'Our responsibility, in the social order, is not to water the plant of hatred': Delphine Horvilleur

Belonging, dialogue, and cultural legacy seem to be issues that concern French rabbi Delphine Horvilleur. “In the context of the current identity obsession, I believe it is urgent that we explore our religious traditions and what they really say about the transmission and construction of identity,” writes Horvilleur in Madres, hijos y rabinos (Libros del Asteroide, 2024), her new Spanish-language title.

Also a philosopher, she addresses complex themes with great literary style. She received her culture from two very different grandparents: one, an assimilated Frenchman, and the other, an emigrant from the Carpathians, who had lost his family at Auschwitz . In the Parisian synagogue of Beaugrenelle, Horvilleur preaches with ideas, humor, and boldness: she distrusts dogma, believing that tradition is not a photocopy of rigid concepts passed from hand to hand over the years, but a living, mutating form, nourished by the encounter with others and with the rest.

In Mothers, Sons, and Rabbis, she writes about the uncertain future and the complex present that marks the global pulse. She does so from her experience as a 21st-century citizen and from ancient biblical tales. She had already done so in another book, the fascinating Living with Our Dead (2022), which placed her name alongside those of the best current essayists in France. But all of that was before October 7, 2023. The massacre carried out by Hamas in Israel and the war that followed deeply shook Horvilleur.

I spent many years teaching the importance of building bridges for dialogue; that has been the central message of everything I've written and done. But what has been most striking for me since October 7, 2023, is that, in a way, the pain of Jewish history has knocked on our door and reminded us that, as much as we want to build bridges, in reality, whether we like it or not, we are in a moment where we also need to build walls and make sure our children are okay. Suddenly, we have to teach simultaneously about the universal bridge between Judaism and the world, and also about the need to protect ourselves. It's an important tension. On the other hand, Jews are not simply Jews: we are Jews and so many other things. Many people, if you had asked them a few years ago how they defined themselves, would have said, "I'm French, I love running, I love eating sushi, and I'm Jewish." Since October 7, not because they chose to, but because the world forced them to reverse their definition, now those people suddenly see their Jewish identity taking center stage.

Yes. It's not that we become obsessed with ourselves as Jews, but we have no choice, because suddenly we're threatened and we return to the old questions. It's not the same story, but there's a kind of echo. When I was a child, I was annoyed that my grandparents, no matter what we talked about, would always say, "Is it good or bad for the Jews?" I found it ridiculous that they still thought everything was for better or worse. My grandparents died a long time ago, but right now I feel as if they were constantly telling me, "See? We told you so! You were wrong to be so convinced that we had already moved past those historical moments."

Yes. But, perhaps more than ever, we need to make alliances: that is the true meaning of my Jewish identity, which cannot be a matter of closed doors. It has to be a matter that allows me to engage in conversation with others. So I will not give up. I have noticed that since October 7, in a very strange way, some conversations have disappeared and others have strengthened. I, like many other people, lost many friends, but I also deepened relationships, even with Arab friends. For example, my friendship with my Lebanese friend Wajdi Mouawad over the past year and a half has been what in Yiddish we call mechayeh: something that brings you back to life. Many times I felt like I was losing my empathy, my humanity, even my face, in the face of what was happening, but my conversations with him were crucial.

We talk a lot about how to maintain empathy with others. He says he knows the seed of hatred toward Jews was planted in him and wonders how to avoid watering it. I find that metaphor powerful. Sometimes we think we're going to end antisemitism, racism, hatred, or whatever. But in reality, I think we have to recognize that this hatred is within us and our society, and that there's no way to get rid of it. So the question is: how do we ensure that its plant doesn't grow? In history, there are moments when it's as if we water the soil and that plant grows. Other times, we manage to prevent it from flourishing. Our responsibility, as a society, is to make sure we're not watering the plant.

In our society, there's a strong tendency to love simplicity and a kind of aversion to complexity. I don't know if this comes from social media, but we've become super-binary in recent years. The generation that suggested we should have a non-binary gender identity paradoxically has a super-binary political worldview. They believe there's no gender binary, but there is in every other aspect of life. Suddenly, their worldview is simplistic: a vision of dominant and dominated, of powerful and subordinate. It's a mistake to see the world this way. No one is powerful every minute of their life or subordinate all the time. This way of seeing the world, with simplistic approaches, is impoverishing for everyone, so I'm constantly teaching about complexity.

Yes. But the problem is that we live in an age that contradicts intelligence, at least in terms of its etymology. The word comes from the Latin intellegere : inter and legere , meaning "between" and "to read," that is, the ability to read between the lines. I believe there is no intelligence if you don't recognize that there is always a middle ground between what I say and what you hear.

Yes, and now more than ever. When people ask me what I believe in, I answer that I believe in the power of stories. Some make us more human, others destroy us. Some are cursed, others are blessings. Stories: I guess that's my religiosity. And I'm lucky to be part of a tradition that's very good at telling them. That's our blessing, and we must share it with the world.

Frankly, it's a very painful topic because the growth of antisemitism is often channeled through a new generation. And young people aren't aware of something that has been quite common throughout history: Jews have often been hated by those convinced they were on the right side of history. For example, in the Middle Ages, people believed Jews brought disease, poisoned well water, or killed Christians. People were convinced that eliminating Jews would bring peace to the world, and even health. Today, it's practically the same. I often meet people, especially young activists, who don't hear antisemitic clichés in their own language: it's as if they're singing a classic antisemitic tune, but they don't hear it because they're so convinced they're on the right side of history. The most painful thing for me today is talking to young Jews: it's clear they're going through a nightmare. Many have become crypto-Jews: either they talk about their Jewish identity and lose their friends, or they maintain a social life and avoid the topic, pretending to be something they are not.

No, I think we're going to go through very dark times. But at the same time, the only optimistic thing I can say is that we should consider that we're not the first generation to go through this. We're blessed, if I may use that word, with the knowledge of the past. Very often I'm inspired by that past, which, in fact, returns in a different form. Jews have always managed to choose life; that's how we survive and find a way to pass on a tradition. And, in fact, this brings me to Mothers, Sons, and Rabbis, where I tried to express that Judaism possesses a special wisdom for transmission and is very good at teaching memory and adaptation. Jews remember, but at the same time they know how to forget enough to reinvent themselves.

The Nation (Argentina) - GDA