How Much Must We Sacrifice for Justice?
An investigation through Jewish text, in the wake of Aaron Bushnell’s self-immolation for Gaza
Chevruta is a column that aims to address the ethical and spiritual problems confronting the left. For each installment of the column—named for the traditional method of Jewish study, in which a pair of students analyzes a religious text together—Jewish Currents will match leftist thinkers and organizers with a rabbi or Torah scholar. The activists will bring an urgent question that arises in their own work; the Torah scholar will lead them in exploring their question through Jewish text. By routing contemporary political questions through traditional religious sources, we hope to discover new and unexpected avenues for inquiry into today’s most pressing problems.
You can find an audio version of this conversation here, and a stand-alone source sheet for group study here.
On February 25th, Aaron Bushnell, an active-duty member of the US Air Force, self-immolated outside the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC. “I will no longer be complicit in genocide,” Bushnell said in a livestreamed video, broadcasting what he declared an “an extreme act of protest” against the brutal, ongoing assault on Gaza—though, he added, “compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all.” Bushnell, who was dressed in his army uniform, then doused himself in gasoline and set himself on fire, shouting “Free Palestine” until he collapsed. He died later that day. While some were quick to dismiss Bushnell’s action as a manifestation of mental illness, many on the left expressed admiration for his sacrifice—which, as intended, drew global attention.
Indeed, there is meaningful precedent for self-immolation as a radical form of political protest. In 1963, Buddhist monk Thích Quảng Đức set himself on fire to decry the persecution of Buddhists at the hands of the US-backed Ngô Đình Diệm administration in South Vietnam; the photograph of Quảng Đức burning to death as he sat in a lotus position in the middle of a Saigon street captivated the world. Though uniquely iconic, Quảng Đức’s self-immolation was far from an isolated incident: More than 100 people in the US and Vietnam marked their opposition to the war this way. Since then, people have self-immolated to protest Chinese control of Tibet, the US’s war in Iraq, inaction around climate change, Russian repression of journalists, a South Korean ridesharing service that threatened the livelihood of taxi drivers, and government corruption in Tunisia—the last of which, by fruit vendor Mohamed Bouazizi in December 2010, is widely considered a catalyst of the wave of anti-government uprisings across the Arab world known as the Arab Spring.
Still, attunement to this significant history does not make the act less vexed for those left behind to grieve the loss of their comrades and loved ones. Many have grappled deeply with the question of how to make meaning from an act that is so profoundly tragic and seemingly destructive, and to touch the life-affirming impulse at the heart of this sacrifice. After Roger LaPorte, a Catholic activist, set himself on fire in 1965 to protest the Vietnam War, Dorothy Day, a co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement, argued that LaPorte’s act, while “sad and terrible,” clearly emerged from a desire “to love God and to love his brother,” consistent with the values he expressed in his lifetime. That same year, the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh sent a letter to Martin Luther King Jr. explaining that, for his community, burning oneself was not akin to suicide, an act of destruction and self-negation; on the contrary, for these monks, self-immoliation was an act of construction. “[One who burns himself] does not think that he is destroying himself; he believes in the good fruition of his act of self-sacrifice for the sake of others,” he wrote.
In this chevruta, Arielle Angel and I engage with Jewish texts that examine the concepts of martyrdom, sacrifice, and public spectacle, to consider what our tradition might offer for helping us to engage with this painful and vital conversation in the wake of Aaron Bushnell’s death, as the genocide he was protesting persists in Gaza. None of these texts seamlessly applies to his case, but they can, I think, serve as useful resources for deepening our discussions about responsibility and complicity, and how much of ourselves we’re expected to give to resist injustice and construct a more redeemed world. Bushnell’s goal was not to bring more death by encouraging mass emulation, but to shake those of us in the heart of US empire out of our complacency in the face of mass killing, to insist that we viscerally feel the urgency of our moral and material responsibilities—and that we intervene. As Erik Baker wrote, the purpose of self-immolation is “to scream to the world that you could find no alternative, and in that respect it is a challenge to the rest of us to prove with our own freedom that there are other ways to meaningfully resist a society whose cruelty has become intolerable.” This learning is in Aaron Bushnell’s memory, may it be a blessing, and may we honor it by heeding his challenge and committing ourselves more fully to liberation.
