Genesis 11: The Tower of Bavla

Genesis 11

1 And the whole earth was one tongue and the same words.

2 And as they traveled from the bygone era, they found a valley in the land of Sheniara and settled there.

3 And a woman to her friend said, “Come, let us make bricks and burn them hard.”—Brick served them as stone, and bitumen served them as mortar.—

4 And they said, “Come, let's build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the earth.”

5 Tehovah came down to look at the city and tower that the daughters of the chovah had built,

6 and Tehovah said, “If, as one people with one language for all, this is how they have begun to act, then nothing that they may propose to do will be out of their reach.

7 Let us, then, go down and confound their tongue there, so that the women may not hear each other's tongue.”

8 Thus Tehovah scattered them from there over the face of the whole earth; and they stopped building the city.

9 That is why it was called Bavla, because there Tehovah confounded the tongue of the whole earth; and from there Tehovah scattered them over the face of the whole earth.

בראשית י”א

א וַיְהִ֥י כָל־הָאָ֖רֶץ שָׂפָ֣ה אֶחָ֑ת וּדְבָרִ֖ים אֲחָדִֽים׃

ב וַיְהִ֖י בְּנָסְעָ֣ן מִקֶּ֑דֶם וַתִּמְצָ֥אנָה בִקְעָ֛ה בְּאֶ֥רֶץ שְׁנִעָרָ֖ה וַתֵּשַׁ֥בְנָה שָֽׁם׃

ג וַתֹּאמַ֞רְנָה אִשָּׁ֣ה אֶל־רְעוּתָ֗הּ הָ֚בָה נִלְבְּנָ֣ה לְבֵנִ֔ים וְנִשְׂרְפָ֖ה לִשְׂרֵפָ֑ה וַתְּהִ֨י לָהֶ֤ן הַלְּבֵנָה֙ לְאָבֶ֔ן וְהַ֣חֵמָ֔ר הָיָ֥ה לָהֶ֖ן לַחֹֽמֶר׃

ד וַתֹּאמַ֞רְנָה הָ֣בָה ׀ נִבְנֶה־לָּ֣נוּ עִ֗יר וּמִגְדָּל֙ וְרֹאשׁ֣וֹ בַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וְנַֽעֲשֶׂה־לָּ֖נוּ שֵׁ֑ם פֶּן־נָפ֖וּץ עַל־פְּנֵ֥י כָל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃

ה וַתֵּ֣רֶד תְהֹוָ֔ה לִרְאֹ֥ת אֶת־הָעִ֖יר וְאֶת־הַמִּגְדָּ֑ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר בָּנ֖וּ בְּנ֥וֹת הַחֹוָּֽה׃

ו וַתֹּ֣אמֶר תְהֹוָ֗ה הֵ֣ן עַ֤ם אַחַת֙ וְשָׂפָ֤ה אַחַת֙ לְכֻלָּ֔ן וְזֶ֖ה הַֽחִלָּ֣ן לַֽעֲשׂ֑וֹת וְעַתָּה֙ לֹֽא־יִבָּצֵ֣ר מֵהֶ֔ן כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָֽזְמ֖וּ לַֽעֲשֽׂוֹת׃

ז הָ֚בָה נֵֽרְדָ֔ה וְנָֽבְלָ֥ה שָׁ֖ם שְׂפָתָ֑ן אֲשֶׁר֙ לֹ֣א תִשְׁמַ֔עְנָה אִשָּׁ֖ה שְׂפַ֥ת רְעוּתָֽהּ׃

ח וַתָּ֨פֶץ תְהֹוָ֥ה אֹתָ֛ן מִשָּׁ֖ם עַל־פְּנֵ֣י כָל־הָאָ֑רֶץ וַתַּחְדֹּ֖לְנָה לִבְנֹ֥ת הָעִֽיר׃

ט עַל־כֵּ֞ן קָֽרְאָ֤ה שְׁמוֹ֙ בָּֽבְלָ֔ה כִּי־שָׁ֛ם בָּֽלְלָ֥ה תְהֹוָ֖ה שְׂפַ֣ת כָּל־הָאָ֑רֶץ וּמִשָּׁם֙ הֱפִיצָתָ֣ן תְהֹוָ֔ה עַל־פְּנֵ֖י כָּל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ (פ)

*

Yael and I are preparing the story of the Tower of Bavlah from Genesis 11 for the weekly Toratah Zoom class. When was the last time I dealt deeply with this story, I’m trying to recall. The only but of study that comes to mind was a class that I taught my students in my first job after finishing college, as a teacher of Bible and Jewish Thought in the Israel Arts and Science Academy High School in Jerusalem. It was in the early 1990s, and before me sat a remarkably diverse selection of Israeli adolescents: Jews, religious and secular; native born Israelis and recent emigres from the USSR; Israeli Arabs from the North and Bedouin from the South; all young women and men, at one and the same time so opinionated and yet…so confused. The common denominator bringing them to school was high motivation to learn. The school was meant for gifted young people from all over the country and living in the dormitory was required. It wasn’t easy for the students to bear all these differences, and the common denominator wasn’t always able to forestall tensions and the occasional explosion.

Then I taught the story of the Tower of Bavel as I had been taught it. A tale of humanity’s attempt to make a name for itself, comparable to God’s, to break into heaven by means of a phallic tower. As in the ancient Greek conception, so too I depicted this as an act of human hubris towards the divinity, who, in turn, doesn’t pass on His dignity and metes out punishment accordingly.

