his family and homeland. The end of last week’s Parsha tells us that Jacob may not have had much of a “decision” at all. Jacob’s mother Rebecka reports back to Jacob what apparantly has become widely known in the community: that Jacob’s life is in danger. That he is no longer safe. She says: “Esau is planning to kill you. Flee at once, stay with my brother in Hanan until your brother’s rage subsides.”
At this moment, Jacob becomes a refugee, seeking his very survival and leaving everything behind as a result. His situation is not a one-time textual story. It is a living story of those who must get-up-and-go because an unknown future is safer than the life they currently are living.
This past week, over and over, we heard stories of those fleeing their home country because of a credible threat of violence. LGBTQ folks whose very existence is a call for violence, arrest, even torture. Women seeking to leave abusive relationships, taking young children with them on a dangerous journey. Political dissidents. Former gang members in gang-ridden countries and more.
Pastor Maria Sante Cruz, assistant Bishop for the Lutheran Church in the Pacific region, who has been working to assist migrants for nearly 30 years, spoke about the harrowing journeys and extreme risks taken by those who seek a respite from violence in America. Tearing up as she told stories of families helping young children scale a 30 foot wall, she spoke with desperation and pain in her voice, saying: “They are running for their lives.”
They are running for their lives. They cannot turn back or they will be killed. Or they will be assaulted. Or they will live day to day in fear.
The Torah story continues. Along the way, Jacob falls asleep and has a vivid dream. In the dream, he sees a “sulam” — a ladder planted on the ground whose top reaches into the sky. The image of a ladder, especially in the context of a refugee story will never feel the same to me after my time at the border.
It is at this point important to say loud and clear: seeking asylum from violence and persecution in one’s home country is a legal right. That is not to say everyone actually qualifies and that everyone who seeks it will qualify for asylum — and the conversation about who and how folks outside those claims should receive respite in America is beyond the scope of today’s conversation- though an important conversation to have.
Despite the fact that it is a legal right to claim asylum, it is nearly impossible to do so. There is an online application to make an appointment, however very few people who are “running for their lives” have smartphones or are even aware of the process. In addition, there are only three languages for the application, though there are something like 60 languages spoken by those who seek entry. And if one is lucky enough to have the knowledge and resources to make an appointment, it is currently a ten month wait before they can enter the U.S. to claim asylum. This leaves them in extraordinarily precarious and often dangerous situations.
Those who do not know or do not have access to the app must scale a 30 foot wall between Mexico and a “no man’s land” between the two countries. After this dangerous feat, border patrol officers come by (at times that are not announced, some folks wait hours) to be processed and sent onto the next stage of the harrowing journey. To scale this nearly impossible wall, the migrants must pay smugglers thousands of dollars for ladders. Ladders as tall as the eye can see — ladders that go up, in the words of the Torah, towards the heavens. Ladders that do not protect them from broken bones or lacerations. Ladders — for a person to do what they are legally allowed to do.
The story continues. “Hine Malachei Elohim Olim v’Yordim Bo”
וְהִנֵּה֙ מַלְאֲכֵ֣י אֱלֹהִ֔ים עֹלִ֥ים וְיֹרְדִ֖ים בּֽוֹ
In the dream, Jacob saw “angels of God going up and down.” Jewish commentators rightfully wonder: why do the angels go up first? They must have started on the earth! They are among us.
It is true. Messengers of the holy are those who live on earth, doing the work of the Divine.
On our trip, Allison and I had the opportunity to meet many malachei elohim — -messengers of holiness, angels who accompany, welcome, and enable physical and emotional safety. I cannot possibly talk about all of these “malachei elohim” this morning but for now, I will share two:
The first example of holy messengers is Jewish Family Services of San Diego. Drawing on the Jewish immigrant story, they have created an emergency migrant respite center which has been a safe and welcoming place for more than 239,000 migrants who would have otherwise been dropped in San Diego without food, shelter, or transportation.
With toys and an outdoor play space, activities, know your rights trainings, medical services and most importantly financial help so that everyone can get to the airport to meet up with their family in the states, JFS staff and volunteers are melachim elohim, providing a welcoming, dignified and supportive space after an extraordinarily harrowing, often multi-year journey for those seeking respite from violence.
The second example is Pedro Rios, director of the American Friends Service Committee’s US/Mexico Border Program and his team. We met Pedro in an area called “Whiskey 8” which is the American soil next to that “no man’s land” I spoke about — between two 30 feet walls and nearby barbed wire. As you can imagine, scaling the Mexico side of the wall from Mexico to claim legal asylum is dangerous and often people land on the other side with broken legs or bones or worse. Most arrive dehydrated, hungry and unaware of what will come next.
The American Friends Service Committee has set up semi-permanent tents with clothing in every size, quick and healthy snacks, emergency medical supplies, and basic translations of common exchanges for volunteers in over 30 languages. The image of a hand extending through the tiny empty space in this enormous wall to give water, an apple, a smile, a knowing nod or a “you will be ok” will stay with me forever.
Their works is the embodiment of the words of Pirkei Avot,
וּבְמָקוֹם שֶׁאֵין אֲנָשִׁים, הִשְׁתַּדֵּל לִהְיוֹת אִיש
In a place where there are no human beings — or where there is no humanity — let us strive to be a human being, a mentsh.
Which can in turn inspire our work. Let’s be clear: The current situation on the ground is very difficult — and it’s bound to get worse, as we anticipate terrible things to come in the coming months and years. There are no quick fixes. But it begins, I believe, with witnessing, listening to the stories of people and understanding their struggles.
It starts with seeing ourselves in their stories. Our Torah is full of stories of migration and refugee resettlement, as demonstrated by the story of Jacob today and so many other stories of the Jewish people. And it’s not just a Torah story of course. Our own family stories of arriving in the United States and the obstacles faced, the reminder of what we were fleeing and seeking can bring light and connection to the stories of the past and the stories of today. And as we dig deeper into our Torah stories/tradition and family stories, we remember that we come from a people that have fled for risk of their lives, whether Jacob or the Israelites in Egypt or from Poland or after Kristallnacht and so on.
And as we look around and find these sources of connection, let us also consider how we can continue the good work we have done and are doing — even and especially in difficult situations. Let’s consider what we can do as a congregation and as individuals to be the malachei elohim — messengers of compassion, holiness and care, to those who desperately need it.
Shabbat Shalom.
Note: While the words are my own, I am grateful for a conversation with Rabbi Yael Hammerman about the connections from our trip to the parsha.