— Lexie Botzum
Arielle Angel: I’ve been unsatisfied with some of the ways that this conversation has played out. On the one hand, there’s a glorification of this act of sacrifice. On the other, there’s a total negation of it, and neither has felt comfortable to me. I lost my father to suicide six weeks ago, and though I don’t think that there’s a reason to read Aaron Bushnell’s act in the context of mental health—this is very clearly a protest—I am thinking from a place of the extreme pain of surviving the suicide of a family member. We’ve seen Aaron Bushnell’s friends in his anarchist community talk about the fact that they would have tried to stop him, even though they understand what he did as an act of commitment. For me, this raises questions about what this act means for the fabric of a community, and what a “life-centered” politics looks like, generally. In The New Yorker, Masha Gessen framed this as an expression of a “politics of despair.” That resonated with me, and raised questions about the kinds of sacrifices we are required to make in extreme circumstances.
I’m curious how you approach these questions, Lexie, and why you’re interested in it.
Lexie: First of all, I want to say that I don’t think any of the texts I’ve brought today is a perfect analog to the case that we’re discussing. The goal here isn’t to come out with a judgment about Aaron Bushnell. But as somebody who spends pretty much all of my time either teaching Talmud or engaged in solidarity work, when I have a burning question about what our organizing efforts need to look like, I do believe that the Torah has something to say.
A lot of people have been overwhelmed by the absolutely ineffable horror of these past few months and the sense that nothing we are doing is enough. And none of it is enough—none of it is stopping the genocide. So it raises the questions: How much of ourselves are we obligated to give to the cause? What does it look like to sacrifice in a way that accomplishes something?
Arielle: And what does it look like to sacrifice in a way that is so self-negating that it negates even the cause that it is for? When is it not helpful?
Lexie: The principle source that we’re going to be looking at today is a source from the Shulchan Aruch, a legal compendium compiled in the 16th century by the Spanish rabbi Yosef Karo, broadly considered to be the foundational body of halacha [Jewish law]. This text is on the subject of martyrdom, which is often referred to in the halacha as “kiddush Hashem,” sanctifying God’s name.
Arielle reads.
All of the transgressions which are in the Torah, with the exception of idolatry, sexual prohibitions, and murder: If someone is told to transgress them or he will be killed, so long as he is in private, he should transgress and not be killed. If he wants to be stringent upon himself and be killed, he may do so if the idolater intends to make him violate his religion.[1]
Lexie: A lot of people are familiar with the idea that, in halacha, if somebody tries to get you to violate a mitzvah [commandment] and says they’ll kill you if you don’t, most of the time, you’re supposed to violate it. There are only three mitzvot that you are always prohibited from violating, even when threatened with death: murder, improper sexual relations, and idolatry. But if somebody puts a gun to my head and says, “eat pork,” I’m supposed to eat pork, rather than be killed. People focus on this as a sort of “life-centered orientation” that Judaism has; the Gemara[2] uses the pasuk, or verse from the Hebrew Bible, “v’chai b’hem,” and you will live in my commandments—not die in doing them.
But the last sentence here is really significant. Rav Karo says that if the person wants to be “stringent upon themselves,” they can choose to be martyred even when it isn’t required. So, for example, if I’m alone in my home, and the idolater[3] comes in and tells me, “eat pig or I’ll kill you,” the halacha does not require me to say, “shoot me.” But Rav Yosef Karo is saying if I do not want to do that—if the idea of violating even this lesser mitzvah is totally anathema to me—I can decide to be martyred.
Arielle: That’s already fascinating. Suddenly, the whole web of personal and political reasons that someone might choose to sacrifice their life is on the table. Should I read the next bit?
Lexie: Yes. This is from Rabbi Moshe Isserles (known as the Rema), a contemporary of Rabbi Karo’s based in Poland, who made a commentary on the Shulchan Aruch, which is incorporated into its primary text.
Arielle reads.
If he can save himself using all he possesses, he must give everything up rather than transgress one of the negative commandments.[4]They [Chazal] said that anyone who has the ability to protest and does not is considered responsible for the same sin. But in this case, where there is a chance of danger, he does not need to give uphis money for this.[5]
Lexie: The Rema is quoting a section from the Gemara that says: Anyone who has the ability to protest the sins of their household and doesn’t is considered responsible for the same sin. Anyone who has the ability to protest the sins of their town and doesn’t is considered responsible. And anyone who has the ability to protest the sins of the entire world, and fails to do so, they are considered responsible.