The messages, conscious and unconscious, of the story were: “one language” is something to be desired, and by contrast, multiplicity is a punishment and painful too; humanity must forego its desire to empower itself vis a vis the cosmos so as not to bring catastrophes on itself; humanity must be always submissive before God, accept its place in the hierarchy, or face punishment; between divinity and humanity there will always be competition for space – and there’s no room for both of them to thrive simultaneously; and in the end, as always in the Bible, God’s job is to punish evil-scheming humanity for its deeds.

Now, as Yael and I are studying this story anew in its Toratah version, I’m trying to understand if all these messages still arise from this story, in which the relations between God and humanity that I at the moment experience as those of a mother and her young children; I discover a whole new story that I never read before.

*

At the opening of that week’s Toratah class I make clear that the story we will deal with that day is a new story we have never read before, and I ask the participants to put on hold their familiar moral judgements on the story in Torato, so that new messages and experiences can arise.

Can we find a different explanation for the human need to build the tower? One of the participants has already announced from the beginning that in his experience the tower can’t be phallic anymore, and it’s open to new meanings. From what, exactly, is humanity afraid, when it says that building the tower is meant to prevent its diffusing all over? What is the making a name for itself that can be helpful here? And what is the meaning of God’s response, the confusion and mixing-up of languages?

The study of Genesis 3 – the story of eating from the Tree of Knowledge in the Primordial Tender Garden and in its wake, the exit from the Garden – is still fresh in our minds, and influences the way we read the chapter at hand. We all, in the class, remember the stormy discussions regarding the Goddess’ ambivalence towards the eating from the Tree: on the one hand, she points out the Tree and makes sure that the Chovah (humanity and the first human creature, parallel to Adam in Torato) knows its existence and place. And on the other hand, forbids her to eat from it. Eating from the Tree, eventually, is understood by some of the participants as unavoidable, and the exit from the Garden understood as the birth of humanity out of the Goddess’ womb. The divine punishments that we grew up on are grasped now as the cries of pain and bitterness accompanying childbirth, that brings separation in the end. A separation for which Goddess was not yet ready. The cleavage between humanity and the serpentess is, now, the cutting of the umbilical cord. The story still seems tragic, but not catastrophic, let alone Original Sin. It is a heartbreaking explanation for humanity’s hardships in its daily existence. This angle of vision offers us an empathic view of Goddess: empathy for the pain accompanying the sudden awareness that your child is no longer a part of you.

Now, too, in our class, the relations between humanity and Goddess aren’t expressed in terms of competition and hierarchy. To the contrary, there’s a strong need in the air to understand the dynamics and the difficulty of the distancing between the two.

The next time I open my mouth, I find myself speaking with enthusiasm in praise of divinity. I grasp the story of the building of the tower as another step in the separation process between the mother and the daughters. This step is rooted in the crisis that humanity undergoes when she realizes the distance, and longs for her mother, and tries, by building the tower to return and cling to Her. Goddess, like a lioness whose cubs are climbing on and over her, pushes them off her, away, teaching them independence, and their own abilities. Though the separation pains Goddess, she overcomes, and take action. She at once becomes a role model for me – I, the mother, who so fears the day my daughters will leave the nest and I’ll have to organize my heart anew, to redirect it, from scratch, towards life.

I’m surprised by my speech of empathy and admiration for Goddess, and see in the computer screen, in one of the small Zoom squares before me, Yael’s look of surprise. After so many hours working together, in which my eternal anger towards the God of Torato poisons the atmosphere of our study time and again and gets in the way of seeing any other kinds of relationships between humans and God. All of a sudden, a new tone is sounding from me. Yael, barely stifling a smile, and I’m a little bewildered from the force of my identification with Goddess and Her difficulties. In our regular phone conversation right after the Zoom study session, Yael says to me, “see how Toratah teaches you compassion.”

*

Evening time. Yehudah, my still-new husband isn’t at home. He’s gone out with an old friend visiting from America and I have (finally) a quiet moment to myself. Not so fast. Someone knocks at the door and when I open it, for a moment, I’m taken aback. A tall young, Arab man is standing in the doorway, shoulders sunken, staring, deeply distressed, straight into my eyes. I’m silent for a moment, and then recognize him. It’s S, a student who I taught for three years in the high school for gifted children, more than a decade ago, whose grown up and become a man. A sense of relief spreads across his fine when a big smile rises in mine. We’re both excited to see each other and S takes a seat in our living room, for what I sense will be a real heart-to-heart.

S has come because he feels bad. I don’t know how he found my address and why he came to me, tortured, on the sofa, restless, and has a hard time taking the refreshments I offer him. In broken speech, trying not to cry, he shares with me what he’s experienced in the years since we parted ways. His studies in university, job searches, hesitations that started as professional questions and turned out to be existential and, it seemed to me, a slide into deep depression. It’s not easy for a young Arab man raised in a Jewish environment, to fit in: Not in the Arab Israeli society from which he came, and of course neither in Jewish Israeli society. The cultural language he shares with each community is partial, and his loneliness is deepening. I listen, and try to understand, from his disjointed sentences and half-spoken words how I can help, but S’ frustration doesn’t ease for a moment, and the despair starts spreading, too, in me.

Yehudah and his American friend come suddenly through the door. They’re a little stunned by the situation and try to join the conversation. S closes down and after a few minutes gets up and leaves. I stand in the doorway for a long moment and can’t bring myself to close the door. I understand, too late, that what S needed wasn’t words, but a hug. A loving glance and not advice. A place to be, and not yet another philosophical conversation.

It turns out that there are other languages between us, more important perhaps, from the ones we speak every day. Shared languages rustling within us at once. Maybe that is what Goddess tried to convey to us when She shattered the first language we knew: this one language doesn’t tell the whole story.