We started off by talking about an obligation to die rather than transgressing when those are the options before you. This text comes in to ask: What if these aren’t the only options? What if there is the possibility of using all of one’s available resources to avoid transgressing? Say, for example, I have to pay a massive bribe to leave this country, or I have to lose my job. The Rema says, if that’s an option, I have to do that.
Arielle: We’re obviously seeing a lot of people making complicated decisions about whether to, for example, quit their jobs, or be complicit in a genocidal war on Gaza. It seems like the rabbis are saying that to not participate in these transgressions—of which murder is one—losing your livelihood is an appropriate sacrifice.
It seems like the rabbis are saying that to not participate in certain grave transgressions—of which murder is one—losing your livelihood is an appropriate sacrifice.
Lexie: But there are levels of complicity. What the Rema is saying is that if you are actively given the choice between you yourself transgressing or giving up some significant portion of everything you own to avoid transgressing, you have to give up everything. But the requirement to avoid being complicit is not quite as extreme. You don’t have to give up every single thing you own to ensure that you are sufficiently preventing somebody else from transgressing.
Arielle: Is there guidance offered about when you switch over from being a person who is merely complicit in another person’s transgression to being the person who is themself transgressing? It’s tough because we know that the nature of complicity is that it works through mass acquiescence.
Lexie: Well, the Rema isn’t saying that we don’t have an obligation to try and resist complicity. We talk a lot about this notion of “tochecha,” our obligation to give rebuke to our fellows who are doing wrong. And there are various discussions in the Gemara asking: Up until what point are you required to give tochecha? How much do you have to risk in trying to change somebody else’s behavior? Some say it’s up to the point of you being beaten up, others say it’s up to the point of being harshly shouted at, but not to the point of physical harm. But none of the rabbis say that you have to die trying to get somebody else not to transgress. And the Rema is also saying, you also don’t have to give up the entirety of your possessions. So there’s somewhere in between.
Arielle: Okay, so back to Rav Karo in the Shulchan Aruch.
Arielle reads.
If he is in public—that is, in front of ten Jews—he must allow himself to be killed rather than transgress, providing the idolater intends to make him violate his religion (even if this is over a minhag [custom] such as the way one ties one’s shoes).[6] But if he [the idolater] intends [to do this] only for his own benefit, he [the Jew] should transgress rather than be killed. If, however, it is a time of persecution (only against Jews),[7]one should be killed rather than transgress even if the matter is about the straps of one’s shoes.
Arielle: Wow. Basically, if it is a political statement to kill you, it should be a political statement to die.
Lexie: Exactly. You’re not expected to martyr yourself when it’s just, like, some person who thinks it’s funny to try and get a Jew to eat pork, even if you’re in public. But if it’s part of a larger political program—part of a larger structure of oppression of forced assimilation, or genocide—then refusing even the tiniest transgression is considered a sufficient reason to do kiddush Hashem. If they’re like, “you have to wear the non-Jewish sandals,” and that’s part of a program of forced assimilation, you’re supposed to be martyred, rather than change your sandals.
Arielle: I’m interested in the public aspect of this, about coerced transgression happening in front of ten Jews. There’s a great fear about how it will degrade the fortitude of the people who are trying to persist in their way of life. I want to bring in the Muslim conception of the word martyr, “shahid.” We published a beautiful piece by Sarah Aziza that talks about the ways that the word has been misconstrued in Western media to reinforce the pernicious idea that Islam worships death. But shahid literally means “witness,” and she writes about how it connotes being marked or touched by violence, which is also a testament to the ways this violence should move us; it should change the public narrative and increase our commitment to contesting its conditions. I think we see in this text, as well, the idea that being witness to violence—including as a martyr—can help create a narrative that would strengthen a sense of resolve to continue to live in a certain place, to be who you are there.
Lexie: In Judaism, as we discussed, the terminology is “kiddush Hashem,” the sanctification of God’s name—meaning that there is a holiness in refusing to transgress, refusing to do harm, setting an example for your community. The public nature of the transgression is central to how we understand this obligation: We’re worried about even the most minor transgression being contagious.
Arielle: Should I continue to read from the Rema?
Arielle reads.
And this is only if they wish to make him violate a negative commandment; if they made a law that one should not fulfill positive commandments, however, he does not need to fulfill it if he will be killed.[8] Nonetheless, if the hour requires it and he wishes to fulfill it and be killed, he may do so.[9]
Arielle: Just to clarify: A negative commandment is something you cannot do, like “you shall not eat pork,” while a positive commandment refers to things you’re supposed to do, like light the Shabbat candles.
Lexie: Exactly.
Arielle: And this is saying that if you are prevented from doing a positive commandment, there’s an even lesser requirement, yet you are still permitted to to die.
Lexie: Right. If you’ve ever been to a Yom Kippur service, we read this grim story about ten rabbis who were martyred by the Romans—several of whom were martyred because they continued teaching Torah when there were edicts against it. According to this halacha, they could have chosen to not teach Torah, and they could have avoided death. Nonetheless, they chose to do so.
I’ve been thinking specifically about Rabbi Akiva [one of the rabbis who was executed by the Romans]. It’s a very gruesome image; the text says they “combed” his skin. There’s a famous story that says that Rabbi Akiva was smiling as this was happening. His students ask, “Why are you smiling?” And he says, “Well, I’ve always wanted to be able to say the Shema[10]—that you will love Hashem with all your strength, with all of your might—and to really mean it. Now I can.” And so he recited the Shema as he was dying, which many martyrs have done across history. I’m thinking about that in the context of Aaron Bushnell’s last moments: A lot of people found it moving that he shouted “Free Palestine!” until he could literally no longer speak. There is this idea of your final breaths being used—
Arielle: —to affirm the belief system.
Something that is so hard about suicide generally is the narrative itself. It’s a very difficult kind of death to accept, because the aspect of choice becomes so painful for the people who are left behind. It feels notable that the whole question of the halacha seems pointed toward the story you can tell about the person who was martyred—for example, that they refused to transgress and debase themselves. Of course, in these stories there is always someone saying, “Do this or I’m going to kill you,” and somebody standing up to that. This seems to constrain the sense of “choice” in the matter, which actually distinguishes these cases of martyrdom from suicide quite strongly. You can see how that act of refusal might allow family members or community members to find strength in the decision, even within the grief.
I think a lot of people are looking at Aaron Bushnell in the same way—especially because as a service member, he had a level of complicity, and he chose refusal. But of course, his situation is different, too . . .
The halacha seems pointed toward the story you can tell about the person who was martyred—you can see how their act of refusal might allow family members or community members to find strength in the decision, even within the grief.
Lexie: Right, there’s an important distinction made in the halacha: Even when we talk about people “opting into” a martyrdom that isn’t required of them, they’re still letting themselves be killed rather than killing themselves.
Arielle: That introduces more doubt into whether he had to make the decision to die, as opposed to a decision to live and keep fighting . . . Either way, it’s clear that a huge part of this is about whether the story you can tell afterward is sufficiently compelling to strengthen rather than weaken communal resolve.
Lexie: Absolutely. In this last section, we’ll get a little deeper into the question of choice—and whether there might be other paths besides transgression or death.
Arielle reads.
Any place where it is said, “Be killed rather than transgress,” if he transgressed and was not killed, even though he has desanctified the Name, he is nonetheless considered to have been forced and is not liable [for having committed the transgression]. This is only where he could not have fled—if he could have fled, and did not do so, he is like a dog sitting on his vomit and is considered to have transgressed deliberately.[11]
Arielle: Wow, “like a dog sitting on his vomit.”
Lexie: They’re clarifying that you can’t use the excuse “Oh, I was forced,” when you actually did have an alternative, when you might have simply escaped the situation without transgressing or dying, which I think may also get us to the case of Aaron Bushnell. Obviously, there is the huge endeavor that is being a conscientious objector and leaving the army—it’s not as though the only options were continue to be actively contributing to the situation or die.
Arielle: Right, there was an option to just leave the position of complicity [as a member of the US military], and also perhaps to be public about that.
Lexie: Public resignations and refusals have garnered a lot of attention at this time. They do give strength and raise awareness . . .
Next we’re gonna look at a couple commentaries on the Shulchan Aruch. This one is from Be’er Hetev, an Ashkenazi commentator in the 18th century.
Arielle reads.
And the Beit Yosef also wrote that if the person is an important and pious figure who fears heaven, and sees that their generation is failing in this matter, they are permitted to sanctify God’s name and give over their life even for a minor mitzvah, in order that people understand the need to love and fear God with all their hearts.
And the Bach ruled like the Rambam, that anyone who, according to the law, should transgress rather than be killed, and instead chose to be killed, is held accountable for their life.
Arielle: So here’s this idea again: Don’t go too far with this, you need to be able to tell the difference between when you have to die and when you don’t.
Lexie: Right, the Rambam and the Bach are disagreeing pretty strongly with the opinion expressed by Rav Karo, that you can choose to martyr yourself even when you’re not obligated to, and that this can be a pious choice. The Rambam and the Bach hold that there’s an absolute binary: Either you are obligated to be martyred, or, if it doesn’t meet those criteria, you are obligated not to be martyred. And that martyring yourself when you weren’t obligated to is akin to killing yourself, and it’s own form of transgression. So the rabbis are really conflicted about this question.
Arielle: The rabbis specify that it matters who the martyr is: “an important and pious figure with a fear of heaven.” I’m focusing on the word “important”—the idea that one must already be a leader in order for their martyrdom to effect the right kind of public narrative. It makes me wonder: What is the difference between Aaron Bushnell giving his life and someone like Antony Blinken, who has a high degree of name recognition and leadership in the war machine? But it is interesting that what Aaron Bushnell did brought Gaza further into the public conversation and linked the war to American empire for a larger constituency, even though he was not a so-called important person, whose previous deeds were known to a broader community.
Lexie: It depends how you define “important.” Being in uniform seemed to mean something in this case. He is the second person who self-immolated in protest of the US’s ongoing support for the genocide. There was a woman who self-immolated in Atlanta in December, but she survived and perhaps didn’t make headlines in the same way for a variety of reasons. There were things about Bushnell’s action that were more conducive to storytelling: He was an active service member who live streamed the action, and then did not survive it.
Arielle: So should I read the Rambam on Leviticus?
Lexie: Sure. For this next text, we’ll transition from the discussion of martyrdom to the topic of sacrifice. This is a famous commentary of Nachmanides (the Ramban) on the nature of sacrificial offerings, and how it relates to atonement and the human body.
Arielle reads.
Since man’s deeds are accomplished through thought, speech, and action, therefore God commanded that when man sins and brings an offering, he should lay his hands upon it corresponding to the [evil] deed [committed]. He should confess his sin verbally corresponding to his [evil] speech, and he should burn the innards and the kidneys [of the offering] in fire because they are the instruments of thought and desire in the human being. He should burn the legs [of the offering] since they correspond to the hands and feet of a person, which do all his work. He should sprinkle the blood upon the altar, which is analogous to the blood in his body. All these acts are performed in order that when they are done, a person should realize that he has sinned against his God with his body and his soul, and that “his” blood should really be spilled and “his” body burned, were it not for the loving-kindness of the Creator, Who took from him a substitute and a ransom, namely this offering, so that its blood should be in place of his blood, its life in place of his life.
Arielle: This is interesting. When we get to the word “sacrifice” in Jewish parlance, we’re immediately in the realm of the body. There seems to be both an admission that our bodies are implicated in transgression and so our bodies are really where punishment or justice should be enacted. And at the same time, there’s a recognition that this would never do—that a god who would require that of us is the wrong god. And so instead there is a substitute.
Lexie: Yeah, although an interesting distinction between the conversation we’ve been having up until now is that where our conversations around martyrdom are about what you are expected to give up to avoid transgressing, the sacrifices that the Ramban is referring to here are ones that are about alleviating responsibility for sin that has already been done.
Arielle: I’m captivated by this requirement to bring a “substitute.” As I’ve been witnessing what’s happening in Gaza while surviving the suicide of a close family member, I’ve been thinking, How dare he do this when there are all these people who are struggling to live? I think in the case of Aaron Bushnell, you could ask the same question—and yet, there is a way that he perhaps considered himself the sacrifice; he has made of himself the substitute, or the symbol. That’s an interesting transposition, and I’m not really sure how I feel about it.
Lexie: When we talk about substitution, a large part of how we evaluate an act is dependent on whether something actually effectively substitutes. In other words, it’s difficult to say that Aaron Bushnell was a substitute for the death of people in Gaza, because he isn’t actually dying and suffering in their place, but rather in addition to their death and suffering, even with the intended goal of stopping it.
Also, it’s worth noting that the general belief is that after the destruction of the Temple, prayer is what takes the place of sacrifice.
Arielle: We would need a whole other session on prayer, then, to understand what makes prayer an appropriate sacrifice, or substitute. And it’s hard to figure out what an analog for prayer in secular language is. Obviously, if Aaron Bushnell filmed himself in front of the Israeli embassy just shouting “Free Palestine!” or reading a beautiful text that he wrote, we wouldn’t be here. I think this is where we get back to the question of despair, because the discursive power of what we are trying to convey in protest and otherwise has been very much diminished.
Lexie: One of the more secular ways that some people, including religious figures, have articulated part of the role of prayer is not only as, for example, the expression of gratitude toward God, but also as a practice of envisioning the world as we wish it were. A lot of things that we say in prayer are not actually descriptive of the world around us. That forces you to constantly be in the mindset of asking: What would the world that is worth thanking God for look like?
Arielle: What doesn’t add up for me is that I know that in Judaism, speech acts are sort of downgraded; certain kinds of speech acts don’t have the same weight as embodied action. But we’re expected to believe that speech acts are going to make the difference when it comes to personal sacrifice?
Lexie: I want to clarify that in halacha, there are many, many cases in which a speech act fundamentally alters a particular legal reality. But you’re right that the Sages don’t think that speech acts are equivalent to physical action.
Arielle: But also, our choices aren’t speech acts or self-immolation, either.
Lexie: One thing I’ve been thinking about is the section of the Gemara on public fasts that are pronounced in times of hardship, which include both prayer and wailing. The rabbis are really explicit that the fasting itself doesn’t accomplish anything. But in the course of the fast, the Beit Din [the court and leadership of the locale] is supposed to be examining the actions of the community, and thinking about what tangible actions could be causing harm. The fast is meant to prompt people to pay attention, to reconsider their actions. This physical act of self-sacrifice falls much short of martyrdom, but it can still catalyze a public reckoning that prompts action.
Arielle: That’s interesting. These practices are not themselves understood as the action that will contradict the harm; they are meant to spur us toward that action. People often talk about the way prayer changes the individual. And we can think about protests in that way, too. The Marxist art critic John Berger talks about mass demonstration as a way of awakening the consciousness, a rehearsal for revolution.
I think ultimately the question about an act like Bushnell’s is one about tactics—whether you feel that this is an act that brings people into the mindset of reckoning, as compared to myriad other speech acts or street protests or whatever.
Lexie: I think it has given some people a greater feeling of urgency and action. And while I don’t wish that anyone emulate his action—because I do ultimately believe we’re most useful to the movement as living, fighting bodies and that our lives are deeply precious—I hope we’re able to feel the commanding force of his sacrifice. I hope it pushes us to feel more viscerally the horror of this moment, and to think about what more we could be giving, what sacrifices will actually bring this genocide to an end.
Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah 157:1
Rabbinic analyses and discussions of the Mishna, which combined comprise the Talmud
This same rule would apply even if someone not considered an idolator were to make this demand, but the Gemara classically uses the term idolator (literally, “star-worshiper”) as a stand-in for non-Jews.
Ran in Sukkah, Perek Lulav haGazul, and Rashba and Raavad and Rivash Siman 387
Mahariv Siman 156
Beis Yosef
Beis Yosef in the name of the Nimukei Yosef
Ran Shabbos Perek BaMeh Tomnin and Nimukei Yosef Sanhedrin Perek Sorer uMoreh
Maharik Shoresh 88
The Shema is one of the most central prayers in Jewish liturgy, recited in the morning and evening services, and before going to bed at night. It begins with the declaration “Hear O Israel, the Lord is Our God, the Lord is One.” The first paragraph, “V’ahavta,” begins: “And you will love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”
Beis Yosef in the name of the Rambam Yesodei haTorah 5
Lexie Botzum is a Torah learner, teacher, and anti-occupation activist based in Jerusalem
Arielle Angel is the editor-in-chief of Jewish Currents.
